For Abed

Oct. 29th, 2012 05:44 pm
highfunctioning: (reflection)
The reappearance of Amy Pond had made Sherlock question everything he'd thought he knew about the Sphere incident. He re-interviewed many of his fellow passengers, ran blood tests on anyone who would submit to them [extracting more than a pint from Amy herself before John stepped in for 'medical reasons'], and today he was re-examining the hub, where the Sphere itself had first appeared.

He was crouched low, checking the floor panels for any sign of erosion or change, and heard a familiar voice narrating his actions from the walkway above him.

"Hello, Abed." He called without looking up. Far from an irritation, Abed's presence was fortuitous, as he'd been on Sherlock's list of interviews, and he wouldn't be put off if Sherlock continued with what he was doing as they talked.
highfunctioning: (yellow)
It was Abed's fault, really. Sherlock would have had little more interest in a golden orb than he had in the miniature Taj Mahal, but Abed's warning against close contact or attempted entry was intriguing. No doubt he would decline to answer any questions about the movie, so firsthand inspection was the only option.

Sherlock waited until the dead of night, when he was usually at work alone in the lab [unless John had come round to 'help' and fallen asleep on the table, not the case tonight], and crept down to the Porta.

The sphere was immense, certainly large enough to enter, but without any visible seam or blemish indicating a door. Sherlock made several slow circuits of the object, trailing his hand up and down its surface, his reflection surprisingly clear in spite of the curvature of the sphere.

He stepped back, hands in his pockets.

"Open sesame," he murmured, voice dripping with sarcasm. He didn't have the patience to stand there all night and guess what this giant plaything might require of him, so Sherlock turned to leave.

Before he got three steps, the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, and he turned back to see his reflection in the sphere, larger than it should have been at this distance. It winked at him, and began to rise up and over the surface of the sphere...

Some time later, Sherlock became aware that he was no longer facing the sphere. He knew he hadn't turned around, and concluded that the loss of time had to mean he'd somehow entered the sphere. Oh good, good. Yes now we're getting somewhere.

He dashed back to the lab to begin testing himself for anomalies.
highfunctioning: (scope)
To say that it was a deliberate snub would be implying that Sherlock was exerting effort, which he was not. He had been aware of Commander Spock's presence in the lab at one point, and had since lost touch with his surroundings for several hours. The face that they hadn't spoken a word to one another in that time was hardly unusual.

The silence had stretched for better than two weeks, now. Which was decidedly outside normal parameters for their laboratory association. Spock was so thoroughly analytical that Sherlock almost never had reason to shame, dismiss, or ignore him. Or hadn't, until that week when they'd all lost their minds. Since then, he hadn't so much as requested that the Vulcan pass the hydrofluoric acid.

It wasn't until Donovan skreeked from her tank that Sherlock looked up from his microscope to find Spock standing just across the table from him, staring.
highfunctioning: (transparent)
John still refused to talk about Sherlock's "death," and while it was touching that he was so bereaved, Sherlock needed to process. He'd spent some time in the Moriarty wing of his mind palace, which hadn't been as helpful as he would have liked. In fact, it left him feeling rather dreadful. Which led him to his next course of action; seeking out Mycroft.

He'd never questioned the fact that he and his brother had been taken from the same day on Earth, even after learning about the shifted timelines of others. Mycroft was inscrutable like that, and had basically looked as he presently did since the mid 1990s.

Sherlock found him on the observation deck, as he knew he would; umbrella in hand, he might have been idling on a Brighton pier.

"Whatever it is you've done, you might as well tell me now and save us both some time."
highfunctioning: (details)
Sherlock was back in the lab.  Granted, he was accomplishing basically nothing, but staying in his room was garnering too much unwanted attention.  So he decided a return to form was the only remedy, however mechanical.  Currently he was running tests on a blood sample Mystique had been kind enough to furnish him with, and it served a double purpose; he'd been genuinely curious about her mutation, and she had been one of the over-interested parties who had demanded he "stop sulking."  She had even been so bold as to suggest he "do something, anything", and far be it for him to deny her if she'd prefer to be stuck with needles.  She had, however, made a funny "joke" about hunting him down if he allowed it to change ownership.  

Mycroft would be pleased to note that he was not, in fact, high.  His brother, rather unintentionally, had put Sherlock totally off the idea for the time being.  It was no good transcending the mundane if Mycroft was lurking around the corner, watching him.  Moreover, his brain had been so pathetically stagnant since Venice that he could hardly justify wasting the tiny phial on what currently passed for his life.  But he made sure it was on hand at all times, in a pocket even as he slept.  For security, though not entirely security from the threat of Mycroft finding and disposing of it.  He would reach out and touch it intermittently, and he found the option implied by its proximity comforting.  

The door opened, but he didn't bother looking up.  The last thing he needed was to be drawn into a conversation with any of the other "scientists" on board.  The only one he respected he had no designs on speaking to again, though his reasons were less than logical.  
highfunctioning: (bagged)
 Of course.

It was so simple.  So utterly, embarrassingly obvious.  

How had he not seen it before? 

This is why he'd been brought here.  The feeling had been building for days, that he'd been missing the bigger picture, that he was going about things the wrong way.  He was attacking his current predicament with science; scrutinizing blood samples, messing about with cybernetically enhanced rats, trying to put together patterns of the people that came on board... But to what end?  What was the point of knowing the cage, if he was powerless to break free?  How much more interesting to use what was at hand to his advantage, and thus gain the ultimate freedom?!  This morning Sherlock had woken to find himself completely certain that the Proserpina was not a test, nor a punishment, but his great reward for being so extraordinary and working so tirelessly.  He was on a vessel in space; a vast, untamed frontier.  The possibilities were endless for a man with a quick mind, no fear, and nothing to lose.  

For a pirate.

Abandoning his supper of sugar cereal and chocolate milk, which he'd forgotten was the perfect meal, Sherlock stood and practically sprinted to the wardrobe.  A familiar voice usually wouldn't have dissuaded him from this kind of mission, but he was actually dying to share his revelation with someone.  

Besides which, he'd be needing a crew...

highfunctioning: (loony)
Sherlock had been among the first to leave the customs area, due in part to the fact that he didn't announce this plan to anyone. Just tried a door -found it unlocked. He didn't have time for decision by committee, nor for continuing to listen to them all snivel about being homesick.

The ship was dark and, just as the room he'd left, untouched for a significant length of time. He trawled in semi darkness and tried every door he bumped into with no success. He wasn't able to walk far enough in one direction to guess at the shape or size of the ship, which was incredibly irritating.

At last, a door yielded to him, and he walked a few steps into a room before cracking his shin on an unseen piece of furniture.

Oh bloody hell goddamn son of a bitch fuck!

As he reached out to see what needed to die, he bumped quite accidentally into the safety torch [so it seemed to him, having no buttons or sharp edges] which blossomed to light at his accidental graze. It gave him a good enough look at the room.

Welcome to outer space, furnished by IKEA. He for one didn't plan on staying, and as such wasn't all that interested in checking out the space loo. He grabbed the torch and moved on.


Snarling and beginning to look damn rough around the edges [two days unshaven] Sherlock sat in a pile of debris in the hall outside one of the bedrooms. Space forks, space ottomans, and space chairs lay all around him, the discarded tools of his would-be breaking of the panel opposite him. It had seemed more likely than the ones in the customs room, but had rebuffed him thoroughly.

He had long since ditched the hooded shirt [it was part of the pile] and was gathering his strength for another go at the wall. Capitulation was not an option.


highfunctioning: (Default)
Sherlock Holmes

October 2012

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