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.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-08 02:35 pm (UTC)Still wouldn't stop her from helping him, although- "Alright. I'll bash the chair against the wall just as much as you did, but I'd like to know who you are, first. Who are you?" She'd already walked over to the chair, and crouched, looking at it, and then at the panel. There were shallow dents already, and one big skidding scratch. "D'you think that there could be somebody who could hit it harder than you or I? There's a couple of the guys here who are bigger than both of us. And a Vulcan."
no subject
Date: 2012-03-08 11:20 pm (UTC)Well, harder than you anyway. Acting a little tough probably makes you feel less lonely when he doesn't live up to your expectations.
Sassy women were entirely over-celebrated in modern culture, as far as Sherlock was concerned. So he responded to the only part of her little ramble that he didn't find irritating.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes."
And if you can so much as lift that chair I'll eat that bloody deerstalker.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-27 01:53 pm (UTC)"And of course you're Sherlock Holmes. Of course you are." She looked at him sourly, knowing full well that it meant he knew all sorts of nitpicky things about her, and he was a detective, and... well. She'd not read the books, but she'd seen the miniseries on the BBC when she was younger. "You know, I'd always thought you'd be older." And less skinny, really.
"And shouldn't you be detoxing or something?" She realised then that she was being ridiculously rude, and bit her lips together looking back at the chair. "You know, you could probably get one of these legs off, so you could pry with it." Changing the subject, because she'd just sort of rolled right over acceptable to ridiculous.