A/N: Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover. Set post-Reichenbach. (I really just want to work with John and Martin, so forgive me for writing OOC for Douglas, Arthur, and Carolyn. I haven't gotten the hang of them just yet.) Please tell me what I've screwed up, because I probably have. But if you're adventurous, give it a read.
Martin should have known from the moment that he took his seat that he would not be well enough to fly. But being as stubborn as he was, he had trudged ahead anyway, disregarding the incessant fluttering of his heart and the discomfort that it brought along. As soon as he'd taken GERTI up into the air, however, the palpitations ceased, and Martin began to relax. He and Douglas had just taken up another game of "Book Titles That Sound More Interesting With The Final Letter Knocked Off" when it returned. Martin forced himself to cough, knowing that it usually alleviated his symptoms for short periods of time. Much to his dismay, it did nothing.
He had suffered from a somewhat irregular heartbeat for as long as he could remember. Of course, he never had enough money to take himself to a doctor and be properly diagnosed, so he'd settled for dealing with it himself. And by dealing with it, he meant ignoring it. The palpitations came and went, and weren't often cause for concern. He was really only frightened when the irregularity came along with bouts of dizziness. Knowing how sensitive his inner-ear was, the wrong movement could easily lead to blackout. But he managed. No need to alarm anyone at MJN.
Douglas might have offered some sarcastic remark or the other, but Martin was unable to hear it over the pounding of his heart. That happened sometimes as well. He sighed. Either his heart beat too quickly, too slowly, or too loudly. There never was a middle ground, was there?
"Martin?' he heard finally. Douglas was peering at him, concerned, sarcasm strangely absent from his voice. "You look a bit peaky." Martin cleared his throat and removed his hands from the controls, turning to look at his first officer.
"Yes, well-" He stopped and closed his eyes, realizing that he'd turned too quickly. Seconds later, the dizziness set in as his heart beat frantically against his rib cage. Yes, he had experienced these symptoms before, but this time...This time, a new terror seized him, and he was left absolutely breathless. Martin honestly felt as though he was going to die. He stood, just for a moment, before he was enveloped in the familiar embrace of darkness.
"Hello ladies and gentlemen, this is first officer Douglas speaking. If there happens to be a doctor on board, and I know for a fact that there is, would he please care to join me in the galley? Thank you." John Watson, previously bleary-eyed and near sleep, sat up and gave himself a proper mental shake.
"Did they call for a doctor?" he inquired, rubbing at his eyes. The woman in the seat beside him nodded, and up he got. Slowly. He hadn't had much energy since Sherlock...But he wouldn't let himself think of that now. Someone needed his assistance. The only steward he'd seen had disappeared into the galley, so John followed his lead, uncomfortably conscious of looks that he was receiving. The whispering about the cab increased as he pushed through the curtain and stumbled into the galley. It looked as if he'd found his way into some sort of meeting, as the first officer and a woman were deep into conversation, and the steward stood nearby, biting his nails.
"Right, sorry to interrupt," John began, clearing his throat nervously, "But I believe you asked for a doctor?" He was regarded in cool silence for a moment before anyone spoke.
"Come on, then," the woman said, leading him forward. The closer they got to the cockpit, the more nervous John became. Surely it wasn't the pilot? But when they arrived, sure enough, it was the pilot; he could see the uniform and cap from where he stood. He became panicky.
"Who, exactly, is flying the plane?" he asked, looking around.
"Never mind that and come see to him," the first officer snapped, obviously flustered.
"Right," John muttered, making his way over to the supine figure lying crumpled on the ground. When he saw the Captain's face, he could have sworn that his heart stopped for just a minute. He had to remind himself to breathe.
"What," he began shakily, "Is this man's name?"
"Well, that's Skip-I mean, well, I just call him Skip, his name is-"
"His name," the woman interrupted smoothly, "Is Martin Crieff."
"Captain," Douglas added involuntarily. John bit his lip. It was Sherlock. It had to be. The curve of his face, the lean, lanky body, the hands...It had to be Sherlock. But at the same time, it wasn't. It couldn't have been. He'd seen Sherlock jump. He'd seen him die. This is not, he told himself, Sherlock Holmes. John shook his head, forcing himself to think other thoughts. He'd worry about it once he figured out what was wrong.
"Can someone..my bag-" John struggled to form coherent sentences. Thankfully, he was understood, and the steward dashed off to find it.
"What happened?" he asked, leaning down to check the pilot's airway and breathing. There was no obstruction in the airway, and his breathing was somewhat slow, which worried him. But he was breathing nonetheless.
"Martin was flying, and he became pale. He stood, and then he collapsed," the first officer said, voice devoid of emotion. John nodded, moving to check pulse.
"Did he hit his head on anything on the way down? Did you move him?" he asked, frowning. His pulse was alarmingly slow as well. John was almost sure that it had skipped a beat or two. He'd know for sure when he got his stethoscope. He generally didn't travel with his bag, but he'd just had the sort of feeling. The save everyone feeling that he'd first experienced when he'd become a doctor.
"He landed on his side, and we moved him onto his back."
"I've got it!" John accepted his bag and pawed through it until he produced a stethoscope. Placing the earpieces in his ears, he worked around the pilot's uniform and thrust the chestpiece under his shirt, also noting that his body temperature was low.
"He's got a heart murmur," he announced to no one in particular, shedding his jacket and wrapping it around the pilot like a blanket.
"Sher-" his voice caught, and he tried again, "Martin. Martin, can you hear me?" There was a tense moment in which no one seemed to breathe, and John hoped that he would wake. He had to have been unconscious for quite some time.
"Martin..." he repeated, softly, "Martin?' And then there it was; the flutter of eyelashes and the small, soft little whimper. It felt as though everyone had begun to breathe regularly again.
"Does anything hurt?" John asked quietly, folding up the stethoscope. For some unknown reason, he looked down just as Martin looked up, and they locked eyes. In that instant, he knew that it wasn't Sherlock. The pilot's eyes, the colour of moonstone...They did not belong to Sherlock Holmes. He might have been able to disguise himself perfectly, but his eyes...Well, there was no disguising them. Sherlock's had always been mad, with just a tinge of fever and concentration. They told a story of pain and misunderstanding, of a past that John had never seen and now never would.
But the pilot's eyes told a different story. They were hurt; wounded and neglected. And proud, incessantly proud, John could very well see that. They were the eyes of a man who had nothing and wanted for everything. They were the eyes of a lonely man. And somewhere, John felt as though they matched his own.