sharpshooting: (a bit not good)
Dr. John Watson ([personal profile] sharpshooting) wrote2012-07-08 08:59 pm
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After sending the last text to Sherlock, John threw the phone behind him, not caring where it landed or if it was in one piece when it got there.

How like Sherlock not to understand. In a sense it should have been comforting, having daily proof of the fact that this was actually Sherlock and not some alien clone robot or any of the other wild suppositions that occurred to him when he was feeling especially paranoid. But just then, all he felt was annoyance. He turned back to his console where his email was open, and scrolled once more through the folder of messages.

They had all shown up at once, John's third or fourth day on the station. One hundred and thirteen of them, all two sentences or less in length, with delivery dates almost exactly twenty-four hours apart. One for each day Sherlock had been on the Proserpina before John had arrived.

That he had been keeping a record for his blogger was almost sentimental, certainly the least logical thing he'd ever seen Sherlock do. That he had clearly intended for John never to see the record, and wanted to pretend it didn't exist now that he knew John had, managed to evaporate any fond feelings John might have had as a result of getting the emails in the first place.

They were rubbish, most of them. Day 19: They're not cannibals. Was nearly killed by an elf and saved by a Vulcan. If John hadn't already seen Spock walking around with his own eyes he might have found that concerning; instead he couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's lack of amazement upon meeting the most famous fictional character in all of 20th century pop culture.

Days 48 through 50 Sherlock had filled in the subject of the email with a date of April 1652; what that was about was beyond him. He knew better than to try and decipher the messages themselves. Day 50: It was the father in law. Poison. Boring.

It was toward the end that everything abruptly stopped being funny. John still didn't know what to make of it. Day 105 the message was not so much disjointed as fractured, so full of dashes and misspellings as to be incoherent. And then there were three days where in lieu of an email, Sherlock had recorded a video.

Clicking away from the emails, John pulled up another window and clicked 'play' on the video he had paused there. Sherlock's face filled the window, lit only by the glow from the screen on his communicator, on which he had presumably recorded it. "John, I've taken the ship," he said, breathless and manic. His eyes darted from side to side as if he feared being seen or overheard. "Really could use your help. Stupid time for you to go on holiday. By the way, I'm appointing you first mate in absentia of the Adventure Galley."

He still didn't understand it. The frantic tone in Sherlock's voice tore at him, but he didn't understand. As if the thought of Sherlock as nominal leader of the space station wasn't horrifying enough, he would've had to go through Captain Kirk, Captain America and a fistful of mutants to get there. It made no bloody sense.

But John had to admit that even the mystery of the Adventure Galley was unimportant beside the contents of the last email in the bunch.

Day 113: Asked for tea and got 3.5 grams of cocaine, give or take.

Sherlock's texts had made him think, made him realize he hadn't taken the drugs. But that was almost worse; that meant he still had them somewhere. Saving them. For what? It didn't take a genius to realize what had changed on day 114 that had, just possibly, prevented Sherlock from using again. It was one thing to get in Sherlock's way when he was trying to find a fix; it was something else altogether to be responsible for keeping him distracted.

John had never wished for someone to get murdered before, but right then, he was thinking about it.

Once upon a time he might have asked Mycroft for help. But that was entirely out of the question, for obvious reasons. John was on his own as far as locating the stash went, though how he was going to do that without alerting Sherlock to the fact that he was trying was also a mystery. And there was no Mrs. Hudson to help him here either. Somehow he didn't think Lady Grantham would like the idea too much, and there wasn't anyone else John could imagine having the wherewithal to stand up to Sherlock when he was hell-bent on something. He would, for now at least, be on his own.

At least he wouldn't be bored.

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