Chapter Text
“I’ve arranged a press conference to announce your resurrection in four days; I’ve even got your friend, DI Lestrade, leading it, though he’s quite cross that he doesn’t yet know what he’s announcing,” Mycroft signed a stack of documents on his desk, while Sherlock was being fit for new clothes. “I can’t have you running amok until then, do you understand?”
“What about John Watson?” Sherlock was itching to return to his flat, to his John. It had been too long.
“Yes. Dr. Watson. He’s an interesting case,” Mycroft paused, knowing Sherlock would be irritated by what he had to say, so he started benignly, “He works at a clinic on the Tohg deck. He moved out of his flat a bit more than a year ago.”
Sherlock raised his head and narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“We don’t know where Dr. Watson currently resides. In fact, if it were not for his regular presence at the clinic, we wouldn’t know he existed at all. There is simply nothing registered when he transports, and aside from records pertaining to his medical practice, he otherwise does not exist. There have been no withdrawals from his accounts, no sightings of him outside of his clinic.”
Mycroft pulled a file from a drawer, “We’ve been looking into it for the last nine months and can find nothing. The only hint of any life outside the clinic was a nurse, who reported Dr. Watson showing up at the clinic late at night with another man in tow. According to all available records, this man does not exist, and even the cameras in the clinic did not show his face. And the images were not doctored after the fact; the camera itself has been programmed to not record this gentleman. The nurse recalls that he was blond, taller than the doctor, appeared to be quite athletic and heavily scarred.”
He handed the file to Sherlock. “See for yourself.”
Sherlock read it over. “Could be Moran. Possibly he brainwashed Doctor Watson?”
“Damnit, Sherlock! You have no evidence that such a man exists! I know you insist that Moriarty’s network all claim to have been taking orders from this mysterious Moran, why are you so sure it wasn’t a cover? A lie?” Mycroft had been over this hundreds of times with his own men. “And if Moran did exist, why would he choose my ship, of thousands, to come back to?”
“Perhaps because this was home,” said Sherlock, meeting his eyes, ”I’ll follow John after his next shift.”
“Perhaps you’ll succeed where my men have not; they may the best the Forces has to offer, but we both know the truly clever ones don’t join the forces, do they?” Mycroft quipped, referring to themselves. “Dr. Watson teleports directly to and from his office, typically using the command ‘Home’ which leaves, as I’ve said, no coordinates behind. Just don’t do anything drastic until the press conference.”
“Of course,” he scoffed.
-o-
John stretched. Time to go home. He hummed softly, looking forward to getting back to Seb and Phee. He went to the transporter only to find it blocked off and down. Shrugging, he knew he’d have to take the long way.
Sherlock stationed himself at a small booth not far from the clinic. He couldn’t resist peering in, just to see John with his own eyes. If possible, he’d grown even more stupidly sentimental over John in his absence. He’d done so well to keep his emotions in check before he’d died, but even now, just the sight of John swelled his affections to the surface.
When John finally left the clinic, Sherlock felt smug. How stupid of Mycroft not to think of something so simple. He deftly followed John; his disguise quite good if he was to admit it to himself, even so, John might noticed being followed by a stranger. But two years of taking down Moriarty's intergalactic web was not for naught. He saw John enter the nearest lift and smiled. How pathetically easy.
Once the doors were closed, he rushed to the lift and called it. He waited a few minutes for the lift to return and open its doors. “Take me to your previous destination.”
“I’m sorry. I have no previous destination,” the lift explained with a monotone voice. “Please choose your deck.”
“What deck did John Watson get off on?”
“I’m sorry. There has been no John Watson on this lift in 587 days,” the lift replied. “Please choose your deck.”
“Where did he go then?!” Sherlock asked, exasperated.
“He went nowhere,” the lift answered.
“What does that mean? Of course he went somewhere!”
“John Watson was on this lift 587 days ago. And then he ceased to be on the lift 587 days ago.” The lift explained. “Please choose your deck.”
“The highest deck you’ve got then!” Sherlock snarled. If it was Moran, and if this were home, he’d be rich. The most luxurious deck on the ship was the Sapphite deck; he’d have to start his hunt there.
-o-
John kissed Seb as he came in. “How was your day?”
“Good, good. Took Phee back to the office, gave her some really simple designs to toy with, while I’m working on the finishing touches of the DASR; think I might actually be able to install her in the ship in the next two months or so. But Phee, gave her what are essentially weapon building blocks, all holographic. She likes that they move with her touch; better than my stuff, which ignores her. Gotta say, she actually made the beginnings of a kick ass blade. I know it was probably just a coincidence, but I’m kind of fucking proud of it, and I saved it. When she gets older, I’ll print her a copy.”
Seb was having a good day, and wanted close to his doctor. “She’s asleep now; and even though it took you a bit to get home, we have time,” he winked.
John chuckled and pressed him up against the nearest wall. “Yeah?” he asked.
“Fuck, yes, Doc,” Seb moaned, capturing John in a heated kiss, wet, nipping at his lip. “She’s in our room, where’d you wanna go?”
“The garden?” He suggested. “Or I can take you right against the wall.”
“I’ll never make it to the garden,” Seb smirked against John’s lips. “You got a preference?” John might have topped a bit more than Seb overall, but generally, they mixed it up as much as they could. It was all spectacular, and neither one of them wanted to miss out.
“Naw. You wanna take me today?”
“Sounds fucking good. Want me to fold you against the wall, or over the sofa? Either way, it’s gonna be hard and fast; I’ve been craving you all damned day.” Seb admitted, nipping at John’s neck while he made his decision.
“You decide. Whatever you need, Seb.”
“Sofa, then. Too long since I’ve eaten you out,” He walked John back against the furniture, dropping to his knees. “Should open you up with my tongue, then fuck you, or fuck you, then clean you up with my tongue? Seb asked, then chuckled, “Or both?”
“Mm, both. I do like it when you clean me up with your tongue.”
Seb growled, “Oh fuck, yes. You’d better hold on.” He flipped John belly first against the back of the sofa, and pulled down John’s trousers and pants to his ankles. He slipped in between his legs, and went back to his knees. He pried John’s arse apart, using his wide hands to help hold John open, and blew a breeze of cold air against the pucker, watching it twitch. “Fucking perfect,” Seb delighted, and let his tongue circle the rim, letting his own mouth water, drenching John’s tight hole before beginning to slip the tip of his tongue in ever so gently.
John moaned, trying to keep the noise down. “God, yes Seb.”
Seb slipped the lube he’d hidden, just in case John were amenable, from the couch cushions. It was a nice flavoured slick, and he dribbled it down the cleft of John’s arse, hearing John’s gasp at the cool liquid dripping down him. Seb plunged in again, groaning against John’s arse, then slipping in one knuckle, then another from the other hand to work him open, to let his tongue sneak in, circling the tight rim, and letting it clench around his tongue. He kept one hand on John, burying his face in his arse, adoring the way John whimpered, whined and writhed against him, and with the other, he began to stroke his own cock, getting ready to fuck John senseless; to hear the man he craved cry out with pleasure, maybe even beg. It’d be fantastic.
“Seb, Seb,” John moaned, writhing against him. “God, please, fuck me.”
Seb stood up, pushing John over the sofa, where he had to hold himself up on the cushions. Seb started slowly, but John liked a bit of burn, and Seb was happy to provide it. He pressed against John, watching the man’s arse open wide, fluttering and twitching as it desperately tried to accommodate Seb’s girth. “So fucking pretty, the way you take me in. So fucking greedy,” Seb groaned.
“Sebastian,” moaned John, trying to relax underneath the delightful onslaught.
“Christ, yes, the way you say my name,” Seb growled, and pressed as deeply into John as he could. He took a few careful, delicate thrusts, then began to fuck John relentlessly over the sofa. He dug his fingers into John’s hips, and groaned with delight when John’s toes no longer reached the ground, and he was entirely in control of John’s body, teetering over the back cushions of the sofa.
John loved the lack of control, of surrendering to Seb’s whims. He could lose his mind a bit here, and know that Seb would take care of him.
Seb was close, pulling John onto his cock as though nothing in the world could stop him. “Say it, John, my name, please, beg me,” Seb requested; he’d grown to love how John said his name.
“Sebastian, my Sebastian, God, please, fill me Seb.”
Seb throbbed inside of John, pulsing, aching, filling him deeply as he fucked hard with his final thrusts into John. “Love it, fuck, like sex the way you say my name,” Seb panted against John’s back. As his orgasm finally ebbed, he dropped to his knees.
John’s arse dribbled drip after drip of Seb’s come, and Seb was there, to lap up each taste. He circled John’s red, raw rim, and felt John’s arse pulse out spurts of come with each twitch. He lapped it up, burying his tongue in John’s arse to capture the rest of it. He pulled John’s arse apart and immersed himself, seeking out each and every taste of their coupling, groaning, growling, moaning against John’s loosened hole, and smirked as John’s hand came down to his cock, desperate seeking his own pleasure.
John mewled with pleasure, spilling over his hand and going limp underneath Seb.
Seb growled as he felt John come, then came around the sofa, to lap at John’s hand and cock, to clean every taste of him he could. It was the bitterness of sex and want, but Seb craved it all the same. He cleaned John’s cock, the come from his fingers, until he’d cleansed John as thoroughly as possible with his tongue.
Once he sat back, chest heaving, he began to laugh. “Been months since we’d gotten to do that; fuck, I needed it. Gonna need a shower; you wanna join me, or get some dinner?”
“Might have to carry me to the shower,” murmured John.
Seb scooped him in a quick motion, and snogged him thoroughly. “Shower, or bath?”
“Bath might be better right now.”
“I want to wash you, then eat you out again,” Seb groaned, “An enhancer’ll make it worth your while, if you don’t wanna get frustrated.
John groaned. "That'll be amazing." He rest his head against Seb's shoulder, content.
Seb carried him to the master bath, setting him in the tub while he drew the water. He fetched a glass of water and two enhancers, and between the two of them, they managed three more orgasms before Ophelia woke up two and a half hours later.
Seb was brushing his teeth, so John dried off and went to calm their daughter.
John changed her diaper and had her ready for feeding, knowing Seb would want to feed her while they ate supper.
-o-
Sherlock stormed into Mycroft’s office, ignoring his brother as he rifled through the antiquated bookshelf. He pulled out a thick old dictionary, opening it up to find a variety of trackers and bugs.
“We’ve already tried that,” Mycroft didn’t look up from his work, “The transporter shorts then all out.”
Sherlock pocketed what he was looking for, slammed the book shut, and strode back out without a word. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but went back to plotting the economic collapse of a small planet that had far more influence than it ought.
Sherlock almost recruited help for this one; his very appearance might be enough to give him away, given how close he’d need to be to John for this attempt to work. This one took finesse, because he knew John didn’t wear his work cardigans home, so he’d have to plant the bug on either his person or billfold.
He’d need to be forgettable, not a patient, then; if John got too close, well, he may not have been as clever as Sherlock, but even he’d recognize the body of man he’d had laid bare before him more than once. A delivery boy? Wouldn’t get past his administrative staff. Unless… yes! If he were “replacing” a batch of recalled controlled substances, he’d have to see the doctor on duty, and he’d have an excuse to see John’s controlled substance license. He could place the tracker on the license, which John would then place in his billfold, and lead Sherlock straight to where ever it was he was going to each night.
Now, a disguise. That would be easy enough. He’d already lost two stone since he’d seen John last; if he wore something baggy, a bland pharmaceutical uniform, it’d give him the appearance of being slighter than he was. A few simple enough prosthetics for his damned conspicuous cheekbones, another to give him a solid aquiline nose, and a few centimetres in his shoes to add to the effect. His hair was already terribly short and ginger, and he’d gotten used to the pale, grey green contacts that were mostly solid in color, enough to cover his more unusual heterochromatic ones. He’d found this disguise to be completely plain and unnoticeable. A ugly cap to hide his face and top off the ruse, and he was confident he could be within a foot of his former flatmate without the man being none the wiser.
Sherlock smirked. Catching back up with John Watson was more entertaining than he’d expected.
-o-
“What do you mean, you absolute moron!?” Sherlock roared at the technician.
The Erti technician had worked for the elder Holmes far too long to be fazed by the younger, “I meant exactly as I said, perhaps you should have your hearing checked,” they snipped, but repeated anyways, “The tracking device you placed on Dr. Watson is approximately 8 yards above the hull of Habituation C. And yes, I am aware that this places the tracking device outside of the ship.”
“What’s that there - above the Saphhite deck? The lift lists Sapphite as the highest deck,” Sherlock pointed.
“Until you’re no longer dead, and your clearance is restored, I cannot give you that information. Talk to your brother. Better yet, bother him with all this, and leave me to do my job.” They closed the program down, and opened up something benign until Sherlock flounced out in disgust.
Fooling John with his delivery disguise had been disappointingly simple. He’d gotten so close; he could even tell how John’s scent had changed. He’d wanted to bury his had in John’s neck then and there, but the mystery was too great. But right now, even as he was frustrated; he was intrigued, stimulated, and rather proud of John for being ever the enigma.
Approaching Mycroft’s office, he missed the ability to burst a door open suddenly, as he could on some of the planets with more organic housing materials. By the time the electronic door slid open, Mycroft was already giving him a dull, disinterested look.
“And now you’ve discovered that all the trackers lead outside the hull of the ship,” Mycroft stated, and Sherlock bristled that he’d apparently been following in Mycroft’s footsteps.
“So you’ve checked the location, I suspect?” Sherlock fiddled with a small paperweight in the shape of a planet, no doubt, from some ambassador. “What is that deck anyways?”
“The Palisades deck. It’s location and existence is confidential for the protections of dignitaries, presidents, and other high profile guests to the Vanguard. I have sent my security with the absolute highest clearances to the deck and the three flats it contains. Every inch has been checked, every window, and we can confirm, undoubtedly, that the location of the tracker is, in fact, outside the hull,” Mycroft sighed. “And as Dr. Watson is not a threat, nor engaging in other illicit activities, my investigation ended there. You may waste your time as you please. Know that in two days, you’ll be revealed as alive, and he’ll come to you. Perhaps you should just have a nice cup of tea and conduct an experiment. Relax.” Mycroft knew Sherlock would do no such thing, but the very suggestions would put him off, and get his brother out of his office.
“I want access to the Palisades deck,” Sherlock demanded.
“Fine, but only the Trillium flat is unoccupied. I forbid you to bother the guests in the other two. Besides, little brother, if you can’t figure it out with just access to the deck and one flat, I’d have to believe you were slipping.” Mycroft knew the goading would be enough for Sherlock to obey his stipulations out of pride alone. Sherlock scowled at being so obviously manipulated, and yet there was no good way to retaliate, other than to prove himself yet again.
-o-
He waited outside the clinic until he saw the flash of John’s cardigan as he went into work. Confirming he was most definitely not outside the hull of the ship, Sherlock made his way to the lift, and demanded access to the the Palisades deck. The lift acknowledged him, and when he stepped out, he saw three doors, the Trillium flat, and the other two he knew were occupied. He started by walking the the perimeter of the lobby.
He ran his fingers over the walls, and on the third wall, he felt it before he saw it. A door materialised before him, a fourth flat that evaded every computer, every system on the ship. Exactly what was John doing, living here?
Curious, he pressed his palm to the door. Maybe John had programmed it for him; sentiment was such a useful emotions for others to have. As he’d hoped, the door began to shimmer, and opened for him, leading into a foyer. He stepped in quietly, noting how the architecture deliberately made it impossible to see the entire rest of the flat from where he stood. The only direction to go was a single long hallway to the left.