The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#3
The setting sun gleams off of the water as it crashes against the shore. Cyntax+ watches the waves from a nearby cliff. She sits in utter stillness, letting the airy fabric of her dress flow in the wind. The rocks shift behind her and she turns to see who it is. Sherlock smiles down at her, dark curls blowing in the breeze. The robot rises to great her lover, wrapping her arms around him. He embraces her, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. Cyntax+ melts in to him, her hands exploring his warmth.
'I love you,' she whispers.
'Did you say something?' Johns voice echoes through her head, bringing her back to 221B.
March.12.2012
'What?' she looks to the corner where he peers at her behind a paper, 'no. Nothing.'
He gives her a warm smile before taking a sip of tea. She returns the gesture but his attention is redirected to Sherlock as he enters the room.
'Grab your jacket, Watson. We're heading out.'
John nods, taking one last sip of his tea before standing up. Cyntax+ looks longingly upon her flat mate. They haven't kissed since Christmas; haven't even talked about it. Every time she tries to bring it up, Sherlock has a way of changing the subject.
'Can I come?'
'No, Plus, I think it's best you stay here.'
Cyntax+ rises from her perch on a tall wooden stool, 'whatever it is, I can handle it.'
'I know,' Sherlock smiles, 'it is them, my dear Plus, who can not handle you. Believe me when I say this is a [i]sensitive[/i] case. The detective dons his woolen trench coat, taking great care in popping the collar, 'are you going to paint something? You've been staring at that canvas all day.'
Cyntax+ looks at the canvas, 'Yeah, I suppose,' she turns back to Sherlock to find that he is already gone. John gives her an apologetic look before exiting himself. The robot listens as the two men leave the building. Once they are gone, she lets out a sigh and returns to her stool. She squeezes rich oranges and reds on to her palette, beginning to paint.
'What's so special about it?' John's voice pulls Sherlock out of his mind palace.
'I was thinking, John. Are questions really necessary?'
'What were you thinking about?'
Sherlock's eyes pierce in to his partner, 'Things, John. There is a reason why Humans have not been graced with the power of Disambiguation.'
Watson gives him a glare that says: [i]if you do not speak bloody English~[/i]
'Mind reading.'
'I was just wondering,' says John. He would be offended if he weren't so used to it.
'You asked me a question. What was it?'
'The case. What's so special about it?'
'I do not believe I ever used that word to describe it. It's quite average, actually. A man's head was discovered in a freezer this morning.'
'Well that's average for you, isn't it?' John comments, noting the time he discovered the same sight in their own fridge.
'The restraunt has been shut down. Turns out they cooked the rest of him, mistaking it for Flaekensteg.'
John gives him another one of his glares.
'Pork.'
'What restaurant did you say it was?'
'Covent Garden.'
John grimaces, 'I took my mum there!'
'Now you understand why I'm so picky,' Sherlock states, plainly.
'Now explain everything else,' John mutters, his glance veering out the window of the cab, 'Where are we going?'
'Simon's walk, to talk to Benedict Martin. He filed the missing persons report three weeks ago.
'Friend?'
'Brother. Apparently our victim, Fredrick Martin, was a bit of a social enigma. Didn't hang around people much. His own brother didn't know he was missing until a month after his disappearance.'
'What about work?'
'He was laid off back in January. Their family is quite well off. He was living off of his trust fund.'
'I need one of those,' John mutters.
Sherlock pretends not to hear his companion as he continues, 'the police looked in to it after the report was filed, but there was no real evidence until now.'
'How do we fit in to all of this?'
'I told you the Martins are well off. They're offering a large sum of money for the best and brightest.;
'How large?'
'40,000 pounds each.'
John chokes, '40,000 pounds?!'
'Unnecessarily steep, if you ask me. Which, of course, you do.'
'I though you didn't work for money. What the hell are you going to do with a sum like that?'
'Buy a ticket to Bristol.'
'Bristol, of all places. What's in Bristol?'
'A store that will sell me cigarettes.'
'I see now,' says John as they exit the building.
'See what?'
'Why you didn't want Plus to come.'
'Any why's that?' Sherlock eagerly awaits the other man's reply.
'Benedict Martin's good looking. So good looking, he lives in a model house with dozens of other good looking men. Something you forgot to mention in the can.'
'It didn't seem relevant. And if you mean to imply that I feel threatened by those men, I can say with great confidence that my IQ far exceeds the combined score of the lot of them.'
'No, of course not, because that would imply that you have feelings for her.'
'I do.'
'You do,' John validates the statement, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
'Well, more accurately, a feeling. Specifically, a strong feeling of indifference,' Sherlock ducks in to a cab that has just pulled up.
'That's a load of bollocks, that is,' mutters John, crawling in after his partner. If Sherlock heard him, he decided to ignore the statement. Regardless of his speculation, John decides to drop the subject. The cab ride proceeds with little conversation and much uncomfortable silence. This is saying something, considering both of them prefer the silence. This silence, however, was unsettling. Like something very important was left undisguised.
Cyntax+ watches from the window as the cab arrives at 221B. John waves to her as Sherlock pays the driver. She smiles down at him, disappearing behind the curtains. Shortly after, the two men enter the flat.
'How'd it go boys?'
'Not exceedingly well. I didn't learn anything I couldn't have deduced on my own,' says Sherlock, rummaging his way through the kitchen, 'I'm going to stop by the precinct and take another look at that severed head. People say so much more once they can't talk. Isn't that right, Jimmy?' The detective gives a little wink to the scull that sits on the mantle, 'we've just stopped by for a bit of food. John gets cross when he doesn't eat.'
Cyntax+ expects John's usual yelp of protest but is given a simple shrug, proving that this statement is, indeed, true. Sherlock enters the room, bearing four boxes of tea biscuits. Plus can't recall ever seeing him eat anything else, though, obviously, he must. Even the mighty Sherlock Holmes can't survive on biscuits alone.
He stops in the doorway, gawking at the now painted canvas in the centre of the room. It is an exact replica of the image she saw in her mind. A perfect Sherlock and Cyntax+ stand atop a cliff in front of a setting sun.
'Where did you get that from?'
Cyntax looks at the canvas in confusion, 'I painted it.'
'Not the painting,' spits Sherlock, 'the scenery. That beach. Where did you see it?'
She looks back and forth between Sherlock and the painting, feeling a little threatened by his sudden irritation, 'my travels, I suppose. I don't know. It was just in my head,' she looks at him with concern, 'you okay?'
'You don't understand. That beach is a figment of my mind. It doesn't really exist.'
'Is it now? Interesting.'
'I'd say so,' Sherlock stands in thought for several seconds before he is interrupted.
'Must feel odd,' Cyntax+ lets on a grin, shattering her innocent façade, 'being the one in the dark. The man with all the answers suddenly has none.'
Sherlock stands speechless as the automaton exit's the room.
'How's that indifference working out for you?' asks John, a smirk on his face.
'I must admit I am intrigued, but I am much too busy to deal with that now,' says Sherlock, gaining his composure, 'Now, I have a date with a severed head.'
Cyntax+ sits inside her time machine, nose in a book. Normally she would be busy at work trying to repair it, so she could set off on another adventure, but she is finding herself happy here. Her distaste for Humans normally repels her from Earth, but she has found a companion in Sherlock; something rare but cherishable. Like her past companions, something will happen to force their separation, usually her utter longing to travel. For now, though, she is satisfied. Every day is an adventure in 221B.
Cyntax's reading is disturbed by a knock on the door. She sets down the small, leather bound journal, making her way though the sea of clutter that makes up her floor. She is off put by this sudden happenstance. Her immobile ship is stored in what she thought was an abandon warehouse. She opens the door, expecting to find Sherlock. He is the world's best consulting detective. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find her. What she wasn't expecting, however, was a neatly tied box placed in front of her ship, and no one around to claim it. That is, of course, exactly what she got.
The automaton picks up the package, moving it around in her hands. It is decently heavy, but no suspiciously so. It's tightly packed; no shifting parts. It is wrapped in plain brown paper with a note on top.
[i]Deliver to Sherlock Holmes. I'll know if you don't
~M[/i]
'Who is M, and why can't they deliver this themselves?' Cyntax+ wonders aloud. She stares down at the mysterious package in her hands, debating whether or not to deliver it. In the end, she decides in favour of delivery, knowing that he is the only one qualified to identify it's contents.
'Look at this,' says Sherlock, pointing to the severed edge where the head once attached to the rest of the body.
John peers over the detectives shoulder, 'right, and what am I looking at?'
'Everything,' answers Sherlock with excitement, 'look at it, John. Really look.'
'Yep,' says John, after a few seconds, 'Definitely a severed head.'
'How blissful it must be,' mutters Sherlock, 'not being me. I expected more from you, Doctor.'
Sherlock goes over to the lab computer, searching for butcher shops surrounding Covent Garden.
'You think the killer works at a butcher shop?' asks John, leaning on the counter next to the computer.
'Yes. Obvious,' Sherlock reaches his hand in to the pocket of his coat. A frown crosses his face as he fails to find what he's looking for. He searches in the other pocket, with no success.
'What are you looking for?'
'My journal,' a look of concern crosses his face. He is not one to misplace things.
'You must have left it at the flat.'
'Must have,' he grabs a piece of paper in lue of his notebook, scribbling down the addresses.
'Since when are you one to write things down anyway? What happened to the whole "my mind is a hard drive" thing?'
Sherlock slides the paper in to his pocket, 'some information isn't worth storing.
'You reckon this Is how Fredrik was killed?' the two men are standing in the back room of the closest butcher shop on the list. John grimaces at the grotesque sight in front of him. Pigs hanging from meat hooks; skinned and blood-drained.
'I do,' answers Sherlock, 'the body was drained of blood before the head was removed. The same technique used on pigs before they are used for meat. Quite seamless actually. Place to store the blood and bones. Sell the meat as pork and no one knows the difference. He could have gone a life time undetected. So why turn himself in?'
'What it wasn't him?'
'What?'
'I mean, what if someone else put the head in the freezer?'
'You're saying he was framed?'
'Well, it's just a theory-'
'No,' Sherlock interrupts, 'that's brilliant!' the detective rushes out of the shop. John follows not far behind him, eager to part with the hanging pigs.
'Thanks,' he nods to the shop owner on his way out. He barely makes it in to the cab as his partner makes his speedy escape.
'Where are we going?' he asks, slightly out of breath.
'Your leg is acting up again.'
'Yeah, that, I'll be fine,' John winces as he shifts his weight to the other side. Damn Afghanistan.
'We're going back to Baker street,' Sherlock moves the conversation forward but still addresses his partner with a concerned gaze.
'Don't you want to find the guy who-'
'I know who did it.'
'Really?'
Sherlock doesn't answer.
John tries again, 'who?'
Sherlock looks in to his companions eyes, his stare hard and determined, 'Moriarty.'
John and Sherlock enter 221B, where they are greeted by shoe tracks leading up the stairs and the faintest aroma of motor oil.
'It was taken,' says Sherlock.
'John's eyebrows furrow, 'What was?'
'My journal.'
'How do you know?'
The detective smiles, 'because she's come to return it.'
'She?' asks John, but his partner is already advancing up the stairwell.
The smell of motor oil gets stronger at he enters the main floor of the flat. A plainly wrapped package sits on the desk. On top of it sits his journal and next to it a full mug of tea. All three items are void of fingerprints, outside his own. This doesn't alarm him. The messenger could have easily been wearing gloves. What stood out was the lack of a lip print on the mug. It was made just for him. The intruder could be only one person, and she wasn't really an intruder at all.
The steps creak as a new person enters the room.
'Plus,' he greets.
'Nope,' says John, 'just me.'
But Sherlock's eyes are not on his partner. They are fixed to the figure standing behind him. Cyntax+ stands inhumanly still at the base of the stairs, completely naked, 'Hello darling.'
'Yo0u took my journal,' states Sherlock. If he is effected by the fully exposed woman in front of him, it does not show in his voice. It does, however, show in his body language. His hands are flexed, fingers fully extended, a sign of discomfort. His cheek bones are more prominent than usual; he's clenching his jaw. Pupils dilated, feet pointed in, wait shifting, 'that's how you knew about the beach.'
He is too precious. Cyntax's goggle flashes, saving the image, 'guilty,' she utters, sauntering forward.
John catches a glimpse of her nude body and quickly looks away with a cough.
'I didn't mean to alarm you,' she states, 'I've spilled motor oil on my cloths. They're soaking in your tub. Hope you don't mind.'
'Ignore him,' says Sherlock, in reference to John's actions.
'I was talking to you,' she answers.
He puts on a look of confusion.
'Ten months I've lived with you,' she smirks, ' you think I haven't picked up a trick or two? I know a nervous man when I see one.'
'Could you wait upstairs?' asks Sherlock, quite abruptly. His hands are shaking. He can barely contain himself.
The robot's smirk turns to a grin, 'of course.'
'Still feeling indifferent?' John whispers after she's exited the room.
'Are you joking?!' Sherlock tries to keep his voice down but fails, 'she's beautiful! Did you see her?! I've never seen such complex machinery!' Sherlock spins around in giddy excitement, 'and using my science of deduction! Oh, I can't wait to get my hands on her!'
John hasn't seen a grin on Sherlock that big in a long time. He can't help but smile too as the detective runs upstairs, 'that poor woman,' he mutters with a shake of his head.
Sherlock walks in his bedroom to see that Cyntax+ is now clothed, 'you're wearing my robe,' he comments.
'Yeah,' she ties the blue sash around her waist, 'it was hanging on your door. I figured you'd want me to cover up a bit.'
Sherlock closes the door, 'actually, I prefer you take it off,' he stares at the robot in front of him. His robe hangs off of her, the hem pooling on the floor, the sleeves far exceeding the length of her arms, and the neck line just barely exposing her cleavage. The detective enjoys the sight so much, he debates telling her to leave it on.
Cyntax+ stands still for a while, soaking up the attention from Sherlock. Slowly, she pulls the sash, letting the robe fall to the floor. She reveals, once again, her patchwork body. Nearly her entire right side has been stripped of skin, revealing the metal underneath. Metal plates seem to be welded to her skin in various other places it has been torn. Sherlock takes her wrist in his hand, gently, 'may I?'
'Go ahead, but don't get too handsy. I'm fussy about my circuitry. Even a man as brilliant as you can't understand my mechanics. I don't want you breaking anything.'
The innuendo rolls right off of Sherlock. He is far too entranced with her build. His fingertips trace the intricate symbols etched in to her bronze plating, taking care to the storage slots that expose her titanium skeleton. His right hand grasps hers, turning her arm over, 'you are remarkable,' he takes to stroking her again, 'simply stunning.'
He moves down to her leg, his hands caressing her, his mouth so close she can feel his breath. In this moment, she is very thankful she doesn't require oxygen, 'you know how I feel about you, Sherlock.'
'Yes,' his answer is barely audible amidst his sighs of wonder.
'So why are you teasing me like this?'
'Teasing you?' Sherlock looks up at her with the most innocent eyes she has ever witnessed, 'I thought I was complimenting you.'
BAM! YOU JUST GOT PREGNANT!
