A/N: An update. An update? AN UPDATE. The, uh, quote this was inspired by was going to be for "An Apple a Day." But then, 3,000 words later, I realized it had to be a one-shot all its own. So, um, yeah. Enjoyandstuff. Just remember this is only a one-shot. ALSO: Say "Hello" to Cabin Pressure! I just finished listening to the second season and OMG. I love it! Anyway, Arthur, Douglas and Martin are in here too. c:
"Good morning, everyone. This is your Captain speaking, just wanted to let everyone know things are perfect and we should be heading out in just a few moments. We thank you for flying with us and hope you enjoy your time in New York."
"New York?" I am completely confused. I booked this flight for a seminar in Berlin months ago. Why am I suddenly being taken to New York? "Excuse me," I get the flight attendants attention. "Did he just say we would be heading to New York?"
"Yes, sir. We are headed to New York." A cheery flight attendant informs me.
"But I booked a flight to Berlin. Why aren't we going to Berlin?"
"Well, I-. Actually, that's a very good question. I mean, I was told we were going to New York. And Captain Crief just said we were going to New York. But if you're trying to get to Berlin, then why-? Hang on, sir. You need to buckle your seatbelt." He points to a light at the front of the plane. "See? The light is on. And there was just a dinging noise, so we're going to be taking off soon."
"But I need to get to Berlin." I try to stress the importance of this flight, but I don't think he really understands. He just messes with his hat and looks around.
"Right, sir. I'll just, um. I'll just pop in and ask the Pilot if we're headed to New York or Berlin."
"Good, thank you." I'm sure it's just a mistake. Pilots can make mistakes. That's probably where he flew last week or something. Yes, he's just mixed up. I rub my temples and hope that will further convince me that I am, in fact, headed for Berlin.
It takes a good five minutes for the flight attendant to return, but when he does he looks flustered.
"The Captain says we're absolutely headed to New York." He relays. "And absolutely not headed to Berlin."
"I paid for a trip to Berlin. Let me talk to the Captain." I'm starting to get angry.
"Sorry, sir. Fasten seat-belts sign is on. You can't leave your seat."
"Then bring him to me."
"But he's flying the plane."
"Oh, for God's sake," somehow my face ended up in my palm. Not sure when that happened. "I'm on the wrong flight. Do you understand? I need to get to Berlin, not New York. I took a Taxi here, confirmed my flight and I don't even know how-." The plane starts to move and I feel this wave of motion sickness sweep over me. I'd forgotten how much I hated flying. "Look, just- please." I'm sure it's impossible to understand me over the mumbling and my hand blocking my mouth.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry, but I need to take my seat too. I'll see what I can do about the Captain after we're in the air."
I want to shout at him that, no, that's not okay. He needs to get the pilot so I can fix whatever has gone awry, but each time I open my mouth I feel like I'm about to vomit. It's more than just the motion sickness; I just don't know what else it could be.
"In the meantime, you're looking a bit green." He stoops so he's face to face with me. "Would you like some biscuits?" I nod a little bit and he's off to grab them, or so I assume. I can't actually see anything through my closed eyelids.
I feel something hit my lap and assume it's the biscuits. "Thanks," I manage to get out.
"I'll tell the Captain you'd like to see him, ok?"
"No, it's fine. I'm headed to New York there's nothing he can do anyway." The turbulence has subsided a bit so I can actually speak.
"Well, I'll just tell him anyway. What's your name, sir?"
"Docto-," there's the turbulence again. I grab the sides of my arm-rest for some reason. It's not like it actually calms me down or anything.
"Well that's a funny name. Docto."
"Doctor Watson." I finish.
"Oh, well, right. Of course your name's not "Docto." That's just silly. Alright, Doctor Watson, I'll tell the Captain what's going on and, er, I'm sure we can sort it out." I know it can't be sorted out, it's much too late.
I'm not sure when or how it happened, but I fell asleep. I woke up to the flight attendant saying, "We really shouldn't wake him, Douglas."
"Oh, nonsense. The man wanted to talk about the flight plan and I'm here to talk."
"But Douglas, he's asleep." The attendant is really trying to whisper, but he's really bad at it.
Then there's a tap on my shoulder and I slowly open my eyes. "Good afternoon, sweetheart. So sorry to bother you, but you sent this man to badger myself and the Pilot and I just wanted to express my gratitude." He takes a long breath in and exhales the words, "thank you."
"Okay, I didn't pay for sarcasm," I begin.
"You also didn't pay for a flight to New York," He adds. I'm expecting him to say more but he doesn't. Somehow those words are enough.
"Yes, I know. Why aren't we headed to Berlin?"
"Because it is impossible for one plane to fly to New York and Berlin at the same time," He smiles and I really want to punch him.
"Yes, see, I knew there was nothing to be done about it. I expect a refund and for this airline to pay my way to Berlin."
"Well, that's as far as I can help."
"You didn't actually help."
"Arthur, can you kindly get your mother?"
"She didn't fly with us today, Douglas, you know that."
"Oh, that's right. There's no one to handle the finances. Good day, sir. And I do hope you enjoy the rest of your flight." He hasn't lost the sarcastic smile as he walks away, hands behind his back.
Well, that was fun. After I see him disappear in to the flight deck, I could swear the turbulence gets worse. I remember the flight attendant brought me some biscuits, so I try to nibble on those. I honestly just feel like I'm going to throw them back up, so I force myself back asleep.
This nap is short lived. Ten minutes later I still haven't actually fallen asleep and the flight attendant is back.
"Sandwich or Salad?" He's got this silver push-cart with one of each. Not a surprise that those are the only meals there, considering I'm the only passenger. That was something I hadn't even noticed before.
"Ugh, neither." I'm pressing my forehead, trying to make this constant headache go away. The man doesn't say anything, so I look up to him.
"But, I mean, you must want something to eat, right?"
"No, I really don't." He looks confused and kind of worried. "What?"
"It's just, I usually get whatever the passenger doesn't, and I don't know which one I want so I was hoping you could help me by taking whichever one I'm not going to eat because that's the one you ordered." It takes my brain a second to realize what he's trying to say, but when I do I decide to throw the poor witless man a bone.
"Alright, I'll take the sandwich."
"Are you sure? Because I've heard that-," oh, he wants the sandwich. Okay, it would've been nice of him to say that from the start.
"Salad, I'll take the salad. Thank you." I put the little tray down and he puts this wilted looking salad with two croutons on it.
"I'm sure you'll love your salad." Then he's wheeling the cart away and, I assume, is starting on his cheese sandwich or whatever it was.
I realize I'm famished. My watch says its 1 p.m. Lunch time. I look at the limp lettuce and bruised tomatoes and decide I might as well go for it.
"Hello, this is your Captain again. I just wanted to let everyone on board know that we'll be arriving in New York in about twenty minutes, and if you look out your window you can see some clouds."
Everyone on board, huh? That's a laugh. I actually chuckle, even though the situation is absurd. Not as absurd as some of the situations I've been in, but I really prefer not to think about those if I can avoid them. And I can. So I will.
Oh, but, jeez. There was that time Sherlock and I chased that thief for about two miles before he tripped outside of a little café where people were eating. He had spaghetti sauce all over his face, and for a second I thought he was seriously injured. When I realized it wasn't blood all over his face I just cracked and laughed uncontrollably. He laughed too, as I checked out his head to make sure there wasn't any blood mixed in.
Shit. Stop. Reminiscing is not okay. It doesn't help me, it doesn't bring him back, and there's no point behind it. I've moved on, and I've gotten married. Sherlock will just have to deal-
No, he won't. Because he's dead. He's actually dead, he's not just pretending and is going to pop around a corner and say "Oh, hi John, surprised to see me, are you? Well, no doubt. I can always rely on you to be wonderfully slow in your deductions. Hungry? There's a little Spanish restaurant just over here, best Empanada's you've ever tasted."
And since that won't happen I can't reply with a, "starving. Let's go." And over dinner I can't ask him how he survived or why he's been missing for three years or tell him that I want to punch him and hug him and never let him leave my sight, and make sure I never see him again. So I need to stop imagining these ridiculous instances where he is alive and just get over it already, even though I'm sure I'm already over it. I got married, how more over it can I get?
I mean, dating was a breeze. She didn't even know a thing about Sherlock, which I wasn't sure was possible, but apparently it is. I haven't actually told her about Sherlock or about his death, so she assumes most of my trauma is from the war. I won't bother telling her-
"Hello, this is your Captain speaking. We are now beginning our descent to New York, so please buckle up again." I check my seat-belt and it's still fastened. Check. "It's been a pleasure being your pilot, and I hope you choose to fly with us again. Please. My job depends on it." Well that's a little weird.
About half an hour later I'm off the plane and headed to the terminal. It's depressing that nobody's there, but nobody was expecting me in New York.
Shit!
I just realized I don't have any American Dollars. I've got a few quid and a decent amount of Euros. Isn't there some kind of exchange place or something? I go to ask somebody who looks like they might work here, but they've got a gadget in their ear and are far too busy to talk to me, obviously.
I mean, I can use my card right? They'll just do all the money transfers and everything back in England. I don't have to worry about it. Do I? Then I find I am completely lost. I keep following the arrows and the lines but nothing is really making any sense. I was following the yellow, but then it leads me to the bathroom so I figured I had the wrong one. I decide to just follow one and hope it leads me somewhere useful.
I continue walking and find the arrow was leading me to baggage claim. There are about five different conveyors that say "London" and I don't know which one I should go to. I'm about to head to one with the smallest crowds when I spot someone holding up a card with my name on it. I walk over to the woman and am met with no accent whatsoever. This is pure English when she starts talking, and I feel so relieved.
"Doctor Watson, I presume? I've orders to take you where you need to go."
"Wait, something's not right here. Whose orders? Where am I going? This isn't-!" Then it dawns on me. This must be Mycroft's doing! I feel so pissed I could just fling him across whatever room I see him in. "Mycroft. Why does he want me in New York?"
"Will you follow me, or will you try and figure out how to exchange your money, Doctor Watson?" She walks the sign over to a garbage can and throws it away. She doesn't walk away and expect me to follow her; she stands there and patiently waits for a response.
Mycroft is the last person I want to see right now. He's also the person I want very much to punch right now. We haven't as much as exchanged glances since the Diogene's Club. We haven't had reason to. Why the hell is he in New York? I remember Sherlo-. Nope, not going there again.
"I'll follow." She leads us out to an area where there are a lot of yellow cabs. She doesn't hail one. Of course she doesn't. A black car pulls up and she opens the door for me to get in. I would insist "ladies first," but this is not a date.
It takes us about an hour to get to wherever it is we're supposed to be going. I know that because of my watch. I'm not tired from the plane ride, but only because it's about fifteen London time. I don't even know what time it is here. I don't especially care.
We finally stop and I get out of the car. I must be asleep, I must be asleep, I must be asleep. I wait to wake up. Because this is just a dream. I'm on the plane, there was no "Hey, we're actually going to New York." I'm headed to Berlin right now. I just fell asleep. I'm asleep.
Then I wake up and I think I must still be dreaming because Sherlock is right there. He's got my legs in his lap and there's something soft under my head.
"I'm so sorry, John." I don't believe him. "I didn't realize you seeing me would cause you to faint." Faint?
I reach my hand up to his face, my thumb brushing his cheekbones. He likes that. Too bad.
I punch him in the jaw and he falls backwards, as he does, my legs are thrown from his lap and, had I been sitting straight, I would have fallen backwards too.
"Sod off, you bastard." I sit up and realize the soft thing under my head is his coat. I pick it up and throw it at his face. He doesn't catch it; he lets it hit him and then stoops down to pick it back up.
"Yes, I'm sure I deserved that."
I stand up and am about to storm off when my knees quit and I'm suddenly sobbing in to my hands. Fuck, why did he have to be alive? I was getting on fine, I know I was. He comes over and awkwardly puts a hand on my shoulder.
I shake it off.
"Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me; you're supposed to be dead." If he can understand my words through this gross sobbing, he ignores me. He wraps me in his jacket and does this weird from-behind hug that makes my crying even worse.
"Please, John. Please forgive me." He says it, and then he repeats it. And then he repeats it. And then he repeats it. All the while I'm saying, "I saw your body. You're supposed to be dead." Over and over, and over, and over. I don't know how long we were there, I only know that I woke up and his head was resting on my shoulder, there was a little bit of drool on his jacket, and it was very dark outside.
I flick Sherlock's forehead so he'll wake up. It doesn't work, but I have something I need to tell him regardless.
"I forgive you."