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

[girl_who_waited]

"Oh." That was all. One word, when Amy walked into the hallway.

Wide eyes. Surprised - well, of course she was surprised. "Need some help? With something. I mean, if I... can." What was he trying to do anyway? "Amy Pond." She opened her mouth to say something else, then closed it, looking over at the pile of things, and then back at him.

He reminded her - no words spoken, mostly sight unseen - of the Doctor. For some reason.

[wholeworldoutthere]

Klaus had refused to sleep for as long as possible, in case they needed to reinject him to keep his powers at bay, but it seemed that he was a lot more easily tired, along with weaker, slower, and all around more human that had plagued him since his arrival on Proserpina. He had finally fallen asleep, and only just now been awakened by repeated thuds coming from somewhere close. He got some blood from the food-providing machine, once again wished for a proper drink (be it alcohol or actual live blood), drained the damn IV bag and discarded it before heading out to track down the origin of the sound.

And who did he find in the hallway but one Sherlock Holmes. He'd watched Mycroft after their release from quarantine, and there was no doubt in his mind. Sherlock Holmes, dirty, scruffy, sitting in the middle of... cutlery and furniture, it seemed, not all of it in tip top shape.

Of course it put a smile on Klaus's lips, never mind that it had roused him from sleep. It was something to behold, and so he paused a few feet from the detective, hands in his pockets, and leaned his shoulder against the wall to watch the show, ankles crossed in the most nonchalant of postures.

[livinginanhgwellsnovel]

Lady Grantham exited her room, torch in hand and aimed at the floor ahead of her. It was slow going without her cane, and slower still without adequate light to guide her. The intermittent light from overhead was vexing and the wily nature of the beam of light in her hand was enough to drive her to distraction. She missed the ambient glow of candlelight and the illumination of the sun and moon. The electric hum, while nothing like the loudness of the electricity at Downton, was nonetheless nerve wrecking. She had hardly slept through all of the noise.

But Violet did not go far enough to exit the overhead light before she spied a gangly, unkempt, young man sprawled on the floor with debris all around him.

"Good gracious. What on earth is all this mess about. This place is quite filthy enough without your help, young man. What is this about?" Violet lectured, quite unsure whether the state of the man or of the floor was worse.

[the_iceman]

For all those who ever wondered about the fact, the truth was now sitting admidst piles of what could have no other name but space debris; yes, Sherlock Holmes did grow facial hair.

Mycroft walked up to the piles, vaguely amused. "Reminds me of Montague Street," he mused, referring to the detective's flat before Baker Street. He one he had to abandon due to... what did he call it? 'Differences' between himself and the landlord.

"Do be careful. The rest of the ship's passengers would be thankful if you could keep the few thing that are functioning, in working order."