You should have let him sleep (chapter 8 of ?)
Chapter 8 - The Hide
Wherein a reunion almost happens. Many thanks to rranne or putting up with me and let's also not forget quoshara and her most helpful Trek geekiness:)
.
.
John lies sprawled inside one of the horizontal Jefferies tubes not far from the bridge, face pressed in the rounded metallic surface, the cold touch grounding him; not moving, barely daring to breathe, definitely not venturing to think. Stop thinking, John, it’s too loud.
The sudden onslaught of his memories doesn’t require any intellectual efforts anyway; he just lets it flow.
He’s got everything back. He remembers Afghanistan battlefields and those of London; he remembers the gun in his drawer and his therapy sessions and the brazen numbers 221B on an unassuming house in an ordinary street. He cherishes a single unbroken line of memories starting with handing over his mobile phone and ending with the syringe being pressed in his arm inside a black car. And most of all, he remembers Sherlock Holmes.
I know you’re for real.
A hundred percent?
Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.
He’s remembered him the moment he heard him again. That voice, with undertones that make it carry into every corner of the room; deep into the tubes where John was hiding. He was crawling through the service tubes, desperate to find out what’s going on, when the distant sound of that voice stopped him dead.
Now, when he thinks about it, when he allows himself just the tiniest thoughts out of fear that he might be really caught thinking aloud; he finds that he doesn’t really remember entering the crawl-ways in the first place. One moment he was walking down a corridor by the transporter room when he heard the nauseating buzz of the beaming ray-
-the landing party’s back, might go and ask Terrell how it went, he thought-
-when he heard the staff’s surprised shout, the unmistakable sounds of wrestling, too brief, and a thud, body hitting the ground, and Jedda’s agitated voice calling something incomprehensible-
-and then he was pressing his body against the wall, carefully looking out behind a corner and into the open transporter room; where he saw a stranger in a sand-covered cloak, standing over the unconscious body of the transporter operator, pointing a phaser at Jedda Adzhinn-Dall; and he saw Captain Terrell behind the console, activating the beam again; and...where’s Madison...flashed through John’s mind. His question was abruptly answered as Vance Madison materialized on the platform together with a tall, imperious man and stepped down after him with his head bowed deferentially- no, wait, something’s wrong here, Terrell’s head is bowed too and the position is not reverence; their shoulders are tensed and tendons strung and eyes glassy as if with pain, and then Jedda was speaking again and several things happened at once.
The tall, black-haired man was about to walk out of the transporter room when Jedda moved; his Deltan strength and reflexes in a blur as he tackled his guard down and leapt to grab the intruder round the neck; he was swifter than humans and his athletic body was skilled in combat and for the briefest moment he managed to take them all by surprise-
Then Vance Madison lifted his phaser and Jedda vanished in a flash of dazzling red light.
The intruder did only as much as half-turn; an amused smile fleeting over his calm face before he continued; but it gave John the time he needed to back off and squeeze himself into the nearest service tube opening, adrenalin singing high in his veins and head throbbing with hide from plain sight, must warn the others, what the fuck am I doing?
Then he heard the faint echo of Zinaida’s desperate cry coming to him through the tubes and remembered what he heard about the Deltan bond. Well. They have been warned.
John heard more transporter beams as he crawled away as stealthily as he could, contemplating his next moves so cold-bloodily that it frightened him- he felt as if watching his body from above; following the instincts he didn’t know he had, letting them take over the control over his actions. He realized that his current position gave him the advantage of seeing without being seen; from the numbers of transports he heard he judged that he had no chance in confronting the intruders in the open. USS Reliant was a small ship, manned only with the minimal crew; nobody thought that their mission would require anything more. The crew was already outnumbered and John couldn’t forget the subjugated look in Madison’s eyes, telling him that there was more against their odds than a simple headcount.
Faint sounds of distress and feeble fighting flowed ethrough the tubes from the direction of the bridge; John could imagine the intruders taking over the control of the ship. He decided that on taking a careful look. The cacophony of voices on the bridge hushed after a while, leaving a single commanding voice to rise above the others with clarity that froze John on the spot.
It was then when he remembered; and he was at once immensely grateful for his Army instincts being so eager to kick in after more than two hundred years of dormancy. Sherlock was more than a match for him even before his change, with his height advantage, lightning reflexes, and practice of martial arts. John buried his face in his hands, feeling the chilly draught in the tubes biting at his sweat-damp skin, and tried to connect in his mind the face of a consulting detective he used to know with the face of the man whom he just saw; a man who merely smirked when Madison killed his friend for him without even being ordered.
Stay low, Watson, he reminded himself. No use making plans before you know all the variables.
*
Del March stares at Khan with youthful defiance, one arm thrown protectively over Zinaida’s shoulders. The woman is still half-paralysed with the shock caused by the loss of her bond-mate; March’s shirt is damp with her tears and it makes him furious and light-headed at once.
“Don’t put up a fight, Del.” Madison’s voice is weary and there is an undertone of pain. He holds his head low as if to avoid the pressure to the back of his skull.
“You’re wasting your time with me. I won’t tell you anything.”
Khan is examining the Genesis device, a metallic column of approximately a man’s height and width, and ostentatively pretends not to notice the way March is all but twitching with the urge to jump and throttle him with his bare hands. There is, in fact, no danger of that; Madison still has the phaser.
“What do you think you’re doing?” March cannot hold himself. “This is a scientific-”
“If you would just shut up,” Khan interrupts him dismissively, “I do not require you talking.”
He finishes his inspection and turns to the scientists with a smile that looks almost generous.
“If I was in need of using your device, I’m sure that Doctor Madison here would be more than happy to help me. But you see, Doctor March; I don’t want to steal your project. I will simply borrow it for a while.”
“What for?” March barks out, even when he believes not a word of what was said.
“What good would a newly created world bring to me, Doctor March?” Khan answers him with another question; one that’s definitely rhetorical. “I have already ruled in Hell; I don’t want to create a Paradise to settle in only to find myself surrounded by Starfleet cruisers with their weaponry aimed at me. No; I don’t want a new planet. I want my vengeance.”
March’s eyes widen in horror. If he doesn’t want to create, he only wants to destroy; did Vance tell him what would Genesis do to a living planet?...of course he did.
“I want my vengeance,” Khan repeats. “I want Admiral James T. Kirk. And to make him come to me, I shall use this wonderful device as a bait. So you see, my friend; as long as you behave reasonably, nothing will happen to you.”
*
“Diplomatic negotiations are going to be the death of me.”
McCoy filled his own glass and clinked it against Kirk’s, taking a careful sip. Out of a habit, he offered the bottle to Spock, who settled for a pointedly quirked eyebrow instead of giving a lecture about Vulcans and alcohol. Kirk studied the clear liquid against the light for a moment before sending it down in one go and offering his glass for another refill.
“Not when you die of alcohol poisoning first,” McCoy observed. “No need to be so gloomy about it. You did well.”
“I did exactly nothing,” Kirk pointed out the fact that the entire three days of heavy diplomatic dialogues didn’t lead to the slightest change in the status quo. The Neutral Zone borders wouldn’t move an inch anytime soon.
“May I correct you, sir,” Spock cut in, “nothing was the exact expected outcome of these negotiations.”
“Why did we do them at all, then?”
“We have established diplomatic relations. We keep them.” Spock shrugged.
“We don’t stare at each other from the opposite sides of the border with our fingers on the trigger,” McCoy grinned. “That’s a progress.”
“I’d be happier if they could progress without getting me involved,” Kirk grumbled. “Take Admiral Paris for example - he’s a slippery bastard, he would enjoy it.”
“The Klingons wouldn’t enjoy him,” McCoy snorted. “They wanted you. You’ve earned quite a reputation dealing with them; they respect you.”
“You know, Bones,” Kirk swivelled the liquid in his glass, enjoying the play of light on its surface, “I miss those days I could deal with the Klingons from the Captain’s seat. What am I dealing with now, is paperwork.”
“If I may be so bold,” Spock assumed his best ‘let’s hear the logic’ expression, “it was a mistake for you to accept promotion. Commanding a star ship is your first, best destiny; anything else is a waste of material.”
“I would not presume to debate you,” Kirk nodded grimly.
“That is wise. Were I to invoke logic-”
“For God’s sake, Spock!” McCoy rolled his eyes. “He agreed with you, so keep your last word for yourself just once!”
Whatever Spock’s further intentions in the dialogue might have been, he never got to express them aloud; as Uhura’s voice, at once sweet and professionally modulated, was heard from intercom speaker: Bridge to Captain.
Kirk lifted his head instinctively and came within an ace of answering the call when he remembered that he no longer was in command of the Enterprise.
“Spock here. What is it?”
We’ve received a distress call from USS Reliant. They report a malfunction of life support systems and they’re asking any ship near them to recover their crew.
“Reliant is Terrell’s ship, isn’t it?” Kirk remembered. “Makes me wonder who he annoyed to end up on that boneshaker. Twenty years old Miranda class, my Goodness.”
“Why don’t they high-tail it for the nearest base?” McCoy asked. “Even in this God-forsaken area; they could reach a haven long before they’d run out of oxygen.”
The three men were now pacing swiftly towards the turbolift; drinks forgotten on the table in Kirk’s private cabin.
Captain Terrell claims that the scientific equipment carried on board forbids the use of warp. Uhura’s voice hesitated minutely before continuing: He also says that everything about this equipment is classified and that he- I’m quoting now, sir- is not hazarding his ass so close to the Neutral Zone, sir.
“That’s Terrell,” Kirk laughed as they entered the bridge. “So, Captain Spock; can we afford a little detour on our journey?”
“If you are amenable, sir,” Spock tilted his head, already knowing where this was going.
“I certainly am,” Kirk grinned. “Paperwork can wait.”
*
On the bridge of USS Reliant, Khan nodded approvingly. “Well done, Captain. You have pleased me.”
Terrell stepped away from the communication post, hands clasped together so tightly that they shook, resisting the urge to scratch on the back of his neck where his skin was red and swollen.
“What happens now?” Joachim asked from behind the helm where he already made himself familiar with most of the ship’s maneuvering abilities; his intelligence supplementing the lacks of experience.
Khan rested his back in the Captain’s seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.
“The Enterprise, the flagship of our dear friend Kirk, will come to our rescue. They will be running with shields down; we are one big, happy fleet after all. Do I really have to explain the rest?”
.
.
.
.tbc Chapter 9
Wherein a reunion almost happens. Many thanks to rranne or putting up with me and let's also not forget quoshara and her most helpful Trek geekiness:)
.
.
John lies sprawled inside one of the horizontal Jefferies tubes not far from the bridge, face pressed in the rounded metallic surface, the cold touch grounding him; not moving, barely daring to breathe, definitely not venturing to think. Stop thinking, John, it’s too loud.
The sudden onslaught of his memories doesn’t require any intellectual efforts anyway; he just lets it flow.
He’s got everything back. He remembers Afghanistan battlefields and those of London; he remembers the gun in his drawer and his therapy sessions and the brazen numbers 221B on an unassuming house in an ordinary street. He cherishes a single unbroken line of memories starting with handing over his mobile phone and ending with the syringe being pressed in his arm inside a black car. And most of all, he remembers Sherlock Holmes.
I know you’re for real.
A hundred percent?
Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.
He’s remembered him the moment he heard him again. That voice, with undertones that make it carry into every corner of the room; deep into the tubes where John was hiding. He was crawling through the service tubes, desperate to find out what’s going on, when the distant sound of that voice stopped him dead.
Now, when he thinks about it, when he allows himself just the tiniest thoughts out of fear that he might be really caught thinking aloud; he finds that he doesn’t really remember entering the crawl-ways in the first place. One moment he was walking down a corridor by the transporter room when he heard the nauseating buzz of the beaming ray-
-the landing party’s back, might go and ask Terrell how it went, he thought-
-when he heard the staff’s surprised shout, the unmistakable sounds of wrestling, too brief, and a thud, body hitting the ground, and Jedda’s agitated voice calling something incomprehensible-
-and then he was pressing his body against the wall, carefully looking out behind a corner and into the open transporter room; where he saw a stranger in a sand-covered cloak, standing over the unconscious body of the transporter operator, pointing a phaser at Jedda Adzhinn-Dall; and he saw Captain Terrell behind the console, activating the beam again; and...where’s Madison...flashed through John’s mind. His question was abruptly answered as Vance Madison materialized on the platform together with a tall, imperious man and stepped down after him with his head bowed deferentially- no, wait, something’s wrong here, Terrell’s head is bowed too and the position is not reverence; their shoulders are tensed and tendons strung and eyes glassy as if with pain, and then Jedda was speaking again and several things happened at once.
The tall, black-haired man was about to walk out of the transporter room when Jedda moved; his Deltan strength and reflexes in a blur as he tackled his guard down and leapt to grab the intruder round the neck; he was swifter than humans and his athletic body was skilled in combat and for the briefest moment he managed to take them all by surprise-
Then Vance Madison lifted his phaser and Jedda vanished in a flash of dazzling red light.
The intruder did only as much as half-turn; an amused smile fleeting over his calm face before he continued; but it gave John the time he needed to back off and squeeze himself into the nearest service tube opening, adrenalin singing high in his veins and head throbbing with hide from plain sight, must warn the others, what the fuck am I doing?
Then he heard the faint echo of Zinaida’s desperate cry coming to him through the tubes and remembered what he heard about the Deltan bond. Well. They have been warned.
John heard more transporter beams as he crawled away as stealthily as he could, contemplating his next moves so cold-bloodily that it frightened him- he felt as if watching his body from above; following the instincts he didn’t know he had, letting them take over the control over his actions. He realized that his current position gave him the advantage of seeing without being seen; from the numbers of transports he heard he judged that he had no chance in confronting the intruders in the open. USS Reliant was a small ship, manned only with the minimal crew; nobody thought that their mission would require anything more. The crew was already outnumbered and John couldn’t forget the subjugated look in Madison’s eyes, telling him that there was more against their odds than a simple headcount.
Faint sounds of distress and feeble fighting flowed ethrough the tubes from the direction of the bridge; John could imagine the intruders taking over the control of the ship. He decided that on taking a careful look. The cacophony of voices on the bridge hushed after a while, leaving a single commanding voice to rise above the others with clarity that froze John on the spot.
It was then when he remembered; and he was at once immensely grateful for his Army instincts being so eager to kick in after more than two hundred years of dormancy. Sherlock was more than a match for him even before his change, with his height advantage, lightning reflexes, and practice of martial arts. John buried his face in his hands, feeling the chilly draught in the tubes biting at his sweat-damp skin, and tried to connect in his mind the face of a consulting detective he used to know with the face of the man whom he just saw; a man who merely smirked when Madison killed his friend for him without even being ordered.
Stay low, Watson, he reminded himself. No use making plans before you know all the variables.
*
Del March stares at Khan with youthful defiance, one arm thrown protectively over Zinaida’s shoulders. The woman is still half-paralysed with the shock caused by the loss of her bond-mate; March’s shirt is damp with her tears and it makes him furious and light-headed at once.
“Don’t put up a fight, Del.” Madison’s voice is weary and there is an undertone of pain. He holds his head low as if to avoid the pressure to the back of his skull.
“You’re wasting your time with me. I won’t tell you anything.”
Khan is examining the Genesis device, a metallic column of approximately a man’s height and width, and ostentatively pretends not to notice the way March is all but twitching with the urge to jump and throttle him with his bare hands. There is, in fact, no danger of that; Madison still has the phaser.
“What do you think you’re doing?” March cannot hold himself. “This is a scientific-”
“If you would just shut up,” Khan interrupts him dismissively, “I do not require you talking.”
He finishes his inspection and turns to the scientists with a smile that looks almost generous.
“If I was in need of using your device, I’m sure that Doctor Madison here would be more than happy to help me. But you see, Doctor March; I don’t want to steal your project. I will simply borrow it for a while.”
“What for?” March barks out, even when he believes not a word of what was said.
“What good would a newly created world bring to me, Doctor March?” Khan answers him with another question; one that’s definitely rhetorical. “I have already ruled in Hell; I don’t want to create a Paradise to settle in only to find myself surrounded by Starfleet cruisers with their weaponry aimed at me. No; I don’t want a new planet. I want my vengeance.”
March’s eyes widen in horror. If he doesn’t want to create, he only wants to destroy; did Vance tell him what would Genesis do to a living planet?...of course he did.
“I want my vengeance,” Khan repeats. “I want Admiral James T. Kirk. And to make him come to me, I shall use this wonderful device as a bait. So you see, my friend; as long as you behave reasonably, nothing will happen to you.”
*
“Diplomatic negotiations are going to be the death of me.”
McCoy filled his own glass and clinked it against Kirk’s, taking a careful sip. Out of a habit, he offered the bottle to Spock, who settled for a pointedly quirked eyebrow instead of giving a lecture about Vulcans and alcohol. Kirk studied the clear liquid against the light for a moment before sending it down in one go and offering his glass for another refill.
“Not when you die of alcohol poisoning first,” McCoy observed. “No need to be so gloomy about it. You did well.”
“I did exactly nothing,” Kirk pointed out the fact that the entire three days of heavy diplomatic dialogues didn’t lead to the slightest change in the status quo. The Neutral Zone borders wouldn’t move an inch anytime soon.
“May I correct you, sir,” Spock cut in, “nothing was the exact expected outcome of these negotiations.”
“Why did we do them at all, then?”
“We have established diplomatic relations. We keep them.” Spock shrugged.
“We don’t stare at each other from the opposite sides of the border with our fingers on the trigger,” McCoy grinned. “That’s a progress.”
“I’d be happier if they could progress without getting me involved,” Kirk grumbled. “Take Admiral Paris for example - he’s a slippery bastard, he would enjoy it.”
“The Klingons wouldn’t enjoy him,” McCoy snorted. “They wanted you. You’ve earned quite a reputation dealing with them; they respect you.”
“You know, Bones,” Kirk swivelled the liquid in his glass, enjoying the play of light on its surface, “I miss those days I could deal with the Klingons from the Captain’s seat. What am I dealing with now, is paperwork.”
“If I may be so bold,” Spock assumed his best ‘let’s hear the logic’ expression, “it was a mistake for you to accept promotion. Commanding a star ship is your first, best destiny; anything else is a waste of material.”
“I would not presume to debate you,” Kirk nodded grimly.
“That is wise. Were I to invoke logic-”
“For God’s sake, Spock!” McCoy rolled his eyes. “He agreed with you, so keep your last word for yourself just once!”
Whatever Spock’s further intentions in the dialogue might have been, he never got to express them aloud; as Uhura’s voice, at once sweet and professionally modulated, was heard from intercom speaker: Bridge to Captain.
Kirk lifted his head instinctively and came within an ace of answering the call when he remembered that he no longer was in command of the Enterprise.
“Spock here. What is it?”
We’ve received a distress call from USS Reliant. They report a malfunction of life support systems and they’re asking any ship near them to recover their crew.
“Reliant is Terrell’s ship, isn’t it?” Kirk remembered. “Makes me wonder who he annoyed to end up on that boneshaker. Twenty years old Miranda class, my Goodness.”
“Why don’t they high-tail it for the nearest base?” McCoy asked. “Even in this God-forsaken area; they could reach a haven long before they’d run out of oxygen.”
The three men were now pacing swiftly towards the turbolift; drinks forgotten on the table in Kirk’s private cabin.
Captain Terrell claims that the scientific equipment carried on board forbids the use of warp. Uhura’s voice hesitated minutely before continuing: He also says that everything about this equipment is classified and that he- I’m quoting now, sir- is not hazarding his ass so close to the Neutral Zone, sir.
“That’s Terrell,” Kirk laughed as they entered the bridge. “So, Captain Spock; can we afford a little detour on our journey?”
“If you are amenable, sir,” Spock tilted his head, already knowing where this was going.
“I certainly am,” Kirk grinned. “Paperwork can wait.”
*
On the bridge of USS Reliant, Khan nodded approvingly. “Well done, Captain. You have pleased me.”
Terrell stepped away from the communication post, hands clasped together so tightly that they shook, resisting the urge to scratch on the back of his neck where his skin was red and swollen.
“What happens now?” Joachim asked from behind the helm where he already made himself familiar with most of the ship’s maneuvering abilities; his intelligence supplementing the lacks of experience.
Khan rested his back in the Captain’s seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.
“The Enterprise, the flagship of our dear friend Kirk, will come to our rescue. They will be running with shields down; we are one big, happy fleet after all. Do I really have to explain the rest?”
.
.
.
.tbc Chapter 9