T-plus 50 hours

[highfunctioning]

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.

---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.

Comments

[highfunctioning]

Occasionally when John was in a snit about Sherlock's household neglect he still thought fondly of Montague Street. It had, in fact, borne a striking resemblance to the pile he was in now. Perhaps with a few more forks and a thousand cigarette ends.

Yes, he was attempting to tamper with the ship's functionality, but with good reason; no one knew how long it would last. If they never gained control of the systems they were at their mercy. Besides-

"They won't miss a little furniture when I find a way to send a message."

[the_iceman]

"Ah!" Mycroft exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from that one sound. "You're sending a message. Any success?" He asked, knowing the answer.

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock's fist tightened.

At least I'm doing something productive.

"Have they elected you leader yet? Who's got the conch?"

[the_iceman]

"I wouldn't know why you would think such thing. There are people with better understanding of a space ship and the technology we face. In their capable hands..." Mycroft trailed off.

He heard something coming from behind the panel. "It's quite the infestation," he remarked.

[highfunctioning]

That was hard to deny.

"Amazing how they've adapted, don't you think?"

Without their former masters to feed and water them, Sherlock didn't like to think what a mess they'd made of the ventilation system.

[the_iceman]

"It's vermin," Mycroft replied dryly. "It's what they do. I imagine we too will adapt and survive." If it was a joke, it was disguised very aptly as a sneer.

[highfunctioning]

"Always the optimist."

Survive, certainly. But if the only option was adapting to a life in this vacuum, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain it was worth the effort.

Escape, however, was worth surviving for. In order to further that end, Sherlock probably needed calories and a nap, but he wouldn't cede the ground with Mycroft watching.

[the_iceman]

"One could wonder what they feed on. Or perhaps they've taught themselves how to work the food replicator," Mycroft supplied unasked.

He looked at his shoes as though the script to this conversation had been written on them and he needed a small reminder of what came next. "And what about you? Have you eaten anything since your arrival here?"

[highfunctioning]

"I don't eat when I'm working." Sherlock replied automatically, tonelessly.

As much as he wasn't accomplishing, attending to his physical needs felt like admitting he was powerless to find a solution.

[the_iceman]

"Oh, you deem these hopeless attempts work," Mycroft noted dryly with faked surprise.

"A short break won't deter you in your fruitlessness."

[highfunctioning]

"Certainly no more than tedious conversations." Sherlock ground out between irately clenched teeth, but he stood or rather sat his ground, unwilling to give Mycroft the satisfaction even of chasing him away.

[the_iceman]

"Eat something, Sherlock," Mycroft advised, though sounding quite threating for a second. "You're no use to anyone starved, and we doubt we have the medical equipment to nourish you back to life."