A/N: So while I should be writing Wholock like I'm supposed to, I ended up writing Cabinlock instead. Whoops. Not that it matters too much, I think? Nearly done with my other Wholock ficlet though, so I guess I'll be getting that up sometime soon. Maybe. If homework lets me take a break, that is. Anyway, I hope you all like this. Comments are appreciated and tend to motivate me to write more faster.
Disclaimer: I do not own Cabin Pressure or Sherlock. The former belongs to John Finnemore, and the latter the BBC.
Three long years he'd been doing this; three grueling years, he'd been a part of this airline—airdot, that is. It had taken him barely months to get himself into order, schooling himself to play the nervous wreck that he called Martin Crieff. It hadn't been too hard (he was a decent actor, after all, and people were so easily fooled) and it had been necessary as a disguise.
Sherlock Holmes was a master of deception, and his earlier stunt three years ago, along with his current appearance, was a testament to that. And now, three bloody years after his "death", Sherlock Holmes was an unpaid captain in MJN Air, with people he had to pretend to even relatively like.
Changing himself for this role had been simple. He cut and dyed his hair, bought clothing a size larger than he actually was, slouched and bent his knees just barely (to make himself seem shorter), forced his voice into a little higher pitch, and wore an expression that looked vulnerable and frightened. Along with the slouch, he seemed unconfident. He'd entered flight school as "Martin Crieff" and took the test for his pilot's license, intentionally failing six out of seven times. Then he'd found MJN and decided it to be the perfect place to hide out. Over the course of time he played Martin, he developed the character's personality more, making him seem more convincing.
He worked for free to avoid detection. Whenever they went somewhere for a flight, it had been Mycroft to arrange it. One by one, Sherlock would take out Moriarty's men, unraveling the web that had been formed. Of course, all of this was done without arousing suspicion. And looking like an unconfident, timid ginger made it easier to seem normal.
Of course, doing this for three years got on one's nerves. Which is why, when doing the job with the van, he dropped the façade and reverted to his usual personality, giving him a break from Martin's.
But he was especially restless. Doing somewhat good deeds and pretending to worry about non-important things got boring fast, and Sherlock was pretty sure he'd gotten rid of the last of Moriarty's cohorts a few flights back. Mycroft had insisted that they wait longer, though.
But it wasn't like his coworkers were any good at being entertaining either—well, maybe with the exception of Arthur on a good day, when Douglas made snarky comments about him, but Sherlock would have rather done so himself. Too bad Martin's personality wouldn't allow it.
He needed a case. He'd done what John would have thought the right thing and stayed away from drugs (not like he could afford them though). But he was restless. He skipped out on sleeping some nights, opting to analyze people on the street if there were any. No one was really interesting though. Sometimes, he went days without eating, ignoring his catered food on flights and earning worried glances from his first officer. He'd even stopped cutting his hair, wanting it to be its original length, though he did take the time to dye it. Sherlock missed his old life dreadfully.
But it must have been luck that sent MJN to Heathrow for a cargo flight, where someone had been murdered and hidden in a hanger shortly after they had landed Gertie. Four serial murders and one note had been Christmas for Sherlock long ago. Right now, one murder was one of the best presents Sherlock could have been given, short of being able to see John again.
Sherlock had insisted on taking a look, and Douglas and Carolyn, after much persuasion on "Martin's" behalf, went with him. Arthur tagged along when they couldn't get him to stay in the airport.
In all honesty, Sherlock was hoping to see at least one familiar face at the crime scene. But it was unfortunate for him, for in place of DI Lestrade was DI Dimmock. Upon seeing the other inspector, Sherlock shrugged off Martin's personality and sauntered over, a light spring to his step. He disregarded the calls of other officers that he wasn't allowed in, due to "Danger of contaminating the evidence". Carolyn and Douglas remained behind the yellow tape, calling after Sherlock to listen to the officers and come back to stand next to them.
"Martin seems very chipper to be here," Carolyn said to Douglas, not bothering to keep her voice lowered. "Martin, get back here! You'll get in trouble!" Sherlock ignored their calls.
Dimmock turned around, raising an eyebrow when Sherlock strolled up to him, hands clasped behind his back, smug look on his face. "Excuse me, Inspector, but would you happen to know the whereabouts of Inspector Lestrade?" he asked.
The man laughed. "Inspector Lestrade? You really need to get with the times, kid. He was relieved of duty three years ago after the Holmes situation. He's gone and in his place is me. About time, too. The Yard needs someone who can solve cases without the help of a lunatic who set it all up anyway," the man spat.
Sherlock glowered at him. "For your information, Inspector," he sneered. "Lestrade was a better man than you'll ever be, and still is, I'm sure. What's he up to now?"
Dimmock glared. "He's made himself a private detective, he has. Gets a lot of cases, surprisingly, even though he allowed that fake to take part in so many at the Yard. The man manages to convince Dr. Watson to join him every once in a while, just to get him out of Baker Street. Poor bloke is depressed."
"Where is he living now?"
"Same place as before," the DI rolled his eyes.
Sherlock nodded. "Right, thank you for the information, Inspector, I think I'll be taking my leave now." Sherlock turned to leave, but then paused, running a calculating gaze over the dead body. "By the way," he started. "The weapon was a wrench. Weapon should be hidden in the cargo hold of the plane over there, though why you didn't search it right away is beyond my comprehension. Victim was a pilot with an attitude. Killer was an engineer. He was killed when the engineer lost sight of his actions and let rage control him, probably. There's bruising from a struggle along the forehead where the dead man was hit by the other's fist.
"Not premeditated, though the engineer had the weapon beforehand. Dried blood that flowed from the temple, so the killing blow was there, and killed him instantly. Engineer is a large man, strong of the arms and chest, seeing as the blow was strong enough to kill in one strike. The wound was administered from above, so the man is taller than the pilot."
Sherlock stopped, glancing over at the speechless DI, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish. "See which engineers knew this man well. Good day, Inspector Dimmock. With any luck, you'll catch him. Without it, well, I suggest you consult a private detective." With that, Sherlock strolled off, substantially happier than he had been in three years.
It felt good to show someone up.
"Martin, what on earth was that about?" Douglas exclaimed as a deep frown set in his face. "You're not normally this confident, nor are you ever that observant. And… did you get taller?"
Sherlock fixed him with an observant gaze. "No, I've always been this height. Now, I have a request. If you don't mind, Carolyn, I'll be the one driving, but I have an old friend to visit. Two, actually." He paused. "I'll be right back though. I need to go change into some other clothing."
Carolyn stared. "Martin, did your voice get deeper, or am I going off the deep end?" she asked, stopping him in his tracks. Arthur gaped at Sherlock.
"Skip, how come you were so confident up there? You're never like that!" Sherlock ignored Arthur.
"It seems Captain Crieff has been hiding his baritone voice from us for whatever reason," Douglas said to no one in particular.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "We'll discuss this later. I need to change. Meet me at your car in fifteen minutes." Sherlock didn't wait for a confirmation, walking off towards Gertie. He still could remember where he'd hidden his clothing from three years ago, coat, scarf, and all. He'd go put that on, then he'd be presentable for his old friends.