John Commander | Starfleet ID# P9-21547-DT10 Official bio: Associate researcher, Starfleet Data Archive.
Real name: Khan Noonien Singh, Human Augment. Out of cryostasis and pressed into slavery by Section 31 in 2258.
Last seen after the explosion of the Kelvin weapons research facility, where he failed to smuggle out 72 long-range torpedoes previously stored in the facility. On the run from Starfleet, presumed armed and dangerous. Orders are to shoot on sight.
“This is a manhunt, pure and simple.” –Admiral Alexander Marcus, Starfleet Commander in Chief
Above is the mirror-reversed image of the daguerreotype believed to have been taken from Draper’s rooftop observatory at New York University. This daguerreotype is the first known photographic image of the moon.
Sherlock wants to brush up his German. The source he chooses leads to
some unexpected events, featuring awkward conversations, the misuse of a
fountain pen and the usual misunderstandings. But they figure it out in
This is a birthday fic for @missmuffin221! Happy birthday, dear! I
tried to include two of your major kinks - porn in German and the thing
with the thighs. I hope you like it.
“Oh, Herr Doktor,
schauen Sie nur, ich glaube, mit meinem Schwengel stimmt was nicht.” - “Das kann
ich mir nicht vorstellen, Rudi, zeig mal her.” - “Hier, schauen Sie nur, wie groß
er ist. Und so hart. Und vorne tropft es raus.” - “Hm, das muss ich mir genauer
ansehen. Bück dich vornüber. Ja, das ist doch mal eine schöne Aussicht. Sag
mal, steckst du dir manchmal was in dein Poloch, Rudi?”
John has been reading the papers, not really paying
attention what Sherlock is up to on his laptop. After all, he has this strange
case on in which two German tourists seem to play a vital role. Therefore, it’s
no surprise that Sherlock, vain git that he is, wants to brush up his language
skills to be able to interrogate said tourists in their mother tongue. That’s
why John had thought nothing of it as snippets of a conversation in a foreign
language filled their living room. It had been filled with worse (toxic fumes
and deadly assassins among them).
Only when characteristic noises, that are usually unheard of
at three o’clock in the afternoon in their sitting room, emanate from the
laptop speakers does John suddenly sit up, pricking up his ears.
“What are you doing over there?” he asks, getting up from
his chair and walking over to Sherlock, who stares somewhat perturbed on the
“Research?” Sherlock answers, but it sounds doubtful.
“What exactly are you…? Oh my god!”
“And what is he doing with his…?”
Sherlock slams the laptop shut.
“That was…” he starts.
“Yes.” John agrees.
“You don’t even know what I wanted to say, John.” Sherlock
protests, obviously miffed for being talked over.
“Well, anything you might want to say has already crossed my
mind, believe me.”
“Anything?” Sherlock tilts his head in this peculiarly
unnerving way of his that gets John’s palms all sweaty while his heart flutters
in his chest.
“Sure, mate.” John
wants to retreat back to the safety of his armchair and hide behind the
broadsheet, but stays frozen to the spot. Somehow, the atmosphere in the room
has changed. It feels charged all of a sudden.