I Don't Want To Believe

He's Got a Bit of A Temper

"So, tell me about where you're from." John decided, shoveling some green beans onto his plate and poking around at the chicken.
"So you can run off and tell your little human friends? I think not." Sherlock laughed.
"Honestly, not even which planet? How do you look so human?" John insisted. Sherlock poked more at his pasta, not looking John in the eyes.
"We came from earth." He admitted.
"So you're humans?" John asked. Sherlock looked up very suddenly, making John pull his head away in fear.
"We're nothing like you monkeys, we're faster, stronger, smarter, we've evolved." Sherlock snapped, as if he had taken offense to such an accusation.
"Sorry, I didn't really think....sorry." John muttered, holding up his hands defensively.
"It's alright. Just imagine being called an ape, think of how that would insult your intelligence, and your skill, and your...lack of body hair." Sherlock decided.
"Certainly glad evolution got rid of that." John laughed. "So, how are you descendants of humans, how did you come to be?" Sherlock sighed, looking around the room as if worried someone might be listening.
"It hadn't been long, twenty, thirty years ago, in the Earth timeline, when a shuttle was launched, before the petty space race even began. It was a manned ship, a secret ship, launched from somewhere called the United Kingdoms, and no one knew about it except the team that had made it, directed it, and flew it. Only a select number of government officials knew." Sherlock started.
"Why?" John asked. "If people were in space, wouldn't they be proud of themselves?"
"Well, they didn't want to announce it until after it had landed, in fear that something might go wrong and they would be called murderers. No, they told no one, and no one knew about it. It made it past the atmosphere, into outer space, but they found that there wasn't enough fuel in the rocket to bring them back home. They wouldn't go fast enough to break back through the atmosphere and would surely burn up. There were only four crew members, two males and two females, whose names have always been classified among our kind. They expected help to arrive, someone to take more fuel, direct them in ways to reenter the earth, but instead they found that they were abandoned. No one was at the other end of the communications; they had left them to float to their deaths. The ship drifted for weeks, useless except to keep them alive, oxygen was running out, food was scarce and water was nearly unheard of, until they were caught in the gravitational pull off a large planet, just outside of your Milky Way. They had thought they would burn up, but the atmosphere surrounded them, protected them on the decent, and they landed calmly and safely in a vast jungle. As they reproduced, passed on their traits and their knowledge, the species evolved to fit the climate, to become more intelligent and better off than the humans that had betrayed them. And now, we return, what you call aliens, to remind the people of earth who they had left behind." Sherlock ended dramatically, staring at John deeply as if blaming him for everything that had happened to his people.
"Wow, that's...interesting." John muttered, realizing that his fork was still hovering near his mouth.
"It's a story depicted through time, they are our gods, the creatures of our dominant race." Sherlock insisted.
"I wouldn't say dominant, I mean, I could probably beat you in a game of soccer." John shrugged. Sherlock couldn't help but break his serious mood, cracking a small smile as if John's stupidity was adorable.
"Maybe in soccer, Mr. Watson, but in all else we are simply better." He insisted.
"From all I know about evolution, it doesn't take just thirty years. Most of the common, helpful traits we humans have were mutations that were passed down on accident." John admitted.
"It was necessary for survival, and nature provided us, it pitied us. And the time, it slowed, the minutes are longer than earthly minutes, it gave us time to adapt, to flourish." Sherlock insisted.
"So, these three leaders, are they survivors of the wreckage?" John asked.
"No, no, after they gave birth to their young, sadly they faded; the fatigue and betrayal of their long journey had taken their will to live." Sherlock said dramatically.
"So they're dead?" John clarified.
"Yes Mr. Watson, they are dead." Sherlock agreed.
"That's a shame; they sound like pretty...cool people I guess." John muttered, not really knowing how to respond to such a story. Nothing on Earth was ever so dramatic, John only knew how humans came to be from science class, and none of that was even proven. To know exactly how your species was formed was simply extraordinary.
"Tell me about your family Mr. Watson." Sherlock decided, sipping at some red juice that looked very suspiciously like blood.
"Well, they're like any other family supposed, my dad's a soccer fan, my mom loves to cook and clean and take care of the family, and my sister, Harry, is a total psychopath." John admitted. He sighed sadly, wondering what his family was doing right now. Probably freaking out, since their only son had been missing for what, four days now?
"You miss them?" Sherlock guessed, sounding sad for John.
"What was your first clue?" John asked rather harshly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson I am sorry. I never intended to pull you out of your life forever; I wouldn't if this weren't absolutely necessary." Sherlock admitted.
"What is? What is so important that you need to tear me away from everything I've ever knew? So what about your stupid planet, I have a life too!" John insisted, suddenly losing his cool and feeling a strong urge to punch something. Preferably Sherlock's pale face. He expected Sherlock to get all angry, blow up and start throwing telekinetic energy to throw the platers into John's face. Instead he sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath and looking close to tears.
"I'm sorry." He muttered, as if that was the only thing he could possibly say. John bit his lip and pushed his plate away in disgust, crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair again.
"Yes, but not sorry enough to do anything about it." John snapped. Sherlock's sad expression faded into anger, not something John was thrilled to see on his face, especially if he claimed to be superior to humans in every way.
"John, you may be my guest but you are also my prisoner. You are under my control, you are my burden, and you must respect me. I don't want to hear you whining any longer, you are dismissed." Sherlock decided, waving his hand at John as if telling him to leave.
"Sherlock, I can't open the bloody door." John snapped, getting moodily to his feet. Sherlock got to his feet as well, walking swiftly around the table with his jaw set, as if he was going to very angrily open the door. Instead, he grabbed John's neck under his pointed leather collar and slammed him against the wall with inhuman strength, holding John just above his tiptoes with an unknown fire in his multicolored kaleidoscope eyes.
"I said, respect me." he growled. "Because you are mine." John squirmed the best he could, trying to wiggle out of the boy's strangling grasp, but not desperate enough to kick him or use any defensive action. He just clung to the hand clasped around his neck, trying to pull Sherlock's fingers away.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John managed, what little breath he could manage coming in short, desperate gasps. Sherlock's face was still angry, his lips parted in an almost growl.
"Hooper!" he yelled, finally releasing John, who collapsed against the wall, messaging his throat and taking deep breaths of air. Molly rushed in, giving a little squeak of terror when she saw John and Sherlock. The angered look on Sherlock's face, however, seemed to be enough to scare her even more.
"Yes Mr. Holmes?" she asked, looking like a corner deer. John groaned, regaining his posture and trying to get his breathing under control. Sherlock took deep breaths as well, as if he was trying to make sure he didn't strangle her as well.
"Take Mr. Watson back to his room." Sherlock demanded.
"Yes sir, of course." She agreed. John glared at Sherlock, not brave enough to dare to look angry, more disappointed.
"I will see you in the morning Mr. Watson, and don't be rude or we will send you back to earth the hard way." Sherlock warned. John nodded very quickly, now feeling as scared of Sherlock as Molly was. When finally they were in the hallway, the door closed safely behind them, John took a deep breath.
"Oh my god, he's a psychopath!" John exclaimed.
"Oh no, we shouldn't talk about him here, he's very powerful." Molly warned, her long brown hair falling out of the ponytail she had pulled together.
"Just because he's powerful doesn't mean he can be so mean. Is he like that to everyone, is that why you're so scared of him?" John asked.
"What made you think I was scared of him?" Molly asked timidly, walking a bit quicker down the hallway.
"Well, I don't know, you seem kind of, uncomfortable whenever you're in his presence." John admitted.
"He's a bit rude, yes, maybe a bit aggressive, but I must serve him, it is what I was called here to do." Molly insisted.
"He strangled me." John pointed out. Molly forced an uneasy laugh, as if this were a typical Sherlock thing to do.
"Yes, he likes to do that to the guards, makes him feel powerful I suppose." Molly shrugged.
"And what about you?" John asked.
"He more verbally abuses me...I mean nothing, he's quite pleasant." Molly said quickly, as if she were being forced to say good things about her crazy boss.
"Well that's pathetic; no one should let him terrorize the entire ship." John decided.
"You should see him with his brother, the whole thing has been a whirlwind really, those two going at it everywhere." Molly shrugged. She led John to his room, where a handle popped out of the wall and she led him inside.
"What were they fighting about?" John asked. Molly looked around, dropping her voice to a whisper as she closed behind him.
"I should think about you." She whispered. John tilted his head in confusion.
"Me? What did I do?" John asked.
"It's not what you did; this was before you even came. Mycroft wanted someone else, Sherlock, well, he insisted that he should hand deliver his human himself." Molly shrugged.
"Why'd he pick me?" John asked. Molly just laughed, looking around the room rather awkwardly.
"Who knows what goes on in that boy's mind?" she asked.
"Well, I mean, if he wanted a human, why not go for someone, well, female? I should think that a blonde cheerleader would be more satisfying than little old me." John guessed. Molly just laughed, rolling her eyes and smiling.
"Well, I wouldn't be so sure." She insisted. John raised his eyebrows in curiosity, but Molly didn't seem to want to elaborate. "Well, goodnight Mr. Watson, your regular clothes should be on your bed."
"Are you saying he's gay?" John asked as she started to walk away.
"Good night Mr. Watson." Molly repeated, disappearing out of the room and letting the door handle fade back into the white metal. John sighed, well that figures. He was now stuck on a ship because some jerky gay guy took an interest in him. Thankfully though, he found his original clothes, jeans, a soccer jersey from one of his favorite players, and a zip up maroon hoodie. He quickly changed into his normal clothes, laying his leather suit thing over the table so as not to wrinkle it or anything. He was sure that if he so much as got a mustard stain on that suit Sherlock might just take John's head off next time. So he try to lay down in the very small race car bed, where his feet pressed up very uncomfortably against the plastic backboard if he wanted to stretch his legs out. The comforter was the only blanket Sherlock had provided him with, and soon John found that it was incredibly hot and sticky, but too cold if he threw it off. Not that he could sleep anyway. John lay awake, wondering what his family was doing, what Greg was doing, how the team was coping to his sudden disaperence. Was time different on this ship, were four days equivalent to four minutes, or even four seconds on earth, like what Sherlock had said about time on their home planet. But they were still on a ship, right? John wasn't on a planet; he was still on earth, just hovering above it. Sherlock, that bloody alien was certainly going to be the death of John, whether on purpose or accident. If he had that bad of a temper, surely he couldn't get along very well with someone who prided themselves on being very sassy. But of course he wasn't actually gay, Molly was just being dramatic, of course Sherlock didn't actually like him? So what if he had no sense of personal space, or how fascinated he was with John's skin, or how he stared almost longingly at his human across the table...no, course not. The whole idea of being surrounded by aliens, in an alien ship, sleeping in a children's racecar bed, it was feeling surprisingly normal. As if this were all meant to happen, as if he knew what was going on, as if this were a perfectly normal experience. All of those days spent preaching against the existence of aliens when he had just been strangled by one, it was all very embarrassing. But oh, would he have a story for Greg when he got back. If he got back that is. 

        When John woke up he half expected someone to be standing at the end of his bed. Or maybe standing in the corner, half concealed in shadow, watching him sleep while trying to discreet. But no, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen; in fact the only person in the room at the moment was John. And he was alright with that. It was kind of odd to get out of bed and already be in jeans and a tee shirt, but John was wondering whether or not they wanted him to dress up in that leather torture device they call clothing. But Sherlock had called it formal attire, and surely walking around the ship wasn't formal? So John took a seat on his bed, too tired to play football, but his stomach was growling, anticipating breakfast. Did aliens even eat something like that? John hoped so, because he hadn't gotten much of a meal last night, after Sherlock's temper tantrum, and he had no way of getting food himself, or even getting out of this stupid room by himself. So he waited, watching the wall that turned into a door when needed, hoping that suddenly a handle would appear and he could escape. Finally, after what felt like hours, the door opened. John was worried it might be Sherlock, who might yell at him for not being in his jumpsuit or maybe for not making his bed, but no, it was Molly. She was in her same outfit, the white lined jumpsuit that the servants must wear, and she looked very worn down. 

"Hey Molly." John said with a warm smile.
"Hi John." she muttered with a yawn, trying to turn away as if to not be rude.
"You alright? You look tired." John decided, getting to his feet and pulling the comforter over the bed, just to make it look like he had put some effort into cleaning up after himself.
"I'm alright, Sherlock's been throwing a bit of a fit though, I was up until eleven cleaning up after him. He does like to break when he's mad." She sighed, as if this were a normal thing
"Why is he mad?" John asked, knowing the answer was probably him.
"Oh, who knows? But he's requested your presence for breakfast, so I've been sent for you." Molly sighed.
"For breakfast? Am I going to need a body guard?" John asked, his stomach rumbling anyway. Who cares if it might mean certain death, as long as he got a couple of pancakes in before the life was choked from him.
"No, but you'll have to wear your outfit." Moly insisted.
"Sherlock said it was formal." John defended.
"Did he? Well, it's everyday as well, maybe he just likes to dress you up." she suggested. John raised his eyebrows in confusion, but she shook her head defensively. "I never know when to shut up." she muttered, collecting John's jumpsuit from where he had dropped it yesterday and handing it to him.
"He likes to dress me up? Tell me again, what exactly am I doing here except being his dress up doll?" John asked.

"Just get dressed." She insisted. John took the outfit from her rather reluctantly, walking into the bathroom and this time making sure that he didn't zip it up wrong and that his color was pointed up. He looked in the mirror, deciding that he looked sort of normal, and nodded a bit, wondering if this outfit would be the one he died in. That would be tragic, both ways you look at it.