Martin Crieff and the lives of other people, a Radio Dramas + Sherlock Crossover fanfic

This is what happens when plot bunnies attack. Especially when that plot bunny is Benedict Cumberbatch in the form of Martin Crieff announcing happily "The Hound... of the Baskerville" (minus the S).

Naturally neither Sherlock, Cabin Pressure nor the connecting person belong to me. (I'd say unfortunately, but that sounds rather crass. You know what I mean)

Anyway, enjoy!

Martin Crieff and the Vaguely interesting lives of other people.

If you were to inquire as to other interests, he would more than likely blush lightly and try to change the subject. He might mumble something about being a delivery man to earn money, but before you could get a chance to pursue conversation he would bombard you with everything there was to know about being a pilot. Or leave. It depended on how pushy you were.

Not once, not a single time, in all of Captain Martin Crieff's life, had he ever considered any other job aside from flying (before he wanted to be a pilot, he had been rather interested in becoming an aeroplane. But in his defense, he had been six, and thus excusable). That is why the bizarre, and rather exciting existence of one Sherlock Holmes was such a large and surprising slap in the face for Captain Martin Crieff.

Martin had barely finished scribbling down the last of his pre flight safety check for Gerti's exterior, and was just planning to go inside for the rest of it when a loud, "Oh Skipper, Skipper! Have you heard who's flying on our aeroplane today? It's absolutely brilliant!" burst out from somewhere across the tarmac.

Martin turned slowly, sighing to himself as the form of Arthur Shappey became larger at a frighteningly quick pace, "Yes Arthur, it just so happens I have read the flight reports already, considering the fact we do take off in an hour." He said, trying to force any condescending tones out of his voice. Arthur meant well, but at times the way his whole disposition radiated joy and naivety drove the rest Gerti's crew up the wall (and usually back down again too, because you'd have to be mad to leave Arthur Shappey alone with Gerti).

"Well isn't it brilliant!"

Martin frowned slightly, "How do you mean?"

Eyes almost glistening, Arthur cried, "Sherlock Holmes, Skipper! He's the World's Best Detective! I read it on a blog about him. He solved that mystery with the really expensive hairpin last month and those murder-suicides too! He's got a website and everything, says he can tell if someone's a pilot by their left thumb! Can you believe that Skipper? Can we get him to inspect yours and Douglas' thumbs? See if he can guess which one of you is the Captain? Wouldn't that be brilliant? Oh gosh I'm so excited, a proper detective like the ones in movies! What if he's solving a Murder? What if this is like one of those James Bond movies and we get to go on a high speed chase with an enemy airplane and they shoot missiles at us and he takes over the plane and we get to go on a proper adventure! Wouldn't that be brilliant Skipper?"

To his utter surprise, Martin found himself slightly at a loss for words, "Arthur," he said carefully, "something tells me it won't be quite so… exciting."

"But wouldn't it be brilliant Skipper? Can you imagine that? A proper adventure!" the younger man cried, throwing his hands elatedly in the air, and skipping up and down for a couple of seconds, leaving Martin completely thrown off by the whole conversation. He frowned slightly, "I thought you thought working for MJN was a proper adventure?"

"Oh it is," said Arthur quickly, "but not a proper, proper, adventure, you know, a really exciting one."

"Oh." Said Martin dumbly, "I see."

Martin Crieff had never heard of Sherlock Holmes. He'd briefly seen articles about the murder-suicides and the missing hairpin, but his interest in the matters was very low. 'Still,' he thought, 'ought to make a good impression.'

As it soon became apparent, the other two members of MJN Airlines were equally as interested in the upcoming trip.

Douglas, because he was anxious (although he would never admit it) to make it clear to the passenger that he was most certainly not 'exchanging' several boxes of the highest quality digestive biscuits to a friend in Minsk in exchange for some fine watercolours another friend – who just so happened to be quite rich – was rather interested in. He also wanted to make it equally clear that said hypothetical digestive biscuits were not being kept in the overhead lockers of every seat, bar the one Sherlock Holmes would be residing in.

Carolyn, on the other hand, was always extremely interested in the content of one's wallet and how she could convince one with a large wallet to favour MJN Airlines until, at least, the wallet had decreased in size. Sherlock Holmes was certainly no exception to this, and so she organised a meeting in the flight deck with Arthur, Douglas and Martin to make it very clear.

"Douglas, don't pretend for an instant your sudden interest in the collection of biscuits is unrelated to this flight. So long as they don't somehow intervene with the trip, which for the saddest of unknown reasons I don't doubt they somehow will, I'll pretend the overwhelming stench of wheat is just Arthur confusing the stale bread with extra insulation," she sighed miserably, "again."

Douglas smirked wryly, "I assure you Carolyn, I haven't the foggiest as to what you mean. But –" he added quickly when Carolyn drew in a breath that could only end in raised voices, "should there be any such biscuits on Gerti, they will not be making any appearances whatsoever."

Satisfied, Carolyn turned on Arthur, who was rocking happily on the balls of his feet and humming to himself. "Arthur –"

"Yes Mum?" he chirped, rocking a little more to emphasize his excitement.

Her lips thinned, and Martin was almost certain a vein in her neck twitched ever so slightly, "… Just, try your best to seem somewhat intelligent."

He grinned brightly, "Okay! Gosh this is so exciting, I can't wait to meet Mr. Holmes do you think he –"

"Yes Arthur, I imagine he does," cut in Douglas quickly. Unable to stifle a snicker, Martin placed a fist over his mouth and tried to cough quietly.

"And you," snapped Carolyn, turning sharply onto him, "Take my advice and let Douglas do everything. I want this whole trip to be as smooth as possible – as ludicrous as it sounds. This man is offering a very large sum for good service and I don't want to miss a penny of it. Is that clear?"

No-one said anything.

"Good," said Carolyn, "It seems you've all gained at least one cell of confidence since our last disastrous trip." She paused for a moment and eyed them pointedly, then turned her attention back to Martin, "I presume everything is fine for take off Martin?"

"Yes," he said slowly, and then a pressing thought came to mind "I mean no. No, everything is not fine Carolyn"

She raised one incredulous eyebrow, "Oh? Why?"

"Well," he began, "we're flying to Minsk,"

Douglas snickered, "Yes, Martin, we are indeed flying to Minsk,"

Ignoring Douglas' unwanted side comment, Martin went on carefully, "via Hong Kong."

"And your problem is?"

He felt irritation give rise to caution, "Minsk, via Hong Kong, Carolyn."

Carolyn sighed irritably, muttering to herself, "It was too good to be true wasn't it?" and then raised her voice to ask, "And what exactly is wrong with Minsk via Hong Kong, Martin?"

"It's ridiculous!" he exclaimed, "We can't fly to Minsk via a country that's almost twelve hours out of the way!"

"Martin," she said slowly, and Martin could feel the alarm bells going off at the edge in her voice, "we have an actual paying customer, who would very much like to go to Minsk via Hong Kong, and I don't think any of us want to lose our first proper customer in months."

"But – but we're not even stopping to rest in Hong Kong!" He pressed, "We're landing for an hour and taking off again! Pilots are supposed to have twelve hours rest between long flights and – "

"Well Martin, as shattered as I am to disappoint you, this customer is paying us a lot of money to go to Minsk via Hong Kong, and I have no desire to lose that money. If you have any more complaints about it, then by all means, do what you like! But you will be, from then on, paying back all our debts."

When Carolyn made a threat like that, she always meant to go through with it. The irritation Martin felt slowly turned back in to caution, "Ah."

Carolyn smiled with quiet triumph, "Any more problems?"

"No Carolyn, none at all."

"Good." She said, "Now all of you get to work," and strode out into the cabin.

"Don't worry Skip, it'll be an adventure!" said Arthur happily, resuming his little tune and rocking on his heels again.

"Yes 'Skip' an adventure," smirked Douglas in a tone so patronising it made all of Martin's irritation come back more exasperated than ever.

"Don't give me that Douglas, this is actually serious," he snapped.

"Well, yes of course it is a pain. But you see, considering the money that will be earned from this, I'm rather inclined to agree with Carolyn."

Perhaps Martin Crieff was having more of an off day than usual, but regardless, he felt pursuing the argument would come to nothing but more unnecessary mockery on Douglas' part. He shrugged dejectedly, and made go and have another pre-flight walk around to calm his nerves.

"Skipper, Skipper, Skipper! Look, look he's here!"

Martin's head snapped away from Gerti's engine abruptly. Arthur was jumping down the stairs from Gerti's cabin two steps at a time, waving his arms about excitedly, "Look skipper! He's come early!"

Sure enough, two men were leaving the terminal and making their way towards Gerti, deep in conversation. They were still quite a distance away, but they were unmistakably not one of the groundsman or other workers and were making a beeline for the plane, suitcase in hand.

The first of the two men was a man of average height, blonde, probably in his thirties or forties, he looked relatively normal, and that was probably why the second stood out so much.

The second man was tall and thin. Not unusually so, he was probably about Martin's height. Dark hair, dark clothes, and pale skin that stood out despite the distance. Martin was fairly sure it was this man that would turn out to be Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh," said Arthur in awe, "that must be John Watson. He's the one who writes the blog Skipper, he must have come to say goodbye."

But Martin wasn't listening any more. He had his brows furrowed in confusion as Sherlock Holmes and the other man – John Watson – drew nearer. Martin felt extremely uneasy for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. A sense of familiarity he didn't quite like, and as the two men approached, the one he assumed to be Sherlock Holmes soon made it horribly apparent what exactly Martin felt uneasy about.

His face. Sherlock Holmes had his face.

Martin felt his legs go strangely weak. The closer they got, the more Martin felt as though he was looking in some sort of warped mirror. Everything about the dark man except his hair was exactly the same as Martin. Height, cheekbones (which he had always been so pleased with), eyes, mouth, everything. Everything.

Martin turned his head to Arthur, who was gazing at the two men with a slightly creased forehead.

"Gosh Skipper," he said quietly, "You didn't say you had a twin."

Martin had to look around for his voice for a moment before he said uncertainly "I… don't."

The two men had finally arrived, and after a few hushed remarks, turned their attention to Martin and Arthur.

The shorter man's eyes widened fractionally when he saw Martin. His eyes flew to his companion for some sort of explanation, "Sherlock –" he began, doubt clearly identifiable in his voice.

Sherlock Holmes' face remained impassive. He seemed entirely unsurprised at the sight of someone who was the spitting image of himself.

"You are the Captain," he said. It was not a question, but Martin felt he was obliged to say something in return. He opened his mouth in response, but found no words would come out.

Panicking, he looked at Arthur for some sort of help. But the steward only stared at the both of them eyes wide in wonder.

"I –" he managed to begin, "I – um –" Sherlock Holmes eyed him expectantly. "I… I'm –"

"Ah, Martin, there you are."

Martin looked up with a rush of relief at the sight of Carolyn making her way down the stairs.

She smiled graciously at Sherlock Holmes, "I see our passenger has arrived," she hesitated at the sight of John Watson, whose eyes were flicking between Sherlock and Martin confusedly, "although, we are only expecting one passenger. I hope nothing has been missed…?"

"Oh no," said John Watson quickly, "I'm only here to see Sherlock off," he chuckled wryly, "make sure he stays out of trouble."

Sherlock huffed, "an unnecessary gesture, I assure you John."

"Better safe than sorry," muttered John with a thin smile.

"Ah," said Carolyn, "now, Martin, Douglas is inspecting the back of the cabin," 'AKA: trying to hide the smell of digestive biscuits,' thought Martin exasperatedly, "and intends to meet you in the flight deck in five minutes."

"Uh – Right," he said weakly, glancing at Sherlock uncertainly. John Watson, seeming to sense his confusion and unease, caught his eye and smiled weakly. He nodded at the man, and tried to leave with as much dignity as possible. The last words he heard as he reached the top of the stairs, was John reminding Sherlock to reply to all his e-mails, seeming to have forgotten the fact Martin was in almost every way an exact replica of his roommate. Casting a backwards glance at Sherlock Holmes, he entered the plane.

Douglas stepped into the flight deck with the air of one who has just had a very, very good idea. He was snickering quietly to himself.

Whatever Douglas was amused about, it couldn't be good news for Martin.

Noticing that Martin was already in the flight deck he eyed him seemingly searching for something in his appearance. Satisfied with what he saw in Martin, he snickered to himself, "I take it Sir has seen our most enigmatic passenger?"

Martin swallowed thickly, "Douglas, I don't…" he trailed off, and turned his hands over in his lap wondering if Sherlock had his hands too. He felt his stomach tighten as though very unpleasant butterflies were trying to get out, "oh god how?"

A look of sympathy briefly crossed Douglas' face and he said, "If I knew, I'd tell you. But here's an idea to cheer you up a bit Martin, this flight's game."

Martin looked up curiously. Not quite curious enough to forget the fact someone else had his face, but curious nevertheless.

Encouraged, Douglas went on, "We pick a word, one we say all the time, and we have to make it all the way to Hong Kong without saying that word or we lose. Should one of us lose, then the victor gets to dare the other to do anything they like."

Martin scoffed quietly, "you know I always lose our games."

"Well of course," said Douglas plainly, "but I was thinking of a word, and it's one that gives us both an equal chance of winning and losing."

"What?"

Douglas smirked, pleased that his distraction from Sherlock Holmes was working, "Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, and Golf Tango India counts too."

Martin looked up, astounded, "Douglas, there's no way we can get all the way to Hong Kong without saying Golf Tango India –"

Douglas grinned, "exactly."

"Is it legal to not say the name of your aeroplane?"

Douglas shrugged, "haven't the foggiest. But we can say things like 'the plane which Douglas Richardson co-pilots' or 'MJN air's only plane' and so on. Sound fair to you Captain?"

Martin hesitated, ever a stickler for the rules, but it seemed fair enough so he agreed to it. Anything for a distraction from the man with his face who was probably sitting in the Cabin right now.

The flight was relatively uneventful. Douglas had manned the takeoff mostly, and had both Martin and Douglas had narrowly avoided saying "Golf Tango India" in turns since takeoff.

Arthur would come in every now and then to excitedly report various things about Sherlock. That 'Sherlock had ordered the chicken', or 'Sherlock didn't eat desert because he was thinking now and digestion slowed him down'. Once he had even come in to excitedly announce that Sherlock was solving a crime, and after several pressing questions from Martin, Carolyn was roused from her beauty sleep to go and deal with Sherlock texting mid-flight.

"He is by far," she had stated angrily, having had to physically take the phone off him until landing, "the most arrogant man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Even more than you Douglas."

"Touché" Douglas had said, giving Martin a sideward glance.

They were now drawing near to Hong Kong, nothing of great interest to Arthur in regards to Sherlock Holmes having occurred in the last two hours or so (he'd ordered some cashew nuts), when Martin decided it was time to notify Hong Kong International Airport of their approach.

"Who's turn is it Douglas?" he asked lightly. So far he'd been quite proud of his aversion to Gerti's full name, but he rather hoped it's was Douglas' turn nonetheless.

Douglas stretched languidly, "I believe it's your turn Martin, ready to face the International airport?"

"Ready as ever," he confirmed with a slight gulp, and buzzed the radio, "Hong Kong International Airport control tower," Said a crackly voice with a rather thick accent.

"Yes hello," said Martin, mustering up all of his confidence, "this is GERTI requesting to land."

There was silence on the other end for a moment before the voice said, "Sorry, I am not aware of any planes going by that name arriving today. Are you requesting an emergency landing?"

"No sorry, I mean this is the plane manned by Captain Martin Crieff," he pressed, admittedly a little nervously.

"What?"

"The only plane in MJN's airline," he went on, the confidence in his voice fading slightly.

The voice seemed to develop and edge to it, "you are going to have to be more specific."

"Um…" he swallowed worriedly, so far they'd gotten through each time using only those three responses, but it evidently meant nothing to the man in the control tower, "The Phonetic Alphabet… A game played with putts," he paused and then said quietly, "putts, putts, putts. The Montague that falls in love with Juliet, a style of dancing with couples, a place where… tea comes from."

"A place where tea comes from? Truly you are on top of your game today," put in Douglas mockingly.

The voice on the other end of the radio was deathly quiet for a moment before it hissed, "I apologise sir. But no planes of the previously mentioned… name are expected. You cannot land."

"But we have to land!" cried Martin, "Oh blast, this is G. T. I…. G. E. R. T. I!"

"Never heard of it," snapped the voice, "you can't land."

"But – but –"

"No buts. I don't have time for trouble today, I have better things to be doing than to be dealing with someone who can't remember the name of their own aircra –"

"GOLF TANGO INDIA," cried Martin, "This is Golf Echo Romeo Tango India requesting to land," he lowered his head, defeated.

The voice fell silent again, and then, "standby Golf Tango India."

Douglas was chuckling to himself.

"Oh shut up Douglas," snapped Martin, "you couldn't have done any better."

"No," he snickered, "I couldn't. It's a good thing I know that Hong Kong International Airport don't take any nonsense whatsoever."

"You…" Martin seethed, "you knew they'd –"

"I thought, considering Sir is by far a greater Pilot than myself, he'd be well aware of this fact. Completely fair I think. So," he grinned, "I win. It's a good thing I've already thought of a fantastic dare."

"Oh no Douglas, you aren't going to –"

Douglas grinned triumphantly, "I dare you to have a conversation with the enigmatic Mr. Holmes during our stopover in Hong Kong."

Martin Began to feel a slight rush of panic, "You wouldn't"

"Oh I would," Douglas smirked, "I really would"

"Please Douglas, I– I– I can't talk to him"

Douglas raised his eyebrows expectantly "And why not?"

Martin hesitated, he hated feeling so utterly foolish every time Douglas got the better of him, "Douglas, he's me. He has my face!"

"Touché."

"Douglas. I'm serious, do you think it's normal for people to share the exact same face? Because if it is it's entirely new to me," he cried, panic well and truly underway.

"Normal, no, but not impossible and certainly not something an esteemed captain should be fretting over." Said Douglas smoothly. Martin had a sneaking suspicion this had probably been his plan all along.

"Douglas!"

"Or is it," began Douglas wryly "that Sir is afraid his 'twin' is a thousand times more impressive than himself? Because that I can understand."

"What?" said Martin very much alarmed, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, forgive my up front approach Sir, but our client appears to be an adventurous, well-to-do genius, who, if our assumptions are correct, solves murders in his spare time, and is never wrong. While you are a slightly unconventional, unpaid Captain who has admitted to only barely qualifying as a pilot, is almost always wrong about something and as I believe your only other goal in life was to be an aeroplane – "

"Hitting a bit low aren't you?" Martin frowned into his lap.

"Oh am I?" gasped Douglas mockingly, "A thousand apologies Sir. Perhaps Sir would prefer it if I changed the dare."

Martin looked up, "Would you?"

"Oh yes, if Sir does not wish to speak to the mysterious Mr. Holmes, then perhaps Sir would like to forfeit his position as Captain to myself for a month."

Horrified at even the thought of giving up his beloved position and breaking the law in one go, Martin opened mouth to say something vaguely along the lines of 'Douglas that's illegal! You'd never get away with it even if I agreed.' But a thousand different sneering responses on Douglas' part assaulted his mind all at once, and he decided he was much too tired to bother pursuing an argument he was bound to lose. And at least, Martin reasoned, a conversation with a lookalike man wouldn't last more than five minutes at best.

"…. Fine," said he, appalled at just how small and hesitant his voice sounded, "I'll speak to him."

A report from the radio announced they were clear to land on runway 2-4 with little to no wind in the way.

Martin pursed his lips grimly, "cabin and crew prepare for landing."

The landing had been quite smooth, even Carolyn had commented on how much better he'd done than usual. But he felt so utterly glum he didn't even notice, and when Arthur happily reported that Sherlock Holmes had gone to sit in the waiting lounge Martin had struggled to suppress a moan of despair.

"What's the matter Skipper?" Arthur asked worriedly as they headed to the crew lounge, he couldn't see how someone could be sad when they had the World's Best Detective as their sole passenger.

"Our dear Captain," said Douglas, very pleased with himself, "has agreed to go and have a little heart to heart with our passenger."

Despite the fact Carolyn was walking ahead of them, Martin saw her ears prick up, and unable to stop himself, he put his head in his hands and moaned miserably.

"Well," said Carolyn suddenly, with the air of a child (or perhaps Arthur, to be more accurate) who's just been told Christmas will be happening twice a year, "why are we not going to the waiting lounge? Martin has an appointment to keep."

With a cry of alarm, Martin found Douglas gripping his right arm, Carolyn his left and the two of them frogmarched him all the way to the waiting terminal where Sherlock Holmes resided. Arthur skipping and chattering excitedly the whole way.

"No!" he cried, when they had rounded a corner and spotted the detective – who was again in possession of his phone – texting away in one of the rows of waiting lounge four, "No, I won't do it! You can't make me!"

"But why not Skipper? Wouldn't it be fun?" inquired Arthur, still very confused as to why Martin didn't seem to like Sherlock Holmes in the slightest.

"I think you'll find Arthur, that Martin is rather afraid of the idea that the World's Greatest Detective has his face," explained Douglas, reveling in Martin's despair.

"I'm not afraid!" he cried, "I'm just… surprised."

"Surprised." deadpanned Carolyn

"Y- Yes."

"I'm sure."

He blushed lightly, "I'm not afraid! Why would I be afraid? There's nothing to be afraid of."

Carolyn's lips twitched slightly, she raised and eyebrow and said, "well, if you aren't afraid, then it is your duty to fulfill your promise to Douglas as captain. You are captain after all."

"Oh yes," put in Douglas, "a captain would never be phased by someone just because they have a similar appearance."

"Wouldn't they?" asked Arthur curiously.

"No, they wouldn't. Unless you'd like to go ahead with my alternative Martin?"

Feeling very cornered, Martin realized he was very much caught between a rock and a hard place, and there wasn't much point of trying to get out.

"Well?" pressed Douglas.

It was final, Martin puffed up his chest haughtily, "very well," he said, turning away from the smirks of Carolyn and Douglas, "we'll see just how professional this Sherlock Holmes is," and promptly began to march toward him.

As Martin approached however, he began to feel his courage waver ever so slightly. He could almost feel Sherlock Holmes radiating with confidence, or was it arrogance? Martin couldn't really tell, he wanted it to be arrogance because that would make Sherlock Holmes a lesser person morally than he was, and he was fairly certain it was arrogance, which made him feel a little better. But he also reasoned that Sherlock Holmes was too successful and admired to be arrogant, and that left Martin feeling strangely hollow.

He wondered if perhaps he still had time to wander off to the side quickly, forget about Sherlock Holmes and tolerate Douglas being captain for a month. But he had no more time to muse over other options, as he realized, with a pang of dread, he was too close to back off now.

"You've been dared –," said Martin's lookalike with a bored sort of drawn out sigh as his hands flew across his mobile phone's keypad, "by your colleagues to come over and have a conversation with me in which at least one of them hopes you will embarrass yourself dismally. However you don't seem very happy about, so something more valuable than your self-esteem is on the line. Probably your job, correct?"

Martin blanched, utterly thrown off, and suddenly unable to find his voice, "Err, yes. How could you tell?"

Without even batting an eyelid, Sherlock Holmes replied with a swift, "all three of your colleagues are hiding – very poorly I might add - behind that café bar to your right, two of them appear to be enjoying your obvious embarrassment so they probably dared you in hopes of putting you to shame. But then why would you go? Clearly not for enjoyment, so something else must have been thrown into the mix to convince you. You're young, younger than myself – that much is clear from your flight school,"

"My flight school?"

"Yes, most students finish flight school in their mid to late twenties, and work their way up to being a pilot by their forties, and yet here you are. No matter your age, you're too young to be a normal captain, so either you're brilliant or an utter failure given a fluke opportunity to be captain, going by your manner and disposition I'd say failure – no," he added, as Martin made a small noise of protest, "don't be like that, it's obviously the truth.

'Your steward says you've been flying with MJN for a year and a half, presumably if you're a failure you'd have gotten out of flight school as quickly as possible and would have been jobless for a year or two – that puts your age a about thirty one. So why are you suddenly captain? Well, this 'airline' is clearly in debt – the service is testimony to that, and two of your colleagues seem to enjoy embarrassing you as much as possible. If you're a failure why did you pursue this job? That's simple, you must love flying, you'd do anything to be a captain.

'So, a tiny, in debt airline offers you a job and Mrs. Knapp Shappey sees an opportunity, a young desperate man who would do anything to be a captain, anything at all, even do it without payment. It's a win-win situation, only you're obviously not very good at what you do, your co-pilot based upon his age is probably far more experienced, he's probably only co-pilot because you got captain without salary, thus he'd want your job. Put you in a position where it's either your job a couple of laughs seeing you and myself. However you two seem to get along well enough, so it's probably only based upon something petty – say, a dare – and then he convinced Carolyn to go along with it. Making it serious. Talk to me or lose your position as captain for as much time as a petty dare would allow without seeming unfair, probably a month.

'Now the only question left is how do you earn your salary? Well, that's easy, the calluses on your hands say 'tradesman' and your posture and the way you hold your fingers says 'delivery service'. There you go, dared by your colleagues to talk to your uncanny lookalike, or lose your job." And then, with a small 'beep!' sent his text, and immediately began typing another.

"Oh," the word tasted bitter on Martin's tongue and sounded astoundingly stupid in his ears, but it seemed as though every word he had ever learnt had packed up and left with the intention of never returning. He felt sick.

Sherlock Holmes looked up briefly, with a half searching, half appalled at Martin's apparent immediate stupidity, look that made Martin's heart leap into his throat. 'Even his eyes are the exact same colour as mine' he thought miserably, and then blinking rapidly, stuttered out a meek "p-p-pardon?" as he realized Sherlock had been asking him a question.

Sherlock sighed contemptuously, "I said, 'what do you want to talk about?' considering the fact your colleagues will obviously give you hell unless you sit down and we tolerate each other for another fifteen to twenty minutes."

"Oh," said Martin again, feeling very miserable about the whole thing. He sat down on the seat next to the seat opposite Sherlock – he told himself it wasn't because he was unnerved or anything, but because he didn't want to invade the man's personal space.

"So…" he began, and then realized Sherlock's attention seemed to be entirely on his phone, so he trailed off awkwardly.

"So?" repeated Sherlock, without looking up. He sounded very uninterested, but all the same, he was responding and that, if nothing else, was a good sign.

"So, this is a little strange, isn't it?" said Martin, he laughed nervously, and realizing that it wasn't making him feel any better, stopped and tried to shrug in a semi-confident manner.

"Not really," sighed Sherlock, he pressed a few more buttons and then, seeming satisfied pocketed the phone and met Martin's eyes, "ethnicity, genetics, relations, any of them combined could result in similar appearances. Exact resemblance is improbable, but not entirely unlikely."

Martin was almost about to say 'oh,' once more, but he quickly saved himself by recalling something Arthur had mentioned earlier, "Ah," he said plainly, "I see. Now, I've heard you, uh, can tell a pilot by his right thumb –"

"Left thumb," interrupted Sherlock.

"Pardon?"

"I can identify an airline pilot by his left thumb. Type of callous gained by use of joysticks and certain types of buttons only found on commercial planes." he gestured nonchalantly for Martin to pass over his hand.

He did so, tentatively, and shuddered a bit when the other man's fingers brushed over his hand, "there," He said pointing to a tiny mark and then allowing Martin his hand again, "you hold your thumb in a slightly bent manner also. Another dead giveaway. Honestly, how do you people not notice it?"

Martin flushed, suddenly feeling very, very stupid and rather wish that the sharp, enigmatic, man who was all Martin could never even dream of being, would simply vanish in a puff of smoke and Martin could wake up back in his dreary, unimpressive flat and go about his dreary, unimpressive, second-rate life with no second-thoughts whatsoever.

Sherlock Holmes raised one eyebrow in an elegant manner that Martin knew he could never even begin to replicate despite it being almost the exact same left eyebrow that adorned his own face. An all-knowing expression had made its way onto Sherlock's all too familiar face. He said nothing, but Martin had a sneaking suspicion he was well aware and maybe even pleased by Martin's feelings of utter inadequacy.

"I – I see," Martin stuttered, "you're definitely a detective then."

The eyebrow lowered itself, and Sherlock sighed, "consulting detective."

"What?"

He sighed again, probably wishing he was somewhere else, "Not a detective, a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, then they come to me. I invented the job, only one in the world."

Martin looked at him with slight admiration, World's Best Detective was one thing, but the way he put it made it seem more believable. "Oh. Must get lonely"

Sherlock shrugged, "I have my flatmate should that be a problem."

"Oh, yes, John, right?"

Sherlock looked him in the eye again, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Yes, John Watson. Extremely brave man."

Martin may not have been all that intelligent, but he knew affection when he saw it. He wondered what it would be like to have a friend like John Watson, to talk to and rely on without being constantly insulted. He almost felt a little sad knowing he'd go back home to a very empty flat, as always. "I guess he'd have to be, living with you."

Martin wondered for a brief moment, if Sherlock Holmes had been about to laugh, but if he had then he had suppressed it with ease and only nodded stiffly and said, "I take it your co-pilot is a smuggler?"

Martin stiffened, "How–? Oh… the smell right?"

"Yes, wheatmeal, cream powder and soda. Things found commonly in digestive biscuits, that and the fact that upon opening one of the overhead lockers to investigate the smell five packets of the stuff fell out. I think I can safely say they weren't the only packets."

"You'd be right…" agreed Martin sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to make some other clever remark about how he was always right, when he stiffened slightly, "duck your head," he hissed.

"What?" whispered Martin in alarm, but he didn't hesitate to duck regardless.

"See that man about twenty feet to your behind you to the right? No! Don't turn your head, just use your eyes. The one with the business suit and the briefcase, of Asian ethnicity? He's part of a criminal gang. The Black Lotus. Quite high up too, he knows I'm supposed to be here and he's been sent to deal with me."

"What!" hissed Martin in sheer panic, eyes flickering nervously between the man with the brief case and Sherlock.

"Oh don't panic. I arranged for them to know I'd be here - kill two birds with one stone on the one trip - but it seems he's arrived earlier than I expected," he paused for a moment, thoughtful, "stand up, look him directly in the eyes but remain impassive, then walk towards the men's bathroom."

"What? No! Why?"

"He'll know my face, but he won't care much for clothing. Undoubtedly he'll follow you, until you go to a quiet place. The bathroom's will be perfect."

Horrified Martin gasped, "But he'll kill me!"

"Just do it!" hissed Sherlock, "You're a captain aren't you?" and then he stood up, facing away from the supposed criminal and sauntered very uncharacteristically towards Carolyn, Douglas and Arthur.

Martin swallowed thickly. What the hell was he supposed to do? He could feel a cold sweat coming over him, and he was trembling slightly. But he knew, although he hated to admit it, that what ever Sherlock's plan was, he was confident enough to put it in Martin's somewhat incompetent hands, and that meant something.

Steadying himself, and taking a long breath he stood. His eyes directly meeting a pair of dark brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stood very still for a couple of seconds, making his presence known to the man, whose mouth opened into a small 'O' of recognition.

Martin then raised an eyebrow in a way he hoped resembled Sherlock's elegant questioning face. He had his doubts, but he was far too much in the thick of it to bother caring much for details. He turned on his heel and took slow, deliberate steps in the direction of the men's bathroom.

'I'm going to die,' he thought to himself, a cold chill on the back of his neck, 'I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.' But he didn't hesitate in his steps even slightly. He could see the man shadowing him from the corner of his eye, but he only looked ahead, and steeled himself for whatever may come.

The door to the men's bathroom now within reach, Martin pushed the door and entered, feel more scared than he had felt in his entire life. He was a pilot, not a detective, he'd never been anything but a pilot and even that was pushing it a bit.

As Sherlock predicted, the bathroom was devoid of any people. 'What do I do now?' thought Martin worriedly, he looked around quickly and leant against the sink, hoping to seem somewhat intimidating if he looked prepared. The marble bench was cool under his hands and calmed his nerves ever so slightly, he heard the door swing, but he didn't look up.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Martin swallowed and kept his face down, 'I'm going to die, I'm going to die' "Yes." He said, in voice far bigger than he felt.

He heard the cold click of metal, "You will trouble the Black Lotus no longer,"

Fear racing through his heart, Martin swung around just in time to see the real Sherlock Holmes burst into the room and throw himself against the criminal.

The man gave a sharp cry and stumbled over, dropping his gun in doing so.

"Get his gun!" cried Sherlock, throwing his fist at the man, who dodged and with a harsh cry kicked Sherlock square in the stomach, winding him quite successfully.

Frozen for an instant, Martin came to his senses and lunged for the gun, only to be met with fist to the face as the man grappled for it also. Blindly he punched the air, and with a shout of triumph his fist connected with the man's right arm with a terrible crunch.

The man gave a horrible scream and cowered back for an instant, giving Martin just enough time to crawl forward and reach out for the weapon. But the man recovered far quicker than Martin hoped he would, shoving Martin roughly out of the way he reached out for the gun with his left hand, only to be foiled again as Sherlock kicked the gun under a stall.

With a rough gasp Martin stood and tried to swing the stall door open, but felt a hand pull sharply at his ankle and tripped over, head colliding painfully with the door.

He sat dazedly for a moment, blinking tears back. He could hear Sherlock grappling with the man and calling out to him, but he couldn't seem to move. His head was spinning and everything seemed to hurt.

"Martin!" he heard Sherlock call, and blinking the tears at bay, saw Sherlock trying desperately to pry a hand off of his throat, he rolled over, striking the side of the man's head, "the gun Martin!"

Coming to his senses Martin reached out with shaky hands, and with a shout of triumph his hands closed around the weapon.

Quickly he pointed it at the man, who had Sherlock pinned down and was attempting to punch him only to be foiled again and again by Sherlock's quick reactions.

"Don't move," said Martin, letting an edge come into his voice. His hands were trembling and he had no idea how to use a gun, but he wouldn't let any criminal ever know that.

The man froze, putting his hands in the air.

"Stand up and step away from Mr. Holmes."

He did so, with a slight gasp as his looked from Sherlock to Martin and back again.

Sherlock stood also, brushing himself down and giving Martin as close to a look of thanks as Sherlock Holmes could give. Just as he stood, Douglas and Arthur burst into the room with cries of "stand back!" and, "isn't this brilliant?!" armed seemingly with a fire hydrant and Carolyn's handbag.

"Douglas," panted Martin, sorely tempted to bend over and gasp for breath, but rather occupied with a gun and a criminal, "I think you'd better call security."

Martin Crieff was almost disappointed when the trip to Minsk was not nearly half as exciting as the one to Hong Kong had been. Still, Sherlock had safely arrived in Minsk for whatever adventure he had next, Carolyn had gotten her money, Arthur was Arthur, and Douglas had safely delivered his massive supply of digestive biscuits to his 'friend' and was now stocked up on his so very important watercolours for the trip back.

Martin hadn't really seen Sherlock since their little adventure, he'd almost hoped that he'd get to have at least one more conversation with the man, but to no avail it seemed, especially as Sherlock would be flying back with another airline. (For security reasons, Carolyn had explained, but Martin had a feeling 'security' could be accurately translated into 'to avoid having to fly on MJN air again'). In fact, he'd probably never see the man that look and sounded exactly like him ever again.

Douglas had been rather polite to him since Hong Kong, Carolyn too, although not nearly as much. Arthur was, well, Arthur, so nothing of great interest changed there.

It was probable that as soon as they were given another trip the whole thing would be forgotten. But Martin figured should he ever feel second rate to Douglas or Carolyn again he now had a very good story up his sleeve.

If you were to ask one Martin Crieff what his hobbies were, he would probably puff out his chest proudly and tell you his sole interest was flying, and that he just so happened to be an airline Captain. He also might mention the day he happened to save the life of the World's Greatest Detective.

Depending on how pushy you were, that is.

Et Finis!

I've not much more to say about this, it was incredibly fun to write though, and a brilliant excuse to have a Cabin Pressure/Sherlock Marathon in succession.

Critique and reviews are welcome.
(I can be a bit shy sometimes (social anxiety on the internet. Whelp), but even if I don't reply - which I usually do - I read, take into account, and appreciate every single one.)