AN: Many, many thanks to the fantastic OperaGoose, my beta for this fic. She has been a saint. The comma!war was long and brutal, but she eventually emerged victorious.
In regards to the Star Wars EU, I am running blind. Like that idiot who stumbles around in Dark Cave and gets so badly lost they have to restart. Please forgive me. Also, forgive the Pokemon reference.
The miniature blue projection on John's table straightened, his expression serious as he stared into the recording device. He was tall and slightly plump, well-dressed with an aristocratic nose. Every inch of him oozed sophistication, but he exhibited none of the entitled frivolity Sherlock typically saw with those in positions of wealth and power. Instead, he exhibited the severity and solemnity of someone devoted to an important cause.
"Commander Watson," he began, "my guardian, Bail Organa, served with you in the clone wars. He spoke highly of you and your devotion to freedom and justice. We must ask for your service once again in the effort to preserve these noble causes. Contained within the databanks of this droid is information vital to the rebellion. I humbly request that you see it safely to my guardian on Alderaan, who will know how to retrieve the data. My mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed – Darth Moran is pursuing our ship and it is only a matter of time until we are apprehended. Help us, Master Watson. This is our most desperate hour and you are our last hope." The man glanced over his shoulder before crouching down to end the message.
Sherlock turned to John. The older man's face was serious, his gaze light-years away. "I have to go to Aalderan," he spoke eventually, his tone filled with a finality and resignation, making it clear that there were no other choices in his mind.
Sherlock tried to ignore the bitterness welling within him: he had discovered the connection he thought he had with John was nothing more than a product of survivor's guilt and now he was going to lose him permanently. He would be stranded on this sithspit planet without anyonewho tolerated him, let alone understood him.
"It'll be dangerous," John continued, "I won't lie to you about that. But the Rebellion needs users of the Force to help in the fight against the Empire." John took a deep breath. "I don't know much, Sherlock. Not nearly enough. I was still years away from being knighted. But what I do know, I willteach you."
Sherlock didn't trust what his observations were telling him. He didn't trust this newfound sense either – it could all too easily be wishful thinking.
"You…you want me to come with you and join the rebellion. You're offering me the chance to come with you and learn the ways of the Force."
"If you'd like," John replied, seemingly as stoic as ever.
Sherlock's face broke into a wide grin. "I'd like that very much."
There is no death, there is the Force, Sherlock's numb brain repeated on auto-pilot as he stared at the burnt-out wreckage of what had once been his home – at the charred skeletons of his Aunt and Uncle. When Sherlock and John had discovered that the Jawas who had sold his uncle the droids had been massacred, Sherlock had known. But he had tosee.
He had never liked his Aunt and Uncle, but they were his family. The only family he had ever known. The Empire hadmurderedthem.
Sherlock was angry. He could feel how angry he was – it seemed to echo in the sand and the stones, vibrating ineverything.
The Force, Sherlock realized. He was emotional, and he was instinctually using the Force to express those emotions. He immediately began the calming mantra John had taught him the previous night – Sherlock had never let his emotions control him before, and he wasn't going to start now. Especially not with the omnipresent threat of the Dark Side.
Sherlock immersed himself deeply in his feelings, reaching out for the Force as John had shown him. It was everywhere, in everything: pulsing, flowing. Sherlock opened himself to the Force, allowed it to flow through him, feeling himself calm as the immense nature of it became more and more apparent. Sherlock didn't think, he didn't feel, he simply was.
He sensed John long before the man spoke. John's presence in the Force was…unique. If he focused, trulyfocused, there was a small discrepancy between his signature and those of the other sentient beings Sherlock had encountered. Everyone left…ripples, radiating outwards, but only to a certain distance before they dissipated. John's ripples went no further than any other's. They radiated outwards and then just…stopped. No fading, no dissipation, just nothing. Sherlock didn't understand why, and made a mental note to inquire later.
John was behind him now, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Sherlock slowly brought his focus back inwards, exhaling heavily before opening his eyes. He squinted against the sudden invasion of the harsh sunlight.
"That was well done," John said, standing closer than Sherlock was used to. His hand was warm and solid against Sherlock's shoulder, heat radiating outwards through Sherlock's body from the point of contact. "Most padawans takeyearsto learn that sort of control, not hours."
Sherlock understood at once: John, feeling his initial outburst, had come to guide Sherlock through the emotional maelstrom and deal with any potential fallout. John had been able to sense his anger. John could sense what Sherlock was feeling.
Sherlock quickly reigned himself in, finding all the feelings that coursed through him in relation to John Watson and burying them deep within himself. Deep where they could not be found or destroy this tenuous relationship between Master and Padawan, more than he had ever hoped for. He would take whatever John would give and force himself to be content with it. It was hopeless anyway – the Jedi order had been notorious for their vows of chastity, both physical and emotional. That much had survived even in the Empire's propaganda.
Sherlock stood, bringing himself up to his full height and brushing sand off his trousers, battling with grief from more than one source. "We should go – there is nothing left for me here."
John gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before removing his hand altogether and walking away towards the speeder.
Sherlock stared at him, not daring to follow until he had filed the longing to have that hand on him again away with all the other feelings he couldn't have John sensing.
Mos Eisley was indeed, as John had put it, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Sitting at the cantina, sipping on a dreadful concoction Sherlock didn't really care to think about, he spotted twenty-three career criminals, seven of which had death-sentences on at least three systems. Seeing two of the later category eye him with some interest, Sherlock thought it might be in his best interests to see exactly what it was John was up to.
He tossed his last handful of credits onto the counter and took his drink. Sliding into the seat besides his mentor, he was careful to refrain from any accidental physical contact.
"Sherlock," John said turning with a small smile on his face. "This is Dimmock," he introduced, gesturing to the Wookie seated beside him. "He's co-pilot on a vessel that I think may suit our needs."
Captain Geoff Lestrade was an intriguing individual. He was clearly ex-navy – judging by his utility belt, blaster, and the remarkable enjoyment he seemed to derive from sprawling across the corner booth where the two pairs were ensconced. However, the Navy was very particular about who they recruited from backwater planets. For an orphan from...Corellia, if he wasn't mistaken, to be sent to the Navy instead of trained as a Storm Trooper spoke of some talent as a pilot.
His associations with the Wookie Dimmock were even more telling. Given his wary stance and the careful look he was giving every occupant of the bar, Dimmock was not only highly protective of Captain Lestrade, but felt that there was a high probability that danger was present. Danger that specifically pertained to Lestrade. Given his profession as a smuggler, it was likely that some issue regarding cargo had resulted in a bounty on his head.
The second-class Corellian Bloodstripe adorning the man's trousers, the fact that Dimmock was a Wookie, and the fiercely protective stance he took beside the captain all suggested that a life debt was involved.
So, respect for alien life – enough to earn himself a life-debt. Dishonorable discharge or left the Imperial service of his own volition. No remaining loyalty to the Empire then. The bounty on his head meant he would be amiable to almost anything for the right price. He was what they needed.
That much Sherlock understood from his typical methods of inquiry. What he could not explain was his conviction that not only was Captain Lestrade suited for the job, but that he was perfect for it. In trught, Sherlock was convinced he was theonlyman for the job.
Once the haggling was settled, Sherlock and John departed. They collected the droids from their hiding spot, and Sherlock lost what little remaining faith he had in Storm Trooper intelligence when he heard that they had evaded capture by locking the door.
Sherlock was struck with an unexpected wave of melancholy as he sold his landspeeder – he was never coming back here.
"Alright?" John asked as Sherlock returned, passing over the depressingly small number of credits.
"Me? Fine."
"Sherlock…"
A pause. No point in lying – John could sense what he was feeling. "I want to leave. I've always wanted to leave. But this…this is all I know."
John stared deep into his eyes, and Sherlock once again felt warmed to his very core. John smiled at him and that warmth increased several degrees. He put those feelings with all the others, hidden away where John couldn't sense them, before walking towards the correct hanger. He was careful to avoid physical contact with his Jedi Master – Sherlock was certain that would turn the warmth into heat, and he wasn't sure he had enough control yet to keep that concealed.
Sherlock walked into the appropriate hanger and froze. Surely thatcouldn't be the vessel they were expected to use to travel through the vacuum of space from hundreds of millions of miles?
"You must be joking!" he exclaimed incredulously. "This is a dilapidated, out-dated, death-trap!"
Captain Lestrade strode out of the ship and into view, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. "The Falconmay not look like much, but she's got it where it counts. She and I have been through a lot together – more tight scrapes than I care to count, and a few close calls with Imperial ships. She made the Kessle Run in less then twelve parsecs."
"It's older than I am!" Sherlock argued, looking disdainfully at the thing in question (he was loath to call it a ship).
"True. And where I come from, we respect our elders."
John snorted, placing a hand over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds of his mirth as Sherlock turned to glare at him. He eventually gave it up as a bad job and bent over, clutching at his stomach as peals of laugher echoed off the hanger walls.
Sherlock tried to stay irriated. He truly did. But John's laugh was one of the most wonderful sounds he had ever heard, and he was reacting accordingly. If he didn't leave now, the Jedi would surely know…
As odious as he had thought the Millennium Falcon upon first sight, he couldn't help but be thankful for her presence now. She would make a perfect sanctuary from John's scrutiny while he attempted to rein in his affections in once again.
He was sitting on the bunk he had commandeered with a hand over his face, taking deep breaths and most assuredly notthinking about what John's laugh would feel like if the man were pressed flush against him. Or how it would sound muffled against his skin. Then, he felt it again: the tugging.
Something is wrong he knew swiftly and with complete confidence.
He had made it to the hallway as Lestrade came barreling past, the captain hastily shoving a blaster into his utility belt.
"Hang on to something kid," he shouted as he went by, "things just got interesting."
Sherlock grinned and followed Lestrade into the cockpit: the padawan loved it when things got interesting.