Chapter 17: Loss for Words
John opens his eyes and stares blearily at the inside of the psionic machine. He has a raging headache behind his temples. After a moment, Una opens the lid with a click from the outside. She gives him a small smile and a nod as he sits up. She hands him a steaming cup of coffee before turning towards Sherlock's machine and repeating her movements. John holds his mug with one hand as he swings his legs around so that he may stand up. He sets the coffee down on the table next to the machine and stretches his arms causing his back to pop loudly in several places.
As usual, George is sitting in the back of the lab tapping happily away at the keyboard. He gives a one-tentacle wave in John's direction and John sends him back a similar gesture. John turns towards Sherlock to find him still lying flat on his back, his green eyes staring off into nowhere. In the last two weeks, this has become standard procedure for them, and normally Sherlock is up and on his feet before John. Something is different today.
"Captain?" John asks before sipping from his mug.
"It is amazing, John." John steps closer to peer down on his lover, recognizing the expression of ecstasy on his face. He reaches out and lightly caresses the side of Sherlock's jaw with two fingers; two days worth of stubble raps against his fingertips. His gaze falls to John and his expression softens somewhat, though the look of absolute joy does not fade. He sits up just as carefully as John did; they learned in the beginning that sitting up normally after being in their avatars for several hours would cause dizziness and nausea, mostly from the change in body size, linear perspective and atmosphere.
Sherlock reaches out for his own coffee and carefully takes a sip, closing his eyes for a few seconds against the onslaught of the indoor lighting that is so different from the salmon and lilac hues of the twilight they had been appreciating moments before. He ran the hand not gripping the coffee mug through his hair that had now reached beyond crazy-wild-mess-of-curls and was threatening into too-many-knots-may-have-to-shave-it-off territory. He takes a deep sigh and drains the mug.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry. It's just been two days and I was starting to be concerned…" John offers, gesturing with the mug to the metal casket.
"I know, John. I know." Sherlock's eyes are full of that faraway look; the hand in his hair is caught on what John figures is a knot. Sherlock tries without much success to pull it out.
"Sherlock, stop." John grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls it away from his hair. "Let's take a shower?" He asks, hopefully.
"Alright." Sherlock answers. As he stands, he reaches for John's hand and steps in close. John leans his aching head against his chest, allowing the busy noises of the lab surrounded them for a few moments, so different from the sounds of Pandora's jungles and plains.
"Sherlock, please stop going off on your own. There are still an awful lot of things out there that we know almost nothing about…"
Sherlock's voice is tired but sure just above John's head. "I wasn't alone, John, I was with Le'tay." He gently ruffles the hair at the nape of his lover's neck with one hand.
"Well, I didn't mean alone, Sherlock, I meant without me." John does not really expect an answer and does not get one. After a time, they leave the lab, Sherlock leading and John a few steps behind.
"Admiral, the psionic machines are now off-line."
"Thank, you, Una. I appreciate that. Is it possible that they may remain so for a couple of days?" Mycroft asks her over the monitor he is studying.
"Aye, the machines do need a thorough cleaning." Una gives Mycroft a nod.
"Good." He nods back in dismissal and turns back to the screen.
Captain Holmes is practically asleep on his feet in the shower. John is doing the best he can in order to both keep him from falling down and wash him up a little. Finally, he just presses on Sherlock's shoulders until the man is sitting cross-legged at his feet under the warm spray. John attacks the curls on Sherlock's head with conditioner first, hoping to work out the knots before shampooing it. The entire time John is working, Sherlock's eyes are closed and his head is tilted backward to allow the water to run down his back and not his face.
"You are exhausted, Sherlock." John supplies. Sherlock opens his eyelids a mere crack and just looks up at him. John is busy gently working out tiny knots in Sherlock's hair and misses it. Instead, he continues what he is doing and begins mumbling in a mother-hen sort of way. "I don't know why you needed to be out there for two days…you know your avatar and your actual body need rest…I think you are just running around enjoying yourself…of course, I do, too…we do have a purpose here…"
Sherlock is amused by the concern but refuses to acknowledge it. He just relaxes against John's bare legs and hums a little under his breath while John works. Finally, he taps against the flat discs set into the wall above the spigot and the water shuts off. John gets out of the shower gingerly then wraps a large white towel around Sherlock's shoulders and nudges him upward. Sherlock rests one palm against John's shoulder as he steps out, using him for balance. The floor is cold, causing Sherlock to wrinkle his nose and hiss in displeasure. John chuckles and continues leading his favorite captain towards the bed.
When Sherlock is mostly dry, except for his hair, John pulls and prods until the taller man is stretched out on his back, with his head on his pillow. Sherlock is almost completely asleep before John snaps his fingers and turns out the light. He succumbs almost as soon as John curls up next to him, one hand on his chest.
"WHAT did YOU do?" Sherlock shouts at his brother, waking the entire cabin. John snaps awake instantly at the sound of glass shattering against what he presumes is a wall. He grabs a robe from the back of the bedroom door and pads into the kitchen, the bare wood of the floor cold against the bottoms of his feet.
Una comes down the short hallway just behind him. John stops at the entryway and holds his arm across it, stopping Una from going any further. She steps to his side and looks in on the scene.
Mycroft and Sherlock are toe to toe; Sherlock's face is scarlet with fury and his eyes are blazing green fire. Mycroft is perturbed, though his countenance is much calmer. Just behind them a stream of dark brown liquid is dripping down the wooden wall towards the shards of a dark green mug. Sherlock's chest is actually heaving, his hands are curled into fists and John is glad the man does not have his swords handy. The Admiral is practically growling.
"The machines need regular maintenance, Sherlock, surely you can understand…" Mycroft is trying to explain.
"Sherlock." John says from across the room. When Sherlock turns towards him, John has to stop himself from taking a step backward. His eyes are smoldering embers at being denied what he wants; at this moment he wants to get back into his avatar. As in, he wants to get back into his avatar ten minutes ago.
Sherlock seems to come to his senses in an instant, his expression falls back into a more normal one and he stalks towards John. Una makes a little squeak and jumps out of the captain's way.
"I want them back up in forty-eight hours." Sherlock talks lowly, though his voice is perfectly plain to everyone.
The silence threatens to overwhelm them when it is broken by the sound of the front door slamming; they can hear the happy snorts of an Odal and the quiet, deep voice of Greg walking up the tunnel into the cabin. They step through the entryway and into the kitchen, Greg's head moving from side to side as if on a swivel. He calmly walks to the table and tosses his rebreather mask onto it. George snorts and slides towards the refrigerator unit. While they were out on patrol, Greg explained the chances of coming back in to an argument and why, so he was prepared. Looking at everyone else, though, it seems as if they had no warning—even John did not know they would not be going out for a couple of days.
Mycroft sighs as everyone tries to get the day up and running in a normal manner. George fries up some breakfast for everyone and they sit around the table, each being at a loss for words.