AN:I meant to have this up sooner, but was taken down by a fit of Post-fic depression coupled with the nostalgia of my impending graduation and then heard that a dear family friend had died. Thank you for your patience. many thanks to my long-suffering beta OperaGoose who not only whipped this into posting shape, but left innuendo filled comments to cheer me up throughout this embarrassingly short chapter.
Still have no idea what I'm doing in regard to the EU. You have been warned. Also, I am making up most of the shit about the force as I go.
Prince Mycroft Organa steeled himself as the door opened. He needed to be ready to resist further interrogation efforts. He had known (what he was signing up for, and knew) what the only realistic outcome of capture would be when he had signed up for the rebellion. The only variables in the equation were how his execution would be carried out and how much interrogation he would have to endure before hand.
Instead of the probe he had been expecting, Mycroft was greeted by the white, insect-like masks of two stormtroopers. They parted quickly, flanking either side of the cell's door to reveal the figure looming behind them. Yellow eyes glared down at him from beneath a widow's peak of dark hair.
"Lord Moran," Mycroft remarked calmly in his best politician's voice, "I had not anticipated being graced with your personal attentions for at least three more sessions."
The Sith's lip curled in distaste. Mycroft could feel the air shifting and becoming charged. It presented an interesting possibility- Mycroft could provoke the Sith, attempt to insight the man to such anger that he would strangle him. It would certainly be faster than whatever fate the Empire had in mind for him. And it would ensure the Alliance's secrets died with him.
"Bring him," Moran snapped at the troopers before stalking away, his cape flaring dramatically behind him.
Mycroft stood, glaring at the Imperials as they approached: The Prince of Alderaan would go to his death with his back straight and his head held high, not dragged like a coward. When they saw he wasn't going to struggle, the stormtroopers allowed him to follow Darth Moran under his own power.
Mycroft took careful note of the all the pathways they travelled, adding them to the pathetically sparse mental map he had managed to accumulate thus far. It might prove useful should the opportunity to escape present itself – improbable as that was.
When he arrived at their destination, Prince Mycroft faltered. He had seen the plans, had been the one to discover the weakness. He knew exactly what this battle station was capable of. To see his home planet of Alderaan – peaceful, defenseless – consuming the view-port of the aptly named Death Star was enough to make his knees dangerously weak.
Mycroft closed his eyes and mourned. Alderaan and every being present on the planet was doomed. There was no circumventing the situation. Even if he were to provide them with a decoy planet...this was not solely about Mycroft's information. This was about making an example out of his home world, to show what happened to those who harbored enemies of the empire. Enemies like his mother and father.
Mycroft knew they were not his biological parents – he had known that from the age of five. Upon confronting Bail and Breha with the information, they had told him of his biological parent's wishes regarding his upbringing and safety. They had not told him their names, but it had been no difficult leap to discover the politician and the temple instructor. The day the empire rose to power and they were executed publicly, Mycroft cried for the first time since he had been an infant. Now he would be forced to watch as he lost the little family he had left as wellas the only home he had ever known, and bear the knowledge that he bore some of the responsibility.
He opened his eyes, breathing would honourtheir sacrifice by remaining strong and composed. He would do everything in his power to ensure their lives were not lost in vain.
Sherlock rushed after Captain Lestrade, finding himself in the cockpit moments later. He slid into the seat behind the which thankfully put an ample amount of space between himself and John. Sherlock was fairly sure he had his emotions under control, but he didn't want to put them to the test sooner than was absolutely necessary.
The sight from the Falcon's view-port was a fairly grim one: a star destroyer and three cruisers were waiting in the space above Tatooine.
"I hope, for all our sakes," Sherlock snapped at the human in the pilot's seat, "that this crate is half as good as your boasting. Unless you were planning on enjoying the hospitality of an Imperial Detention center?"
Dimmock barked something at the padawan, and while Sherlock didn't speak Wookie, he was perfectly capable of understanding the gist of what the co-pilot was getting at. He couldn't help but smirk.
"Dimmock, put in the coordinates for Alderaan," Lestrade ordered, ignoring the flashing light on the console that clearly indicated the failure of some system or another.
He pressed a series of controls and a humming noise began to emanate from the ship, the pitch telling Sherlock that the captain had finally activated the shields. The cruisers began firing, streaks of green light shooting past them.
"Alright, Dimmock. Punch it!" Lestrade shouted after executing a fairly complicated manoeuvre that not only avoided the incoming shot from one of the Imperial ships, but also put them precisely on the hyperspace vector needed to travel to Alderaan.
Seconds later, the stars elongated and widened, blurring together until all that was visible was the white of hyperspace. Sherlock let out a small exhale of relief. They'd made it. They'd made it off Tatooine. A wide smile broke across his face. Finally. Finally! He'd escaped from that sithspitof a planet. Not only that, he had become a Jedi padawan and was now on his way to join the rebellion.
"Yes," said John, eyes crinkling as he smiled at Sherlock in return, no doubt sensing the younger man's excitement and perhaps the thoughts behind the emotion. "Now, let's have you start earning that title, shall we?"
Sherlock followed his Jedi master out of the cockpit to the common area of the Falcon. John gestured for Sherlock to take a seat while he made his way to one of the crates he had brought with him from his homestead. A few seconds of rummaging later, he emerged with hands full.
He placed three objects down on the table before Sherlock. A helmet with a blast shield that was covered in such a way so that the wearer could see nothing of his surroundings,a basic droid equipped with blasters and thrusters, and a long cylinder of silver metal with a black grip covered in switches.
"This," John said, taking the lightsaber gingerly from the table and cradling it in both hands, "was my master's lightsaber. It won't feel quite right, but I think it will be a better fit for you than my blade."
Sherlock took the proffered lightsaber from John's hands with great care. "How should I hold it?" he asked, staring at the elegant yet unassuming weapon in his hands.
John pulled out his own saber, positioning his hands carefully and slowly. Sherlock followed his example, adjusting to the weight in his hands. John, first on his own lightsaber and then Sherlock's, pointed out all the various gauges and switches. He made the younger man repeat their functions four times before he deemed Sherlock ready to activate the blade.
"Alright. Keep your hands clear of the activation area. That thing was built for the express purpose of cutting through flesh and bone without even pausing. It can cut through almost anything if you give it enough time. I once saw Master Sebastian cut his way through three layers of blast doors with it. Your hand would be child's play."
Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. He wasn't a complete moron, he had figured as much already. He gripped the blade carefully, as John had taught him, before pressing the activation switch.
The green blade hummed to life, terminating some two and a half feet from the end of the hilt. There was a very slight change in the weight of the saber, but it merely caused the blade to finally feel relatively balanced. Sherlock swung the blade through the air experimentally a few times, noting the change in the pitch of the humming and the way the blade seemed to cut through the air with relatively no resistance.
John pulled the training remote off the table before activating it in front of Sherlock. "We'll start out with this while you get the hang of the lightsaber and then move on to practicing with the helmet," John told him, taking a seat where he could observe Sherlock as he trained.
Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock felt he had mastered the skill, becoming cocky and complacent. The droid showed him how poor a decision that had been with a mild bolt to his hip just as Lestrade walked into the room. The Captain chuckled, as did John. Judging by the level of amusement his Jedi master displayed, Sherlock knew who he had to thank for the stinging sensation.
"Alright," John told him, deactivating the remote with a wave of his hand, "that's enough for now."
"Nine Hells," Lestrade said, freezing where he stood. He's a Jedi. The curly-haired one must be too. Kreth. No wonder those Imperials were so determined.
John smiled at Lestrade. "No Jedi here," he told him, "just a Commander who isn't as young as he used to be and a farmboy with no other place to go."
"You can read my mind?" the Captain asked, arching an eyebrow as he eased himself onto one of the seats in the room.
"He's not reading," Sherlock told him, shutting off the lightsaber. "You're broadcasting."
Lestrade's presence in the force rippled outwards, carrying his thoughts and feelings with them. John's just…stopped, carrying only the faintest whispers and barest impressions. But not in an obvious way. One would only notice if they were focusing all their attention solely on John Watson, as Sherlock so often did.
"Oh. Oh!" the padawan cried suddenly. "That's what it is! Your presence…you're cloaking yourself and your thoughts?"
John beamed. "God, you're brilliant." It took all of Sherlock's still limited control of his feelings to keep the rush of pure pleasure at John's compliment within acceptable emotional ranges. "Exactly. Everyone has a presence within the Force…a signature, if you will. Someone who can use the Force has…more of a presence. It extends farther, carries greater weight to it. I've had to conceal mine to ensure the Emperor and Darth Moran don't discover me. I've been shielding you as well, but I've had to do less and less work of late. You really are a quick study."
Before Sherlock had a chance to comment, his head felt as if it was being ripped apart from the inside out. Shouting. So much shouting. People crying out in fear, bright and vibrant before being extinguished in flashes of pain and agony.
When Sherlock was able to think again, when he was no longer feeling the deaths of millions dying at once, he realized that all the meagre defences he had managed to construct over the past few days had been completely obliterated. Every thought he'd ever had about John Watson, every reaction and emotion he'd ever had was now on display for the Jedi's observation. And John was observing, Sherlock could tell.
Because John's shields had been weakened. And in that weakness, Sherlock could see something that shifted his entire perspective.
John Watson loved him back.