Chapter 6: Flip Side
The silence in the room is deep, but not overwhelming. The only person who really understands the severity of the captain's statement is the Admiral, and that is only because he has brushed up on the entire subject prior to speaking to his brother about it. He is not concerned because he is some kind of philanthropist; he is concerned about the moon because he was hoping to renew some type of business negotiations there, if not mining perhaps something else. So far, he has given Sherlock all of the information that he has managed to glean about the moon, the mining, and the research being done there. It really is not much to be going on with, though he does have some hopes that with his brother's penchant for thorough research more will be added in the near future.
Mycroft completely misses the rest of the meeting and finds himself alone in the gallery. John has collected his files and turned all of the lights down, save for the safety lights that line the aisle up to the back of the room. He takes in his surroundings but does not get up. He considers the dangers that he is sending this small crew into on this mission, weighing the pros and cons. There is not a single doubt in his mind that his brother and his partner are perfectly capable of protecting themselves from dangers they can see, though he has not spent much time thinking about the dangers that they may be unaware of. For a second, the idea that this whole thing might be a mistake crosses his mind. He stews on, turns the problem over in his mind and examines it from several angles. From what he understands of the information he has been presented with, the scientific program from the original Pandora mission was a failure. The scientists were never able to fully integrate with the native people and therefore nothing ever became of it. Somewhere along the line there had been wars between the indigenous humanoids and the miners; the native beings won the first war but not the second one. The mines that had grown about the terrain of the planet had stripped it of more than the mineral they had been designed to recover. Mycroft was forced to guess about the history of Pandora after this point, as there is nothing further in his research. There is really only one thing that may be pertinent, though perhaps it will be better if he allows Sherlock to figure that out on his own. The last time he attempted to force his brother's attention to a small detail on a project almost caused a disaster for all involved. He shakes his head mutely, no, it is better to wait and see if this minor detail turns out to be something consequential. Besides, there is absolutely no way of knowing if the now seven and one half decades old equipment is still in any type of working condition.
With his mind made up, Admiral Holmes finally stands, brushing his hands against the smooth material of his black trousers and adjusting his hunter green shirt by grasping at the tight collar. Even off duty, the admiral prefers to look professionally turned out. The only indication that he is tired is the hand that cards through the dark ginger waves on the back of his head. He turns smartly on his heels and steps up through the gallery, his boots marking almost no sound of his passing against the thick pile of the dark blue-grey carpet.
The door slides open three steps before he gets to it. He walks up the corridor to the lift. Mycroft presses the buttons, debating on going to the restaurant, the café or just to his room to grab a bite and rest for a few hours. He decides that the last thing he needs to see is John and Sherlock mooning over each other like lovesick teenagers and stabs at the button for his level hard enough to make the first knuckle in his finger pop. He frowns, his neat eyebrows meeting in a little upside-down V as he glares at the now lit-up pad. Of course, it does not make any remarks of any type so he thrusts his hand into his almost-invisible pocket and whips out his e-book. He taps at the screen, putting in his order for dinner and maybe a bottle of wine. Perhaps a long bath, too. He still has several orders to be put into place and carried out by his crew before he can send the captain and his small group on their way.
The lift stops and Mycroft is through the doors before they completely open. He shoves his e-book back into his trousers with one hand and quickly begins snapping open the buttons on his shirt with the other. He stops at his door and lays his palm against the invisible pad. Again, the door slides open but this time he waits until it opens the entire way as that allows the lights to come to life.
He moves into his sitting room, taking in the blue armchairs and the burnt sienna color of the low table between them. Precisely in the center of the table is a tall, slender silver candlestick complete with a solid white candle. Mycroft reaches to the top of a bookcase that matches the table and grasps a long, black lighter. He flicks it twice and a dancing flame appears at the end of it which he then uses to light the candle. He watches the flickering flame for a moment as it changes from the normal red and orange to a deep blue color that reminds him of his brother's uniform shirts. Satisfied that everything is in order, he opens the door to his study.
The room is a disaster. Books have been plucked from the shelves that surround the narrow walls and lay about the floor in an undignified heap. His files have been ruthlessly stripped from their cabinet and thrown in a pile behind the door. He knows before he ever even touches them exactly what will be missing. Someone has gone through his things and they damn well wanted to make sure that he knew about it. He gives a deep sigh and begins cleaning up the mess.
His books all seem to be alright, none of them are torn, though many now have annoyingly creased pages; he slides them back into place on the shelves. At this point, they are not in any kind of order, though he will remedy that situation later. The files are pretty much destroyed so he simply dumps them in the handy copper waste basket close to the huge desk in the center of the room. That is when he notices that his favorite oxblood leather chair has been slashed, stuffing pouring from the slim and deep cuts like blood from a wound. He does not sigh this time, though a deep growl rumbles from his throat as he now runs both hands through his hair. It ceased being a presentable thing after the first few minutes, now the thinning strands are all but standing up from his scalp.
His door chimes to announce the presence of his meal so he turns away from the mess, snaps his fingers to turn off the lights in the study, and with a calm demeanor he truly does not feel, gently closes the door. When he accepts his meal from the Odal waitress, he even gives her a smile and a polite thank you. He carries the silver tray and bottle of wine to his small, circular dining table and sets it down. He starts to enter the kitchen then stops and picks up the still burning candle, setting it down on the dining table. He does not turn on any other lights while he takes his time eating the boiled and buttered mollusks on his plate. Anyone looking in on him would see a quiet man eating slowly, seeming to be lost in thought. Part of that would be true, though his thoughts are anything but calm. Instead they are whirring through his mind, tiny details jumping out at him. Within seconds, he knows how he is going to punish the being that dared enter his own personal space, provided that he can catch them; he considers that they may no longer be on board the Proto-Tethys, which, depending on how much of the research that they stole from him they actually understand, is completely to be expected.
John leans back in his rather comfortable chair and rests the pint of ale on his knee. Greg sits opposite him at the square table in the corner of the almost deserted restaurant. There is not a band playing tonight, instead some quiet classical music is pouring from the speakers set up around the room. Besides Greg and himself, only George and Sherlock are present. The Telom stayed long enough to eat a bowl of long, pale, noodle-like things that John is only going to tell himself were actually noodles and not actually moving because he had already imbibed a pint and that was all he was going to even think about on that subject.
George is quietly looking about the dining room with a one hundred being capacity, his huge eyes appearing even larger in the dim light. Two of his sucker-ended tentacles are wrapped around a wide-mouthed glass of deep yellow liquid with a third being used apparently as a straw to drink the stuff. If anything, the Odal is quite polite and John has not heard a single sound from the alien the entire evening.
Greg on the other hand has been talking since they sat down. He tells them all about his job down on Earth as a peace keeper and how after his oldest daughter was killed in an accident that his marriage went downhill and his wife finally left. At some point, Sherlock stopped listening but remained because he wanted to be near John. He finally had enough after a while and wandered up towards the sound system to check into the music selection.
Greg is finally taking a breather when Sherlock returns to the table. He does not return to his chair, however, he remains standing next to John with one hand on John's shoulder. They are all still in their uniforms, though tops have been unbuttoned for comfort. Greg's warm brown eyes travel from the long fingers gently grasping John's shoulder up to the face of Captain Holmes who is regarding him with a very intense gaze that clearly and politely says mine. He gives John a quiet smile, takes a sip of his pint and asks with confidence and without malice of any kind "How long have you been together?"
John starts to answer but Sherlock cuts him off. "Long enough." He is abrupt though John does not detect any malevolence in his lover's answer. He just smiles at Greg and Greg gives them a little nod. "It's all good." Greg smiles back and excuses himself. George gives a little chirp, blinks his eyes and follows Greg from the restaurant. When John finally turns to look up at Sherlock, he can see the green irises are smoldering embers.
"Sherlock." The captain's eyes never leave Greg's retreating back. If he had his throwing stars, John is pretty sure there would be one firmly lodged between Greg's shoulder blades by this point. He pushes Sherlock's hand off of his shoulder and stands up on the toes of his boots to look Sherlock directly in the face as best he can. He puts a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and interrupts his thought pattern by pulling downward in a way that short, bossy people can do very well when they want something.
"Captain." John snarls. Sherlock blinks as if he has just come back to himself.
"Yes, John." He does not seem to want to acknowledge what is happening.
"Sherlock, I know it's been a while since you had to share me with other people, but that was, well, ridiculous." John's gaze is fierce and he refuses to allow Sherlock to get out of it.
"John he was checking you out." Sherlock pouts.
"Really, Sherlock?" John drops his hands to his lover's trim waist.
Sherlock is silent, giving John the chance to finally hear the music playing behind them. He knows that he has to get the captain's mind going in another direction. "Dance with me?" He asks, expecting to be turned down. Instead, the captain places both hands on John's bum and pulls him closer. "Alright." He whispers in a husky voice directly into John's ear that sends a line of desire directly down his spine.
John does not reply, though he grips Sherlock's hand and leads him to the dark dance floor. He drapes an arm across Sherlock's waist and the other on his shoulder. Sherlock mirrors John and they slowly circle about the dance floor. The captain keeps his eyes locked on his lover's face, even as his hands pull him closer. As always, his shirt is mostly unbuttoned and John can feel the heat and smell his musky scent as they move together. Neither man closes his eyes; for a few moments they are whisked away on the lyrics of an old song.
I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me
Or am I even in its mind at all…
Tonight they kiss passionately, deeply and without any thought to time. Sherlock's hand gently strokes the back of John's neck and he rolls his shoulders. John changes his grip from Sherlock's waist to having both hands on his narrow hips as he sways to the changing tempo. The only sounds now are from the speakers and the soft sounds the two lovers make between them. Just as in all they do together, they seem to blend into one unit, in peace and in battle. At some point, Sherlock gives John a little impromptu spin and pulls him back in so that John's back is to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's hands rest over John's, carefully leading as their hips sway in time with one another. The captain is leaning down so that his kiss-swollen lips are brushing the shell of John's ear. He sings along with the lyrics, his voice impossibly lower and deeper than John has ever heard it. It almost ceases to be a human voice and more of a throaty purr.
If you should see me walking
Through your dreams at night
Would you please direct me
Where I ought to be
When the song finally begins to taper off, John is of half a mind to simply sweep the captain off his feet and have him right there against the rust-colored tiles. Instead, they pull together like a pair of opposite-ended magnets; synchronicity when their lips crash in unison with the cymbal and drums in the music overhead.
The Admiral turns away from the door where he has been watching his baby brother. The swell of something that cannot be named in his chest threatens to completely disarm him. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him, the least of which is pride in the younger man. He thinks of the way that Sherlock spit the word partner back at him all that time ago. He will never bring it up, however, this thing between he and John is too precious. Mycroft hopes it will survive their next mission. He sighs and covers his eyes with one hand. Instead of going in and explaining about the break-in and ransacked room, he decides he will take care of his own problems; some things are just too fine, too rare, too…for once, the Admiral does not have the words to describe it; just too whole to fracture it now.