Author's Note: I thought it would be nice to serve my Johnlock with a side of Mystrade...
Chapter 11: Fox & Hound
The days drag forward, pulling them all along as time is wont to do regardless of the planet, moon or even the galaxy that one happens to find his or her self. They have all made themselves stay busy: whether it is cleaning up the laboratory, cleaning and re-booting machines or cleaning up and making the cabin habitable. It is obvious that the cabin is not part of the original encampment here—in fact where the lab sits now is not its original position, either. Captain Holmes has discovered this through his many hours of research into Dr. Augustine's records. During the first war between those attempting to strip the moon of its natural resources and the natives, the lab was quite literally picked up by a Samson helicopter, flown up the side of a mountain and very slowly dropped here. The pilot of that helicopter, a woman named Trudy Chacon, later died during the first battle. Sherlock holds her photograph in between his long fingers, staring into her brown eyes and reading her tough, no-nonsense expression. It is always a sad thing to see a fellow soldier go down, no matter the cause.
Really, the captain has never thought of himself as a solider; he has never really fit into any particular box. He can fight with the best of them, to the death if necessary; his is the heart of a scientist, a researcher—someone who is constantly possessed with the need to know; he is not a soldier in any true sense of the word. He places the old, yellowing photograph back into its file and pushes the file aside.
The lab around them is full of gleaming machines, bright lights and computer monitors showing views of Pandora on their screen-savers as they wait silently to be put back to work. The slight hum of the oxygen pumps fills the big room with white noise. George is sitting in the corner, his tentacles flying over a keyboard as he types out data from yet another old file. This one is red and newer than the stacks Sherlock has been digging through. Occasionally, George stops in his typing to use a tentacle to sip from the glass of green liquid on the console beside him. He is completely focused on his task, eyes never leaving the monitor.
John sits in the end seat of the long wooden table that is covered with hills and mountains of dusty old brown and crinkly manila files taking notes. Sherlock considers that it is quite amazing that something like paper has managed to sit here practically unmolested for all this time. John is alternating between typing exactly when Sherlock is dictating into his e-book and scratching his own notes onto a yellow pad of actual paper. Off to his left is a long, flat case. Occasionally, the captain reads John's sideways scrawl and makes a comment or a correction; for the most part, however, they have worked in almost silence for the past four hours. It a companionable, familiar thing for the two of them that sometimes they even forget where they are and that this mission has more purpose that simply fact finding.
John rubs his eyes as he sets down his knife-sharpened black oil pencil. His hair is slightly longer than he generally wears it, just brushing the collar of the mustard yellow shirt he is wearing. He runs his hand through it as he speaks. "I believe we are finally getting to where we can present some of this information to the team." Sherlock hums a little under his breath in agreement, his emerald eyes flashing as they fly through yet another hand-written document. He unclips a memory chip from the file and holds it out to John, who takes it and slides it into the leather case beside him for safe-keeping.
John is just about to stand up and stretch, thinking that he would love something to drink when there is a loud crash and the front door to the lab is slammed open to admit one red-faced and very angry Weapons Expert followed by an equally furious Admiral. Sherlock, John and even George over in the corner have all completely forgotten just exactly what they were about to do.
Greg reaches up with the hand not currently curled into a fist and rips the mask off of his face. He turns towards Mycroft, his brown eyes filling with the glare of death. Mycroft slowly removes his own mask, his other hand carding through his neat dark ginger coif as he does so. He glares back at Greg, a much more exasperated expression on his face than the one Greg is wearing.
Una has come in behind them and closes the door expediently before stepping around them and removing herself from the situation entirely. Sherlock silently notes her passing through towards the back of the lab where there is now a door and a tunnel to the cabin; she says nothing but he can read the set of her shoulders and the way her legs reach out to devour the floor that she is just as unhappy as the other two. As she moves past them, she rips off her own mask and hurls it to the floor. George slides forward, picks it up and then moves back to his corner, though he does not return to his job yet, instead he just watches, his huge eyes made even bigger by the trepidation in them. His light green skin is even slightly flushed. John wonders for a brief moment whether the Odal is more afraid of the Admiral or of something that might happen to his friend.
The tense silence is finally broken when Greg shouts at Mycroft. "How goddamn fucking bloody hell d'you expect me to do my job when I've to constantly save your arse?" Greg's so upset that his accent is falling apart.
Mycroft just frowns at him, those ridiculously plucked eyebrows meeting in a distinct point at the tips. "I was just following up…"
"Don't. You. Fucking. Dare!" Greg has forced himself in his personal bubble and is now right up in the Admiral's face; something no one except for his own brother has ever attempted and survived. At this point, though, Greg is completely unaware of any real danger; he is right at the end of his rope and could care less how many centimeters he is from actually dangling from it.
"Greg." Mycroft says the other man's name sternly, making a weak attempt at pushing his authority. He runs a finger between his hunter-green collar and his neck, clearing his throat.
Greg shakes his head back and forth. "Give it up! It is impossible to set up any kind of place to practice if this bastard insists on trying to get himself killed!" Greg shouts, rolling the last word around his tongue like a hard candy before letting the hard consonant drop between them as his teeth clench. He turns his attention towards Sherlock, though he is clearly pointing at the Admiral.
For once, Sherlock has the grace to not even open his mouth. Inside, however, he is smirking quite openly—he didn't want Mycroft here in the first place. Instead, he just levels a gaze at his brother that tells Mycroft plainly that the Admiral has no authority here.
A heartbeat passes, then another. Greg is breathing hard and his hands are trembling, the mask that is held between sturdy, tan fingers is now bouncing against his thigh. He shakes his head in annoyance as he stalks away, following Una's path back towards the cabin. His boots leave heavy echoes in his place. Mycroft just stands there, for once completely at a loss, watching Greg's amethyst-shirted back disappear. The door between the lab and the cabin slams shut, actually rattling the corrugated metal that serves as the roof. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and returns to the file in front of him. The name Jake Sully, written in a neat hand is plainly visible on the tab of the file.
George also returns to his task. John, however, gives the Admiral a hard look. "What did you do?" In the short time they have been working together, John has never seen Greg so upset; in fact he would not have believed it from the mild-mannered man if he had not seen it right in front of him.
Mycroft seems to come out of the trance he is in, still staring after Greg even though he is no longer in the room. He opens his mouth to answer, but John cuts him off.
"Don't give me any of that it's not important bullshit, Mycroft. I know better." John returns to his seat, sets his clasped hands together on the table in front of him and regards the man who might as well be his brother-in-law with a severe expression. He waits.
Finally, Mycroft sighs and his shoulders actually slump downward. He does not look at John when he speaks; instead his gaze narrows as if he could make Greg reappear from the back room just by wishing it to be so. "Greg and the Telom…"
John cuts him off for the second time, his voice cold. "Her name is Una."
Mycroft regards the Ambassador with one eyebrow arched so high it seems to be trying to make love to his hairline then decides to only deal with one mess at a time. "Yes. Greg and Una were doing a bit of sparring in the clearing." John nods. "I was out walking the camp's perimeter and thought it might be interesting to see how the two of them were getting along."
John groans. He can see it all so clearly. His eyes slip shut as he rests his forehead on the palm of one hand, his elbow sitting on the table. "Brilliant thinking, Mycroft, brilliant."
"Quite." Mycroft answers. He proceeds to explain how he ended up facing the business end of Greg's sword. He then runs a finger across the shoulder of his shirt, opening up a tear that no one else had noticed until then. Sherlock even tore his attention away from the file in his hand long enough to give his brother the Holmesian version of the long-suffering sigh of the intelligent dealing with those who are less than.
John stands and walks around the table. "Let me see." Mycroft takes the chair John vacated and John gently probes under the material. The Admiral is quite lucky, the flat side of the blade was controlled enough to only scratch the man's skin. John whistles under his breath. "Sherlock, look at this."
Sherlock stands and studies the thin red line on his brother's shoulder.
"Do you know what that means?" John asks his lover.
Sherlock nods the affirmative. "It means that our Weapon's Expert controlled the fall of the blade, even when surprised."
The Admiral actually has the decency to look surprised and then his face goes pale. The whites around his dark blue irises seem so much brighter in contrast. In that instant, it occurs to him just how foolish stepping out of the thick foliage to face a man who has only been using that wicked blade for a very short amount of time really was. He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt and clears his throat. "Damn." He says quietly.
John nods and heads towards the cabin to see what he can do about dinner.
Dinner that evening is a bit more subdued than normal. They all sit at the dining table, save for George who is still in the lab, happily working his way through his third stack of files that day. Odals as a race need much less sleep than humans and George in particular loves to sit at his computer doing data entry while he lets his mind wander.
So it is that Sherlock, John, Greg, Una and Mycroft are dining together. There is very little discussion between them-except for the polite requests to please pass the roast or anyone need anything else while I am up. The only other sounds are cutlery clinking against dishware and a soft thump when glasses return to the table. Since John and Una made tonight's meal, it is Greg and Mycroft's turn to tidy the kitchen.
Una finishes her meal rapidly, clearing her dishes and stacking them on the sideboard. She is pleasant enough in her "good night" to them, though the flashing stare she throws Mycroft's way is enough to clue them in on the way she is really feeling. She has every intention of asking Greg tomorrow if they should approach the captain about some extra training time with the admiral. Maybe if he gets involved it will keep him from skulking around. Una has almost had it with the older man and hopes that a political approach will keep her from losing her career.
She goes to her room and turns down the sleeping bag that is completely unzipped. It makes a decent blanket. Una gathers up her sheer sleeping clothes and moves to the lavatory to bathe. She hears John and the captain in the hallway as they ready themselves to turn in. After filling the tub, she can still hear a steady rumble of their voices as they talk, most likely about the information in that mountain of files from earlier today. It has taken her awhile to get used to the customs of humans, and the male-male pairings that occur as often as female-male pairings do among them. She is comfortable around them, however, and thinks that has more to do with John's steady, unassuming temperament than the captain's sharp intellect. She dozes for a while in the warm water, letting the steam drift around herself as the voices grow fainter. It is comfortable here, even being so far from home, almost like being part of a family again.
Greg is washing the dishes as if they have personally insulted his mother. As each one is finished, it is a centimeter within being smashed against the bottom of the metal sink. Mycroft stands next to him stiffly, drying each one and stacking them neatly. He can feel the angry heat simmering off of the man next to him. It is unnerving and strangely arousing. Mycroft frowns to himself and wonders where in the hell that word came from.
The last plate is none-too-gently slammed against the basin and Greg stands straighter, drying his hands with a well-used red and white checked towel. He most emphatically does not look at Mycroft, though he does mutter "thank you for the help" as he makes to brush past the other man.
In an instant, Mycroft knows how foolish it would be to let this go. He reaches out and snags Greg's wrist in a loose grasp, giving Greg the option of moving away. The younger man simply looks down at Mycroft's hand and freezes on the spot, his expression growing cold.
"What?" He asks, his lips barely moving to permit the sound through them.
"I want to apologize." Mycroft says honestly.
The two men size each other up for the hundredth time since they met. They are only a few centimeters apart in height; the Admiral is leaner in build where Greg is muscular, broad-shouldered. Mycroft's dark ginger hair contrasts with Greg's dark-brown-shot-with silver as does his much paler skin to Greg's warmer tan from spending more time outside than the admiral. Neither man makes a sound. Now is the time that will make or break any further dealings between the two of them.
Greg takes notice of their differences and their similarities almost as quickly as Mycroft does. He thinks about strong muscles against his chest when he had Mycroft in an almost-headlock the night they landed. Some unnamed creature gently coils about in his chest, lightly purring as he stares into dark blue eyes that are level with his own. The hand clasped around his wrist is strong but not aggressive. He really needs to move before he does something stupid, so he steps backward, removing his wrist from the admiral's hand but not pulling away with any haste. The spot where those fingers were wrapped feels warm as if he had touched a hot burner on the stove. He can only hope that he has moved away fast enough to hide what he is feeling.
"Apology accepted." He says, his voice coming from between his teeth more gruffly than he had intended.
Mycroft nods his head and watches as once again, Greg Lestrade walks away from him.