Sherlock/Firefly Fic: These Tornadoes Are for You

[brighteyed_jill]

Title: These Tornadoes Are for You
Fandoms: Firefly/Sherlock
Pairings: Sherlock/John, past Zoe/John briefly mentioned
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6500
Warnings: discussion of PTSD, minor violence
A/N: Written for rosepetal9 at xover_exchange. Thanks to jaune_chat for beta-ing and listening to me whinge. Title from the awesome poem “ A Primer for the Small Weird Loves by Richard Siken
Summary: When an old military friend of John’s calls him for help, Sherlock insists on tagging along. Luckily, Serenity holds plenty of danger to keep their attention.



“Sherlock, please.” John resisted the urge to wave a hand in front of Sherlock’s face. The riotous jumble of humanity at the Persephone docks provided entirely too much distraction. “Are you listening at all?”

“I’m always listening, John.” Sherlock turned to peer at the sign above a dog meat booth. “I just may not be listening to you at the moment.”

“Right.” John dragged his small bag and Sherlock’s outrageously heavy trunk off to the side, out of the press of the crowd. “Then I’ll just stay here until you’re ready for this discussion. We’re not going on board until I’m sure you’ve heard me.”

Sherlock cast one more considering glance at the shifty-eyed woman behind the meat counter before sweeping over to John and planting his feet. “I could just deduce the correct ship for myself,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but then you’d be without your clothes and various…” John waved a hand back at the trunk he’d been rolling along, “supplies.”

“Please, John.” Sherlock’s spine straightened with affronted pride. “I can manage my work without any accoutrements, should the need arise.”

“Yes, but clients won’t pay top dollar for a Companion in a rumpled suit.”

“Very well.” Sherlock pulled at the cuffs of his immaculately-pressed jacket, as if to reassure himself that his clothes were currently in top condition. “You were saying?”

“You don’t have to come with me,” John blurted out. Sherlock’s brow wrinkled and his eyes narrowed, but he made no answer. John went on. “It’s just… This is my area of expertise, and I’m perfectly capable of-“

“I know you are.” Sherlock’s face was back to perfect neutrality. His eyes fixed on John’s face, taking in everything while giving away nothing.

“Alright, then,” John said slowly. “So if you can spare me for a few days-“

“No. I’ve already re-arranged my schedule.”

“You don’t actually need a bodyguard, Sherlock. I didn’t ask you to-“

“I’ve been meaning to travel more beyond the core planets. If all goes well, I’ll be able to pick up some cases during the journey.”

“Most people call them clients. They’re not crime scenes.”

“Some may as well be,” Sherlock muttered. “Now, did you want the pleasure of leading me to the ship, or shall I deduce which one is Serenity?”

“Just… Please, behave yourself. These are my friends, and I don’t have… I don’t have too many of those left, alright?”

“You’ve got me,” Sherlock said. He snatched the handle to his trunk out of John’s hand and took off down the docks, headed unerringly for the Firefly-class transport ship at the end of the row.

John tightened his grip on his own bag and ran after the wayward Companion.
--

“Hello?” John moved slowly up the ramp to the ship’s entrance. His voice echoed around the sizeable cargo hold. “Hello?”

“Hey!” A young woman wearing coveralls stained with engine grease appeared in the dark opening to the ship. She held some sort of a control box trailing a thick wire. “Oh, hey.” Her bright smile faltered a bit as she saw the two of them. “You wouldn’t happen to be our passengers, would you?”

“John Watson.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “My employer, Sherlock Holmes.” He gestured back at Sherlock, who stood halfway down the ramp, looking out at the teeming crowds.

“Right, you’re Zoe’s friend. I’m Kaylee.” She glanced back inside the ship, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s just… you’re early.”

“Yes, sorry. Sherlock found us a better transport from Sihnon, so-“

“No, it’s all shiny,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be rude. We just weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“We can leave, if you prefer.” Sherlock turned and stepped forward to stand next to John, displaying himself for the best effect in the fading sunlight. Though he wore no mark of his rank, and his suit, while finely cut, was not flashy, John couldn’t deny that he projected a peculiar radiance that often had men and women begging for his favor. “I’m certain the Guild House would lodge me and my associate for the evening.”

“Zoe didn’t say your friend was a Companion.” Kaylee’s eyes widened, but she didn’t stutter or curtsey like a girl faced with her first real Companion.

John thought Sherlock seemed almost disappointed.

“Likely because she’s never met me.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled minutely. “I doubt John would gossip about his current arrangements to an old military friend in as brief a wave as they had.”

“How do you know it was brief?” John asked.

“I observe, John.”

“Did you eavesdrop?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Our quarters on the Baker don’t have eaves.”

A mechanical grinding noise from inside the ship interrupted them. “Kaylee!” came an urgent shout.

“Coming!” she called. “Look, you’d better come inside. Can’t have you standing around all… conspicuous-like.” She gestured them inside.

John shouldered his bag and followed with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was doing likewise. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dark inside of the craft. Kaylee had headed towards some square-ish bulk of a machine at the far end of the cargo bay, where a blond man in a flight suit and garish tropical print shirt crouched, clutching his thumb in his other hand. “This thing a piece of fei-oo.”

“Wash, our passengers are here.”

“Passengers?” The man-Wash-stood up and looked quickly around the cargo bay before walking around the piece of machinery, whatever it was, and leaning against the front. “So they are.”

“This is Sherlock.” Kaylee gestured grandly. “He’s a Companion. And John Watson.”

“Zoe’s friend.” Wash wiped his hand off on the front of his flight suit, then extended a hand to John. “Army buddy?”

“Right.” John set down the bags to shake Wash’s hand. “We both served under Sergeant Reynolds.”

“Right. I heard a few things about you.” Wash’s grip tightened on his hand. “I’m Zoe’s husband. Of many years. Happily married. In a committed relationship kind of way.”

“Glad to hear it.” John glanced over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock had his eyes fixed elsewhere, on a skinny, dark-haired young girl in a flowy dress, slinking down a set of metal stairs into the cargo bay. “Belated congratulations.” John at least succeeded in extricating his hand. “So, is she here right now?”

“She’s out,” Kaylee broke in. She came to stand next to Wash, blocking whatever it was they’d been working on. “Captain Reynolds, too. They’re running an errand. So I can help you get settled, and when they get back-“

“They’ll be back soon.” The girl on the stairs leaned over the railing. Her dark eyes fixed heavily on John. “They’ve got things to talk about with you.”

“Great!” Wash’s forced chuckle echoed in the silence following that creepifying pronouncement. “That’s River. She’s a passenger too.”

“Not a new one,” Sherlock said. “We’re the only passengers you’re taking on at Persephone.”

“Yeah,” Wash said slowly. Though he hadn’t looked at Sherlock before, he gave him a quick once-over, from his polished shoes to his untidy curls, probably taking in the lack of spangly jewelry and riotous color. “Did someone tell you that?”

“No. I merely observe.”

“You’re not…?” Wash glanced quickly at Kaylee, then back to Sherlock. “You’re not here to replace Inara, are you?”

“Inara who?” Sherlock shifted his full attention to Wash.

River jumped the last few stairs and dodged across the debris-littered cargo bay floor to tug at Kaylee’s sleeve. “This is not the time to discuss it,” she hissed. “Things are going to get very noisy, and I am trying to listen.”

“It’s okay, River.” Kaylee reached over to wrap an arm around the girl, but River dodged, eel-like.

John watched the exchange with growing concern. Zoe hadn’t told him much over the Cortex: only that he was the only doctor she knew and trusted who had any experience with post-traumatic stress. And yes, he’d seen his share of Browncoat veterans, and even some Allied soldiers, plagued by nightmares, jumping at shadows, insecure in their own skin. Hell, he had demons of his own that made his hands tremble and his leg ache with phantom pain. But River couldn’t be the little problem Zoe had mentioned, could she? This girl must have been a child during the war.

“Not okay. Not even fine,” she said as she backed away from Kaylee. “I’ve done the math. It’s wrong! They’ve got it wrong!”

“River, honey, calm down,” Kaylee said.

A panel on the bulkhead crackled to life. “Wash!” Through the static, John recognized Zoe’s voice. “Wash, come in.”

Wash ran to the panel and pressed a button. “Go ahead.”

“Get her fired up, baby,” came the garbled command. “We’re coming back in a hurry.”

“Right.” Wash turned back to the group. “Kaylee, if you could get our guests to the passenger dorm quick-like, it seems we’ll be taking off a mite early.”

“Wash!” Zoe’s voice turned sharp. “A big hurry!”

“’Scuse me.” Wash took the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the upper level of the ship.

“Shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have bitten off more, knew they wouldn’t like it.” River backed up slowly until she could lean against the bulkhead and slump to the floor. “We’ll wait right here.”

“We should get you settled,” Kaylee said quickly. “Come with me, you two.”

Sherlock had gone to kneel at River’s side. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“Sherlock-“ John hissed.

“She’s barefoot, John. And pale, too pale. Even the ship’s pilot and mechanic have seen more sun. This girl hasn’t left the ship in weeks.”

“Hey,” Kaylee said with a too-bright smile. “None of us gets as much sun as we’d like.”

“When’s the last time you were on land?” Sherlock leaned in closer.

“Not too long since.” River didn’t look at him. “I helped deliver a baby.”

The ship began to hum as the engine warmed up.

“Come on, let me show you where to put your things.” Kaylee edged closer.

“Just a moment,” John said absently. He was busy taking in the details of River’s behavior as Sherlock crowded into her space. Her eyes never once focused on him, but seemed fixed in the middle distance, seeing another place, another time.

“Why didn’t they take you today?” Sherlock asked.

“Can’t let anyone see me.” River covered her eyes with her hands. “Hush, now. I need to listen.”

“We really should go.” Kaylee touched John’s shoulder. “You two need to get set up for take-off.”

“One one-thousand, two one-thousand,” River whispered.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and turned on Kaylee. “Are you holding this girl against her will?”

“What?” Kaylee’s eyes widened in almost comic horror. “No!”

John edged closer to the girl, still curled against the bulkhead. “River?”

“Three one-thousand, four one-thousand.”

Wash’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Kaylee, make sure everyone’s buckled up!”

“Have you kidnapped her? You could be running a trafficking ring, but you’re from Lilac or another nearby border world, and would likely have strong moral objections to human trafficking. Looking for ransom, perhaps?”

Kaylee took a slow step backward, reaching for a tool on her belt. “Who are you?”

“Five one-thousand, six one-thousand.”

John crouched beside River, keeping a careful distance. “Are you alright?”

The girl pushed herself to her feet, eyes closed. John stood along with her, watching her face for any sign of a change.

“You’re hiding something about her,” Sherlock said.

“Maybe I don’t see a need to talk about her with a gorram stranger.” Kaylee took another step back. She settled her hand on a wrench and held it ready at her side. “Zoe’s vouched for John, but I don’t know you from a Reaver.”

River kept chanting. “Seven one-thousand, eight one-thousand.”

“You can tell me if something’s wrong,” John said.

The girl’s muscles tensed as if poised to jump. Her knees bent slightly, and her hands clenched slowly into fists.

“Is she a criminal?” Sherlock demanded.

“Nine one-thousand. Ten.”

“Steady on.” John reached out his hand.

River’s eyes snapped open. She lunged forward, evading John’s grasp to slam into Sherlock. A quick swipe of her foot had Sherlock’s legs out from under him, and an impressively executed twist of Sherlock’s arm sent him slamming into the hard metal floor.

“River, don’t!” Kaylee reached out, but didn’t move any closer.

River pinned Sherlock to the deck, twisted his arms up behind him, and straddled his waist.

John’s hand slipped into his jacket pocket to curl around his gun. He wouldn’t draw on River-who was little more than a child, really-until Sherlock was in immediate danger. If Zoe had called him here to deal with a mystery, he had to believe this girl was a part of it. He stepped to the side to give himself a better angle on the threat. “Sherlock,” he called.

“Get off,” Sherlock snapped. He tried to buck her off, throwing his weight to the side in a move that should have dislodged her, but River held her own with remarkable skill.

“Be quiet!” River twisted Sherlock’s captured arms up further, causing a pained hiss. “Why won’t anyone listen?”

At that moment, boots pounded up the ramp to the ship. John felt a trickle of hope in the midst of all this madness when he saw Zoe, a tall woman with her dark hair pulled tightly back, charging up the stairs. Behind him came Sarge-apparently now Captain Reynolds-wearing a long brown coat and clutching a pistol with deadly familiarity. A burly man wearing an ear-flapped hat and goggles was half-dragging a smaller man whose fancy suit was stained with blood. He dropped his injured companion just inside the entrance and mashed his fist against the control to close the door. Zoe grabbed a smoke bomb off her belt and lobbed it out through the rapidly narrowing opening.

Captain Reynolds pressed a button on the wall panel and shouted, “Now, Wash!” The ship’s purr became a roar. John felt the familiar pull of ship’s gravity kicking in as they lifted off.

“Simon!” Kaylee darted over to the bloodied man. The man with the funny hat turned and pointed his rifle-a weapon entirely too big for any civilized purpose-at John just as John drew his own gun.

“Put it away, boys.” Zoe pushed the man’s rifle to point at the deck before nodding across the cargo bay. “You too, John.”

“Call off your waif.” John nodded to the deck, where River had curled her hands around Sherlock’s throat.

“River.” Reynolds stepped toward her, hands outstretched.

“He has to help Simon.” River kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock. Her delicate fingers stretched across the pale skin of his neck.

“Is that Simon?” John asked. At River’s nod, John moved slowly toward the injured man. He hated to move further away from his imperiled friend, but, outnumbered as he was, he judged it better to obey. Kaylee sat beside the unconscious Simon, holding a red-stained wad of cloth to his side and petting back the damp hair from his slack face. “Stab wound?” He glanced up at Zoe for confirmation.

“Knife,” Zoe said without taking her eyes from River.

“Your brother’s getting help.” Reynolds took another step towards River. “Now you let that nice man up.”

“He’s not a nice man. He delivers observations without considering the consequences. Sometimes he’s deliberately hurtful.” River frowned up at Reynolds. “Also, he thinks I’m a criminal.”

“Okay. Well why don’t you ease off him, and we’ll see about throwing criminal accusations around.”

John knelt and settled his fingers against Simon’s neck to feel his pulse, weakly pumping his blood out of the hole in his side. From that vantage, he could look directly across at the pale young girl with her hands around Sherlock’s throat. “River,” he said softly. “Please let him up.”

In one graceful movement, she pulled away from Sherlock to sit cross-legged on the floor. Mal and Zoe both moved at once: Zoe to come to John’s side, and Mal to pull a coughing Sherlock away from the disturbingly-still River.

Satisfied that Sherlock was out of danger, John turned to his patient. “Kaylee, let me,” he said, and Kaylee drew away reluctantly. John pulled the wad of fabric away from Simon’s side to see the extent of the damage, then quickly pressed the makeshift bandage back on. He looked up at Zoe. “Please tell me this boat has an infirmary.”
--

John hadn’t done much stitching up of stab wounds recently. His current practice was limited to patching up occasional cuts, bruises, and welts left by clients who’d paid handsomely for the privilege of leaving their mark on Sherlock, or, more often, mending the social breaches caused by Sherlock’s unorthodox way of relating to the ‘verse. Still, John’s hands didn’t shake at all as he sewed Zoe’s shipmate closed.

Zoe sat in companionable silence across the operating table, watching him work.

“Your ship’s got a well-stocked infirmary, for a cargo vessel,” John said as he secured the last stitch.

“Simon’s to thank for that.” Zoe nodded toward the man on the table. “He’s our doctor.”

John nodded, then smiled as a memory came to him. “Sarge always said not to let the doctor get himself killed. Leaves no one to patch you up.”

“Lucky we had a spare this time.” The thin smile on Zoe’s face slid away. “I’m sorry you got shot, John.”

“Not your fault.” John told his leg firmly that it was not in pain, and it would not buckle. He could feel the bullet going in as if he were back on Hera, the smell of smoke in his nose and the rattle of artillery in his ears. He turned away to put the instruments on the counter and steady his breathing before turning back to Zoe. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the end. I wish I could have helped.”

“Not your fault.” Zoe squared her shoulders, as if to shake off the past. “The doctoring business been lucrative for you?”

“I not much of a doctor anymore, really.”

“Is that a fact? You seem to being doing well for yourself. Must be some kind of wealthy, to keep a Companion on retainer.”

“Keep a--?” A flush crept up John’s face as he realized what Zoe had assumed. “No! Oh no no, Zoe. No no no no. Did you think I--? No. Sort of the other way ‘round, in fact.” When Zoe’s eyebrows raised even higher, he rushed to clarify. “He’s my… employer. I keep him in one piece, more by a judicious application of common sense than any shooting or doctoring. Although there’s that, too.” That didn’t entirely describe his and Sherlock’s relationship, but then, he wasn’t sure he could have, even if he tried. “And you, married. Happy?”

“Yes I am.” Zoe’s smile seemed soft and warm as he’d never seen it during the war.

“He seems a decent man.”

“I love him,” she said simply.

“I’m glad.” John gave her a sincere smile.

“You happy with yours?”

“I told you, it’s not, exactly…”

“Alright.” Zoe held up her hands in mock surrender, but John knew her well enough not to mistake it for the real thing. “Is he always like that?”

“That’s him on his best behavior.” John moved to the sink to scrub his hands.

“Must be a hit with his clients.”

“You’d be surprised. He has a way of figuring out exactly what a client wants. Whether he feels like giving them what they want is another question entirely.” John dried his hands, then turned around to lean back against the counter. “But you didn’t bring me here to talk about Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Was he right? Is she some kind of criminal?”

Zoe gazed steadily at him. “I can trust you, John.”

“You know you can.”

“I don’t know she’s a criminal, but the Alliance has a powerful interest in her. And her brother.” Zoe nodded at his patient.

“Her brother.”

“Simon broke her out of some Alliance school where they were using the students as lab rats. He’s been trying to figure out what’s wrong with her, but he’s been a surgeon in a cushy core hospital his whole career. Hasn’t seen half what you have.”

John glanced out toward the corridor, to the rest of the ship, where he could hear laughter floating down the hallway. “You want…what, a diagnosis? I don’t have a magic cure for post-traumatic stress.”

“I know that. But she’s part of the crew, now. She’s family.”

“I get it.” Something in John yearned to curl itself around the warmth he heard in that word. He’d been family too, once. He remembered the bonds with his brothers in arms-absolute trust on the battlefield, solidarity in the face of terrible danger, and sometimes, like with Zoe, the rush of victory or the balm of consolation in each other’s arms after a battle. He’d thought he might die of the emptiness left behind when that bond was ripped out in a hail of gunfire and he woke up alone in a cold Alliance hospital. “I have Sherlock now.”

“I can see.” Zoe’s smile was too knowing.

“Come off it.” A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he the laughter in the hallway rose in a crescendo. A moment later, Sherlock swept past the infirmary window, trailed by several of Serenity’s crew. John raised an eyebrow at Zoe. “He seems to be getting along.”

“So he does. This bunch isn’t intimidated by Companions, at least.”

“Point in their favor.” John glanced back at his patient, pale and unconscious. “You want to help his sister. I’m still not sure what I can do.”

“If you can give us a better idea of what we’re dealing with, it’ll be more than we had before.”

“Alright.” John bowed his head for a moment. He didn’t want to let his old friend down, and he’d come too far to leave without at least trying. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll need to talk to her again. And tell me everything you can about her symptoms.”
--

When Zoe led John from the infirmary, they happened upon the captain standing at the table in the mess, being talked at by the gun-toting man from before, whose name, John had been told, was Jayne.

“Ain’t no fun having another Companion on board if he ain’t even gonna take on while he’s here.”

“He’s a paying passenger, Jayne. His business ain’t none of yours.” The captain glanced up as Zoe and John walked in. He nodded towards Jayne. “Now go help Kaylee get that… stuff put away.”

“Right.” Jayne gave John a dark look, but wandered off in the direction of the crew quarters.

“Captain.” Zoe nodded. “I’m headed up to check on Wash. Watson here says he’ll take a look at River. Could you--?”

“Hell, I’m always up for a little scavenger hunt. My very favorite way to pass the time.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t no one else keep track of that girl?” When Zoe just raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed. “Alright, I’ll take him.”

Zoe nodded and headed off down the corridor, leaving John with his old sergeant.

“Come on, doc.” He started for the corridor, then stopped and glanced back at John. “Funny. I call Simon that, now.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t call you Sarge.”

“Mal. Whole crew calls me that.”

“Mal. John,” John said. At Mal’s frown, he said, “That’s my name.”

“Huh. Don’t think I ever knew that. Come to find out there’s a powerful mess of things I never knew.” They emerged into the cargo bay. “What in--?”

Sherlock stood in the center of the empty bay, his eyes closed, palms pressed together under his chin.

“Sherlock?” John called.

“Shhh.”

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Listening. Or, more accurately, being prevented from listening.”

Mal raised an eyebrow. John shook his head. “Don’t mind him.”

“Come on.” Mal stepped further into the cargo bay. “Sometimes she likes to hide in these nooks.”

“She’s not there,” Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

Mal glanced at John, then at Sherlock. “You have a better place to look?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He pointed a finger at the upper balcony on the starboard side, then darted up the stairs in pursuit of his goal. When he began tugging on a door, Mal shouted, “Hey! You can’t just poke your nose wherever you want!”

Mal charged up the stairs with John in close pursuit. Sherlock had succeeded in pulling open the door and slipping inside, so Mal went after him. When John followed them, he found himself in a barren shuttle.

River sat folded against the far wall. Sherlock stepped forward and tapped his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Tag,” he said.

Mal stopped right inside the door. There was no trace of amusement on his face. “River, you know not to come in here.”

River looked right at him. “There aren’t ghosts. She’s gone.”

“There were ghosts?” Sherlock asked.

“No, there was Inara.” River glanced up at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. “She didn’t leave a ghost behind. She didn’t leave entire, though.”

“Very interesting.” Mal pointed to the door. “River, out.”

“Can’t go. My turn to count.”

“River-“

“Mal. Can I have a go?” John asked.

Mal waved a hand at the whole situation. “Be my guest.”

John went to squat next to the sharp-eyed girl. “Hullo,” he said. “May I have a word? I’m a doctor.”

River watching him with a critical intensity that reminded John of Sherlock. “Doctors aren’t always healers,” she said.

“True enough. What about your brother?”

“He’s one of the good ones,” she said slowly.

At the edge of his vision, John saw Sherlock sidling up to Mal, saying something in hushed tones. He thought about interfering, before deciding that he had his hands full with one mad genius at a time. “The jury’s still out on me, then?” he asked.

“Sherlock says you’re alright. I’m reserving judgment.”

“Well then. If Sherlock says.” He felt a painful twinge in his leg, reminding him of old injuries, and lowered himself against the bulkhead, mirroring River. Still speaking under his breath, Sherlock tugged Mal out of the shuttle, until they were on the other side of the door, just visible through the porthole. John turned back to River. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“That’s what they asked you here to do. Dig dig dig around and see what’s bleeding in there.”

“Did Zoe tell you about me?”

River shook her head. “I just know how to listen. I told Sherlock I’d teach him, but after a few preliminary experiments, I suspect he may be deficient.”

A small smile crept up on John. “He led us to you, didn’t he?”

River’s brow creased, and John felt like a scolded child. “By logic, not by listening. Useful, as far as it goes, but I thought I could teach him something new. I haven’t taught anyone anything hardly, since I got out.”

“Got out from where?”

River shot John a sideways glance, then dropped her gaze to her lap, where her hands twined gracefully. “I don’t remember much. I remember the beginning, when I first arrived there. And I remember when Simon came to get me. The rest-it’s blurry. It’s mixed up.”

“I feel like that, sometimes, about the war. I remember signing up, and I remember getting shot. In between, things get a little confused.”

River’s hands twisted in her lap. “You remember sleeping with Zoe.”

“Oi!” John glanced over at Mal and Sherlock, but they seemed to be engaged in a heated debate. “Does everyone know about that?”

River gave him a pitying look. “Not difficult. Sherlock figured it out from one wave.”

“’Course he did. Which is not the point. I just…” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I haven’t thought about the war in a while, is all.” He looked back over at River, who was staring back at him with the same strict attention as before. “Do you dream?”

“About the place?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s when the memories come, mostly. Although a couple times it’s happened when I haven’t been asleep. I think I’m back there. I see things that aren’t real.”

“Everyone has nightmares, River,” John said gently.

“Not nightmares. I see things that happened. Bad things. Sometimes things that are going to happen. Also bad things.”

“Do you sleep much?”

“It’s not necessary. Or my body thinks it’s not, sometimes. It keeps an odd schedule. I worry Simon. I worry all of them.” River tucked her legs up to her chest, in a gesture that reminded John of Sherlock when he was deep in thought. “I think there’s something broken.”

“River, I don’t know what Zoe told you… I’m not a psychiatrist. I stitched up your brother, but I don’t… “ John sighed. “I’m not one for meddling about in people’s heads.”

“I know. You have dreams of your own to deal with.”

“I… Yes, I do.” John wondered for a moment how similar to Sherlock this girl was: if she could read his history in his face and his clothes and the way he moved. “How did you--?”

“I listen, like I said.” River laid her head against her knee and smiled at him. “Sherlock will learn to listen, too. Not listen like I do, but he’ll get better in his own way.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. He does need you. It’s less structurally sound without. Although…” She leaned toward him, eyes darting over him as if she was looking for flaws. She pressed the tip of one finger against John’s injured shoulder, tracing the borders of the wound as if she knew them. When she leaned back, she held John’s gun in her right hand. He hadn’t felt her lift it. “This is only your secondary function.”

“River,” John said warningly. He kept himself from snatching for the gun, but he didn’t like the confident grip she had on it, the steady way she moved as she held it out in front of her.

“At least the nightmares go away when you’re doing what you’re supposed to do.” She wobbled to her feet. “You found a way to make them stop.”

“River.” John stood slowly, making no sudden movements. “Give the gun back.”

“I don’t have anything to do. It’s all without purpose. It’s all confusing. There’s no anchor.”

“You have your brother.”

“He only sees the damage. He only sees the problem.” River gripped the gun with a hand that didn’t shake at all, a hand as steady as John’s had ever been. “Sherlock looks at you and sees you. He sees what you can be. Nobody knows what I am.”

“What do you want to be?”

“I want the noise to stop!” River’s voice echoed in the empty shuttle. “I don’t want to carry around all these voices. I want to be alone inside my head. Seeing what’s there. Focusing out, not in.” She rubbed the gun against her temple. John darted forward, grabbing for the weapon, but she side-stepped him with a quick grace that left John standing against the bulkhead facing a lost-looking girl with a gun leveled at his chest. “How’d you do it? How did you find yourself?”

“I had help. Alone, I made a bit of a mess of things. But with help… Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” John held out his hand. “Please. Let me help.”

River placed the gun gently in his hand.

John checked the safety before shoving the thing back in his pocket.

River backed away from him, step by slow step. “Sorry,” she said. “I know I’m not supposed to touch guns. I should get.” She turned and sped to the door. Then she stopped abruptly, turned, and reached a hand back toward John. “They’re still out there. Come with me?”

When John walked out of the shuttle with River at his heels, Sherlock was sweeping off down the catwalk. Mal stood, jaw tight and fists clenched, at the shuttle entrance. John grimaced. “Is he being a prat?”

“Doc, I wouldn’t trade you problems any day of the week.”

“He wouldn’t trade you, either,” River said as she slipped past them both to hare off after Sherlock.

Mal tilted his head after the girl. “You find out anything?”

“Not to leave my gun lying around out of plain sight.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know she can handle a weapon?”

“I heard tell, yeah,” Mal muttered. He looked sharply at John. “She hurt you?”

“No. I don’t get the sense she would, either. But…” He trailed off into a sigh, not quite sure how to convey what he’d learned.

Zoe climbed up the stairs to join them. “This looks more serious than I’d like. I saw Sherlock and River chasing each other through the mess. I trust you had a word with her?”

“A few words,” John said.

“And?” Mal prompted.

“Like I told Zoe, there’s no magic cure.”

“But?”

“There is no but,” John said. “Yes, I think you’re right about the post-traumatic stress. She’s been through something awful, and that’ll be with her for a while yet, probably for always.”

“You got anything might help?” Zoe asked.

“Something she said… It might help if you give her something to do. After the war, when I couldn’t… I felt bloody useless, is what I mean.” He held up a hand to forestall any comment. “Before whatever they did to her, she was the master of her own universe, right? Brilliant? Now she doesn’t have a thing to occupy her time. Give her a job. Let her help with something.”

Zoe and Mal exchanged a look. “Huh,” Mal said.

“Could be some truth to that,” said Zoe. “No one likes to feel useless.”

“Her brother, he’s looking in to what they did?” John asked.

Zoe nodded. “When he wakes up, maybe you two can have a little chat. Assuming you’re still willing to stay for the rest of the trip. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, exactly.”

“We’ll stay if you’re not kicking us off.” John looked to Mal. “It seemed you and Sherlock were gearing up for a row.”

Mal started to answer back, but broke off when he saw Sherlock swirling back up the stairs.

Sherlock came to a stop next to John. “He’s not kicking us off, John,” he announced.

“He’s not, is he?” Mal asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No. His crew may be engaged in criminal activity, but he does genuinely want to help River, and he believes you may be able to provide some assistance. Also, I’m confident I can deduce the escape route of the crew that interfered with today’s exchange and made off with the profits.”

“Sherlock,” John said. “You can’t go around-“

“They are criminals, John. Look at the equipment they were attempting to repair when we arrived. The meeting gone wrong at which their doctor was injured. It’s all quite- “

“You could figure out where those wong ba duhn went?” Zoe cut in.

“Easily,” Sherlock said, voice thick with trademark scorn. “You see, I once had a client who-“

“Let’s not get into all that right now,” John said quickly.

“Why? Because it makes Captain Reynolds uncomfortable?” Sherlock shot a disdainful look at Mal. “He recently had a near-romantic entanglement with a Companion that ended badly. That’s why he’s taken an irrational dislike to me.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s irrational,” John said through gritted teeth.

“Fine. I’m not kicking you off,” Mal said. Before Sherlock could look too smug, he said, “But it’s because John might be able to help one of my crew, not because you’ve got some fanciful notions about tracking. Now, I’ve got Captainly things to do.” He nodded to John and took his leave with what John considered remarkable poise for a man who’d been on the receiving end of several minutes of Sherlock’s derision.

Zoe put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you.” She shot a hard look at Sherlock. “We’ll talk about tracking. Soon.” Then she followed her captain.

Sherlock leaned against the catwalk railing and watched them go. River had come back out into the cargo bay, and was moving fluidly past stacked crates and discarded equipment, dancing to a rhythm only she could hear.

“You spoke to her,” Sherlock said.

“So did you,” John pointed out.

“She’s marvelous, really.”

“She’s traumatized.”

“John.” Sherlock caught his hand, then fixed his eyes on their joined fingers. “Did it feel like that, for you? After the war?”

John thought on that for a moment. “Not precisely. What happened to her is more. It’s not just trauma she’s dealing with. They did something to her, to her brain, Zoe said.” He’d had nightmares, and he’d had very bad days, indeed, but he hadn’t entirely forgotten who he was. Once he’d been reminded, the world had re-formed around him, from a swirling morass of doubts and disappointments into a tantalizing, sometimes infuriating Sherlock-shaped puzzle. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?” Sherlock leaned back from the railing to look at John.

John kept watching River dance. “You brought me back, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. He patted the railing once, then stepped back. “So, you’re not finished, are you? I’d like to stay on as we planned. I’m hoping to deduce past crimes of the crew’s by the contents of the ship.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Mal and Zoe will be overjoyed. We should let them know.” He tried to head for the stairs, but found Sherlock was still holding his hand.

“John?”

“Yes.”

“You saved me, too,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed again on their joined hands. Then, more briskly, “Come along. I’ve been reliably informed that there’s tea to be had in the mess.”

John felt the hum of the ship under his feet as he descended the stairs to the cargo bay. Somehow, he was unsurprised to find River waiting for them. “It’s a proper shape,” she told them. “A good fit. It adds up.”

“You approve, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. I’m known to have excellent taste in these matters,” River said. She fell into step beside them. “You’re staying a spell?”

John looked at Sherlock, who nodded. “Yes,” he said.

With a satisfied nod, River ushered them into the heart of the ship. “Welcome aboard.”

-END-

Important Public Service Announcement: If you like Sherlock/Firefly crossovers, you should definitely check out jaune_chat's Worth It, which blew my mind last month and got me thinking on how I would meld these two 'verses.