Fandom: Star Trek/Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/Bones, Sherlock/John
Warnings: murder investigation, men kissing, jealousy
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Star Trek aren’t mine.
A/N: Written for brighteyed_jill’s birthday.
Summary: A body from London Station is found on the Enterprise. Enter two rogue genius intellects and their long-suffering doctors to solve the crime!
Kirk was out of his bed, into his uniform, and out his door almost before the echoes of his shout had died away. Spock didn’t break pace, continuing his briefing on the fly.
“Jim, security found a young woman dead in Lieutenant McKenna’s quarters,” Spock repeated.
“McKenna’s still back at Medbase Two,” Kirk said, brows furrowing as he threaded the corridors of the Enterprise, absently accepting the salutes of the Gamma shift officers. “His quarters have been locked. Who’s the victim?”
“Apparently a resident of London Station,” Spock said with very careful neutrality. Kirk came to a dead halt for a few heartbeats, and then trotted back to keep up with Spock.
“Hell,” Kirk muttered.
“The ship has been secured, Dr. McCoy is standing by, all entry and exit logs are being reviewed, and the police force for London Station has been notified,” Spock continued, with a sideways glance at Kirk.
“Damn it. Enterprise can’t leave until this is solved.”
“That is the regulation, Captain,” Spock said formally. Kirk looked back over his shoulder, as if he could penetrate the hull and see to where his ship was docked with the huge station. With full self-governance, London Station was as much a political entity as a planet. The Federation only had so much sway here. And more importantly…
“We wouldn’t leave anyway Spock.” Someone had either dumped a body or committed murder on his ship, in his home. Kirk would deal with any political complications he had to to figure out who’d smeared blood on his hull.
“I did not entertain the notion that we would, Jim.”
“Don’t be a damn fool!”
The London Station police officer, or rather detective inspector, to use the overblown local title, didn’t budge, and McCoy’s estimation of the man’s fortitude and courage just went up. McCoy hadn’t stopped haranguing him for a good twenty minutes to let him see the body any closer, to cover her up and give the poor girl some dignity, and even Jim Kirk would have at least bent a little under that kind of onslaught.
“I can’t do that, Doctor McCoy,” the man, Lestrade, said with a kind of tough patience. McCoy had a sneaking suspicion that he dealt with what could be considered “unreasonable demands” on a regular basis. Perhaps he had a kind of Jim Kirk on his force too. “It’s a crime scene, and I can’t let you interfere-.”
“All you know is what the room sensors are telling you, and those things have been fooled before. Damn it, if there’s any neural activity at all I can still attempt a revival-.”
“Unlikely, as the girl’s body is approximately three degrees Centigrade and according to your own logs this door hasn’t been opened since before DI Lestrade’s arrival an hour ago. Thusly, she’s far beyond anything even your medical expertise, such as it is, to bring her back to life.”
Both Lestrade and McCoy looked up to see two men, one with a haughty, high-bred face and careless tumble of dark hair, the other shorter and more careworn, sandy hair cut short and practical. Neither were wearing either Starfleet uniforms or London Station police badges, but rather civilian attire, the first of high quality, the second neat but relatively inexpensive. And it was the first that had spoken, not even bothering to look at McCoy while he insulted his profession, but rather staring past him through the door with an avid gaze.
McCoy opened his mouth to bring the wrath of God down upon the interlopers when Kirk and Spock rounded the corner. And from the expression on Kirk’s face and the non-expression on Spock’s, they must have heard everything.
“Captain Kirk?” Lestrade spoke quickly, before anyone could start another argument. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
Kirk’s expression was stormy, and his handshake was brief. “Detective, my CMO needs to get in there. Do we know who this is yet?”
“We’re still running down her identification, but she was wearing a pass bracelet to North sector, so that narrows it down.” Lestrade’s expression hardened to match Kirk’s. “The more relevant question would be how she managed to get on board in the first place.”
Spock stepped forward slightly to loom over Lestrade. “We are still reviewing our own security shipboard, and preliminary scans show no unauthorized access.”
“Obviously, there will be none.” Kirk and McCoy turned to the two strangers; the taller of the two had managed to work his way closer to the door during the argument, and both were looking over the room with unwanted absorption.
“What do you mean, ‘obviously?’” McCoy demanded.
The other stranger got a strange look on his face as the first smirked. A smirk of ungodly, Kirk-like proportions.
“From her position sprawled out on the bed, she fell, rather than was placed. Her clothes are clinging to her body unnaturally, and as they are not dark enough to be wet, that leaves static electricity. There’s a distinct tang in the air, ozone and charge particles, consistent with recent transporter use. And this door was not accessed in the past twelve hours, but from what lividity I can see from the doorway, she’s been dead approximately six hours. Dr. Watson can confirm the time of death for me.”
“Captain, this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the London station police, and Dr. John Watson,” Lestrade said quickly, before any more damage could be done. “He specializes in these kinds of cases.”
“What ‘kinds,’ specifically?” Spock asked.
“Interesting ones,” Sherlock said dismissively. “If we’re done with the pleasantries, I need to get at the body.”
John Watson looked over at Kirk and McCoy behind Sherlock’s back in a half-apologetic, half-determined way.
Kirk, however, wasn’t mollified. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, while I appreciate the help, this is my ship. I can’t have civilians onboard without authorization.”
Lestrade pulled out his padd, tapped on it, and turned it around to show Kirk, detailing the detached authorization forms from London Station for Holmes and Watson. With a very tiny apologetic smile, he said, “I think you’ll find everything in order. I’ll leave you all to it.”
“I’ll see the Detective Inspector off ship,” Spock said blandly, and turned on his heel, leaving Sherlock and John alone with Kirk and McCoy.
Sherlock looked unrepentant. John looked resigned.
“Transporter residue?” Kirk said finally. “London Station doesn’t use transporters except for cargo and emergencies. And Enterprise’s are secured. We’ve had them powered down for maintenance since we docked two days ago.”
“The North sector pass bracelet would indicate she has money, but all the major teleporter facilities are in the South sector along the cargo bays, which hardly contains major attractions for a woman dressed in a suit that expensive, but the mark on her hand is from an injection from the South medical kiosk (Yarrow always did push the hyposprays too hard). It’s possible she may have metal fines from the cargo movers on her clothing, but I will need access to the body immediately!” Sherlock said imperiously.
Kirk looked like he was impressed in spite of himself and the situation.
“Give him what he needs, Bones. No security. Obviously.” The last was directed at Sherlock, who suddenly looked mildly interested. McCoy gritted his teeth as he realized what Kirk was getting at. It was possible that a crewmember may have been responsible for this crime. And security officers had the most access to anywhere in the ship, aside from the senior officers.
McCoy scowled as the two London Station civilians swept into the room as if they owned it. Jim trusted him, and only him, to keep this under wraps. This was going to be a hell of a long day.
McCoy bent over the body of the young woman (her name was Heather Long; Lestrade had finally come back with her ID an hour ago), trying to repress the desire to shout John Watson out of his sickbay.
“It was a standard allergy suppressant,” McCoy was saying, pointing to the hypospray mark. “Strange location to inject, but the medication is normal, and her bloodwork shows every indication of a mild allergic reaction shortly before death.”
“Didn’t stop her from getting strangled,” John said, carefully tipping back the girl’s head to see the deep purple mark around her throat. “It’s precision work. Very thin, a garrote. Good placement. It didn’t take long for her to die.” He furrowed his brow and picked up her hands briefly. “No defensive wounds. She didn’t fight back.”
“You do this kind of thing often?” McCoy demanded. Pathology wasn’t his forte. Living flesh was his stock-in-trade, not ferreting the secrets out of the dead. Particularly not when the dead had been rendered that way by another sentient being.
“A few years now. Since I was discharged,” John said absently.
“Discharged,” McCoy repeated, his scowl deepening.
“I was in the army.” John’s voice was mild, but he’d pulled away from the body to look McCoy in the eyes. The stare was more than a bit of a challenge.
“They taught you that,” McCoy pointed at the girl’s ruined throat and crushed trachea, “in the army?”
“The Federation keep the peace with your ships and phasers and poking your nose into everyone’s business, London Station does it another way,” John said. “And it doesn’t bloody matter. I’m just trying to help Sherlock put away whoever did this to her.”
McCoy was silent for another beat, and tapped his padd with Heather Long’s blood analysis display. “The injection would have made her sleepy. You don’t have to be a soldier to be precise on an unconscious victim.”
John’s own padd beeped suddenly. He glanced at it, rolled his eyes, and turned it towards McCoy.
Long having affair with Dr. Yarrow. Desk rearranged to allow for mid-shift sexual intercourse. J - Contents of injection? SH
McCoy shook his head, stopped as the padd beeped again, snorted and quickly turned away to hide his expression. John turned it back so he could read it.
I know a clandestine love nest in a doctor’s office when I see one. JTK
John raised one eyebrow and sent McCoy’s analysis to Sherlock.
Normally, the captain of the Federation’s flagship didn’t accompany civilians on a trans-jurisdictional investigation. But with security under suspicion, Kirk had to send someone he could trust.
McCoy was needed in sickbay, Uhura was deep in a project for their next stop, and Spock returned after thirty minutes with the assertion that, “My continued presence with Mr. Holmes would be unwise.”
“Unwise” in Spock-ese meant “I am about to neck-pinch him into unconsciousness and maroon him on the nearest planet whether or not it has breathable air.” And to do that to Spock in that short of time took talent.
Kirk had to talk to the man.
An hour later, after interrogating one very nervous London Station doctor about his affair with their victim, Kirk was contemplating shoving Sherlock Holmes out of an airlock himself. He’d thought talking to Spock in a hyper-logical mood was bad.
“You know, you’re kind of an asshole,” Kirk said genially, as they walked down to Cargo Bay Seven-B (Sherlock had some theory about the origins of the metal dust on Heather Long’s clothes).
Sherlock merely shrugged. “I don’t see the point in wasting any effort on being polite to idiots. They bore me and offer virtually nothing relevant.”
“You’d be surprised. A little honey goes a long way,” Kirk promised him.
Sherlock glanced at him sideways. “Fine. Do it.”
Jim Kirk had never been one to avoid a thrown gauntlet.
There were three women and five men in the cargo bay that shift. In two hours, Kirk had determined that three of them knew nothing, two others had seen Long in the area infrequently, and the other three had seen her in the presence of someone from the next bay over in a “private corner” the Seven-B handlers had set up for themselves.
He’d also garnered eight invitations for drinks, five communicator numbers, and three invitations to use the private corner.
By the time he’d managed to get back out, Sherlock had found a sample of the metal dust, some footprints in same, and determined that the mystery cargo handler was short, had a slight, intermittent limp, had brown hair and lived with his mother.
Kirk was only half-certain Sherlock was making the last up. It didn’t matter ten minutes later, because they discovered why Heather Long had needed to get the allergy shot.
“Damn it, Jim,” McCoy groused, expertly injecting Kirk with the second-to-last shot in a series of three hypos to stem the swelling and itching from his latest allergy. “What the hell did I tell you about poking around off-world cargo?”
“Pan-merit dylithium dust,” Sherlock said, ignoring McCoy’s dire warnings. “High grade, used in cutting tools for precision hull work. Rare and expensive.”
“No one’s been shipping that,” Kirk said, working his mouth carefully around his swollen lips. “Asked. Maria said hasn’t been any new tools like that in a while.”
“Considering the thoroughness of your asking, I suppose I’ll have to agree with you,” Sherlock said absently.
McCoy’s last hypo went in with unusual vehemence, and Kirk yelped. A brief shadow crossed John’s face as Sherlock ran his finger down Kirk’s collective notes from the station without uttering a single insult or administering any corrections.
“The garrote,” John started, and Sherlock waved him on, not looking up. “Quarter-centimeter braided wire.”
Sherlock and Jim looked up simultaneously and ran out of sickbay.
John sighed once, picked up his own kit, and looked at McCoy.
“We better follow them before they hurt themselves. Again,” McCoy said with resignation.
“That was bad, Sherlock,” John said firmly, trying to pull Sherlock away from the very large man he’d just managed to insult.
“Was it?” Sherlock said distractedly. “Moving on.”
Kirk smoothly took over talking to the shift supervisor (trying to get him off the subject of his wife) while Sherlock inspected the tool belts for signs of their use in the murder.
“It’s like watching a slow-motion shuttle collision,” McCoy muttered from the relative safety of the corner.
“Over and over and over again,” John said in agreement.
“He’s always like this?”
“He’s worse. I know,” McCoy said.
John was about to respond when he saw the shift supervisor’s expression turn ugly, the kind of look that preceded a severe beating. Tensed, he almost leapt into the room to save them from their own genius stupidity. Except that right then Kirk grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve and locked lips with him like he was the love of his life. And Sherlock kissed him back, with a heated clutching at Kirk’s clothing that looked like he was a moment from ripping them away.
John Watson was fairly certain there might have been steam coming out of his ears. Certainly McCoy looked about to blow.
Then the supervisor laughed and left, disappearing into the maze of crates, leaving the four of them alone. Kirk and Sherlock pulled apart slowly, Kirk grinning, Sherlock idly fixing his clothes.
“Jim, what the hell-?”
“I said we were a couple, Bones. Had to sell it.” Jim’s grin didn’t die, even in the face of McCoy’s death glare.
“The last belt is definitely the weapon,” Sherlock said, bringing the slender belt into view… where he had apparently been hiding it in Kirk’s pants. “The user is new, due to the lack of oxidation and inconsistent wear patterns.”
John swallowed against the taste of bile in his mouth at seeing Sherlock’s lips swollen and shiny from Kirk’s, and pointed to an attachment on the belt. “That’s a field hypo hook. The army medics used them in combat.”
“None of Dr. Yarrow’s staff is ex-military,” McCoy started slowly.
“He doesn’t have to be. Stupid! Obvious!” Sherlock said. “The medical staff accepts payment in cargo.”
Jim picked up on whatever point Sherlock was making, sending all of them scrambling down into the cargo bays. John found himself trailing behind with McCoy, as Kirk and Sherlock were spurred on by their certainty, eyes and grins bright as they drew closer to their goal.
Sherlock and Kirk were expounding on their capture, more Sherlock than Kirk, considering that when the errant cargo handler had been confronted, he’d tried to use his stolen cutting tools to escape through one of the walls, and only Kirk tackling him into a scrap heap had stopped him. Small wonder the man, Abbey, had been able to access to cargo transporters to put Heather Long’s body on the Enterprise.
“He was Dr. Yarrow’s smuggler. Every time the clinic took goods instead of cash, Abbey was the one that made hiding places for it. He was good at making problems disappear. So when Heather began to ask too many questions on Yarrow’s behalf, he did the same to her. Simple, really,” Sherlock explained, to a half-interested, half-frustrated DI Lestrade.
John hung back, or rather hung on to Captain Kirk, as Dr. McCoy administered another round of allergy shots along with bonding the worst of his cuts from the scrap metal. And if he was holding the captain down a little more firmly than was strictly necessary, McCoy certainly wasn’t saying anything.
“Bones, come on, not another hypo- argh! Damn it, stop doing that!”
“It’s your own damn fault for following that smart idiot right into danger.” McCoy snapped his case shut, shot John a significant look, and moved away to give them space.
“Guess things get back to normal for you and Holmes, right?” Kirk said, rubbing his neck gingerly, with a care for the newly-bonded scars on his arms.
John didn’t even speak, just glared in frosty silence until Sherlock finished, stepped off his soapbox, and went to see if anything interesting was happening in their area. John grabbed his wrist before Sherlock could open his mouth to speak to Kirk and pulled him around to face him, his kiss sudden and powerful, a little frantic, his grip what he would have used to pull Sherlock out of danger, if he ever would stop him from doing what he loved.
Kirk watched them both with eyebrows raised, and didn’t flinch under the possessive glare John leveled at him when he finally pulled away. Sherlock simply looked a little bemused, then calculating, then rather pleased. Looking over his shoulder, Kirk could feel as well as see the glare Bones was burning into his back.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” Sherlock said, blithely ignoring John’s warning grip on his arm. Indeed he leaned into the touch, just a little.
“Yeah, or something like that,” Kirk agreed, rubbing away the hypospray sting on his neck.
With twin smirks of smugness Kirk and Sherlock nodded at each other in understanding before returning to their respective doctors.
And on to the porny sequel Aftermath of London Station.
Or the not-quite-as-hardcore sequel to that Texting From London Station (you don't need to have read Aftermath to understand Texting).