T-plus 50 hours
Mar. 6th, 2012 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
highfunctioningSherlock 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.
---MANY HOURS LATER---
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.
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.
---MANY HOURS LATER---
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.
