EVERY FANDOM NEEDS MORE FANTASY AUS
…What about sci-fi AUs?
The ship was short and trim, with faded blond hair and broad shoulders flatteringly outlined by the sleek uniform jumpsuit they all wore. He paused in his work when he spotted Sherlock coming, watching his approach with the harried, impersonal fondness of a school teacher.
Some naval officers had a habit of talking about the moment they’d first laid eyes on their ships, as though they were carrying on some great romantic affair. Whenever that nonsense started, Sherlock always did his best to remove himself from the premises before he could say something he’d regret. It was patently ridiculous when it came to sublight ships. They were nothing but chunks of machinery; admirable for their reliability and usefulness, but he might as well fall in love with his wristwatch.
Interstellar ships, though. They had minds. This one looked patiently up at him with his large, tired eyes, and Sherlock had the first gleamings of a notion that he might understand those officers a little bit after all.
He looked so ordinary, to contain such mysteries. He was magnificent.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, offering his hand.
The ship took it, palm to wrist in the ancient warrior’s grip. “So you’re my new science officer?” At Sherlock’s nod, he smiled a little, features crinkling. “Your record’s interesting. I’ve never seen anyone with such a combination of achievements and disciplinary infractions.”
Sherlock found himself grinning back without meaning to. “It’s not my fault the Royal Navy has no imagination.”
“And you’re the captain’s younger brother.” The ship tilted his chin curiously. “Isn’t that nepotism?”
Sherlock sniffed. “Only if I’d wanted it. My brother took it upon himself to appoint me to this assignment.” When he’d been offered the posting, he’d almost told Mycroft to stuff it out of sheer reflex. But he’d known when he entered the academy that he’d be bored out of his mind in anything short of a deep space posting, and Mycroft knew just as well that his talents were wasted on interplanetary positions. Bugger Mycroft; Sherlock had damn well earned this.
The ship’s hand was warm and smooth, fingers strong and tapered, nails in decent shape but of differing lengths; did fine work with his hands, then. Tidy, but priority on practicality rather than appearance. Good to know their ship wasn’t vain. “In any case,” Sherlock added, “you must be well aware that Mycroft doesn’t tolerate foolishness or incompetence.”
“No,” the ship said, pink rising to his cheeks. “No, he doesn’t.”
(God it feels good to be writing sci-fi again.)