Chapter One

"Fuck. No." Doctor Gregory House's eyebrows threaten to jump into his receding hairline and the blue rubber ball he has just thrown bounces off the corner of his glass-topped desk and rolls across the floor to be stopped beneath the thin sole of a bespoke black leather dress shoe (UK size 12.) Long, well-made fingers pick it up and enclose it in a large fist.

"Wilson. No. I cannot work with this man."

Doctor James Wilson turns to face the newcomers with the fresh cup of coffee he has just poured held in front of his chest like a half-assed shield. Actually, considering who their visitors are, maybe he should be thinking half-arsed. He gives the couple a wry smile then sets the coffee down in front of House and flicks the sitting man's ear with two fingers.

"Shut up, House." Wilson steps closer to the door, completely ignoring the older man sticking his tongue out at his back. He holds out a hand in the direction of both gentlemen. The shorter of the two takes it and gives it a firm, sturdy shake.

"John Watson." John smiles.

"James Wilson." James nods and offers his hand to the taller man.

Who looks down his nose at it and actually sniffs. "It's Doctor Watson."

Oh boy. Wilson holds up his hands. "Oh! I'm sorry Doctor Watson, I didn't…"

"It's fine," John tells him with a pat on the arm. "The princess is in a snit." John looks up at the raven-curled man standing at his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. "The princess here is Sherlock Holmes."

Wilson's eyes light up in recognition. He turns to look at House over his shoulder, then back to Sherlock. "Ah." Apparently, that's the best he can do under the circumstances.

"John," Sherlock drawls as he floats into the office, perching on the edge of House's desk.

(Did I mention that the desk is glass? Ok, just making sure you were paying attention.)

"I don't understand why you keep calling me by that preposterous name. The little girl on the aeroplane was just…" Sherlock begins as all the eyes in the room turn towards him.

Except for House's. He is staring at the posh arse planted on his shiny desk. Which of course, John notices. John clears his throat. House frowns and just looks tired.

"Can it, Princess." John says as he finds himself a seat at the conference table in the corner. He chuckles when Sherlock shoots him the evil eye.

"Why the hell are you two here, anyway? I remember saying something along the lines of 'let's never do this again' the last time we had to deal with you two.*

(Me again. Sorry, if you are interested in that part of the story, read The Adventure of the Three Geniuses. I'll wait.)

….

….

(Ok, caught up now? Let's continue, these four men are getting a bit restless…)

John is still relaxing at the conference table, Wilson in the chair at the head of it. He decided that whatever was going to happen next in this office was going to be too good to miss, so he made two more cups of coffee, passed one to John and planted himself in a prime spectator seat. House is still at his desk (so you really haven't missed much, and watching Wilson make coffee is , in a word, dull) and a certain World's Only (ha!) Consulting Detective is still perched on said desk, long legs crossed in front of him, posh bespoke shoes daintily tucked beneath his knees.

Wilson is faintly amused at how someone so long can fold up like that.

John is holding back a case of the giggles that he is eventually going to blame on jet lag. Especially because he can't decide whether to call Sherlock a Princess or a Pasha at this point.

House is wondering how many ball-point pens he can stick into Sherlock's crazy hair before the detective will notice.

For all that, Sherlock is still talking.

(Like you thought I was going to surprise you.)

John doesn't need the story repeated, frankly, because he was there, but it has something to do with the people on the plane in front of them; an older man and a girl about seven years old. When the man left his seat to use the lavatory, the little girl finished off the man's tiny bottle of whatever-the-hell-kind-of-whiskey-they-serve-these-days-on-cheap-flights-to-America-because-Sherlock-was-being-pigheaded-and-didn't-want-to-go-anyway…

(Narrator clears her throat.)

(I'm sure you are all thinking that this would be the perfect place to put a nod to Cabin Pressure...)

Anyway! It all boils down to a half-way tipsy seven-year-old girl and the Disney version of Snow White that happened to be the on-board movie that day.

John is probably going to laugh about that for an incredibly long time.

(Cue the closing credits music to whichever show you prefer. You know, like all the Hogwart's students singing the school song to different melodies and then it gets stretched out and finally ends with the Weasely twins singing a funeral march. You know!)

(Alright folks, we are gearing up for some more insanity. You probably have other things to do now-you know like get back to watching Sherlock Season 3 for the fifth…oh hell, who are we kidding? Tenth time. Right? See you in a few days!)

Chapter Two

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes, of that there can be no doubt. If the matching molecule tattoos on their hands don't give it away, nor the soppy way John still looks at the detective, then you must be dead. Alright?

So, sometimes, if John lets his favorite mad scientist mutter to himself as he goes about his day (whether experimenting in the kitchen or snuffling against John's neck when they are...)

(I digress.)

Let's just agree that sometimes John Watson just lets Sherlock Holmes talk because he likes to hear his voice. Not to mention, most people are pretty sure Sherlock likes to hear Sherlock's voice as well. Sherlock makes fun of John and John's blog (which is all about Sherlock) but John's pretty sure Sherlock reads it for more than picking out the grammatical errors. The man probably hears his own voice in John's words.

Here in this state-of-the-art office in the big hospital in a little state (called New Jersey). Our two Boswells (seriously? You don't get that? And you call yourself a fan!) are happily sipping coffee and watching their respective geniuses. Watson is perfectly accustomed to his genius's brand of 'normal,' though he has to admit, it's always entertaining to see someone else's.

Sherlock finally stops talking and oozes off House's desk.

(Yes, oozes. Watch our Sherlock pour himself on and off furniture…it's highly entertaining. Makes you wonder if Ben does that at home in RL…now that would be highly entertaining in and of itself. Hugh could do some impressions of him during a stand-up routine…)

(Did I lose my place again?)

(Fine. Back to the story.)

Sherlock finally shuts his pretty mouth and oozes off the desk. House goes out of his way to open one of the drawers and take out an entire roll of paper towels. He pulls off about fifteen of them then makes a big show of wiping off the desk.

With a dry paper towel.

Wilson snorts. John suppresses a giggle. Sherlock spins around on the spot as if he has just realized what's happening. He chooses to ignore it all, however, because there is a very tall bookcase packed with medical tomes behind Wilson. Sherlock reaches up and grabs about ten of them in one of his big paws…

(What now? Jeez. Fine. When Sherlock starts taking books off the shelf in the library in the Blind Banker, you can't even tell me you didn't go holy shit when you realized how many hardbacks fit in his hand. So shut up and let me tell this story.)

(We good? Not trying to me nasty. Just wanna, you know…get on with it.)

Sherlock pulls three or four (you happy now?) books off the shelf and drops to the floor. In an instant, he's got one open over his crossed legs. Now all John can see from his end of the table is a crazy mass of black curls and that single little patch of silver that he has completely not mentioned to his love. Sherlock already complains about the ones that occasionally dare to grow at his temples.

Besides, John likes them.

At his desk, House has turned towards the computer and is rapidly typing something into a search bar. Wilson and Watson can both see the video from their places at the table. John shrugs and turns towards Wilson, Wilson shakes his head and turns his eyes towards the ceiling.

"So, apparently, they are just going to ignore each other?" James asks.

"Trust me. It's probably better this way." John answers, draining his coffee.

"Need another?" Wilson makes to stand but John shakes his head.

"No, but thank you."

The four men are silent for a few moments, which considering who two of them are, is quite an accomplishment.

(Nothing goes wrong on planet Earth for that time. There's no earthquakes, no tsunamis, no freak storms, nothing.)

"So, what are you two doing here?" Wilson queries.

"Well, we got a call two days ago from the British Government," John frowns when Sherlock does a loud, dramatic stage-snort. (Louder than a stage-whisper if you must know.) "Anyway, apparently this is a missing-person case, but I'm a little stymied as to why we needed to come all the way here to solve it. Sherlock often does these flat on his back on the couch at home."

"Wow." James whistles lowly. "This must be big, then."

"Honestly, we don't know. In fact, that's why we ended up on a passenger airline in the first place. Apparently, Sherlock and his brother are in the middle of some new feud and Sherlock refused the charter jet we were supposed to be on…well, you've already heard that story." He smiles.

"So, then, I gather the British Government and Sherlock's brother are one in the same?"

"Got it in one." John says, touching the side of his nose with his finger. He studies his husband for a moment, noticing how Sherlock's face seems to be unnaturally close to the pages of the book he's holding.

"Oi!" John calls out.

Sherlock gives no indication he's heard.

"Yo! Sherlock!"

Sherlock gives no indication he's heard.

John stands up and goes around to where Sherlock is sitting. He pokes him on the shoulder. Sherlock finally looks up, his eyes practically crossing from the effort. John sighs and pulls a neat leather case of out of the pocket of his light-blue shirt. He holds the case out for Sherlock who reaches into it with two fingers and withdraws a neat pair of frameless eyeglasses.

Sherlock settles them on his face with a nose crinkle and goes back to his reading. John lets out another sigh as he pops the case back into his pocket.

"He's going to be awhile." John gives Sherlock a fond look before turning towards Doctor Wilson. "And who knows how long it's going to be before whoever else is supposed to show up actually does." John gestures around the room.

"Oh god, there's going to be more?" House mutters from his desk. He's got his head cocked at an angle while some ginormous-breasted woman on the monitor is doing something unspeakable to a donkey and a banana.

"That's disgusting." Wilson says. "John, would you like a tour of the hospital?"

"Absolutely." John agrees. He pats Sherlock's shoulder and follows Wilson from the office, secretly hoping that House and Sherlock do not suddenly begin World War Three in the meantime.