As promised, a Cabin Pressure/Sherlock crossover. This idea's kind of been floating around in my head for a while, but I recently read some Molly Hooper/Martin Crieff fanfiction and I LOVED IT. IT'S THE MOST ADORABLE COUPLE EVER, I DON'T KNOW HOW NO-ONE'S THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE.

Anyway, as you may have guessed, this is a Martin/Molly fanfic, but also attempts to tackle Mystrade and the vague semblance of a plot at the same time. Oh and there's Sherlock/John from the start. I DON'T PREDICT THIS GOING WELL.

But do not panic. Just sit back and enjoy the flight.

P.S THANKS KIM FOR BEING MY BETA :D :D :D

Chapter 1: I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan.

As Mycroft entered the swimming pool, the first thing he noticed were the reflections on the surface of the water. They were like a shimmering net of light floating on the pool, casting out beams of dazzling radiance into the rest of the room. One of these rays briefly illuminated the faces of his brother Sherlock and his flatmate John. Mycroft smiled coldly at the sight that befell him- the self proclaimed sociopath with his arms wrapped tightly around John's smaller frame, kissing him like there was nothing else in the world.

Mycroft glanced around the couple to spot the lifeless frame of Moriarty, who seemed far too small to have been such a threat. He was skinny, almost swamped inside the Westwood suit, Mycroft noted with a little jealousy, which eased somewhat when he saw that the suit that was now flecked with the occupant's blood.

Mycroft turned his head back to Sherlock and John, but frowned. There was only so long that he could witness this without commenting and not look like a pervert. He coughed briskly, "excuse me?"

John pulled away from Sherlock, blushing. "Er, sorry Mycroft. I didn't see you."

"It's quite alright, Dr Watson. Passion does strange things to the mind."

John flushed a deeper red and Sherlock gave him a rare yet genuine smile, eyes never leaving each others gaze as he addressed Mycroft "You took your time."

"It was surprisingly hard to track the man. Of course, it would have helped if you had informed me of the location-"

"Yes, yes, whatever. I will next time, OK?" Sherlock paused, a reluctant expression on his face. "Er- Thank you. For taking him out. I appreciate it."

Mycroft swung his ever present umbrella. "If only I could take credit for such an excellent shot- it was not my man, I'm afraid. At first I thought only Dr Watson could have executed the maneuver so well."

"Not John, in fact. That would have been me." Mycroft noticed the approach of a grey haired police officer. He was of average height, around the middle point between Sherlock and John. Mycroft was of course the tallest, though Sherlock would never admit it. The officer had the look of a handsome man who'd seen too much- there were signs of his weariness etched all over his body; the slumped stance, the grey hair, the occasional wrinkle. Every mark a misdeed that once witnessed he could never forget, weighing him down, aging his face.

"You shot him?" Mycroft asked. "May I congratulate you on your aim?"

The man smiled. "You shouldn't, but I'll allow it."

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John for the first time in minutes. "Mycroft, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft knew this already, of course, but formalities were to be obeyed. He shook the DI's hand. "Lestrade, this is my brother Mycroft."

"Ah, the infamous Mycroft Holmes. Your name proceeds you- you're the British Government, as I understand it?" Lestrade did not seem either fazed or impressed by this news, if anything he looked disapproving.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at that. "You're repeating yourself, Sherlock." He looked to gauge Sherlock's reaction to this, but he had already returned his attentions to kissing a disheveled yet blissful looking John. "I would advise you to ignore my brother's comments about me, I'm sure he's been exaggerating."

"I've heard only bad things, I'm afraid."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me? Sherlock may be prone to accentuating the precise level of power I hold in the political scene; however I have sufficient influence within Scotland Yard to provide you with some form of reward- a promotion, perhaps?" Lestrade looked as if he was about to protest, when Mycroft continued, "Call it a thank you, for everything you have done to protect my idiot of a brother."

Sherlock wrenched his lips away from John's and opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again quickly with a roll of this eyes and returned to the good doctor. He seemed to have come to the conclusion that his lips were at better use pressed against John's than curling themselves around a no doubt vicious comeback.

Lestrade grimaced. "I have no interest in a promotion, but thank you for the offer."

Mycroft was almost disappointed. "Very well, but if you change your mind, be sure to let me know."

"Certainly," he nodded curtly at the men, "now if you'll excuse me." He headed back over to a tall, dark haired police officer, who seemed to be acting like she was running the show. He knew merely by sight that this was Sally Donovan, Lestrade's second in command. He had an innate respect for anyone who roused the instant contempt of Sherlock, but this did not mean he liked her.

Mycroft turned back to the two younger men, still locked in a passionate embrace. "Sorry to break up the party," he said sardonically, "but I'm afraid I'll have to escort you two to a safe house."

Sherlock threw John off him, aghast. "We are not staying in a safe house, we are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves."

"A fact so elegantly proven by tonight's events," he replied coolly. "I suppose getting yourselves blown up was all part of the plan?"

This comment earned him a glare from Sherlock. "I knew you'd turn up."

"I'm sure you did, but nevertheless, I would appreciate it if you did not struggle."

"Like hell I won't." Sherlock grabbed John by the collar- the latter shot Mycroft an apologetic look over his shoulder as they hurtled out of the pool doors.

Mycroft sighed. He did so hate it when Sherlock was difficult. Not that it made a great deal of difference; he had at least twenty cars surrounding the place. There was no way Sherlock was not going to that safe house.

He observed the still smiling Moriarty, his face splattered with the blood from his wound. Straight between the eyes, a neat red hole bore through his skull. A good shot, an honest shot, one remarkably telling of the perpetrator's character.

He took his BlackBerry out of his pocket and swiftly punched in a number. "Anthea," he said, his voice a smooth purr, "I'd like you to pick up a Dr Molly Hooper and take her along to the location- and do try to be sympathetic with her, won't you? She's just broken up with her boyfriend," he glanced down at the corpse, "and that's the least of her worries."

Molly knew that sometimes, life just wasn't fair. She dealt with the victims of life's cruelty on a day to day basis; she saw them at their most vulnerable, she violated their bodies and then bagged them up, left to be forgotten. And whilst she tried to make her work as neat and discreet as possible, there was always a mark left behind, evidence of what she had done. Life in the morgue was not dissimilar to that of the rest of the world. Every action left a scar.

Molly had her own scars, one newly acquired. Her hand was tightly bound in bandages, protecting a large cut from infection. She had obtained the injury from picking up pieces of broken glass, a glass which, in her drunken state, she had hurled at her boyfriend- ex-boyfriend- Jim.

She wasn't proud of her actions that night. The whole process of breaking up with Jim had been awkward and embarrassing. After a pained evening at The Fox, they'd gone back to hers, and whilst she'd tried to forget… She could not get it out of her head. Jim with men. Jim with Sherlock. Sherlock and Jim, laughing, living, loving… It hurt too much.

The confrontation had unfortunately occurred in the kitchen, meaning Molly had plenty of glassware to hand. Jim had left, reasonably unfazed and Molly had retreated into a vodka/Chaka Khan fuelled depression. It was lucky she'd had the next couple of days off from Bart's, because she wouldn't have been able to work even if she had wanted to. What had her life come to? Is that what she was destined to do for the rest of her life? Pine after gay, unobtainable men, eat too much ice cream and talk to her cat Toby? It didn't bear thinking about.

The gap that Jim had filled was there again, rupturing some internal part of her that she couldn't quite place. Forcing her to realize what she wanted, what she did not and would not ever have.

So when she opened her door, dressed in an oversized Adam Ant T-Shirt and mismatched pyjama bottoms, with a bottle of wine in one hand a Take That: Greatest Hits CD in the other, to find an immaculately dressed woman a few years younger than her and a couple of dress sizes thinner, she burst into tears. Really, it was all too much.

To reiterate: life just isn't fair.

"Why does this always happen to me?"

Anthea rested her head against the locked door of the safe house bathroom in exasperation, doing her best to sound reassuring. "C'mon, it's not that bad!"

"How could this be any worse? My deceased ex-boyfriend turns out to be a homicidal maniac who tried to seduce the man I am hopelessly, desperately in love with, and now his associates might want to kill me!"

Anthea hesitated. "Now, I see how on the surface it could seem bad…"

The wailing only grew louder. Explaining who Jim Moriarty really was had been a terrible position for Mycroft to put her in. She deserved a raise for all that work. Listening to Molly's romantic woes was not part of her job description, particularly when her lamentations related to her boss' brother.

"All you need is a holiday. A holiday!" she tried desperately. "And guess what, that's exactly what you're getting."

Molly stopped sobbing briefly. "Why?"

"Jim's a dangerous man, and from what you tell me, the way you acted on the night that you broke up could have angered him. Human life- It's nothing to him, it's less than nothing, he thinks he can take it away in order to achieve his aims. He killed an old woman for beginning to describe the sound of his voice- think of the description you could give the police."

Molly began to cry again, and Anthea cursed inwardly. This had not been the best thing to say. "But believe me; I can't speak highly enough of Mycroft's security services. You'll be safe, and free to have a nice holiday!"

"Where would I be going? I'm not a good flyer…"

"I'm not sure yet, I think Mycroft was going to discuss it with his brother and the others."

"Sherlock is going?"

Anthea paused. "Yes. Is that a bad thing?"

"You're asking me if being trapped with the one man I can't possibly get out of my head a bad thing?"

"… Yes. That is bad, now I think about it."

Molly resumed her frantic sobbing. Anthea slumped against the door, sighing as she removed her Blackberry from her pocket. She'd been in the middle of a date when Mycroft had called her- the things she did for her job. Speaking of Mycroft, she noticed a pair of very fine, highly polished designer shoes draw close to her.

"She's not doing well, then?"

"The fact that she could hear Sherlock and John shagging like rabbits through the wall hasn't helped."

Mycroft winced. "Please, refrain from giving me such mental imagery; I won't be able to eat for weeks."

Anthea frowned at the expression on his face- despite the obvious disgust, he looked almost sad. Anthea did not voice her suspicions as to why- she knew her boss and his weight issues all too well and she was more than aware of the thought that had flitted through his mind at his own words- maybe that would be a good thing.

"Anthea, I need you to book flights. We're thinking of somewhere in the Hebrides, as remote as possible- lord knows why, but Sherlock and Dr Watson seemed enthusiastic, and as we can't get a straight answer out of Dr Hooper and I couldn't honestly care, there doesn't seem to be a problem. That is, until Sherlock realizes he'll have no internet connection there, but to be quite honest, I think he's too loved up to care."

Anthea whipped out her BlackBerry. "So that's four tickets to...the Isle of Barra?"

"I have no idea where that is. Why not?"

"Would five o'clock suit? I figured that would give everyone a chance to lie in, grab lunch and head to the airport for three."

"Yes, that's marvelous- except make that five tickets."

Anthea rolled her eyes. "I'm not coming, sir, I can't. I barely managed to rearrange that date as it was; I'm certainly not backing out of it again."

"The fifth is for D.I Lestrade, he's coming as extra protection- although you are perfectly welcome to come with us."

Anthea's eyebrows rose. "What, that good looking one from homicide?"

Mycroft frowned at her, like a father might do to his daughter, slightly irked. "What do you mean, 'that good looking one'? I pay you to work, not ogle police officers."

Anthea laughed, in spite of herself. "Somebody's tetchy!" Not many people could get away with calling Mycroft Holmes 'tetchy', but Anthea was one of them. "You have to admit, he's rather gorgeous. Those eyes…" she sighed.

Mycroft laughed derisively. "Hardly. Besides, he's far too old for you."

"I wasn't thinking of me," she shot back with a slight quirk of her lips

Mycroft widened his eyes, but found he was unable to find suitably cutting words to dismiss what she was implying. "… Anthea, book the tickets on a private airline, a charter airline. As small as you can- we can't run the risk that Moriarty's associates will be after Sherlock, Dr Watson and Dr Hooper."

"How large is the threat exactly?"

"Large enough to warrant keeping the three of them on a remote island until we track down some of the major players. I predict this will take around until Monday- if not, we'll have to think about bodyguards. We can't keep them off work for too long, but hopefully it won't come to that."

Anthea nodded and busied herself with booking the tickets. She had to find the cheapest, smallest airline that would take them wherever they wanted to go, and wasn't already booked. With Anthea's connections, it wouldn't be difficult, but it was hard to concentrate whilst trying to block out the sound of Sherlock and John enthusiastically making up for lost time.

It took a lot of effort for Martin Crieff to wrench his eyes open. He looked blearily down at the phone, lying on the floorboards next to his bed. It was ringing.

He picked it up and answered groggily "Hello?"

"Hello Martin."

"Jesus Christ," he groaned.

"I can see why you'd think so, but no, only me," said Caroline smoothly.

"It's 4am, Caroline."

"Good heavens, really? I had no idea."

Martin sat up in bed. "What do you want that could possibly require calling at this ungodly hour?"

"I bring good tidings," she said, and he could hear the smile that curved her lips. "Very good tidings indeed."

"They'd better be," Martin muttered, making sure that Caroline could not hear. "What's happened?"

"We," Caroline said triumphantly, "have a job."

Martin glared at the receiver. "Doing what, exactly?"

"We are being paid an enormous amount to fly five people to Barra."

"Barra?" he asked blearily. "Where is Barra? I don't think I've even heard of Barra."

"It's a small island in the Hebrides, very remote, very beautiful apparently."

Martin grinned. "Oh! Is it that one with the beach airport? Oh that's gorgeous, I've always wanted-"

"Martin, you can insert your own withering aside, because frankly at this time of the morning you're not worth concocting one for."

"Yes, well," he said hotly, "I don't see why this warrants such an enthusiastic response from you."

"Martin," she said seriously. "You do not quite grasp how large this sum of money is. We'll make twice what we earned if we were flying 24/7. I may even be able to afford to pay you."

Martin stopped dead. "Pay me? Actually pay me a proper wage? With actual money?" he stuttered.

"No, with chocolate coins- of course with actual money."

"You promise?"

"Martin, please, you know I never make promises. Anyway, you'd better get to sleep. The flight's at five. Be there or face my considerable wrath."

With these friendly words, she hung up. Martin sighed and sat back down on the sagging mattress. He tried to imagine having the cash to hire a charter airline to fly you wherever you wanted to go on holiday. It was a long time since he'd had one of those. He was broke, living off the measly wage he earned as a 'man with a van' and unable to afford a night out, let alone a weekend break.

The only positive thing he could see was the hotel room. A room with a bed that didn't threaten to collapse under even his meagre weight, with carpeting and space to move. His bed took up nearly the whole room and it was only a single. He'd do a lot more than this to get out of the hellish attic that he lived in.

"Pizza at Tiffany's."

"That's a good one."

"The Big Red Pizza."

"Even I think that one's bad."

"Oh, alright then. Schindler's Pizza."

Martin frowned. "How come I can't think of any?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Douglas asked drily.

"… No. No, please do not answer that, actually."

Douglas stretched in his seat. "Don't you watch films, Martin?"

"I don't often get the chance." Martin swallowed hard. "I don't have the time." Or money.

"Yes well, perhaps that's why I'm better at this game. That and my vastly superior intelligence of course, but that goes without saying."

Martin ignored him. "Any more?"

Douglas sighed. "I've been formulating a GoodFellas related pun, but it's not quite coming together."

Martin stared blankly back at him.

"Oh, never mind," Douglas said, exasperated. "I'll let your lack of knowledge in both film and pizza companies slide today, because I am filled with joy at the prospect of all this extra cash."

"Of course you are," Martin muttered, carefully checking the various bulbs and switches in front of him. "What is there to do in Barra anyway?"

"I imagine it's filled with gorgeous Scottish women- or I at least hope it is."

Martin frowned at Douglas's expression. "Douglas, please."

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake Martin. You are a young, single airline captain. You should be fighting them off- why on earth are you not taking advantage of this valuable opportunity?"

Martin kept his gaze firmly in front of him. "I am not having this discussion with you, Douglas."

"But-"

"No."

"If you just-"

"No, Douglas."

There was a brief pause. "Raiders of the Lost Pizza."

Martin grinned. "I've got one!"

"At last! Go ahead."

"OK- The Pizza."

Douglas sighed. "Oh Martin."

Martin frowned. "It was meant to be 'The Piano'. It sounded better in my head."

"Afternoon, Skip!" said Arthur cheerily. "Ready for takeoff?"

"It would seem so," Martin replied. "Passengers ready?"

"Just about to board now Skip."

"Right." He donned his captain's hat. "Time for the greet."

They stood patiently by the stairs, smiling widely at a tall dark haired man in a three piece suit. "Ah," he said smoothly, with a voice like rich honey. "You must be Captain Crieff."

Before Martin could trot out the usual "I'm Captain Crieff" routine, he was interrupted by another baritone. "Look closer, Mycroft. The left thumb."

The man glanced at Douglas' hand and tutted. "How foolish of me," he turned to Martin, "you are the captain in fact?"

"Yes." He briefly wondered what could possibly be wrong with his thumb.

"I do apologize, it's just-"

"Don't worry," he said, his heart not in his words. "It happens all the time."

The man shook his hand. "Mycroft Holmes- and this is my brother, Sherlock."

It was the first time Martin had properly looked at the other man, but he could not help but be shocked. In had walked a man with such effortless mystique and presence, he nearly fell sideways. Almost as tall as his brother, with the same dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. His angular features made him look exotic and attractive, and he was dressed in finer clothes than Martin could ever have dreamed of owning. He was very glad that he wasn't gay at this moment, because this man would have made him feel very, very nervous. Yet there was something so oddly familiar…

The others seemed to have noticed it too, including this 'Sherlock Holmes'. He smirked. "Good lord."

Mycroft smiled. "How very strange."

"What?" said Martin, his voice shriller than usual.

Douglas, for possibly the first time in his life, looked surprised. "Martin- this gentleman seems to have a very similar face to you." He turned to Sherlock Holmes. "No offence meant, sir."

Martin glanced back at the stranger. "No," he said. "Otherwise...No. That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life."

"You are by no means identical," said Mycroft. "My brother is taller than you for a start."

"And his face doesn't go red at every possible opportunity," Douglas added helpfully.

"Shut up, Douglas," he hissed, feeling the heat rise from his body.

"And he has nicer clothes."

"Yes, well-"

"And he's not ginger."

"Yes, I get it!"

Sherlock gave him another smirk. "Well, Captain Crieff. If I require a doppelganger, you'll be the first I call." The sarcasm dripped from every word and god that smirk. It hurt. It worked its way into his soul and made him feel so small, the curve of the man's lips dismissing him out of hand before he'd even had the chance to prove himself.

Martin shrunk into his uniform, shoulders slumping in defeat "Thank you for choosing MJN air," he mumbled, as the two men travelled forward and a sandy blond haired man with a friendly face gave him a smile. "Welcome aboard your MJN flight- I'm Captain Crieff, this is First Officer Douglas Richardson."

If the man was shocked, he hid it well. "I'm John, hi." He shook his hand and moved on. Finally came a grey haired man, softly comforting a young woman whose head was buried in his shoulder. "Excuse me Captain," he said politely, "our friend here is a bit of a nervous flyer."

"You're mistaken, sir," said Douglas. "I'm not the Captain."

"Oh."

Martin rolled his eyes. He'd had enough of this today. "I see." he said, his voice brittle.

"I was wondering," the man continued apologetically, "could you just reassure her about the safety on the flight."

"Of course sir." Martin tapped the woman on the shoulder. "Excuse me, madam?"

She turned to face Martin and sweet Jesus, it took him a few moments to recover, because despite the red rimmed eyes and the bedraggled hair, this woman was painfully beautiful. Her face was impish, with long brown hair that was sticking up at the back, but she pulled it off. Somehow, somehow to him, she still managed to look as though every hair was perfectly in place on her head. As for those eyes- the redness couldn't disguise how big and beautiful and brown they were… Oh God, and now he'd been staring too long, and she was looking back at him in alarm, they all were. He felt the heat rise in a wave from his face. Say something. God damn it, Martin, for once in your life-

He let out an undignified noise that was somewhere near a "hello".

More confused looks. Douglas had a grin on his face like the Cheshire cat. Martin cleared his throat. "I- um- Martin. I'm Martin- Captain Martin. Captain Crieff, Captain Martin Crieff."

She gave him a weak smile. "Is that your full title?"

He laughed too quickly. "Aha! Yeah! No, no! That's- I'm just-"

"First Officer Douglas Richardson," Douglas cut in. "And you are?"

"Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Name," Martin stammered. "Name is, well, really good- I mean- Oh God…"

"What the Captain means to tell you," said Douglas smoothly, "is that air travel is statistically far safer than car travel."

"Really?"

"Yes," Martin managed finally. "Aeroplanes are checked meticulously before flights, unlike cars," he could see the tension drain out of her a little at his words, "because of how catastrophic the vast majority of plane crashes can be if something fails. So you have nothing to worry about."

A look of terror froze on her face and she burst into tears again. The grey haired man comforted her once more.

"You are truly a master of the art of diplomacy, Martin," Douglas said disparagingly.

"I'm sorry!" he called after the retreating figures. "I didn't mean to upset her!" Martin dithered in one spot for a while before deciding to head back to the flight deck. He busied himself with checking the warning lights, his back to the approaching Douglas.

"So," Douglas purred.

"So?" he said irritably. "So what?"

"You like her."

Martin spluttered, mumbling something incoherent.

"You fancy her."

"For God's sake, Douglas, we're not children," he retorted.

"No need to be testy."

"I'm not being testy!"

"Oh I beg to differ." The pleasure Douglas was taking in Martin's embarrassment was sickening.

"Skipper?" Arthur stuck his head into the flight deck. "Did you just make a lady cry?"

"Yes, he did, Arthur," Douglas said before Martin could protest. "How awful of him."

"Douglas! Arthur, I didn't- I didn't mean to upset her."

"Skipper!" he replied, exasperated. "What did you say?"

"He was trying to reassure her of how safe the flight will be. He didn't do it very well."

Martin groaned. "Oh God. Was it that bad?"

"It was excruciating, Martin. What's more, you committed the most heinous of sins. You let a woman realize that you were attracted to her."

"Ah," Arthur gave Martin a pitying look. "That wasn't very brilliant was it Skip?"

"Do you think she noticed?" he asked Douglas desperately.

"Martin, everyone in the plane noticed. People in the airport noticed."

Martin lay his head against the walls of the plane. "Oh no…"

"C'mon skip, it mightn't be that bad!" Arthur said cheerily.

"How could it possibly not be that bad?"

"You may have frightened her...and made her cry too" Arthur added hastily, "but at least you didn't come across as weird. You didn't look like a stalker. You didn't, did you Skip?"

Martin banged his head against the wall in frustration, screwing his eyes shut and letting out a long, low moan. Douglas struggled to restrain his laughter.

"Oh. Well, that is quite bad, then."

"Isn't it just?"

"Shut up, Douglas!"