A Distant Port, Part Three

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes, Star Trek)

Rating: PG-13

Link to Part One

~

I took my seat, with considerable trepidation, in the room that Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy shared. I was still having difficulty assimilating the fact that Spock was only half human; that his ancestry was part ‘Vulcan;’ whatever that might be.

And somehow that made the question of the relationship between Spock and McCoy all the more pertinent--in my mind, at any event. Was Holmes correct in his initial assumption? Were the two men, in fact, sodomites? And if so, was that fact made more bearable or less so by Spock’s peculiar ancestry?

I pushed that thought from my mind. Who was I to sit in judgment over my fellows? I meant what I said to Holmes earlier--the precise relationship between Spock and McCoy was no concern of mine.

But why had Holmes leapt to that conclusion? What experience could he possibly have in such a matter? What observations had he made? They did not fawn over each other, after all. There was no inappropriate contact between them to observe. Even the fact that they were sharing a room here meant nothing. Why, strangers often resorted to sharing rooms and even beds in hotels. It was all the more common between friends.

So why had Holmes concluded that they were sodomites? Apart from Mr. Spock’s questionable ancestry, they seemed perfectly respectable.

I began to review my own observations of the two men. They were familiar with each other; they argued comfortably with each other; and they could convey their thoughts to each other in a mere glance. But all of that could as easily apply to Holmes and me. We could not, perhaps, exchange as much information in a mere glance--but we certainly knew how to follow each other’s thoughts.

“Pray tell me,” Holmes said, as he made himself comfortable, “what is a Vulcan? Are you an elf, Mr. Spock?”

There had been humor in Holmes’s question, but Spock ignored it. “No,” he answered, showing no signs of amusement. “Vulcan is a distant planet. I am of the humanoid race which inhabits it.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should have agreed to being an elf, Spock--that might have been more believable.”

Holmes' grey eyes sparkled appreciatively at that. “On the contrary, Doctor, your Mr. Spock does not suit my notion of an elf. I’m having a rather difficult time imagining him frolicking in the forest.”

I was forced to bite back a chuckle, but McCoy didn’t bother to hide his own laughter. “No,” he agreed. “Come to think of it, I’ve never once seen Spock frolic.”

“I doubt the occasion shall arise, Doctor,” Spock retorted.

Holmes chortled at that, but then he treated the Vulcan to a contrite look. “Forgive me, Mr. Spock; I meant no offense.”

“To take offense is a human failing, Mr. Holmes,” Spock said impassively. “I do not share in it.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, raising his eyebrows. “Tell me, how did you come to this, ah, planet?”

“We are not at liberty to discuss the technical details of our travels,” he answered.

“Look,” McCoy put in, “we came here to sell off antique weapons--just as we told you. The fellow who bought the stuff didn’t have any idea of Spock’s origin. No one here does--except me, Sulu and now the two of you.”

“This would seem a long distance for Mr. Spock to travel merely to trade in antiques,” Holmes said dryly.

“It is indeed,” Spock confirmed. “Nonetheless, we had to see that these particular antiques came into appropriate hands. But there is nothing…otherworldly…about the weapons we sold here, Mr. Holmes. Nothing to raise the eyebrows of even a seasoned dealer. And they had no value except to a collector.”

Holmes leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, leaving me free to interject. I took advantage of his silence.

“Mr. Spock,” I said, “forgive me for not taking your word--but the story of your origin is quite extraordinary. If you would not mind a more convincing demonstration than your ears?”

Spock turned to his companion. “A knife, Doctor?”

McCoy stood up and walked over to a small case which seemed to hold emergency medical supplies. Spock stood up and followed him, as did I. At length Holmes joined us as well.

Dr. McCoy took a small scalpel and made a slight incision on Mr. Spock’s left forefinger. I caught my breath--the blood which flowed from the wound was unmistakably green.

“Here, Doctor,” McCoy said to me. “Put your hand here, where Spock’s liver should be.”

I glanced at Spock, who regarded me evenly, offering no objections. Satisfied, I followed McCoy’s suggestion--only to feel the throbbing of a heart!

I gasped, not believing what my own senses were telling me. “But--but that’s impossible!” I managed.

“Spock’s physiology takes after his Vulcan half, for the most part,” McCoy explained. “I hope you believe us now--it’d be damned difficult to fake this.”

“Impossible, I should say,” I assured him.

I suppose I should have left it at that, but my medical curiosity overcame my courtesy. I could not help but address more questions to both men as McCoy bandaged Spock's finger. They were excessively polite and patient and they answered to my satisfaction.

Holmes, astonishingly, did not seem as interested in Mr. Spock’s physiological make-up. He did follow the conversation--he was standing between Spock and McCoy for part of the time--but then he seated himself again and seemed to lose himself in thought.

At length the rest of us returned to our seats. “Well, Mr. Holmes?” McCoy asked, turning toward him.

Holmes glanced up at him. “Your Mr. Sulu fancies himself a swashbuckler?”

The doctor looked surprised by that question, but he nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

Holmes waived a hand dismissively. “A trifling matter, I assure you, Doctor. I could see from his wardrobe the somewhat, ah, striking clothing he favors. And you informed me yourself that he is an expert in weaponry.”

He paused and stood up. “There are a few matters I shall need to investigate--I suggest that you both stay put at present. I hope to have information for you later this evening.”

And with that, Holmes bowed himself out of the room. I followed in his wake.

“Do you know what happened to Mr. Sulu?” I demanded as we strode down the corridor. “Or how to find him?”

Holmes shook his head. “No, but I have an idea where to start,” he said as we reached the stairs and climbed down a few steps. “I have hopes that he has not come to any serious harm. We shall find out soon enough--but first, let us clear up one other matter.”

He paused and glanced around, apparently to make certain that Spock and McCoy had not followed us. Once he had assured himself that we were quite alone, he let out a sigh of relief.

“Watson, old boy, you were magnificent in there,” he said. “I could not have asked for a better distraction.”

I stared at him and felt myself blushing at his praise. He must be referring to my endless questions on Spock's anatomy. “Thank you--but why did you need a distraction?”

“Because while you were feeling Mr. Spock’s heartbeat, I was picking his pocket,” he explained as he pulled a small device out of his coat.

My eyes widened. “What on earth is that?” I demanded.

“It does not appear to be a gun of any sort, so I rather think it’s his communicator. Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Holmes!” I cried, outraged. “Do you have any idea what you’re--”

But the words died on my lips as Holmes pressed something on the device, which somehow flicked it open, so to speak. A bare second later a voice rang out of it.

“Spock! What’s going on down there? Do you have Sulu?”

We both stared at the device, dumbfounded.

“Spock!” the voice repeated. “Spock, do you read me?”

“Yes,” Holmes managed in a voice that was impressively like Mr. Spock’s. “We have not yet found Mr. Sulu.”

“Damn it,” the voice said impatiently. “What’s the matter--Sherlock Holmes isn’t all he’s cracked up to be?”

Holmes favored me with a wry glance, but he did not answer the question. That was just as well, as it appeared to be rhetorical.

“Look,” the voice continued, “come up here and tell me what’s going on. Is Bones with you?”

I looked helplessly at Holmes. Bones? Who the devil was that? Did the voice mean McCoy? And what did the voice mean by ‘up here?’ We were already on the second story.

“The doctor is standing a mere five feet in front of me,” Holmes said reassuringly, taking a risk that ‘Bones’ and McCoy were, indeed, the same person.

“Good,” the voice said. “Hold on while we nail down your coordinates.”

I stood stock still, as if rooted to the stairs. What had Holmes gotten us into? To whom had he been speaking?

I was about to tell Holmes just what I thought of his gall when a bright light flashed in front of me. I gasped in horror as the light surrounded Holmes and seemed to fragment him.

I cried out for help--there were footsteps rushing toward me--but the same light enveloped me, rendering my frantic screams mute. My last sight was of Spock and McCoy reaching the stairs.

Strange as it may be, I remember thinking that they appeared more annoyed than horrified at our fate.

LINK TO PART FOUR