Chapter 7: Flashing Blades
John claws into consciousness feeling like he is being smothered under the largest electric blanket known to human kind kicked up to its highest degree. When he finally opens his eyes, he is met with a face full of raucous raven curls and the feeling of a blistering hot, oh so naked, body stretched out over his own. There is a small pool of sweat between them where they are fully in contact and dripping down between his shoulder blades. He takes in a deep breath through his nose and the rise of his chest is greeted by an irritated grunt from the sleeping captain. A rather broad hand smacks weakly against John's rib cage.
"Dun wanna get up." Sherlock's voice vibrates against John's side and he chuckles. He slowly caresses the captain's bare back, giving him the time that he needs to get himself back online. This then, is one of John's favorite times of the day: those things that only he gets to see such as this strong, overbearing, hard driving personality completely relaxed and vulnerable. John sighs and decides that staying put really is not such a bad idea after all. He relaxes back into the lull caused by the deep breathing of his lover.
A hateful burst of red light forces him to open his eyes again. The digital calendar is flashing across the walls, though for all of that all John notices is the way the scarlet digits flash across the captain's smoothly muscled torso. He lightly traces them with his index finger, becoming quite amused as each pass causes goose pimples to appear on Sherlock's warm skin; he is paying absolutely no attention whatsoever to what the digits and letters actually spell out. Finally, with a huff and some kind of maneuver that only pulls him upward on John's chest instead of over and off of it, Sherlock is intently staring John right in the face.
John will never fail to be amazed at the depths in those jade oceans of intense life. Even if he did not know that there was something else in Sherlock's heritage, he would certainly believe it when he felt himself spiraling out of control when all of the captain's attention is fully focused on him. In a passing thought he remembers the haughty expression on the captain's face the first time they met; he vaguely wonders if Sherlock ever considers these things.
They give it a few moments more and allow their lips to just graze against one another's mouths. In no time at all, they are lying there with the sheets pooled around them, forehead to forehead; neither man possessing the will to move from this cocoon of joy. Sherlock's body radiates heat and John's accepts it; the moon reflecting the sun's glory back to it. For two men who can be so prone to action, they seem to enjoy basking in each other's embrace just as much.
The captain seems to hear the chime an instant before John does. He pushes himself straight up on his arms, lands a kiss directly on John's forehead and is bounding out of the bed before John can fully assess the situation. Of course, that does not stop him from enjoying the view of Sherlock's back field in motion as the naked captain strolls out of the bedroom, hips swaying as he pads to the door of their quarters like a panther stalking his next meal. John makes up his mind that next time they are naked together he is licking those kidney dimples just for the hell of it, and to make Sherlock squirm.
John closes his eyes against the muffled voices filtering through the open bedroom door. When he realizes that it is not Mycroft, he braces himself and pulls on his trousers. He steps out into the sitting room and is met with a rather interesting sight.
The captain stands with his bare backside in John's direction. Amazingly, he is completely relaxed which John can see clearly from the lack of tension in his body. The Telom, Greg and George are all facing Sherlock. The Telom, whose name, Una, finally registers in John's mind, is staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. George is covering his huge eyes with six tentacles and a mild flush of deep red is apparent against his light green skin. Greg, however, is standing completely still with his hands on his hips. The most amazing thing is that he is looking Sherlock straight in the face without any hint of embarrassment or amusement on his features. John can almost see a tether between the green eyes and the brown ones. He spins on the balls of his feet to go and snatch Sherlock's trousers from the bedroom floor and steps up behind him, clearing his throat.
Sherlock never turns around, instead says calmly "Yes, Ambassador." John has never heard his title sound more like dear in his life but he doesn't push it, merely reaching around Sherlock and handing the naked man his trousers. Sherlock continues his conversation with Greg while at the same time stepping into the legs and pulling them up around his waist like this sort of thing happens every single day. Well, for them it does, though John is less than thrilled when the captain streaks in front of his crew. He waits for a lull in the conversation as he hears the soft rustle of the black material settle itself around the contours of the captain's legs and hips. He has to bite back a groan.
Una finally takes her eyes from her contemplation of the gray ceiling. "Captain, with your permission we may load the shuttle? If we get moving we should be on Pandora in four hours." She obligingly snaps her well-polished boot heels together; the clicking sound is a firm stop at the end of her statement. Her golden eyes take in every movement of Sherlock's face before scanning John's as well. She nods her head almost to herself as if she has just made up her mind about something. Her whole demeanor relaxes just the slightest. Her pale lilac uniform shirt is loose about her torso and the material seems to shimmer against the light gold of her skin.
"Yes, Engineer Storya, go ahead. Alert me when things are ready. George, you may go along with her." Una snaps the crisp salute of those fresh from the Academy and George raises a tentacle in the same motion. Sherlock gives them a short dip of the head and they turn and leave the room. John can hear the short snorty squeak of an excited Odal as the door swishes shut behind them.
"Damn, that girl is wound so tight I'll bet she is…." Greg begins.
John is not about to let bad blood start between the crew members before they even get off the Admiral's ship. He sets his face in its best imitation of a tenacious bulldog and says simply "Don't."
Greg stands down and his mouth snaps shut so hard his jaw creaks. Following John's line of sight, he takes a seat in one of the armchairs. Sherlock shares the authority with ease, not speaking until John has left the room to finish dressing.
The captain has not moved. He crosses his arms about his chest. "You are our weapons expert, Lestrade. Tell me what your plans are."
In the dim light of the single lamp burning in the sitting room, Greg outlines his ideas for protecting them while they are on the terra firma of Pandora. He goes into great detail about caliber of projectiles and the newest types of guns they are using on Earth. Sherlock does not interrupt him once. When Greg finishes, he waits silently, though he is unsure what he is waiting for, watching Sherlock's face for anything that tells him he is on the right track.
"Those are useful ideas, Lestrade-for Earth. Pandora has an atmosphere that is denser due to a higher percentage of Xenon present. If you even attempt to operate those weapons designed for use with Earth's thinner, more Nitrogen rich atmosphere one of two things will happen: one, they will not fire at all or two, you will have nothing but a fireball in your hands."
For a second, Greg is taken aback and debates whether he should be insulted. Being the good-natured man that he is, however, he takes the lesson at face value. Without waiting for a response, Sherlock is moving towards a long wooden box propped up against one of the pair of mostly empty bookcases beside the door. He lays the box across the empty chair and slowly works the lid open. Greg can see a flash of silver and a little sliver of excitement seats itself at the base of his spine. He has heard and even read about this; now he finally gets to see it.
Without any warning, Captain Holmes pulls both swords from their resting places and flashes them over his head. The ultra-sharp blades dramatically catch the weak rays of light from the lamp in the corner and reflect it across the dark gray carpet. It reminds Greg of the time he and his little brother played with a hand mirror standing in the windows of his boyhood home. Sherlock spins across the floor, one long blade flicking clockwise and one counterclockwise as his supple wrists work them in circles. The muscles on his arms, biceps and across his chest are tight and his brows are knit together in concentration. His eyes are closed and he looks to be dancing. Greg is almost hypnotized by the interplay between muscle and bone across the captain's back and shoulders. As the captain moves into another spin, the blades begin to glow with the faintest blue light that is unlike anything Greg has ever seen before. The captain raises the swords above his head one more time just as John returns, fully dressed.
John quickly analyzes the situation and knows instantly that Sherlock is in the mood for some impressive dramatics. He moves forward towards the blades at the same time Sherlock's eyes snap open. In a fraction of a second John sees recognition and he spins on his boot heels, ducking his head and bending down slightly at the knees. He feels the air crackle as a blade falls to either side of his body. He freezes in place and raises his head to check on Greg's reaction to their little performance, being able to see clearly over Sherlock's shoulders that are bent forward towards him. Sherlock's respirations are only slightly faster than normal, though the look in his eye is both cold as steel and warmly approving of John's instant appraisal of what was going on.
Greg's face is positively priceless. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth is open and his eyes are as wide as a child's on Christmas Day. John laughs, absolutely thrilled with the outcome. Since the battle for the Time Gate, the two of them have spent countless hours practicing. John will never be as good with a single sword as Sherlock is with both of his, but he feels he can keep up when he needs to. Alone, Sherlock is a match for just about anything he comes up against, as long as he can stay on his feet; together, they are a fierce wall of flashing blades and steely strength.