Zombie Strippers From Mars [open to anyone that'd have an excuse to be in Medbay]

[on_your_nerves]

Faffing about on his omnicom had Sherlock mildly entertained for a bit, but it didn't last long. Five minutes into the movies John had brought, the consulting detective had slumped back on his Medbay bed insisting that movies were boring (because everything was boring at the moment) and demanding to be knocked unconscious until he was allowed to leave. When John pointed out that injuring him further was slightly counterproductive in regards to him getting out of Medbay, he went into a world-class sulk.

It wasn't so much that he was bored as the fact he was bored and there was an entire spaceship to go poking and prodding around in. The boredom was multiplied and magnified by the fact that there were things to do, advancements in forensic science (and biology and chemistry...) he could read about and so on.

There could be zombies somewhere! Actual living, breathing zombies! Never mind the part where zombies weren't alive and didn't breathe.

At first, the crime rate--or lack thereof--had had him worried this whole venture would be hopelessly tiresome, but apparently, there was more going on than met the eye. (Zombies!)

After his "your movies are boring" based tantrum, John had been in and out of the Medbay, taking advantage of Sherlock's little fit of petulant disinterest in anything but leaving to go prod around the ship himself.

Nothing to do. The whole ship was out there waiting for Sherlock. And where was that tea he asked for from that random stranger? He'd conveniently kept the biscuits given to him by that other random stranger.

"Zombie strippers. Honestly."

At this point, he was fairly certain John selected one-third of the movies they watched because of the explosions in them, one-third because they involved some sort of historical warfare, and the last one-third because of how much he thought Sherlock was going to yell at the screen. Of course, toss in the ones John watched because the actresses in them were attractive and it messed up all the proportions.

Comments

[anwei]

"H'm. Should I offer my congratulations, or my condolences?" The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile.

"Anyway, I'll be around if you need anything else." She gave a short nod, and went to see if she could find Alex's emotion print generator. If that was destroyed, she would have to get the plans put into multiple places, so that it could be rebuilt either when there were resources free, or when Alex returned. If he did.

[on_your_nerves]

"A bit of both, it seems," Sherlock said, sounding equal parts amused and annoyed. The author who had written about him had apparently hated him and the thought made him cranky for some reason.

"What species are you?" he asked curiously, before she left. "I'm trying to learn them all. The information is relevant to my work."

The world needed to be classifiable and highly ordered for him to be able to do his work on the ship. That was how it all worked, there were categories and occupations and lots of little details: "postal worker," "serial adulterer," "widow."

[anwei]

Anwei wondered how many biographies and pseudo-biographies of herself might be floating around in Stacy's hidden libraries, and hoped that they stayed hidden.

"My species is the Living People, from the planet Fle. And if your work allows it, I'd recommend avoiding any of us that you meet. As a culture - at least, in that time period of my culture that I was raised in - we're hierarchal, aggressive, and very xenophobic."

Not to mention xenophagic.

[on_your_nerves]

"Does every member of your species have the same dental anatomy?"

He wondered if she would be willing to volunteer for a dental mold.

[anwei]

She grinned, and let the corners of her mouth slide back to her ears and then forward. "For adults, yes. Forty teeth, all incisors. My species doesn't have a lot of genetic diversity, to the point that we all have one blood type and can cross-transplant organs with very low rejection rates; therefore we all look pretty much alike."

She arched her eyebrows. "Now if you see a child of my species - who would be about this high or shorter," she gestured at the level of her hip, "big moustache, and forty cone-shaped teeth - run. Better yet, kick it and run. They're non-sentient and carnivorous, and they're always hungry."

Yes, she is suggesting that Sherlock kick any babies he meets.