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Title: Less A Costume Than A Disguise – Or Is It?
Rating: R
Fandom: Sherlock BBC AU
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Misc OCs.
Word Count: 2,891
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them or their BBC adaptations as source material.
Spoilers: No.
Warnings: Adult concepts, Men who love men, References to manly scrumpings, Humans who love non-humans, References to inter-species scrumpings, Blink and you'll miss it plot, the Muse is apparently getting frequent flier miles to the SciFi AU.
Original Prompt: 5th July - Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt - A False Moustache: As we know from canon, disguises and secret identities are Holmes' forte, but what about other characters? Involve someone else in disguise in today's entry.
Summary: John and Sherlock are at a fancy dress pleasure cruise party in costumes that are also disguises, and they're meant to meet Mycroft, who's in the most interesting disguise of all.
Author's Notes: Back to the SciFi AU, as you'll see. The Muse seems set on spending most of July there, so bring your passports. This one is just silly, so don't expect much, campers; though I hope you get a smile out of it, at least. I officially apologize for the weirdness - oh, you'll know it when you see it. ;p
John waved cheerily at the departing Degnite, her neon-dyed head and shoulder cilia still undulating in patterns of desire as she gave one last coy look back with shimmering blue-black eyes twice the size of any human’s. Her humanoid shape was certainly pleasing and her costume—clearly meant to be the Delphae prophetess Uillu from “Touched By Prophecy”, one of the first non-human theatrical vids to reach New London’s top ten best-seller list—flowed and billowed around her to provide teasing glimpses of her prehensile tail and the identically dyed cilia at its tip, but not quite a clear view of what was beneath that tail. She’d taken his polite refusal of her invitation to dance, with the blatant hint of more in her words and manner, well enough, though she’d continued to flirt and try to find out why he’d refused.
Curving one arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him close, John swept his gaze blatantly down what could be seen of Sherlock’s long, lean form peeking out from within his costume; catching the costumed Degnite’s eyes, he lifted his brows and let his mouth pull into a sultrily crooked smile, and it only took an instant for him to see the understanding bloom in her expression. With a smirk and a humorously regretful little shake of her head, the Degnite had gracefully blown them both a kiss before sauntering off.
“So, what time is it?” John asked, as if nothing had happened, though he had a hint of a teasing smile on his face. He couldn’t help notice the narrowed glasz eyes through the openings in Sherlock’s holomask, even though his lips remained in a neutral configuration; neither smiling nor frowning. Sherlock was dressed in a form-fitting black holoskin, programmed to make Sherlock appear as if he moved in a clinging layer of clouds, with stars twinkling in the depths to show teasing glimpses of the contours of his actual body. His mask was a representation of Luna, Terra’s satellite, seemingly hovering at the centre of Sherlock’s brow amidst more dark clouds that misted through his dark curls and flowed down just far enough to hide the upper half of his face, save for those two ovals revealing his eyes, which seemed very like pale stars in their own right—even if they were glinting with something more like annoyed arousal than starlight.
“Nearly midnight,” Sherlock snapped, tone and expression full of pique, but body language reading to John as sexually aroused, especially since he remained pressed against John’s side as they continued their apparently random stroll on the mezzanine. “Mycroft must have run into trouble; he’s never late otherwise.”
“Could he have missed the boat?” John made a quiet sound when he caught sight of a waiter approaching them, and Sherlock simply said nothing; no doubt having already seen the uniformed human. John murmured, “Oh, thanks,” and smiled blandly as he took an iridescent bluish liquid in a teardrop-shaped drink container from the waiter’s tray.
“You’re quite welcome, soldier,” drawled the handsome young waiter, big brown eyes looking John up and down with obvious approval—and obvious invitation.
John wore his uniform from the space marines, not his formals, but the standard ship dress: dark mossy grey trousers and tunic with mottled paler and darker swirls that would shift to match nearby colours if activated, slightly darker boots with thick all-terrain soles holding deck magnets and limited-use jets for manoeuvring in a null-gee emergency, matching coloured utility belt with stunner holster and combat knife sheath, and a mottled grey beret with the insignia of John’s old unit.
Only one person had thus far recognised his senior med-tech patches for what they were, but Sherlock had deduced that person—dressed as a Martian Tourbot—into an offended, intimidated, horrified mess of quivering rage modified by something quite resembling fear. Striding off in a towering huff, muttering profanities and impotent threats, the last John had seen of them they’d clipped another guest with their metal shoulder fittings and both had gone down in a flurry of limbs, glitter, yards of fluffy fabric, and the random tinkles and crashes of thin metal parts breaking off and scattering all over the floor. He wished them well, as that was the perfect situation to kick off a potential romance, or for them to suffer with ruined costumes until the party cruiser landed at the dock and they could depart. He hoped for the romance option, but hadn’t been foolish enough to mention it to his amusingly jealous lover.
Sherlock had looked so viciously triumphant that John hadn’t known whether he should chastise him or drag him into some utility closet or something and muss his makeup up a bit, maybe a lot. In the end he’d given Sherlock an utterly ineffectual bit of a glare and groped him outrageously the first chance he got. Needless to say, they hadn’t disappeared for some hanky-panky, but Sherlock’s mood improved notably for a while.
It wasn’t that Sherlock doubted John’s loyalty and faithfulness, it was that when John wore his uniform Sherlock’s libido went into hyperdrive; anyone caught ogling his Captain Watson too intently would be chased off by any means possible. The upside of this was that whenever they returned home after whatever it was that had led to John wearing his uniform—business or pleasure—the ex-marine med-tech could be certain of a wild and extremely satisfying bunk bounce. If they even made it to their bunk, that is.
Unfortunately, despite the side amusements, they were meant to have met with Mycroft, in appropriate disguise, at midnight, and it was nearly half past. John rolled back his sleeve and checked his interface for messages; nothing. When he glanced up, Sherlock was shaking his head, murmuring, “Do I need to ask if you brought the power node for your stunner?”
Smirking, John took a sip from his drink and merely muttered, “Oh, please.”
Sherlock’s little answering smirk was approval and pride in one. Of course they’d been scanned when boarding the elite pleasure cruiser, chartered to do a leisurely fly-over of some of the more beautiful portions of Terra’s coastlines while hosting a gala costume party for a slew of the elite of New London society, along with some visiting dignitaries and assorted movers and shakers of the system’s political arenas. Weapons were forbidden to anyone but the security staff, save for ornamental and non-functioning pieces. John’s stunner was just a sleek alloy sculpture without its power node, but there were ways around almost any problem if one was clever and innovative; fortunately, between the two of them, they were both.
Glancing around them for anyone watching, John tossed the remainder of his drink in a low-profile rubbish slot along the wall before strolling around the corner from the balcony to which they’d retreated a little while back.
Earlier, they had spent some time amongst the greater concentration of guests on the main observation platform and the dance floor, identifying key players in the criminal syndicate using this Terran pleasure tour as a cover for an exchange of data and probably contraband goods. Once Sherlock had confirmed their targets, they were free to wander a bit farther afield until it was time to meet with Mycroft—which was overdue.
For now, Sherlock followed his partner around that corner nonchalantly, watching John bend over while lifting his right foot to rest against his left knee. With a few deliberate touches and a twist, John swung out a small hidden compartment in the heel of his boot; nestled within was a gently glowing power node.
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Sherlock said with plenty of rumbling innuendo to his voice.
John gave him a smugly wicked smile and a wink as he sealed the stash-hole and stood upright, snapping the power node into the stunner and re-holstering it with swift, economic motions. He didn’t miss the dart of Sherlock’s tongue over his full lower lip or the sharpening of his gaze through the holomask; neither of them was in doubt where this would be going once they’d accomplished what they were there for that evening.
Sherlock’s personal interface gave a soft peep and he felt a gentle vibration through the flesh of his forearm. He peeled back his sleeve and checked the message, saying softly, “Finally. He’s got it, but had trouble with his exit.” Sherlock’s lips twitched with poorly suppressed humour.
Concerned, John made a little impatient gesture. “Well? Does he need extraction or what?”
“No… well, actually, he said to meet him on the third level, near the large lounge.” Sherlock beckoned John to follow as he started off, still speaking quietly. “I have a suspicion this is going to be good.”
“Meaning?” John prompted, but only got a muffled chuckle from Sherlock at first
With a shake of his head, Sherlock hooked his arm in John’s, the false clouds from his costume misting across and slowly fading just past the places where they touched. “Merely conjecture at this point. He said to meet him in Lounge 3; this way.”
~~~
John took one last look down the corridor before following Sherlock into number 3 of four large lounges meant for species who would not be able to enter the human-sized lounges, or comfortable inside them, if they could get through the entrances.
Inside crouched a large, probably male, Lonai wearing a spangled netting of rainbow colours and shimmering tiny lights over his scales. It was only when the massive non-human turned around to face them that it became clear, indeed, that he was a male of his species. He growled in a deep, displeased voice, “Sherlock, I said to come alone!”
John’s jaw dropped as he recognised the cadence and pronunciation of the words, even in that floor-rumbling voice. “Mycroft?!” he shout-whispered, and then slapped one hand over his mouth.
“We did come alone,” Sherlock was saying as he circled the absolutely realistic looking, life-sized Lonai. “This is quite something, brother dear,” he breathed in genuine admiration.
“I have the coded key,” Mycroft said in as quiet a voice as a Lonai was capable of. “You must hurry and get the documents from the ship’s safe before the next duty shift, as they will change the locking code and this key will be worthless to us.” With large, taloned fingers, Mycroft plucked a small metallic object from what appeared to be a fold between two sharp-edged deep greenish brown scales.
“You’ve left us precious little time,” Sherlock said scathingly as he snatched the item from those fingers, each larger than his whole hand, making the thing disappear into the billowing holographic clouds of his costume like a magic trick. “What happened to delay your exit?”
“I had to… distract… the Captain long enough to get it from his pocket,” replied Mycroft, making strange wriggling motions for several seconds before a soft hissing sound came from somewhere near the less-armoured belly of the Lonai. John didn’t even pretend not to stare, standing right next to Sherlock, who was doing exactly the same. Mycroft’s own voice, though muffled at first, came from a widening opening that formed a moment later at the edge where the smoother belly skin ended and the scales began on the left side. “What truly delayed me was… well, making certain the captain hadn’t come to any serious harm before I left him.”
“If he’s in with this group of scum we’re after, fecking let him get a little damaged,” John said with casual dismissal—sure, he was a healer, but someone trafficking in drugs that harmed, addicted, and often killed people didn’t deserve his skills or his sympathy. He hadn’t specifically asked what data this syndicate was trading, but if it got Mycroft directly involved, it had to be something immensely important.
Mycroft pushed through the opening looking less properly clothed and more disheveled than John had ever seen him: his auburn hair was dark with sweat and tufted in whorls where it wasn’t flattened, as if he’d just been wearing an oddly-shaped hat, he also wore a skin-tight suit dotted with small sensor beads, and that suit revealed even more of his every contour because it was soaked in sweat, as well as being of a very thin fabric. Sherlock leaned over a bit to peer in fascination at the now-visible opening in what was clearly an incredibly accurate and complicated costume, pulling it apart to get a better look.
John resisted the urge to step closer to check on Mycroft’s vitals, because he rarely welcomed John’s unsolicited medical assistance unless he was bleeding or broken—which had only happened twice and once, respectively—but still, the man looked very flushed and seemed to be breathing harder than was normal. “You okay, Mycroft?” he asked, anyway.
“Fine, perfectly fine, thank you.” Mycroft reached back inside for a sealed pouch from which he pulled some kind of wipes, mopping his face and smoothing back his hair with quick, not exactly agitated movements. He was embarrassed to be seen that way in front of John, deduced the ex-marine med-tech. Even so, John had the thought, but didn’t actually say out loud that Mycroft had nothing to be ashamed of; his body wasn’t quite as lean as Sherlock’s, but he had a well-shaped form and seemed to have been dealt with quite adequately by genetics.
“John,” rumbled Sherlock, giving him a look with one raised eyebrow. Mycroft glanced from his younger brother to John and rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh.
“Sorry,” John said with a cheeky smile. “Not actively shopping, just couldn’t help noticing well-made goods.”
Mycroft made a disgusted sound, but John barely caught a slight upward twitch of his lips before he turned away. John sniggered softly to himself before turning back to tease or make a further quip at Sherlock, only to find his partner in the act of prying open the costume and peering inside.
“We hardly have time for you to see all that you’ll want to, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, resting his hands on his hips and frowning at his sibling. “You can have a better look later.”
Emerging once more, Sherlock’s face held a devilishly delighted expression. “The captain has a… kink… for Lonai males, does he?”
John was on the verge of a shocked response of disbelief, but Mycroft’s world-weary sigh at his brother was answer enough, and the deepening of the colour in his already pink cheeks made it certain. Instead, John’s mouth fell open on a soft, “That’s not even…”
“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled, shaking his head and grinning like the cat that had got a whole petshop’s worth of canaries, as well as some fish. “If I had any lingering doubts just how important this data is to you, this puts them all to rest.” He turned to John, who was still trying to envision what in the hell must’ve happened in the captain’s quarters, but not all that sure he wanted that clear a picture. “Come, John, there’s little time left.”
John let Sherlock grab his hand and all but drag him toward the lounge door—which they’d secured upon entry—but had to turn back to ask one last time, “You’re sure you’re okay, Mycroft?”
His response was a nod and a dismissing wave of one hand before Mycroft turned away again, plucking out another wipe from his little packet.
“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock said with deep relish as he led John at a swift walking pace. “His distress isn’t physical. Even I couldn’t make it much worse than it already is. Oh, I’ll live on this moment for years!”
“But, really,” John couldn’t help confirming his suspicions, speaking in a soft voice as they passed within earshot of other guests. “Was Mycroft actually… did the captain… I mean… the captain’s human, isn’t he?”
“Yes, what you’re failing to fully articulate is that my brother just had cosplay inter-species sex with the captain,” Sherlock confirmed, keeping his voice down, though it oozed with smug delight, all the same.
“As a Lonai? But… but, they’re huge…” John winced inwardly at the very thought of what he was trying not to actually think about.
“Shh,” Sherlock shushed in delighted chastisement. “Mustn’t kink shame, John, it’s rude.”
John stifled a giggle behind his free hand as he and Sherlock made their way to the ship’s safe to complete their intended mission. Once the mission was over, successfully ending with the drug and government secret smugglers rounded up by the authorities and imprisoned, John and Sherlock didn’t see or hear from Mycroft for months. Sherlock had that same, wickedly smug expression anytime his brother’s name came up, and John never had to ask why.
As for John, he never alluded to the incident once Mycroft chose to make contact again, but he did discover—after the fact—that Sherlock had sent his brother a Solstice greeting with the image of a cheerily-drawn Lonai wrapped in glittering ribbon with a suggestively placed bow.
The only reason John found out about the joke message was that he was the one who took delivery of a gift for Sherlock on the day after solstice: a box full of sooty little black lumps, which turned out to be old-fashioned Terran coal.
~~~
.
Rating: R
Fandom: Sherlock BBC AU
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Misc OCs.
Word Count: 2,891
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them or their BBC adaptations as source material.
Spoilers: No.
Warnings: Adult concepts, Men who love men, References to manly scrumpings, Humans who love non-humans, References to inter-species scrumpings, Blink and you'll miss it plot, the Muse is apparently getting frequent flier miles to the SciFi AU.
Original Prompt: 5th July - Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt - A False Moustache: As we know from canon, disguises and secret identities are Holmes' forte, but what about other characters? Involve someone else in disguise in today's entry.
Summary: John and Sherlock are at a fancy dress pleasure cruise party in costumes that are also disguises, and they're meant to meet Mycroft, who's in the most interesting disguise of all.
Author's Notes: Back to the SciFi AU, as you'll see. The Muse seems set on spending most of July there, so bring your passports. This one is just silly, so don't expect much, campers; though I hope you get a smile out of it, at least. I officially apologize for the weirdness - oh, you'll know it when you see it. ;p
John waved cheerily at the departing Degnite, her neon-dyed head and shoulder cilia still undulating in patterns of desire as she gave one last coy look back with shimmering blue-black eyes twice the size of any human’s. Her humanoid shape was certainly pleasing and her costume—clearly meant to be the Delphae prophetess Uillu from “Touched By Prophecy”, one of the first non-human theatrical vids to reach New London’s top ten best-seller list—flowed and billowed around her to provide teasing glimpses of her prehensile tail and the identically dyed cilia at its tip, but not quite a clear view of what was beneath that tail. She’d taken his polite refusal of her invitation to dance, with the blatant hint of more in her words and manner, well enough, though she’d continued to flirt and try to find out why he’d refused.
Curving one arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him close, John swept his gaze blatantly down what could be seen of Sherlock’s long, lean form peeking out from within his costume; catching the costumed Degnite’s eyes, he lifted his brows and let his mouth pull into a sultrily crooked smile, and it only took an instant for him to see the understanding bloom in her expression. With a smirk and a humorously regretful little shake of her head, the Degnite had gracefully blown them both a kiss before sauntering off.
“So, what time is it?” John asked, as if nothing had happened, though he had a hint of a teasing smile on his face. He couldn’t help notice the narrowed glasz eyes through the openings in Sherlock’s holomask, even though his lips remained in a neutral configuration; neither smiling nor frowning. Sherlock was dressed in a form-fitting black holoskin, programmed to make Sherlock appear as if he moved in a clinging layer of clouds, with stars twinkling in the depths to show teasing glimpses of the contours of his actual body. His mask was a representation of Luna, Terra’s satellite, seemingly hovering at the centre of Sherlock’s brow amidst more dark clouds that misted through his dark curls and flowed down just far enough to hide the upper half of his face, save for those two ovals revealing his eyes, which seemed very like pale stars in their own right—even if they were glinting with something more like annoyed arousal than starlight.
“Nearly midnight,” Sherlock snapped, tone and expression full of pique, but body language reading to John as sexually aroused, especially since he remained pressed against John’s side as they continued their apparently random stroll on the mezzanine. “Mycroft must have run into trouble; he’s never late otherwise.”
“Could he have missed the boat?” John made a quiet sound when he caught sight of a waiter approaching them, and Sherlock simply said nothing; no doubt having already seen the uniformed human. John murmured, “Oh, thanks,” and smiled blandly as he took an iridescent bluish liquid in a teardrop-shaped drink container from the waiter’s tray.
“You’re quite welcome, soldier,” drawled the handsome young waiter, big brown eyes looking John up and down with obvious approval—and obvious invitation.
John wore his uniform from the space marines, not his formals, but the standard ship dress: dark mossy grey trousers and tunic with mottled paler and darker swirls that would shift to match nearby colours if activated, slightly darker boots with thick all-terrain soles holding deck magnets and limited-use jets for manoeuvring in a null-gee emergency, matching coloured utility belt with stunner holster and combat knife sheath, and a mottled grey beret with the insignia of John’s old unit.
Only one person had thus far recognised his senior med-tech patches for what they were, but Sherlock had deduced that person—dressed as a Martian Tourbot—into an offended, intimidated, horrified mess of quivering rage modified by something quite resembling fear. Striding off in a towering huff, muttering profanities and impotent threats, the last John had seen of them they’d clipped another guest with their metal shoulder fittings and both had gone down in a flurry of limbs, glitter, yards of fluffy fabric, and the random tinkles and crashes of thin metal parts breaking off and scattering all over the floor. He wished them well, as that was the perfect situation to kick off a potential romance, or for them to suffer with ruined costumes until the party cruiser landed at the dock and they could depart. He hoped for the romance option, but hadn’t been foolish enough to mention it to his amusingly jealous lover.
Sherlock had looked so viciously triumphant that John hadn’t known whether he should chastise him or drag him into some utility closet or something and muss his makeup up a bit, maybe a lot. In the end he’d given Sherlock an utterly ineffectual bit of a glare and groped him outrageously the first chance he got. Needless to say, they hadn’t disappeared for some hanky-panky, but Sherlock’s mood improved notably for a while.
It wasn’t that Sherlock doubted John’s loyalty and faithfulness, it was that when John wore his uniform Sherlock’s libido went into hyperdrive; anyone caught ogling his Captain Watson too intently would be chased off by any means possible. The upside of this was that whenever they returned home after whatever it was that had led to John wearing his uniform—business or pleasure—the ex-marine med-tech could be certain of a wild and extremely satisfying bunk bounce. If they even made it to their bunk, that is.
Unfortunately, despite the side amusements, they were meant to have met with Mycroft, in appropriate disguise, at midnight, and it was nearly half past. John rolled back his sleeve and checked his interface for messages; nothing. When he glanced up, Sherlock was shaking his head, murmuring, “Do I need to ask if you brought the power node for your stunner?”
Smirking, John took a sip from his drink and merely muttered, “Oh, please.”
Sherlock’s little answering smirk was approval and pride in one. Of course they’d been scanned when boarding the elite pleasure cruiser, chartered to do a leisurely fly-over of some of the more beautiful portions of Terra’s coastlines while hosting a gala costume party for a slew of the elite of New London society, along with some visiting dignitaries and assorted movers and shakers of the system’s political arenas. Weapons were forbidden to anyone but the security staff, save for ornamental and non-functioning pieces. John’s stunner was just a sleek alloy sculpture without its power node, but there were ways around almost any problem if one was clever and innovative; fortunately, between the two of them, they were both.
Glancing around them for anyone watching, John tossed the remainder of his drink in a low-profile rubbish slot along the wall before strolling around the corner from the balcony to which they’d retreated a little while back.
Earlier, they had spent some time amongst the greater concentration of guests on the main observation platform and the dance floor, identifying key players in the criminal syndicate using this Terran pleasure tour as a cover for an exchange of data and probably contraband goods. Once Sherlock had confirmed their targets, they were free to wander a bit farther afield until it was time to meet with Mycroft—which was overdue.
For now, Sherlock followed his partner around that corner nonchalantly, watching John bend over while lifting his right foot to rest against his left knee. With a few deliberate touches and a twist, John swung out a small hidden compartment in the heel of his boot; nestled within was a gently glowing power node.
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Sherlock said with plenty of rumbling innuendo to his voice.
John gave him a smugly wicked smile and a wink as he sealed the stash-hole and stood upright, snapping the power node into the stunner and re-holstering it with swift, economic motions. He didn’t miss the dart of Sherlock’s tongue over his full lower lip or the sharpening of his gaze through the holomask; neither of them was in doubt where this would be going once they’d accomplished what they were there for that evening.
Sherlock’s personal interface gave a soft peep and he felt a gentle vibration through the flesh of his forearm. He peeled back his sleeve and checked the message, saying softly, “Finally. He’s got it, but had trouble with his exit.” Sherlock’s lips twitched with poorly suppressed humour.
Concerned, John made a little impatient gesture. “Well? Does he need extraction or what?”
“No… well, actually, he said to meet him on the third level, near the large lounge.” Sherlock beckoned John to follow as he started off, still speaking quietly. “I have a suspicion this is going to be good.”
“Meaning?” John prompted, but only got a muffled chuckle from Sherlock at first
With a shake of his head, Sherlock hooked his arm in John’s, the false clouds from his costume misting across and slowly fading just past the places where they touched. “Merely conjecture at this point. He said to meet him in Lounge 3; this way.”
~~~
John took one last look down the corridor before following Sherlock into number 3 of four large lounges meant for species who would not be able to enter the human-sized lounges, or comfortable inside them, if they could get through the entrances.
Inside crouched a large, probably male, Lonai wearing a spangled netting of rainbow colours and shimmering tiny lights over his scales. It was only when the massive non-human turned around to face them that it became clear, indeed, that he was a male of his species. He growled in a deep, displeased voice, “Sherlock, I said to come alone!”
John’s jaw dropped as he recognised the cadence and pronunciation of the words, even in that floor-rumbling voice. “Mycroft?!” he shout-whispered, and then slapped one hand over his mouth.
“We did come alone,” Sherlock was saying as he circled the absolutely realistic looking, life-sized Lonai. “This is quite something, brother dear,” he breathed in genuine admiration.
“I have the coded key,” Mycroft said in as quiet a voice as a Lonai was capable of. “You must hurry and get the documents from the ship’s safe before the next duty shift, as they will change the locking code and this key will be worthless to us.” With large, taloned fingers, Mycroft plucked a small metallic object from what appeared to be a fold between two sharp-edged deep greenish brown scales.
“You’ve left us precious little time,” Sherlock said scathingly as he snatched the item from those fingers, each larger than his whole hand, making the thing disappear into the billowing holographic clouds of his costume like a magic trick. “What happened to delay your exit?”
“I had to… distract… the Captain long enough to get it from his pocket,” replied Mycroft, making strange wriggling motions for several seconds before a soft hissing sound came from somewhere near the less-armoured belly of the Lonai. John didn’t even pretend not to stare, standing right next to Sherlock, who was doing exactly the same. Mycroft’s own voice, though muffled at first, came from a widening opening that formed a moment later at the edge where the smoother belly skin ended and the scales began on the left side. “What truly delayed me was… well, making certain the captain hadn’t come to any serious harm before I left him.”
“If he’s in with this group of scum we’re after, fecking let him get a little damaged,” John said with casual dismissal—sure, he was a healer, but someone trafficking in drugs that harmed, addicted, and often killed people didn’t deserve his skills or his sympathy. He hadn’t specifically asked what data this syndicate was trading, but if it got Mycroft directly involved, it had to be something immensely important.
Mycroft pushed through the opening looking less properly clothed and more disheveled than John had ever seen him: his auburn hair was dark with sweat and tufted in whorls where it wasn’t flattened, as if he’d just been wearing an oddly-shaped hat, he also wore a skin-tight suit dotted with small sensor beads, and that suit revealed even more of his every contour because it was soaked in sweat, as well as being of a very thin fabric. Sherlock leaned over a bit to peer in fascination at the now-visible opening in what was clearly an incredibly accurate and complicated costume, pulling it apart to get a better look.
John resisted the urge to step closer to check on Mycroft’s vitals, because he rarely welcomed John’s unsolicited medical assistance unless he was bleeding or broken—which had only happened twice and once, respectively—but still, the man looked very flushed and seemed to be breathing harder than was normal. “You okay, Mycroft?” he asked, anyway.
“Fine, perfectly fine, thank you.” Mycroft reached back inside for a sealed pouch from which he pulled some kind of wipes, mopping his face and smoothing back his hair with quick, not exactly agitated movements. He was embarrassed to be seen that way in front of John, deduced the ex-marine med-tech. Even so, John had the thought, but didn’t actually say out loud that Mycroft had nothing to be ashamed of; his body wasn’t quite as lean as Sherlock’s, but he had a well-shaped form and seemed to have been dealt with quite adequately by genetics.
“John,” rumbled Sherlock, giving him a look with one raised eyebrow. Mycroft glanced from his younger brother to John and rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh.
“Sorry,” John said with a cheeky smile. “Not actively shopping, just couldn’t help noticing well-made goods.”
Mycroft made a disgusted sound, but John barely caught a slight upward twitch of his lips before he turned away. John sniggered softly to himself before turning back to tease or make a further quip at Sherlock, only to find his partner in the act of prying open the costume and peering inside.
“We hardly have time for you to see all that you’ll want to, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, resting his hands on his hips and frowning at his sibling. “You can have a better look later.”
Emerging once more, Sherlock’s face held a devilishly delighted expression. “The captain has a… kink… for Lonai males, does he?”
John was on the verge of a shocked response of disbelief, but Mycroft’s world-weary sigh at his brother was answer enough, and the deepening of the colour in his already pink cheeks made it certain. Instead, John’s mouth fell open on a soft, “That’s not even…”
“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled, shaking his head and grinning like the cat that had got a whole petshop’s worth of canaries, as well as some fish. “If I had any lingering doubts just how important this data is to you, this puts them all to rest.” He turned to John, who was still trying to envision what in the hell must’ve happened in the captain’s quarters, but not all that sure he wanted that clear a picture. “Come, John, there’s little time left.”
John let Sherlock grab his hand and all but drag him toward the lounge door—which they’d secured upon entry—but had to turn back to ask one last time, “You’re sure you’re okay, Mycroft?”
His response was a nod and a dismissing wave of one hand before Mycroft turned away again, plucking out another wipe from his little packet.
“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock said with deep relish as he led John at a swift walking pace. “His distress isn’t physical. Even I couldn’t make it much worse than it already is. Oh, I’ll live on this moment for years!”
“But, really,” John couldn’t help confirming his suspicions, speaking in a soft voice as they passed within earshot of other guests. “Was Mycroft actually… did the captain… I mean… the captain’s human, isn’t he?”
“Yes, what you’re failing to fully articulate is that my brother just had cosplay inter-species sex with the captain,” Sherlock confirmed, keeping his voice down, though it oozed with smug delight, all the same.
“As a Lonai? But… but, they’re huge…” John winced inwardly at the very thought of what he was trying not to actually think about.
“Shh,” Sherlock shushed in delighted chastisement. “Mustn’t kink shame, John, it’s rude.”
John stifled a giggle behind his free hand as he and Sherlock made their way to the ship’s safe to complete their intended mission. Once the mission was over, successfully ending with the drug and government secret smugglers rounded up by the authorities and imprisoned, John and Sherlock didn’t see or hear from Mycroft for months. Sherlock had that same, wickedly smug expression anytime his brother’s name came up, and John never had to ask why.
As for John, he never alluded to the incident once Mycroft chose to make contact again, but he did discover—after the fact—that Sherlock had sent his brother a Solstice greeting with the image of a cheerily-drawn Lonai wrapped in glittering ribbon with a suggestively placed bow.
The only reason John found out about the joke message was that he was the one who took delivery of a gift for Sherlock on the day after solstice: a box full of sooty little black lumps, which turned out to be old-fashioned Terran coal.
~~~
.
Tags:
- au,
- ch: john watson,
- ch: mycroft holmes,
- ch: oc,
- ch: sherlock holmes,
- complete,
- creativity,
- extra-terrestrial life forms,
- fanfic,
- inter-species relationships,
- prompt fic,
- science fiction,
- series: sh in new london - luna,
- setting: beeblock (in general),
- sherlock holmes,
- watson's woes jwp 2016,
- written word
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Thursday, July 7 & Friday, July 8, 2016
Date: 2016-07-09 08:26 am (UTC)From: