Hey look, we're nearly up to date on the rewrites!
Kind of a disjointed chapter. I've fixed it as much as I could but I've added quite a bit and stuff. Still annoyingly short but still.
Zed is here instead of O. I like Zed. He's awesome in a weird sort of way. Not that O isn't, just... Zed, y'know? And I stole an alien from Doctor Who but assuming MiB and Sherlock exist, the Doctor isn't too much of a stretch. And maybe the blancmange thing might have been borrowed from a Monty Python sketch. I don't own any of these things so I can do what I like until they find out...
Several weeks had passed now since Sherlock had joined MiB and not for the first time since then his thoughts strayed back to John. How would he have reacted to finding this out? Probably not by asking if they had tea. Although it was John, he was far more reliant on the beverage than Sherlock was.
"Sentiment." He muttered to himself, banishing the thoughts but not looking up from his desk.
The problem, the reason he kept thinking of home and John, was that Sherlock was bored.
Well, maybe bored wasn't quite the right word for this situation. On the contrary, he was overloaded with new, fascinating information on the various aliens that MiB had to deal with every day, the people here and all sorts of procedures. He'd had to extend his mind palace to fit it all in. The real problem was the time in between the seemingly scarce crises. Apparently it had been several decades since they'd gone this long between various threats of invasion and destruction. No-one threatening to destroy earth with a laser, no potentially world ending viruses. Dull. Several of the other more... Experienced agents seemed to agree with him. Even the imminent threat of destruction was better than catching up on paperwork.
Sooner or later they'd have to send him out on a mission though, he assumed. He wasn't sure how long was normal between being recruited and actually /working/, whatever that work may be, but he was sure it wasn't normally this long. Most of the time, aside from a small mount of work in customs, not dissimilar to a regular airport and extremely tedious, Sherlock had been left to amuse himself. He'd already gone through all of the information they'd given him and searched nearly every single document at and, unknown to the other agents, above his clearance level. He still had several layers of security to break through to get to the most confidential material, which probably wouldn't take him long but he'd found another, far more amusing, pastime than computer hacking.
"How in god's name can you have lost another neuraliser?!" Zed roared from the other end if the room.
J flinched. "I don't know! It must have fallen out of my pocket when we went after that rogue Silurian!"
"Have you any idea of the consequences if a civilian found it?!"
"They wouldn't know what to do with it anyway!"
Sherlock smirked, tuning out the rest of the argument and continuing in his attempt to dismantle the third neuraliser he'd stolen from J that week. Every time he thought he understood the obviously alien circuitry, he hit some kind of self-disintegration device but this time he was pretty sure he'd got it. He carefully sliced around the metal square embedded in the centre of the neuraliser's circuit board and levered it out. The device made a strange hissing noise and Sherlock jerked back quickly, allowing the device to melt into another oddly shaped stain on his desk.
He took another sip from a another mug of the only decent tea in america and stared up at the big screen in the main room of the building, now realising how obvious it was that the people on there were extra-terrestrial.
Lady Gaga. Obvious.
That man who presented that TV show that John used to watch in the morning... Jeremy Kyle? Obvious.
Michael Jackson. Ha, Sherlock knew he was still alive but John hadn't believed him. Obvious.
Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. Somehow, despite the fact he'd changed his number again, Mycroft was still texting him. Apparently his brother had contacts here as well. Not a large surprise; being ninety percent of the world's governments had its advantages. Although Sherlock would have thought that his brother would have told him about aliens by now, even if he did so by accident.
Sherlock went back to looking at the big screen, not bothering to check what the text said. After a second he spat out his tea and laughed.
'Moira Anderson' the name highlighted on the screen said. 'Place of employment: London Metropolitan Police' Next to the text was a photo of Anderson, taken when he still had that ridiculous beard, and a large pink think that resembled some kind of blancmange, also presumably Anderson. Sherlock laughed even harder.
"What the hell's so funny, sport?" Zed said, glaring vaguely at him when he was still laughing several minutes later.
"Moira!"