I apologize for taking so long to get the completed version of this story up here on FF. Right on the heels of this one, another AU decided to make itself known, so if you are interested, I will be posting it here by bits and pieces as well. Thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to read by silly stories, even if you never comment or leave your mark: I appreciate you, so much more than you will ever know.
Now: back to the story!
-I Don't Want to Miss A Thing (C) Aerosmith
Sherlock awakens slowly as if from an anesthetically-fueled dream. His mouth is dry and it feels like there is cotton batting stuffed into his ears. His mind is muddled and when he shakes his head it does nothing to clear the fog. It feels like he has been sleeping for years. He kicks one leg straight out and a female voice somewhere behind him says "oh."The sheet draped over him feels like a weight that needs to come off right now.
His mind is buzzing with the intensity of a busy beehive; his hearing is keen, so sharp he can hear the sound of tapping fingertips against the keys on someone's e-book and the faint tinkling noise of the gold decorations in Una's hair. He shakes his head rapidly from side to side before his body acts of its own accord pulling him to his feet. There is a thumping sound and a slight feeling of pain below his waist. He finally opens his eyes and everything—every single thing—comes into immediate, bright, sharp-edged focus. So much so that he actually has to lower his eyelids to block out some of the light. Overwhelmed by massive amounts of new sensory input, he snaps his eyes shut for a second and his hands go to his head. The heartbeat in his ears is strong and unfamiliar: a bass drum solo when he is used to hearing a snare.
When he finally manages to open his eyes, Una and Greg are standing in the room watching him with expressions that tilt between fear and surprise. Una reaches out a hand to him, why do they look so small? Their bedroom is spinning and he is beginning to drift away on the millions of tiny details becoming so clear to these new eyes, ears and skin.
He is shaking his head, turning away from them towards the door and then he is running, only barely taking into account that his usual ten strides to the door have become half that number. The door slams open under an unfamiliar hand and he is outside and he is running and breathing the atmosphere of this strange new world that suddenly he just can't take any more and everything is green and bright and yellow and there is a pulse and he can feel the fucking planet!
Then he just stops moving and falls to the ground as if he has been shot. He stretches out full length on his back in the velvety grass, arms and legs as far out as they will go and he is speechless and startled and there is something; a pulse in the air that he feels as if he is holding his lover to his chest, a heartbeat under his fingertips; it is reaching out to him and holding him in its arms and it is beautiful and there are tears, tears? What is this?
The spinning sensation begins anew, forcing Sherlock to close his eyes again. For a moment he remembers Una closing the lid of the casket over his head and shutting his eyes against the harsh ugly lights and then waking up… and…and
He clambers fast to his feet and laughs! It was a success! He did it, he managed to take an old project and breathe new life into it! He is jumping into the air, one hand in a fist, and "Yes!"
John is there with him as ever: even in an unfamiliar skin he is still so much John. He stands quietly, watching Sherlock get his bearings on the new sensations pouring in from all sides. His arms are folded over his blue-skinned chest and there is an amused look under his striped features. Sherlock freezes in place and is in front of John in milliseconds, his fingers and palms touching John's face carefully, slowly, as if to memorize him all over again. John smiles, white teeth slightly pointed, warm gold irises now filled with joy. He inhales deeply, feeling the rush of clean air in his lungs; he is now touching Sherlock's face, pulling the long black que over Sherlock's shoulder to examine it. The hairs are silky and strong, hiding tiny tentacles that wave gently just at the end of the que.
Sherlock moves around John slowly, gently picking up his tail and laughing as John twitches it. John lets go Sherlock's que as he laughs up towards the marvelously pristine blue sky. This new skin is more sensitive to everything; the soft breeze that passes over them is as a soft as a mother's hands on her newborn babe. John turns his head to the side, watching Sherlock's curiosity almost brimming over. The sound of their laughter fills the clearing. He turns on the spot as if displaying new clothing, allowing himself time to adjust to the new sensations and the heightened senses. He is now more aware of Pandora, of the wildlife and his lover than he has ever been. If Sherlock is feeling even half of what he is experiencing he can imagine the overload.
They remain that way for a time, exploring the new bodies they have found themselves in. Sherlock only had a smidgen of the idea of what this was going to be like: the reality is so much better than his theories. He is cataloging and saving everything as fast as the information is picked up by his synapses. John is not as overwhelmed, instead choosing to just feel and accept what his senses are telling him. There will be plenty of time to catalog all of these sensations later.
Una, Greg, and Mycroft watch from the window, George from the monitors and every being finds themselves completely caught up in the moment. Finally, Mycroft touches the ear piece he is wearing and speaks Sherlock's name.
Outside the two men turn in unison towards the lab. They tap their earpieces at the same time. Their voices come through to Mycroft and George loud and clear. "Mycroft."
"You know what to do." Mycroft raises a hand and waves them off with his fingers.
John and Sherlock grin like teenagers making off with the starter to dad's shuttle craft and take off in a full-out run through the wilderness. As they run they are assaulted with new sounds, new colors, and new scents of the forest around them. What seemed before to be dull green and brown foliage is now bright; small animals scurry under the brush, the only mark of their passing the scant noises that they can now hear. They run until they hit a clearing. Sherlock stands in the center of it, speechless. After a time, he points up towards the canopy around them, showing John the network of thick branches.
"There lies our road, John." Sherlock beams in John's direction. John watches him for a moment then decides that he needs to own that smile, just for a little while.
"Sherlock, turn your ear piece off." Sherlock's eyes move from the branches overhead to John's face. His expression softens, he narrows his feline-like eyes and suddenly he is a predator dressed in a loincloth. Bright sunlight bathes them in white light tinged with the slightest amount of cyan. John flicks off his own communicator, completely ignoring the slight squawk of protest from Mycroft.
"John." Sherlock's familiar voice is carried along the same timbre, even through the voice box of the avatar. His head is slightly bent as he closes in on John. John gives him a crooked smile and stalks in the same direction. They reach for each other, there in the center of the clearing, surrounded by clear air and bright sunlight. Every touch says that even in unfamiliar bodies, they will always know each other.
When Sherlock dips his head he finds to his surprise that he and John are looking directly into each other's eyes. John gives him a smile and kisses him softly. Even with just the hint of touch to his lips, Sherlock's nerve endings are on fire. He runs his hands down John's bare back and John hisses between clenched teeth, finally getting a hint of what the captain has been feeling. It is good, though, and they slide towards the soft ground, their limbs entwined already.
"Dammit!"
Uncharacteristically, Mycroft tears the earpiece out and launches it across the lab where it pings off of the wall and makes a rather un-dramatic plink to the floor. He tenses up, realizing that perhaps that was a really stupid thing to do. He hears, rather than sees, Una leaving the area. There is a soft snort from George as the Odal begins quietly tapping the keys of his computer, deftly trying to get a lock on Sherlock's and John's actual positions. Mycroft tries really hard to keep his inner smirking teenager at bay; it is difficult sometimes not to feel the slightest cutting edge of the knife of jealousy. He quickly gains control of himself, turning back towards the window when Greg walks up behind him.
"Mycroft?" Greg asks. He sounds normal, though there is the smooth hint of something else in his voice.
Mycroft faces him, not quite quick enough to keep what he is really experiencing out of his eyes.
Greg's brown eyes harden and he frowns at the Admiral. He tilts his head just a little as he clears his throat. He will return to the business at hand but he will not forget what he just saw. Underneath the cold flame of jealousy there was something else.
"Mycroft, George found them. He says he will not spy on their, er, intimate moments, but he will be able to track them, even if they turn their ear pieces off."
Mycroft nods his head. They walk through the lab to the two gleaming caskets where Sherlock and John lie sleeping. Mycroft watches the monitors for a moment. Una sits between them in a chair with a book in her lap. Mycroft gives her a nod as well. As he passes the machine his brother reclines in, he lets his fingers brush over the smooth metal.
"He will be fine, Mycroft." Greg states from behind him. Mycroft refuses to acknowledge that Greg startled him. He glosses over it. "Dinner? We will be switching with George and Una in about eight hours, so we might as well take a break."
"Alright. I'll clean up if you cook." Greg offers.
"Fine." Mycroft does not mean to sound as snappish as he does to his own ears. Greg does not say anything, merely follows him to the kitchen.
Greg finishes the last of the dishes and carries two mugs of steaming tea to the table. He and Mycroft have been talking off and on for the last hour, though to him it feels like the Admiral is speaking around what he really wants to say. After all this time, Greg thinks that even if they have not managed to become friends, at least they are comrades; and comrades trust each other. He pulls his chair out and settles into it, sipping at his mug.
"Mycroft, are we friends?" He takes another sip.
"What an odd question, Greg." Mycroft wraps a hand around his mug, pulling it closer towards him but does not lift it to his mouth.
"It just seems like you are talking to me as if I am one of the thousands of faceless crew members aboard your ship and not someone who has been at your side for the past weeks."
"I apologize." Mycroft answers.
"No you don't." Greg gives him a smirk over his cup.
"No, I really don't." The admiral takes a sip, then a second one before setting the mug back on the table.
"Is there a reason for that?" Greg counters.
Mycroft sighs. "I suppose not."
"Then why can't we talk about what is eating at you instead of pretending not to see the big white Qualric in the room?"If nothing else, Greg Lestrade is blunt.
"It has never been easy for me, Greg." Mycroft runs one hand through his hair and rolls his shoulders.
"Alright, I can buy that. Let's try this: tell me one thing you are concerned about with this mission and we will go from there. If you are uncomfortable, tell me and I will go away."
"I don't want you to go away." Mycroft mutters. The temperature in the room changes instantly.
"What?" Greg asks, setting his cup down after he almost dumps the hot liquid in his lap. Though his uniform trousers will wick away the mess, he would prefer not to have the surprise of it all, especially right now.
Mycroft sighs and looks down at his fingernails. "I have enjoyed spending time with you, Greg. I feel like I have learned from you. I appreciate the way you continue to keep talking to me, even when you feel that I am being a complete dick to my brother, if I may quote you."
Greg can feel his face heat up. He remembers very well stating the very same thing to Una a few days ago when he was helping her with the caskets. He studies his tea for a moment before letting his eyes wander back to Mycroft's face. He may as well 'fess up now. "I won't apologize, either, Mycroft. You were being a dick to Sherlock, and John, too for that matter."
"I know."
"Then why waste all that time bickering with them?" Greg is curious, not accusing.
"Greg, Sherlock is an excellent Captain, though he fights against his rank. He prefers to dress down the majority of the time instead of following the formality of IA protocol."
Greg nods, hoping Mycroft will continue.
"If it were up to him, he would simply be gallivanting about the galaxy doing research and experiments that would benefit no one. When I talked him into enlistment, he was angry at me and said that people would only look at his accomplishments because of me." Mycroft sips his tea. "However, that was only true right in the beginning. Since that time, he has proven himself to be an excellent warrior, a conscientious leader and apparently, one of heck of a lover to a certain John Watson. In the middle of it all, he is given free rein to explore other planets, make contact with other races, and hell, even other times."
"I see." Greg says, drinking from his mug.
"Indeed." Mycroft answers, finishing the last of his tea.
Greg ponders this information for a moment then cuts through all the bull. "You obviously care about your brother, enough that you put yourself and your career on the line for him."
Mycroft nods.
"You think he has skills that he uses to provide answers to other being's problems and his research tends to solve all sorts of puzzles. Just like the way he reinvented the re-breather masks. I think, maybe, that you are a bit jealous of your little brother, Mycroft."
Mycroft inhales sharply. For an instant, Greg is afraid he has gone too far. He watches the admiral carefully; and when Mycroft seems to relax a little, he sighs with relief. Greg throws the dregs from his cup down his throat before he says anything else. The silence between them is lighter now. "Am I even close?" He asks.
"Yes." Mycroft answers.
"Never mind the skills and the intelligence, correct? Because you are easily as intelligent as your brother, equally if not more so the leader; so it must be something else." Greg considers the difference between the two men, weighing the pros and cons of what he is going to say next. Well, if he is going to jump in with both feet, he might as well do it now. "It's John. Mycroft, you are jealous of your brother's relationship with John."
Mycroft does not say anything for a time. Greg lets him stew on those words while he contemplates his fingernails, their mugs, the ceiling; anything that is not the admiral.
The "yes" that falls from Mycroft's lips is so soft that Greg almost doesn't catch it. Mycroft does not say anything else, though Greg can just about read in the other man a history that has never been brought to light. When Mycroft stands, Greg does, too. The admiral remains silent as Greg wishes him a good night and sits back down. He has too many thoughts rushing through his mind to even make a token attempt at sleep, so for the time being he will just try to work out the enigma of the man that is Admiral Holmes.