FIC: We Really Must Talk
Apr. 4th, 2012 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: We Really Must Talk
Author: Alex
Archive: Christ, no.
Fandom: Crossover...The Phantom Menace/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: George Lucas, AC Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, et al. I own none of these people.
Summary: Two Jedi, having crash-landed on an unfamiliar planet, come to some realizations thanks to the assistance of an extremely peculiar native.
Notes: Loosely based on a conversation I had with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lauramcewan on LJ. Probably the crackiest crack I’ve ever cracked. Please do not take this seriously in any way, shape, or form.
*
*
Obi-Wan had been in his share of sordid, villain-infested places, but this one had come close to surpassing them all. They’d managed to conceal their shuttle in what looked to be an ancient transport tunnel, and as it shuddered to what sounded like its final stop, Obi-Wan had sighed in defeat and passed a hand over his brow. “Master, I very much doubt we’ll be able to find the necessary equipment to fix the shuttle here. From the little I can discern, this is a most primitive system.”
“Then resourcefulness must be our watchword,” Qui-Gon replied easily, and rose from the cockpit seat. “Come along, Obi-Wan. I don’t want to stay here longer than necessary.”
How does he do that? Obi-Wan wondered as he trailed after Qui-Gon, shrugging on his cloak. That confidence – it’s nearly killed us more than once, and yet we seem to manage to wriggle out of scrape after scrape. Sometimes I think he relies on luck…. He hurried to catch up to Qui-Gon’s longer stride as his master exited the shuttle.
The transport tunnel was damp, filthy, and unpleasantly pungent. Obi-Wan did not consider himself extraordinarily fastidious, but he knew his cloak was dragging along in puddles of filth, and if he had to use his cloak as a blanket, it would make for an excessively fragrant sleep. Beside him, Qui-Gon walked rapidly, his gaze now and then darting back and forth in search of those who might threaten them, but the only life forms present were still figures huddled against the wall, bundled up against the cold. Obi-Wan kept his hand firmly upon his lightsaber; such innocuous-seeming creatures might at any moment attack, but Qui-Gon seemed unconcerned, and even friendly, nodding here and there to a rag-bundled shape.
“Master, be cautious,” Obi-Wan whispered. “You cannot know who among these creatures may harbor hostile intentions toward Jedi.”
“Obi-Wan, these unfortunate individuals are sheltering from the cold. Observe carefully. It is poverty and hopelessness you sense, not hostility.”
“You trust too easily, Master.”
“And you trust not enough, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan flushed and bit his lip. It was true that he was prudent, but Qui-Gon was far too reckless at times. It was something he had come to accept, but just lately, to receive a rebuke stung far more than it ought. Strange, to be sure, but he had not had the opportunity to examine this newfound sensitivity. Stranger still that some similar thoughts emerged when he and his master were engaged in moments of quietude, of simple companionship – a peculiar desire to defer and submit, and simultaneously to fight and conquer, to –
“Obi-Wan. This way.” Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Come.”
A shiver, all unbidden, traveled up Obi-Wan’s spine. It was often thus when Qui-Gon touched him; and Qui-Gon touched him often. In friendship, in affection, one large, callused hand placed casually upon Obi-Wan’s bare wrist, his arm, sometimes his neck.
It was maddening.
He set his teeth and obediently followed Qui-Gon out of the tunnel.
The city was even filthier, noisier, and more wretched than the curved corridors that sheltered their shuttle. Hundreds of squat ground speeders clogged a gridlike maze of dirty streets, the structures were of varying unattractive hues, some covered with lights, some dark and weathered, and all slouched together as if massed against some giant aggressor, the noise from large underground transports, the upper traffic, and the life forms surrounding them was nearly deafening, and the whole was covered by a cloudy, polluted, starless sky.
“Not a patch on Coruscant, Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured.
“Indeed, Master,” Obi-Wan agreed. “The sooner we can get out of here, the better. We should find the technical sector immediately.” He fielded a stare from a bypasser who actually turned as he walked past the two Jedi. “Sooner, if possible.”
“True. Our garb seems to be attracting attention. This population is not as varied as I had thought.”
“No. Some variation in body shape and size and color of skin, but on the whole, they seem quite alike.”
“I think it’s the cloaks. Follow my lead.” Qui-Gon stripped off his cloak and slung it over one arm.
A young man with a black hide jacket and several points of metal embedded in his face cocked his head and stared at Obi-Wan. “Oi, Frodo, you and Aragorn there lose your ring?”
Obi-Wan scowled. The dialect was discernible – just – but the lexicon was entirely unfamiliar. “Master, I think we should make ourselves less conspicuous.”
“Agreed.” Qui-Gon ducked down a dark alley. “We’ll have to find someone to guide us to the correct sector of the city, Obi-Wan. It make take us some time.”
“I have every confidence in you, Master.”
Qui-Gon paused and gazed at Obi-Wan in the dim yellowish light. Unexpectedly, he grazed his fingertips against Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.” He paused, seemed to grope for words, and then shook his head. “Come along. My first instinct was to ask the people in the tunnel for assistance. Very often, it is the underground dwellers of a place, the disenfranchised, the homeless, who know a city best.” He ran down the alley and stopped short. “Wait,” he said softly, holding out a hand.
There was a large metal container just ahead, clearly some sort of trash receptacle, surrounded as it was by debris and refuse of all kinds – and by the smell. There was a figure inside it, head and shoulders visible, rummaging through the debris and occasionally tossing an item over the side. Obi-Wan ducked to avoid a flying chunk of spitcrete.
“Good evening,” Qui-Gon called.
The figure stopped. “Yes?” a deep voice, tinged with impatience, replied.
“I wonder if you can help us.”
“I probably can, but I really haven’t time. So sorry.” The figure went back to its rummaging.
“It’s rather urgent,” Qui-Gon said pleasantly.
“Oh, isn’t everything? Look, if you’re tourists, I suggest you buy a copy of London A to Z, available at any newsagent. Thank you very much, have a lovely night.” Another chunk of material came flying out from the container. Both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan ducked.
“We’re in need of parts for our…transport,” Qui-Gon continued, undaunted.
“Do I look like a vehicle recovery service? Look, if you’re just going to stand there, make yourself useful. I’m looking for a discarded mobile. A Droid, with a white rubber Hello Kitty cover.”
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a glance. “If they have droids, perhaps we can…appropriate one, Master,” Obi-Wan whispered.
Qui-Gon nodded. “Certainly. About how large is this droid?”
The figure stopped again, and a head and shoulders rose above the container’s edge. Obi-Wan saw a mop of curly hair and an upturned coat collar. “How large? My God, it really is astonishing to spend time among people so extraordinarily thick. One wouldn’t think one learned a lot, but the vast span of human ignorance can be quite entertaining when one has time to waste. For God’s sake, it’s a mobile phone! How bloody big can they get?” Two gloved hands impatiently delineated what seemed to be the dimensions of the droid.
“Quite small, Master,” Obi-Wan said softly.
“I don’t think this is the sort of droid we’re looking for, Obi-Wan.”
“Hang on a minute.” The figure heaved itself from the container, leapt lithely to the ground, and stepped into the light. Obi-Wan found himself looking up at a man a little shorter than Qui-Gon. He wore a sweeping coat and gloves, and his slanted blue eyes appraised both of them keenly. “Well, well.”
“I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” Obi-Wan said, “but we really do need assistance.”
“Where are you from?” the man barked.
“Not around here,” Qui-Gon supplied smoothly.
“How helpful. Yes, I can tell you’re not from around here. Did both of you just come from a fancy dress party?” The man tilted his head and stared harder, making Obi-Wan feel uncomfortably exposed. “Never mind, I’m keen to guess. Let me see. You –“ He pointed at Qui-Gon. “You’re clearly the leader of this little expedition, but the truth is you hadn’t ever planned to be any sort of leader at all. You’re too much of an iconoclast, or at least you’d like to think you are, judging from the sixties-era counterculture hair. Since you’re far too young to be a product of that era, that suggests membership in the arts – a pretentious prog-rock band or some sort of tedious organic farmer who brews his own bitter and raises fluffy white hens for overpriced eggs sold to halfwits who fancy themselves saviors of the earth. However, the slightly weathered skin – not overly tanned, so not a sun-worshipper, but certainly some kind of radiation exposure – and the calluses on your hands suggests someone who actually works for a living rather than playing at it, and the stress marks around your eyes indicate that you’ve borne some heavy burdens in the past, someone who’s betrayed you.” His eyes fell to Qui-Gon’s light saber. “Frequent use of that thing on your belt, actual use, plenty of wear on the handgrip, so not a toy. But what could it be?”
As the man leaned close to get a better look at the saber, Qui-Gon stepped back. “As you say – it’s not a toy. And you’re a remarkably observant young man….”
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” the man replied smugly, placing the tips of his fingers together and turning his peculiar, intense stare on Obi-Wan. “I haven’t even got to your completely fascinating clothes yet. Now, you. You’re quite an interesting case, aren’t you? Much younger than your friend here, and clearly in some sort of subordinate position to him. Not as much wear on the handle of your implement there, obvious because of your age, but those things are clearly built to last. You’ve had it since the age of thirteen or so, and for a long time, going by the frequent marks on the grip, you thought you didn’t quite have what it took to make it as this man’s – what would you call yourself? Student? Apprentice? Lots of frequent handling, meditation, marks made by an anxious boy and just lately by an even more anxious man. Maybe you thought you didn’t have the physical skills when you were young, maybe you were just too bloody impatient, but whatever the case, that’s not true now. No, now your problem is precisely this tall hippie at your side. You’re clearly in love with him, certainly deeply in lust, but whichever it is, the results of extreme sexual frustration are beginning to show in your left hand and the tread of your boots, so if you want to maintain any sort of decent equilibrium, my advice is to get your tall friend into bed and end the ridiculous farce you two play out every single day of your lives which, while not exactly boring and tedious, are certainly being hampered by the lack of deeper communication that you both long for but stoically refuse to acknowledge. Why is that, by the way? Some druidical injunction against master-student sexual relations?”
Stunned, Obi-Wan’s mind reeled between embarrassment and shock, with the smallest measure of anger to tinge his thoughts red.
“You have Jedi powers,” Qui-Gon remarked calmly.
“Oh, spare me the religious mumbo-jumbo,” the man snorted. “If you’re not going to help me find the Droid, then kindly piss off and leave me alone. I’ve reached my adventure quota for the evening.” He turned, hoisted himself up into the container again, and resumed his searching.
Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan by the arm and led him away a short distance. “Obi-Wan…let us concentrate on the matter at hand. This man is clearly the sort we need to help us. His powers of observation are extraordinary.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied acidly. “I suppose they are.”
Qui-Gon coughed and became a bit red in the face. “I suggest we take him with us.”
“You mean force him to help, Master?”
“I can see no present alternative.”
“He doesn’t seem the type to acquiesce easily,” Obi-Wan pointed out.
“No, but perhaps a small suggestion….” Qui-Gon walked back to the metal container. “Perhaps we can help you,” he said. “If you jump out, we can empty the container with greater ease.”
“Hm. Fair enough,” the man said, and jumped out of the container again, landing with a feline grace.
Qui-Gon brought the Force to bear and waved his hand before the man’s face. “You will accompany us now.”
The man folded his arms. “I beg your pardon?”
Qui-Gon tried again. “You will accompany us to find parts for our shuttle now.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me? If so, I assure you you’re wasting your time. I’m absolutely impervious to any sort of suggestion, and I –“
Qui-Gon drew his saber in an instant and ignited it. It glowed green as he held it to the man’s throat. “I exceedingly regret the necessity of force, but I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help us.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man said. “Are you trying to kidnap me? If you think I’m going to be coerced by some raver’s little glow-stick, you –“
Obi-Wan ignited his saber as well. “It’s not a toy,” he said softly, and turned to Qui-Gon. “Master, this is the worst idea you’ve had in days.”
“Master!” the man said delightedly. “So it’s one of those relationships, is it?”
Qui-Gon was beginning to become visibly agitated. “Come along,” he said, and together he and Obi-Wan started to drag the man down the alley.
However, as Obi-Wan predicted, the man was not especially eager to be dragged. He started to struggle, and his strength surprised both Jedi. They grasped his arms and pulled him faster. “Truly dreadful idea, Master,” Obi-Wan grunted, deftly avoiding a well-aimed kick to his leg.
“John!” the man shouted. “John!”
“Oh, Force,” Obi-Wan groaned, and prepared to render the man unconscious.
All at once another figure rounded the corner. “Stop right there.” It was another man, about Obi-Wan’s height, pointing an antique ballistic weapon. “Let him go, or I’ll shoot.”
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a glance, then looked at their prisoner, who seemed positively triumphant. “We promise not to hurt him,” Qui-Gon said softly.
“Then you can let him go. Right now.” There was a distinct metallic click.
Qui-Gon obviously decided prudence would rule the day. He disengaged his lightsaber and released the man’s arm. “Very well. But we still need your help.”
“Sherlock, are you all right?” the man with the weapon inquired anxiously.
“Fine.” The man – Sherlock – shook free of Obi-Wan’s grasp and moved to stand beside the smaller man, who put a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Not, Obi-Wan observed, unlike Qui-Gon’s oft-affectionate gestures. Sherlock reached up with a gloved hand and gently squeezed the smaller man’s wrist. “All right, I’m sufficiently intrigued. You two are decidedly not as boring as I’d first thought. What do you want?”
*
Obi-Wan got a last glimpse of the smaller man – John, Sherlock had called him – pushing his friend up against the filthy tunnel wall and kissing him fiercely. With a twinge, Obi-Wan closed the shuttle door and followed Qui-Gon into the cockpit, where a myriad assortment of equipment glowed mellowly under the red light of the panel. “What did he mean when he said Mycroft would be furious, Master?”
“I gather he had some sort of pilfered entry key to…Sherrinford Labs,” Qui-Gon said, reading the inscription on a hydrospanner. “Presumably belonging to this Mycroft.”
“Do you think you can get the parts to work?”
“It’s a bit primitive, but yes, I think I can. Hand me that fusion-welder, Padawan.”
“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan handed the tool over. “Master?”
Qui-Gon looked up at Obi-Wan’s serious tone. “Yes, Obi-Wan?”
“After we are operational again…we must talk.”
Qui-Gon bit his lower lip and smiled. “Yes, Padawan. I think we must.”
End.
Author: Alex
Archive: Christ, no.
Fandom: Crossover...The Phantom Menace/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: George Lucas, AC Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, et al. I own none of these people.
Summary: Two Jedi, having crash-landed on an unfamiliar planet, come to some realizations thanks to the assistance of an extremely peculiar native.
Notes: Loosely based on a conversation I had with
lauramcewan on LJ. Probably the crackiest crack I’ve ever cracked. Please do not take this seriously in any way, shape, or form.*
*
Obi-Wan had been in his share of sordid, villain-infested places, but this one had come close to surpassing them all. They’d managed to conceal their shuttle in what looked to be an ancient transport tunnel, and as it shuddered to what sounded like its final stop, Obi-Wan had sighed in defeat and passed a hand over his brow. “Master, I very much doubt we’ll be able to find the necessary equipment to fix the shuttle here. From the little I can discern, this is a most primitive system.”
“Then resourcefulness must be our watchword,” Qui-Gon replied easily, and rose from the cockpit seat. “Come along, Obi-Wan. I don’t want to stay here longer than necessary.”
How does he do that? Obi-Wan wondered as he trailed after Qui-Gon, shrugging on his cloak. That confidence – it’s nearly killed us more than once, and yet we seem to manage to wriggle out of scrape after scrape. Sometimes I think he relies on luck…. He hurried to catch up to Qui-Gon’s longer stride as his master exited the shuttle.
The transport tunnel was damp, filthy, and unpleasantly pungent. Obi-Wan did not consider himself extraordinarily fastidious, but he knew his cloak was dragging along in puddles of filth, and if he had to use his cloak as a blanket, it would make for an excessively fragrant sleep. Beside him, Qui-Gon walked rapidly, his gaze now and then darting back and forth in search of those who might threaten them, but the only life forms present were still figures huddled against the wall, bundled up against the cold. Obi-Wan kept his hand firmly upon his lightsaber; such innocuous-seeming creatures might at any moment attack, but Qui-Gon seemed unconcerned, and even friendly, nodding here and there to a rag-bundled shape.
“Master, be cautious,” Obi-Wan whispered. “You cannot know who among these creatures may harbor hostile intentions toward Jedi.”
“Obi-Wan, these unfortunate individuals are sheltering from the cold. Observe carefully. It is poverty and hopelessness you sense, not hostility.”
“You trust too easily, Master.”
“And you trust not enough, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan flushed and bit his lip. It was true that he was prudent, but Qui-Gon was far too reckless at times. It was something he had come to accept, but just lately, to receive a rebuke stung far more than it ought. Strange, to be sure, but he had not had the opportunity to examine this newfound sensitivity. Stranger still that some similar thoughts emerged when he and his master were engaged in moments of quietude, of simple companionship – a peculiar desire to defer and submit, and simultaneously to fight and conquer, to –
“Obi-Wan. This way.” Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Come.”
A shiver, all unbidden, traveled up Obi-Wan’s spine. It was often thus when Qui-Gon touched him; and Qui-Gon touched him often. In friendship, in affection, one large, callused hand placed casually upon Obi-Wan’s bare wrist, his arm, sometimes his neck.
It was maddening.
He set his teeth and obediently followed Qui-Gon out of the tunnel.
The city was even filthier, noisier, and more wretched than the curved corridors that sheltered their shuttle. Hundreds of squat ground speeders clogged a gridlike maze of dirty streets, the structures were of varying unattractive hues, some covered with lights, some dark and weathered, and all slouched together as if massed against some giant aggressor, the noise from large underground transports, the upper traffic, and the life forms surrounding them was nearly deafening, and the whole was covered by a cloudy, polluted, starless sky.
“Not a patch on Coruscant, Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured.
“Indeed, Master,” Obi-Wan agreed. “The sooner we can get out of here, the better. We should find the technical sector immediately.” He fielded a stare from a bypasser who actually turned as he walked past the two Jedi. “Sooner, if possible.”
“True. Our garb seems to be attracting attention. This population is not as varied as I had thought.”
“No. Some variation in body shape and size and color of skin, but on the whole, they seem quite alike.”
“I think it’s the cloaks. Follow my lead.” Qui-Gon stripped off his cloak and slung it over one arm.
A young man with a black hide jacket and several points of metal embedded in his face cocked his head and stared at Obi-Wan. “Oi, Frodo, you and Aragorn there lose your ring?”
Obi-Wan scowled. The dialect was discernible – just – but the lexicon was entirely unfamiliar. “Master, I think we should make ourselves less conspicuous.”
“Agreed.” Qui-Gon ducked down a dark alley. “We’ll have to find someone to guide us to the correct sector of the city, Obi-Wan. It make take us some time.”
“I have every confidence in you, Master.”
Qui-Gon paused and gazed at Obi-Wan in the dim yellowish light. Unexpectedly, he grazed his fingertips against Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.” He paused, seemed to grope for words, and then shook his head. “Come along. My first instinct was to ask the people in the tunnel for assistance. Very often, it is the underground dwellers of a place, the disenfranchised, the homeless, who know a city best.” He ran down the alley and stopped short. “Wait,” he said softly, holding out a hand.
There was a large metal container just ahead, clearly some sort of trash receptacle, surrounded as it was by debris and refuse of all kinds – and by the smell. There was a figure inside it, head and shoulders visible, rummaging through the debris and occasionally tossing an item over the side. Obi-Wan ducked to avoid a flying chunk of spitcrete.
“Good evening,” Qui-Gon called.
The figure stopped. “Yes?” a deep voice, tinged with impatience, replied.
“I wonder if you can help us.”
“I probably can, but I really haven’t time. So sorry.” The figure went back to its rummaging.
“It’s rather urgent,” Qui-Gon said pleasantly.
“Oh, isn’t everything? Look, if you’re tourists, I suggest you buy a copy of London A to Z, available at any newsagent. Thank you very much, have a lovely night.” Another chunk of material came flying out from the container. Both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan ducked.
“We’re in need of parts for our…transport,” Qui-Gon continued, undaunted.
“Do I look like a vehicle recovery service? Look, if you’re just going to stand there, make yourself useful. I’m looking for a discarded mobile. A Droid, with a white rubber Hello Kitty cover.”
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a glance. “If they have droids, perhaps we can…appropriate one, Master,” Obi-Wan whispered.
Qui-Gon nodded. “Certainly. About how large is this droid?”
The figure stopped again, and a head and shoulders rose above the container’s edge. Obi-Wan saw a mop of curly hair and an upturned coat collar. “How large? My God, it really is astonishing to spend time among people so extraordinarily thick. One wouldn’t think one learned a lot, but the vast span of human ignorance can be quite entertaining when one has time to waste. For God’s sake, it’s a mobile phone! How bloody big can they get?” Two gloved hands impatiently delineated what seemed to be the dimensions of the droid.
“Quite small, Master,” Obi-Wan said softly.
“I don’t think this is the sort of droid we’re looking for, Obi-Wan.”
“Hang on a minute.” The figure heaved itself from the container, leapt lithely to the ground, and stepped into the light. Obi-Wan found himself looking up at a man a little shorter than Qui-Gon. He wore a sweeping coat and gloves, and his slanted blue eyes appraised both of them keenly. “Well, well.”
“I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” Obi-Wan said, “but we really do need assistance.”
“Where are you from?” the man barked.
“Not around here,” Qui-Gon supplied smoothly.
“How helpful. Yes, I can tell you’re not from around here. Did both of you just come from a fancy dress party?” The man tilted his head and stared harder, making Obi-Wan feel uncomfortably exposed. “Never mind, I’m keen to guess. Let me see. You –“ He pointed at Qui-Gon. “You’re clearly the leader of this little expedition, but the truth is you hadn’t ever planned to be any sort of leader at all. You’re too much of an iconoclast, or at least you’d like to think you are, judging from the sixties-era counterculture hair. Since you’re far too young to be a product of that era, that suggests membership in the arts – a pretentious prog-rock band or some sort of tedious organic farmer who brews his own bitter and raises fluffy white hens for overpriced eggs sold to halfwits who fancy themselves saviors of the earth. However, the slightly weathered skin – not overly tanned, so not a sun-worshipper, but certainly some kind of radiation exposure – and the calluses on your hands suggests someone who actually works for a living rather than playing at it, and the stress marks around your eyes indicate that you’ve borne some heavy burdens in the past, someone who’s betrayed you.” His eyes fell to Qui-Gon’s light saber. “Frequent use of that thing on your belt, actual use, plenty of wear on the handgrip, so not a toy. But what could it be?”
As the man leaned close to get a better look at the saber, Qui-Gon stepped back. “As you say – it’s not a toy. And you’re a remarkably observant young man….”
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” the man replied smugly, placing the tips of his fingers together and turning his peculiar, intense stare on Obi-Wan. “I haven’t even got to your completely fascinating clothes yet. Now, you. You’re quite an interesting case, aren’t you? Much younger than your friend here, and clearly in some sort of subordinate position to him. Not as much wear on the handle of your implement there, obvious because of your age, but those things are clearly built to last. You’ve had it since the age of thirteen or so, and for a long time, going by the frequent marks on the grip, you thought you didn’t quite have what it took to make it as this man’s – what would you call yourself? Student? Apprentice? Lots of frequent handling, meditation, marks made by an anxious boy and just lately by an even more anxious man. Maybe you thought you didn’t have the physical skills when you were young, maybe you were just too bloody impatient, but whatever the case, that’s not true now. No, now your problem is precisely this tall hippie at your side. You’re clearly in love with him, certainly deeply in lust, but whichever it is, the results of extreme sexual frustration are beginning to show in your left hand and the tread of your boots, so if you want to maintain any sort of decent equilibrium, my advice is to get your tall friend into bed and end the ridiculous farce you two play out every single day of your lives which, while not exactly boring and tedious, are certainly being hampered by the lack of deeper communication that you both long for but stoically refuse to acknowledge. Why is that, by the way? Some druidical injunction against master-student sexual relations?”
Stunned, Obi-Wan’s mind reeled between embarrassment and shock, with the smallest measure of anger to tinge his thoughts red.
“You have Jedi powers,” Qui-Gon remarked calmly.
“Oh, spare me the religious mumbo-jumbo,” the man snorted. “If you’re not going to help me find the Droid, then kindly piss off and leave me alone. I’ve reached my adventure quota for the evening.” He turned, hoisted himself up into the container again, and resumed his searching.
Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan by the arm and led him away a short distance. “Obi-Wan…let us concentrate on the matter at hand. This man is clearly the sort we need to help us. His powers of observation are extraordinary.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied acidly. “I suppose they are.”
Qui-Gon coughed and became a bit red in the face. “I suggest we take him with us.”
“You mean force him to help, Master?”
“I can see no present alternative.”
“He doesn’t seem the type to acquiesce easily,” Obi-Wan pointed out.
“No, but perhaps a small suggestion….” Qui-Gon walked back to the metal container. “Perhaps we can help you,” he said. “If you jump out, we can empty the container with greater ease.”
“Hm. Fair enough,” the man said, and jumped out of the container again, landing with a feline grace.
Qui-Gon brought the Force to bear and waved his hand before the man’s face. “You will accompany us now.”
The man folded his arms. “I beg your pardon?”
Qui-Gon tried again. “You will accompany us to find parts for our shuttle now.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me? If so, I assure you you’re wasting your time. I’m absolutely impervious to any sort of suggestion, and I –“
Qui-Gon drew his saber in an instant and ignited it. It glowed green as he held it to the man’s throat. “I exceedingly regret the necessity of force, but I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help us.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man said. “Are you trying to kidnap me? If you think I’m going to be coerced by some raver’s little glow-stick, you –“
Obi-Wan ignited his saber as well. “It’s not a toy,” he said softly, and turned to Qui-Gon. “Master, this is the worst idea you’ve had in days.”
“Master!” the man said delightedly. “So it’s one of those relationships, is it?”
Qui-Gon was beginning to become visibly agitated. “Come along,” he said, and together he and Obi-Wan started to drag the man down the alley.
However, as Obi-Wan predicted, the man was not especially eager to be dragged. He started to struggle, and his strength surprised both Jedi. They grasped his arms and pulled him faster. “Truly dreadful idea, Master,” Obi-Wan grunted, deftly avoiding a well-aimed kick to his leg.
“John!” the man shouted. “John!”
“Oh, Force,” Obi-Wan groaned, and prepared to render the man unconscious.
All at once another figure rounded the corner. “Stop right there.” It was another man, about Obi-Wan’s height, pointing an antique ballistic weapon. “Let him go, or I’ll shoot.”
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged a glance, then looked at their prisoner, who seemed positively triumphant. “We promise not to hurt him,” Qui-Gon said softly.
“Then you can let him go. Right now.” There was a distinct metallic click.
Qui-Gon obviously decided prudence would rule the day. He disengaged his lightsaber and released the man’s arm. “Very well. But we still need your help.”
“Sherlock, are you all right?” the man with the weapon inquired anxiously.
“Fine.” The man – Sherlock – shook free of Obi-Wan’s grasp and moved to stand beside the smaller man, who put a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Not, Obi-Wan observed, unlike Qui-Gon’s oft-affectionate gestures. Sherlock reached up with a gloved hand and gently squeezed the smaller man’s wrist. “All right, I’m sufficiently intrigued. You two are decidedly not as boring as I’d first thought. What do you want?”
*
Obi-Wan got a last glimpse of the smaller man – John, Sherlock had called him – pushing his friend up against the filthy tunnel wall and kissing him fiercely. With a twinge, Obi-Wan closed the shuttle door and followed Qui-Gon into the cockpit, where a myriad assortment of equipment glowed mellowly under the red light of the panel. “What did he mean when he said Mycroft would be furious, Master?”
“I gather he had some sort of pilfered entry key to…Sherrinford Labs,” Qui-Gon said, reading the inscription on a hydrospanner. “Presumably belonging to this Mycroft.”
“Do you think you can get the parts to work?”
“It’s a bit primitive, but yes, I think I can. Hand me that fusion-welder, Padawan.”
“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan handed the tool over. “Master?”
Qui-Gon looked up at Obi-Wan’s serious tone. “Yes, Obi-Wan?”
“After we are operational again…we must talk.”
Qui-Gon bit his lower lip and smiled. “Yes, Padawan. I think we must.”
End.
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Date: 2012-04-06 04:18 pm (UTC)