An Unexpected Tailwind
A tailwind is a wind that blows in the direction of travel of an object, while a headwind blows against the direction of travel.
A tailwind increases the object's speed and reduces the time required to reach its destination.
A headwind has the opposite effect.
In aeronautics, a headwind is favorable in takeoffs and landings because an airfoil moving into a headwind is capable of generating greater lift than the same airfoil moving through tranquil air or a tailwind at equal ground speed. As a result, aviators and air traffic controllers commonly choose to take off or land in the direction of a runway that will provide a headwind.
A/N: Martin, being who he is, I thought it appropriate that he would appreciate a tailwind because he seems to have no problem with his takeoffss in the air. And, seriously, I just dragged that metaphor out the back door and hung it over a line to beat it like a dirty rug: let's see if we can get more out of it than dust and pet hair!
Chapter 1: Memories
"Sherlock, why is there no one for me?"
Six-year-old Martin gazes up from beneath long, auburn lashes into his older brother's eyes from where he sits cross-legged on the polished hardwood floor of their shared bedroom. His fingers are tightly clutched around the nose of a stuffed Piper in his lap. His back rests against his bed where the duvet hangs over the side, forgotten after getting out of it this morning. He swipes at his streaming nose then rubs his hand on his too-big blue pajama bottoms. Ten neat little toes poke out beneath them, wiggling in his distress.
Nine-year old Sherlock can never resist those sea-green eyes, even less so when they are full of tears. "Martin, I am here."
Martin's lower lip begins to tremble. "But," Sniff. "Not all the time." He wipes his nose again, this time with the back of his hand, still clutching the little smiling airplane with the other one. "Besides, you have that yellow-haired boy from the playground, Vicky."
"Martin." Sherlock folds himself down so that he can hold his brother by his skinny shoulders. "Victor is just a boy! You're my brother!" Sherlock exclaims, thinking that is an easy enough explanation.
Tears now stream unchecked down his freckly cheeks and he leans in at the same time Sherlock does so that their curly hair—raven and ginger—seems to start on one head and end at the back of the other. Both boys are so wrapped up in each other that neither hears the click of the shutter that comes from beyond the partially open bedroom door.
ooo
Martin holds the photograph of the younger version of himself curled up in his brother's arms between his fingers, gazing at the image as if it were some type of magical thing crafted only to remind him of the difference between himself and his brothers. Somehow, even at such a young age and only dressed in pajama trousers, Sherlock manages to look as regal as he does as an adult. Not that Martin gets to see much of his brother, mostly here and there in the papers or a snippet on the news those few times when he catches a story in passing. He does note that each time he sees the detective that Sherlock looks healthier, heartier and much less wispy than Martin recalls from their youth.
Martin sighs.
In the picture, the navy blue bed clothes that were always in disarray are exactly the way he remembers them, as is the silly grinning Piper in his lap. Tucked into a drawer of his bureau in his attic bedroom is that plush plane, left there to remind him of his dreams whenever he happens across it. The silly thing does more than that, though, it serves to remind him of his first family, the brother that he was taken from against his will; it broke his seven-year old heart and since that time he has rarely been as close to another human being. He understands now that the family was torn apart by greed and lies, but it took years of digging to finally accept that none of it was his fault.
He is on his fifth retake of the grueling test for his pilot's license and this morning was one of those times when he accidentally stumbled upon the toy and the few photographs he has of his first family. Martin chews the end of his pencil and stares out the window, wondering where the brilliant raven-haired boy from the photograph could be now.
Martin fails the test, again, this fifth time, mostly due to his daydreaming than any lack of knowledge on his part. At this point, he could technically be tutoring for this test; it's just his terrible luck, he tells himself. He is nervous, sure, but the nerves do not account for all of it.
Tomorrow is his birthday and he will be thirty years old.
ooo
Martin turns thirty-two the day after he passes the CPL test: it has taken him seven tries, but he's finally done it. In some ways he is thrilled to finally have succeeded, but in other ways it is almost a let-down after all the time and money invested. He celebrates by drinking a six-pack in his room, alone.
Two weeks later, he is hired on as a Captain for a tiny one-jet airline by a formidable woman named Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. He arrives early on the day he starts his new job and meets the rest of the crew: Arthur, Carolyn's son and the airdot steward, and MJN's First Officer, Douglas Richardson.
Several hours later, Martin decides that Douglas is the biggest pain-in-the-arse he has ever met, and that short list includes his eldest half-brother that he has not seen in years as well as his adopted brother, Simon. Simon enjoys picking Martin up and swinging him around like a child, mainly because he is a good foot taller and at least three wider than Martin.
Several more hours later, when they are back at Fitton Airport, Martin is walking towards his tired old van with his exhausted self. In the dying light of day, he notices someone walking beside him and turns his head enough to see Douglas. For a short few moments, their eyes lock and Martin feels all the blood in his body rush to his face. Douglas merely cocks his head inquisitively, nods, and climbs effortlessly behind the wheel of a Lexus. He gives Martin a short wave. Martin returns the gesture. As soon as Douglas' car is no longer in sight, the captain does a face plant against the steering wheel of his old van so hard that the horn blasts through the quiet evening, startling a group of crows as far as the end of the flight line.
Martin's mind is exhausted from the grueling day of worrying that he will be fired any second, but his heart…
Well, his heart is now filled with the smooth sound of Douglas' voice and the searching, questioning look in his brown eyes just now. Martin smacks his forehead on the steering wheel again and fumbles about with the key in the ignition. The decrepit thing finally fires up, but still Martin does not move.
He has a secret now and wonders how long he will be able to hide it.