A/N: Welcome to another story! I'm getting inspiration all over the place lately, and this one has become very close to my heart as I write it. Around 4-5 chapters for this!
Based off the basic premise of the episode "The Lonely," from the American television show The Twilight Zone (WONDERFUL series, readers. Netflix has it all!), this is about Sherlock being isolated on a moon, forced to hide out from evil powers by his brother. When Mycroft brings him a suspiciously large case and is ambiguous as to its contents, Sherlock is surprised to find what lies inside. How it affects him in the months to come is all the more a surprise.
Please enjoy, and feel free to review!
Warning: This is T – FOR NOW! Later it will be rated as M; as usual I will let you know when.
Disclaimer: This disclaimer applies to this and all future chapters; I do not, sadly, own Sherlock Holmes, the television show Sherlock which these characters are modeled after, nor the episode of the Twilight Zone which this general plot is taken from. All love and admiration go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the brilliant Rod Serling.
I.
If you were to stand in the middle of a desert, millions of miles from anything even remotely resembling civilization, you would know what living on the sixth moon of Noelan was like.
It was dry and almost uninhabitable, all weeds and rock formations looming over dusty landscape. Every so often, one might find a drying flower, trying desperately to poke a head up from the soil beneath the sand. It pushed from seed to root to bud, through layers of ancient turf and dirt, only to have the moisture sucked away by wave upon wave of oppressive sunlight.
Though hot and uncomfortable, the barely-moon-more-asteroid rock was, scientifically speaking, inhabitable. Oxygen was abundant and almost mirrored that of Earths, as was the gravity. Days lasted longer and nights were only ten degrees colder than the day, but if one wasn't already off put by the lack of physical life, it would have been like living in the deep West of America.
If you were to stand on the southeastern side of the sixth moon of Noelan, you would encounter the only tangible form of life – the only man to ever spend more than a day living there.
He lived in a modest house built to be comfortable but not oppressive. The comforts of a modern life were there; central cooling for the hottest of days, a shower, king sized bed, lavatory and cooking amenities. There was internet access for five hours a day, during the night – a luxury the man never took for granted. Through a special type of cellular device not yet available – and indeed never would be – to the general public allowed the man to both call and text anyone he wished back on Earth.
The phone was barely touched at all, only ever in response.
For six long months the man had lived on this desolate mass of sediment and dust, waiting for the time when he could finally go home; back to London, to the cool nights and the bright days, to the blue and green… he never realized how abstractly colored the Earth was till he went to live somewhere entirely composed of oranges, browns and reds. Monochromatic living was terribly boring.
Truly, he was achingly bored. Case files he was given were solved within a month, games and puzzles brought over in the second month, and by that third month when the new shipment of supplies came and he had twenty minutes – time he would never admit kept him sane – of civilization to talk to his brother and the two moronic but capable pilots he brought with him. He was relayed new information on nearly every subject he could think to ask about; science, technology, and especially crime. It seemed the world became more and more interesting every week he was away, though his brother was ready to tell him the world was as dull and monotonous as ever.
He just wanted to go back, if only to be bored in his own flat, to chat with Mrs. Hudson, to fix whatever blunder the Yard created next.
Sherlock wanted to go back.
It was day one-hundred and fifty-seven when the ship finally came; Sherlock walked out the door, careful to hold his excitement in. He didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing he was actually looking forward to his visits.
As the tall auburn haired man approached, his air-suit as straight and dignified as any three-piece, he flashed a cordial smile to his little brother. "Hello there, Sherlock. Enjoying your isolation? I see you've lost half a stone and gained quite a bit more hair."
"And obviously what I've lost in weight, you've seen fit to gain. And your head is looking a bit thin these days, brother mine. Careful, you may burn."
Mycroft smiled turned into a sneer and he walked past Sherlock, into the house. The two pilots carrying the supplies gave Sherlock blank stares as they unloaded crates filled with water, food, various books and files, as well as a large box Sherlock couldn't distinguish, stamped in red, "THIS SIDE UP".
The dark haired man turned and swiftly walked into the house to find his brother looking over a recent experiment Sherlock had been preforming on the carcass of a cactus plant; a small remnant of life he'd found under a gorge.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room and spoke swiftly and without emotion. "Any progress catching him?"
Mycroft looked up. "No, unfortunately his network was much larger than anticipated. It is going to take three more months at least," the elder Holmes looked thoughtfully at the lifeless body on the table. "I apologize for this Sherlock; we're doing all we can."
"Well do it faster, damn it!" the exclamation was out before Sherlock could stop it, the evidence of his tormenting loneliness like a neon sign flashing on every syllable.
"I'll try, brother dear," Mycroft sighed. Looking out the window, he turned to his brother. Three day-old clothes, hasn't showered in at least that amount of time, eats sparingly… his brother was wasting away out here in this desolation.
But it couldn't be helped, the older man thought. It had to be done, to save his brother's life.
With a well-connected and well-protected madman after Sherlock in a desperate attempt at revenge, Mycroft had to take desperate measures in response. Science had come a long way in the 22nd century, both prolonging life and, though the public had no knowledge of it, giving humans the ability to live on distant moons or asteroids. This had been the absolute safest measure, even overkill.
Sherlock gave an indignant huff and sat in his hard leather chair.
"I can't stay the usual thirty minutes, Sherlock. Our layover has only been approved for," Mycroft checked his watch. "Twenty more minutes."
There was a moment of panic in the younger Holmes' eyes. Then, as quick as it had flashed, it was gone. "Your loss. It's marvelous here," Sherlock said dryly.
"Yes, well… we'll see," Mycroft studied his brother for a moment, watching as Sherlock stared blankly out the window. "Brother, I've brought something for you. No, certainly not a corpse to experiment on," he said swiftly as Sherlock perked up. "No. I've brought you something…" Mycroft spoke carefully, considering each word. "I'm not entirely sure if it will help you, in fact balance of probability is in favor of it making your stay here worse. But often you… surprise me."
Sherlock responded only with a blank stare. Mycroft sighed, drumming his fingers over the files he held in his hand.
"These documents are cold cases, I've picked them myself so they should keep you occupied at least a few days each," Mycroft smirked. "Barely took me an hour each."
Sherlock gave a humorless smile, then looked at the window as the two pilots as they brought the last of the supplies, then left them next to the large crate with the red stamps. Carefully considering the possibilities, Sherlock asked, "Mycroft. What's in the crate?"
Hazel-green eyes looked from out the window back to the younger man with the icy blue gaze and unruly dark hair. Salvation, perhaps, Mycroft thought. "I'm not entirely sure. You'll have to tell me when you know."
