Sherlock Holmes, dressed in his pajamas and tartan dressing gown, lay face-down on the floor behind his armchair, nose pressed into the carpet, his untamed black curls falling forward and providing a curtain against the dim afternoon light. Things were a little less busy in his head down there: just a little.
John had left the flat a while ago, something about beans and tea, and Sherlock had stood by the window, his back to John, and waved a hand as though he were listening to the words John said, when really, it was the tone that mattered.
John was worried.
It had been two weeks without a case, and that was never a good thing. For either of them.
Here on the floor, though, things were quieter, at least. He could hear the moment John turned the key in the lock downstairs, felt him climb the seventeen steps through the vibrations in the floor.
"Sherlock?"
He groaned in response. John scanned the room and found him, prone and grumbling into the rug.
"All right?" John asked.
Sherlock answered without lifting his head. "If by 'all right' you mean am I listening to each cell in my brain atrophy individually, then yes."
"Okay." Sherlock watched John's feet as he walked over to the desk where their console resided. Shoes. Wet. Raining out, but walked anyway. Hair likely wet and flattened, darker than its usual sandy beige.
"Let's check the waves then, shall we? Find us a case?"
Sherlock harrumphed.
John settled into his chair, and tapped a key to wake up the machine. "It's either that or take one of Mycroft's jobs," he reasoned.
Sherlock was silent, which John interpreted (correctly) as assent to sift through their messages. They'd installed the console at John's desk, between the two big windows in the sitting room. The sleek, white casing housed a dedicated source box and more data rods than they could ever possibly need. Sherlock pictured the blue glow of the touch screen, imagined the short, strong fingers as he listened to John tap at it to access their messages via the Cortex. It was easily the most expensive item in the otherwise eclectic and cluttered flat, telegraphing cost and status with its clean, modern design. It had Alliance written all over it.
Sherlock used the top of the console as a resting place for whatever he was tired of carrying around-books, empty tea cups, loose change, bat skeletons.
"This one just came in this morning," John prefaced, interrupting Sherlock's reminiscences of Mycroft's horrified expression each time he saw anew how his little brother was treating his generous gift.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," a woman's voice began. Sherlock's deductions came as easily as breathing. Young, educated, from the rim. "I'm contacting you in hopes that you can help me right a grievous wrong."
"Boring," Sherlock mumbled at her use of the hackneyed phrase.
"No, this one looks promising," John argued.
"Looks promising," Sherlock repeated. Not sounds. He got up from the floor and hunched his tall frame, hovering over John's shoulder to see the very beautiful young woman on the screen, violet eyes sincere and pleading. She was, by any account, striking, with smooth, olive skin and thick waves of chestnut hair.
"My name is Alicia Turner, and I live in Ross, on Hera. My father's best friend in the 'verse, Charles McCarthy, has been murdered. My father, Jack Turner, is ill and unable to pursue the matter himself, and the police here are ill-equipped to properly investigate." Alicia sighed. "To tell you the truth, gentlemen, they're ruttin' idiots."
John smiled at the screen, and Sherlock frowned.
"The most distressing bit, however, is that they've arrested Mr. McCarthy's own son, James, as the murderer. I've known this man since we were children. There is no earthly way that James killed his father." She pressed her eyes shut for a moment. "I've sent you all the case files I could get my hands on. I am not above begging in this instance. Gentlemen, I need your help."
The video ended. John looked up at Sherlock expectantly.
"You must be joking."
"And why do you say that?"
"There is nothing remotely unique or even marginally interesting about this case."
"I think it's interesting."
"You think she's interesting," Sherlock countered.
John narrowed his eyes.
"We agreed, Sherlock," he said softly.
Sherlock straightened and turned away, walking towards the kitchen, dressing gown a swirling wake. John followed him. Sherlock paused near the sink, his right hand trailing along the edge of the counter. He had agreed to many things, would have agreed to almost anything to get John to move back into the flat. After.
And apparently John was intent on invoking their compromise that John occasionally got to choose their cases.
It occurred to him that John must be slightly terrified of what Sherlock might do if this streak of boredom continued, the ways he might choose to distract himself. Like finding another enemy to play games with.
"We'll have to leave today if there's any hope of examining the scene," Sherlock began in a rush, "and you'll have to message back, find out how the body is being preserved, and we must have quick transport to Hera or there's no point in going at all-"
He felt John's hand rest upon his shoulder and stilled, as he always did whenever John touched him this way. Ever since his return-well, after things had settled a bit-John sought contact more often. Nothing big. Just little brushes of his hand here and there, as reassurance more than anything. Reassuring himself that Sherlock was real, alive.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John and thought.
No, don't thank me, don't say thank you, it's not like that, it's not like you.
But though John's smile reflected a hint of gratitude, what he said was, "I'm on it," and his hand fell away and he was hurrying upstairs to pack.
x-x-x
Malcolm Reynolds surveyed his ship and wondered when exactly he had lost control of his crew. A voice in his head told him he never had it to begin with. It sounded a lot like Zoe's voice.
The statuesque woman secured her long curls at the base of her neck and then crossed her arms as she faced her captain.
"Seems a mite fishy, is all," she was saying.
The burly man next to her with a roguish dark goatee and mustache shook his head. "This stinks of a trap, Mal," Jayne Cobb protested as he checked his weapons and secured them among the various holsters strapped to his body.
"So we'll go in careful like," Mal said, shrugging.
"I hate to say it, Cap'n, but..." Zoe paused. "Jayne might have a point," she conceded, her brows knit.
Mal raised an eyebrow at her. "That looks like it hurt."
Her face tried to frown and smile at the same time.
"D'ya need the doc to take a look at ya?" Mal suggested with feigned concern.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "No, sir."
"Look, we ain't got a lot of options here. So let's just get this done and get the hell off this rock," Mal reasoned.
"Yes, sir," Zoe answered. She turned and walked over to the controls for the cargo ramp, punching the button to lower it. Serenity's gangplank rattled as it descended, and the bright sunlight of Londinium streamed in, illuminating every dark corner of the ship's hull.
Walking towards the sunshine, a gleeful Kaylee glided through the cargo bay, carrying her folding chair and parasol with her.
"How goes it, Little Kaylee?" Mal asked, smiling as she walked past.
"Everything's shiny, Cap'n," she answered, beaming back at him. "Shepherd all settled?"
"He's off communing in the fields outside Panifica as we speak," Mal assured her. She nodded and continued down the ramp.
"Get us some good fares, mei mei," he called after her. "We need the coin."
"Dang ran, Cap'n," she answered without looking back, and began to set up her spot in the afternoon sun at the bottom of the ramp.
x-x-x
John had changed into his traveling clothes, his worn and comfortable favorites-slim tan chinos, a sandy beige shirt, and the chocolate-toned corduroy waistcoat Mrs. Hudson had given him last Christmas. He had pulled on his brown field jacket more to hide the gun strapped to his hip than to guard against the weather.
He parted from Sherlock outside the chemist's, leaving him to pick up supplies as John wandered the Panifica docks in search of transport to Hera. The barkers called to him from their ships, the large duffel bag behind him with the strap slung across his chest and a second, smaller bag over his right shoulder advertising his status as a traveler.
One barker in particular stood out by decidedly not barking. She sat serenely in her low chair, twirling a rainbow-spiraled parasol over her shoulder. As John walked slowly by, she smiled up at him without expectation, and he paused.
She was young and pretty, with bright eyes and honey-colored hair that she'd piled into two messy buns. She remained silent and smiling as he took a step towards her.
"Hello."
"Afternoon," she answered.
"Are you, ah... trolling for passengers?" he asked, the corner of his mouth perking up.
"Depends." She twirled her parasol a bit.
He smiled back, intrigued enough to continue. "On?"
"You likely to bite?" she asked, a definite twinkle in her eyes.
"Only by request," John answered smoothly, and she barely suppressed a laugh. She moved to stand, and he offered her his hand to help her up.
She took it, and, rising, dipped her chin in thanks.
"John Watson."
"Kaylee Frye," she said, and they shook hands firmly. She indicated the ship behind her. "And this here's Serenity."
"What a lovely name," John continued, but the sweet smile on her face changed to knowing.
"Uh-huh." Kaylee lifted her chin. "Let's talk plain, John Watson. Where you fixin' to go?" she asked.
Ah, so the flirting was over. John allowed himself a moment of disappointment and straightened. "Hera." He cleared his throat. "Quickly."
Kaylee considered. "Just you?"
"And my flatmate."
"Cargo?"
"Just personal effects. And, honestly, the fewer questions asked, the better."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You in some kind of trouble?"
John paused. "Let's just say we'd like to avoid any allied entanglements."
Kaylee smiled. "Oh, is that all? Hell, we can do that."
"Terms?"
"The usual rate."
"Naturally."
"Plus a little something extra for the special rush," she added.
"Of course." He reached into the smaller bag at his hip and removed something heavy, wrapped in a piece of calico. "Will this do?" he asked, handing it to her.
She took it carefully in her hands, unwrapping the cloth to peek inside. She gasped and looked up at him, eyes wide. "You sure know how to sweet talk a girl!"
He grinned.
"Welcome aboard."
x-x-x
Sherlock walked up the ramp and stood in the center of the cargo bay. With his black great coat, embroidered purple silk waistcoat, fitted black trousers, and clearly bespoke black leather boots, he cut a striking figure, as always, but nothing conveyed his opinion more sharply than his rigid posture and the look of utter boredom across his features.
"Oh, please," John said simply as he brought their bags on board. "Don't start. She's fast and reliable."
"You gave up a liter of our best honey for"-he made no effort to hide his disdain-"this antiquated heap?"
John stopped moving. "Sherlock-" he hissed, concerned Kaylee might overhear, as she was only a few feet ahead of them.
"Honestly, John, I thought I made it clear-"
At the sound of feet hurrying down the metal staircase above them, Sherlock paused and both men looked up to see a man with wild yellow hair and wearing a short-sleeved button-up in a riotous floral print hustling down the stairs.
"Oh, Wash, these are the new passengers-"
"Sorry, gents, we'll have to do proper introductions later," Wash apologized. He looked over to Kaylee. "We're, uh, having to keep a tighter schedule than we anticipated. Capt'n just radioed."
"Oh," Kaylee said, catching on. She turned to John. "Okay, then, let's get you settled right quick."
Wash ran back up the stairs, two at a time.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stayed put, but John made his way over to Kaylee, following her quick pace through the cargo bay.
"So, here's the infirmary, the common area." She did not slow down, and they zoomed onward towards the passenger dorms and down a hallway to the left.
"So, there's one of the bigger rooms down here," she said, indicating the second door on the right side of the hallway. She paused. "And, uh, there's another smaller room up here," she added, tracing her steps a bit to point to the other side of the hallway. She looked up at him slyly. "If you'll be needing two."
John smiled a little at that. "Two would be shiny."
"Great," she replied brightly, and she pushed the door open to the smaller room behind her and led him inside.
"Nothin' fancy."
"I've no need for fancy," John offered, dumping his duffel on the bed.
Kaylee lingered a moment.
"So, uh. That him?"
"Hmm?"
"Your flatmate?"
"Friend. Flatmate. Pain in my arse."
"Don't seem all that friendly, don't mind my saying," Kaylee ventured.
"No, Sherlock, he's-" John struggled to explain. He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at Kaylee, gauging her. She seemed genuinely interested, so he tried. "Sherlock's amazing. He's brilliant. And he can be really, really difficult. And rude. But he's the best man I know."
Kaylee melted a bit to hear him speak so admiringly, but angry voices reverberated through to them from the cargo bay.
John sighed. "And he's a ruttin' idiot."
They entered the cargo bay to find Sherlock Holmes and Jayne Cobb twenty paces apart, each leveling a gun at the other.
Kaylee approached without fear. "Jayne!"
"Stay outta this, Kaylee," he ordered gruffly.
"I will not. That's our fare you're threatenin' to shoot!"
John stopped a pace behind Sherlock, Kaylee at his left. At this point Wash's figure appeared at the top of the steps, but one glance showed he was unarmed and too far away to influence the situation directly.
John stayed very still, his right hand resting lightly upon the gun holstered at his hip. Kaylee clearly knew the man Jayne, but that didn't mean things couldn't go horribly wrong.
"John, instruct this moron to lower his gun or I'll be forced to prove my point," Sherlock intoned in his smooth baritone.
"Who you callin' 'moron'?" Jayne asked, taking a step towards Sherlock, and John's gun was drawn before anyone expected it. John took one step forward, lining up to Sherlock's left side and keeping Kaylee behind him.
John's hand was steady and his voice was smoke. "I reckon there are four possible outcomes here, mate, only one of which ends with you alive."
Jayne's brows knit while he attempted to calculate what the four might be as a voice to his left said silkily, "That so, mate?"
Sherlock took one step back and aimed towards the voice. John turned his head to see.
Zoe stepped out of a shadow, shotgun aimed at Sherlock.
John lowered his arm and grinned.
Zoe's eyes widened. Her gaze flicked to Sherlock. "Friend of yours?"
"'Fraid so." John could not have stopped smiling for all the coin in the 'verse.
Zoe holstered her weapon. "Stand down, Jayne."
Jayne frowned but did as he was told, and Sherlock reluctantly lowered his arm as well.
Zoe strode forward, and she and John reached out at the same moment, clasping forearms in an old army greeting.
"What brings you to our corner of the 'verse?" she asked, keeping her smile small though her eyes sparkled.
John dipped his chin and looked up at her through his lashes. "I'm back for our snog, of course."
Her smile grew.
"Oh, yeah. Took me ages to track you down," he quipped.
"Never one to give up easily, were you, sir?" she asked, shaking her head.
"Never."
Sherlock's impatient sigh broke the mood. "Must you be such an utterly predictable knave?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he tucked his gun away under the great coat.
Zoe and John reluctantly released their hold on each other's arms, and Zoe took a step back.
"We're in a bit of a hurry," she offered, neither apology nor explanation so much as a statement.
"Understood," John said, and he took a step back as well.
Zoe's eyes flicked up to her husband. "All set?"
Wash's soft look answered her implied question. "All set," he answered, and he turned, making his way quickly back to the bridge.
Kaylee emerged from behind them now that all the aiming and threatening was over. "Where's the cap'n?" she asked, concern at the edges of her tone.
"Right behind us," Zoe answered, and sure enough, Mal Reynolds entered in a flurry, taking long strides up the ramp, hitting the button to close it on his way in, grabbing the radio.
"Okay, buckle up everybody!" he barked into it. "Wash, get us in the air!"
He hung up the radio and continued in a beeline to Zoe, handing her a small but heavy bag that gave off the sound of jingling coins.
"Stow that somewhere safe," he ordered without looking at her.
"Yes, sir," she said, wondering at what point he would notice John, but he moved on towards the staircase to join Wash on the bridge.
Three steps up, he turned on his heel.
"Doc?"
John deadpanned. "Yeah?"
Mal's face, unsure if it wanted to laugh or shout or both, broke into a wide grin. "Sheng fen! What the hell you doin' on my ship?" he asked, charging towards John.
"Funding your life of crime, apparently," John answered as Mal grabbed him by the arm and enveloped him in a quick but sincere hug.
"We gotta-" Mal waved a flustered hand.
"Yes, go," John dismissed.
"Things did not, uh, go exactly to plan," Mal explained, walking backwards towards the staircase.
"Situation normal, then," John replied.
Mal pressed his lips together and nodded. "Pretty much," he said. "Okay, Kaylee-"
"On it, Cap'n," she answered, and jogged off to the opposite staircase as the engine rumbled and came to life.
"Zoe-"
"Yes, sir." She and Jayne disappeared as well, and Sherlock and John found themselves alone in the massive cargo bay.
John stole a look at Sherlock, knowing that for all his silence, he was full of questions and observations about what had just transpired.
Sherlock caught him looking and held his gaze.
"Well?" John asked after several moments.
Sherlock turned his head, an icy profile.
"Seven."
John blinked. "What?"
"You said 'four possible outcomes'."
And with that, Sherlock walked calmly away towards their rooms, leaving John alone.
x-x-x
Glossary of my questionable Chinese:
mei mei = sister (term of endearment)
dang ran = of course
sheng fen = holy shit