The Wrath of Cyntax
A Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossover
Chapter#2

December.24.2011

'I really don't see why all of this is necessary,' Cyntax+ teeters on the top step of a latter, carefully placing a poceline star on top of a tree.

Sherlock looks up from his violin. He pauses to flick his cigarette ashes on to the floor, grinding them under his shoe, 'Neither do I, but it pleases John,' he places the fag between his lips, beginning to play again.

The flat fills with the sweet smell of biscuits. The aroma comes wafting from the kitchen where Ms. Hudson, their land owner and frequent caretaker, is baking away. As much as she will deny it, the woman takes joy in looking after Sherlock. Cyntax+ theorizes that she feels compelled to fill the missing mother figure in his life, or possibly the missing son in hers.

The music comes to an abrupt stop as the cigarette is pulled from Sherlock's mouth. John glares at Cyntax, 'you let him smoke?' he shakes his head disapprovingly.

Sherlock is a man that needs constant stimulation. Being not nearly enough murder to serve his interest, he seeks it elsewhere. Elsewhere, being nicotine. John tries to get him to stop, for the sake of his body but as far as Cyntax is concerned, she's happy it isn't cocaine. She'd also prefer he used her as stimulation, but he's far too modest. She's sure he's never been with anyone, very least someone as prone to breaking bones. So she settles for cigarettes.

'I wasn't done with that,' Sherlock complains, rising from his chair.

John puts out the cigarette, staring his companion directly in the face, 'you shouldn't have had it in the first place.'

'It's Christmas. That was my present. Now you owe me a new one.'

Watson schoffs, 'I owe you nothing.'

'Except your life.'

John steps closer to the other man, 'do you really want to go there again?'

Cyntax+ steps between the two men, 'you're both real cute when you're angry,' she sets a hand on each of their chests, separating them, 'that doesn't mean I want to see another fight break out. We all remember what happened last time.'

'I do,' chimes in, 'John was so stubborn, he refused to go to the hospitle.'

'Fifteen stitches, all sewn by hand,' Cyntax adds.

'It wasn't the first time,' John argues, ''nor the last. There's no point paying someone else to stitch me up when I am more than capable of doing it on my own.'

'Right. Now, enough of this chatter,' says Ms. Hudson, bringing in a tray of biscuits, 'you'll ruin your appitites,' she walks over to set the tray down on the table. John follows, engaging her in polite conversation.

Sherlock turn his back to him, quietly placing his violin in it's case.
'I hate seeing you two fight,' says Cyntax, 'even if it is just spats. It reminds me that you're Human, volatile, willing to turn on your own brother just to prove that you're right.'

'I am right, my brother is a fool, and you are a hypocrite,' Sherlock snaps the case closed, wheeling around to face the robot, 'you're far more prone to loosing your temper.'

Cyntax's fists clench, 'that doesn't mean I would-' she stops, taking a breath, 'I never asked for these emotions. If it were up to me, I wouldn't even have them. If it were up to me, I would be a mindless killing machine. Anything to make me less Human!'

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment, heartbreak in his eyes. Finally, he turns to go upstairs, leaving Cyntax bewildered. Johns hand comes down to rest on her shoulder but she shrugs it off.

'Come on, deary,' Ms. Hudson's voice cuts through the silence, 'don't mind Sherlock. He can be a little… Well, you know how he is… Come, have a seat.'

Cyntax+ ignores the woman, advancing up the staircase. She hovers outside of Sherlock's bedroom for a good while before she finds the will to knock.

'Come in.'

The door opens with a creak as she steps inside. Sherlock lay on his bed in centre of the room that could only belong to the one and only. She's never seen a bedroom so well kept. The spotless condition of everything suggests he has a rutine cleaning schedule. Even the walls are tidy. The only art that hangs is a Chinese proverb and a poster of the Periodic Table. A buero sits against the far wall. It is the same chestnut brown as his bed frame, which so eloquently matches the accent wall. The window is lined with curtains of the same Demask design as his wallpaper. She can't help but smile at the seamless décor. She didn't think rooms like this existed outside of magazines.

'Something funny?' Sherlock's voice snaps her back in to reality, 'Plus?'

'Not really,' she sits down next to him. Sherlock's breathing is the only sound for a long while. Finally Cyntax breaks the silence, 'listen, Sherlock, this is just as hard for me as it is for you. You're just a hell of a lot more stubborn that I am,' she looks down in to his entrancing hazel eyes, 'I'm sorry. For what I said. It was insensitive. I know that this is who I am now. I am this smart-butt, flirty, over-confident, time-traveling robot. This is my life and I love it… I guess it's hard to let go of the past. I have seen Humans at their best… And their worst. It can be difficult not to let the bad outweigh the good,' her words hang in the air for a while as they stare in to each other's eyes. Cyntax+ feels the same sensation as the day they met. A warm, inviting feeling; an utter longing to kiss him.

'I know how you feel,' he says, finally.

'No. You don't,' Cyntax+ leans down, bringing her lips to his. Sherlock's mouth is rigid, not quite sure what to do. Cyntax+ pulls away, rushing out of the room. The detective sits up, watching her go. His breath is heavy, his skin hot, his eyes longing, but she left too quick to see. She was too ashamed of her emotions to know that they were returned.