Note:
After four years of writing and five years of reading Johnlock, I was tired of the "friends-to-lovers" thing. So I've decided to start with an established relationship this time. The fic will not change reality as it was given to us by S4 but will make the best of it (I think).
All my love goes out to my two wonderful betas who have agreed to join me once again, GoSherlocked and Katzedecimal. Thank you so much for all your support and input!
This is a WIP. In the beginning, I will post a new chapter every other week and then do my best to keep up. :-)
"Statistically speaking, right now is the safest time to travel by plane," John says and smiles reassuringly. I cannot help but roll my eyes.
The woman he is smiling at is in her mid-thirties (divorced, no children, rides her horse at least four times a week, likes sailing, used to flying but suddenly scared by last week's plane crash). A damsel in distress, John's Achilles' heel. There are 109 people still waiting in line to check in, 32 of them single straight men. Why does she have to be standing in front of us?
I watch her going from scared to sexually interested in three seconds.
John keeps smiling at her, apparently unaware of the shift in her mood. Time to interfere.
"Yes, don't worry," I chime in with what I hope is a relatively honest looking smile on my face, "The chances of dying in a riding or sailing accident are a lot higher than dying in a plane crash."
She gives me a confused look ("How does he know...") that encourages me to go on, "John, did you pack the stuffed fish we bought for our daughter?"
He grins at me, and there is a giggle bubbling up in his eyes. "Sorry," he says to the woman, "he tends to become a bit jealous from time to time." His eyes shift over to me, "For no reason, by the way"
I get a little kiss on my cheek (which is nice) and John's hand quickly pats my back, only to come to a rest on my hips (which is even nicer. Usually, John is not the one to display his affection in public.)
The woman's sexual interest in John fades instantly. (Ha!) She stammers some kind of "Thank you" and turns away again.
John shakes his head (but in that peculiar way that indicates both annoyance, amusement, and affection at the same time and usually leads to another kiss). I beat him with that kiss and he smiles at me afterwards. His hand remains on my hips.
We have been together now for 18 months and 4 days, and I can barely remember how we survived before, without little kisses in public and heavy sex in private, without feeling warm inside just because a "we" exists.
Before we board the plane, we are searched very thoroughly. (No wonder. Last week's plane crash was caused by a bomb placed underneath one of the seats. Security are at maximum alert.) When we enter the plane it is apparent (to me) that it has been searched for explosives just minutes ago.(The smell of dogs is still present.)
I have mixed feelings about dogs since that night at Musgrave but I am not willing to ponder that for long. The case that has led us to the north of Scotland has been both intriguing and hard to solve. It had taken three days and several brilliant deductions (judging from the look of John's face they have been even beyond my normal kind of brilliance) to find out that the daughter had hired her killer herself, trying to fake her death to escape her boring life but underestimating how stupid it is to hire her mother's jealous ex-lover to execute her plans.
Of course cases like this make you think when you are raising a daughter yourself but a saddle makes such an interesting murder weapon that I could not help being happy throughout the investigation. It had been totally worth flying all the way to Inverness. Rosie had been with the Stamfords for the last four days, and she loves being there (something that happens less and less frequently since we all moved back into Baker Street together). I love her to pieces but having a little break from being fathers was also nice.
"You've got no reason to," John says suddenly while I am sitting down in my seat. He does that from time to time, stating things á propos of nothing, expecting me to easily deduce what he is talking about. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Sometimes (like now) I pretend to be ignorant to make him say things out loud he'd rather left unspoken. (Too many unspoken things between us in the past.)
"No reason to fasten my seat belt?" I ask innocently and continue straight faced, "Well, experts might strongly disagree with you on -"
"Sherlock," he interrupts me with this annoyed-amused affection in his voice. Our eyes meet, and I feel my heart melt a little. It always does that when we look at each other like that. "You've got no reason to be jealous," he elaborates after a few seconds. (And he places his hand on my upper leg and it emanates warmth and strength and I love when he does that.)
I just nod, and he smiles at me. (And I love that he does not need me to answer.)
The start of our flight is as uneventful as can be, and soon the hills of Scotland are hidden underneath the almost ever-present cover of clouds. I can feel people around us relax which is stupid because on flight DF354 the bomb went off shortly before the plane reached its destination. I ponder mentioning that but don't.
After a while the flight attendants start handing out drinks and light food. They are busy, 165 of the 174 seats are taken. (I sit down on the seat next to the aisle (the curse of long legs!) and John next to me. The window seat in our row remains empty. That is good. John likes it better that way, and for some reason I am happy when he is, most of the time.)
I watch a man and a woman sneak to the toilette presumably to have sex there while their partners are having their drinks, unaware of what is going on. It influences my own plans for having sex with John there but to be honest, it is unlikely that he would agree to it anyway. He is kind of shy when it comes to having sex in public places. (A pity.)
I start to pretend reading the forensic magazine I downloaded on my mobile while secretly reading my way through a parents' forum (Rosie has done her best to fulfil all clichés about the "terrible twos" and does not seem to stop now that she has turned three.) John pretends not to notice what I am doing. The people around us settle into their seats and turn their attention to whatever it is they brought along in their hand baggage.
In short, all is peaceful when the loud bang shatters the air.
It is a strange sound (no explosion) with some kind of an echo (coming from outside the plane). The vibration of the plane changes slightly (engine problem?), the orientation of the plane does not (nothing serious, at least not yet). People around us start to murmur (no panic, that's good).
"Look," John says, and gestures towards the window. There it is, plain to see. The left engine of our plane is emanating smoke. It is still running though (judging from the noise and the vibration).
"A plane can easily land on one engine," he says to calm us both down. An obvious fact. Yet, it feels nice to have him say it. I just nod.
The flight attendants do their best to appear calm but it is obvious (to me) that they don't have any idea what is going on. I get one of them ("Mrs. A. McDonelly", hair dyed brown because it turned prematurely grey, two dogs, two lovers, one male one female, studying pharmacy in her free-time, unaware that she is pregnant) to come to us.
"The left engine is smoking," I tell her (politely), "you should inform your captain."
Anne or Amelie or Agneta looks at the window in surprise and nods. "I'll see to it," she says and hurries away. She disappears into the cockpit just when the plane starts shaking. Not a good feeling.
John's face shows the sturdy look it always gets when a crisis is ahead but not there yet. He is determined to face whatever challenge will come our way. "Planes can land on one engine," he repeats but takes my hand and holds it tight. I am not really scared, so it must be to calm down himself.
I press his hand in return and do my best to look unimpressed. "Of course," I say. My voice does not even quaver (that much).
Before I have time to analyse how scared I really am both the noise from the engines and the vibrations change.
"Dear passengers," the voice of the (unconcerned! not scared!) pilot comes through the speakers, "I am sorry for the little inconvenience. One of our engines failed, so we have turned it off. Please be assured that there is no reason to panic. Our plane is capable of landing on one engine and fully under our control. We are just sorry to tell you that we will not make it to London. Instead, we will divert to Leeds airport."
"We need to tell Mike and Stella that we won't pick Rosie up at five then," John says while I am dialling already.
There is only the mail box. I leave a message that our plane has been diverted and that we do not know when we will be able to get Rosie. I do not mention the broken engine.
Then I lean against my seat and wait. For what, I am not sure. One minute goes by. Then another. Then another. Nothing extraordinary happens. My shoulders relax (when did I tense them?).
Next to me, John is already checking flight plans and trains on his mobile. The flight attendants start handing out drinks again. I can feel our plane changing direction, taking a long curve to the left. That must be the diverting course.
I open the parents' page again but my eyes refuse to focus on the letters. Instead, my whole body seems to be scanning the plane for signs of trouble. There is nothing to be found. We are flying steadily again, no sound out of place, no vibration that does not belong here. The crew is calm. Then why am I unable to relax?
I look at John again, and for a moment I wish I could just talk about being scared.
We are not good at talking, me even less than John. I remember his love declaration one and a half years ago. I was at a complete loss of words (me!) so I just püressed my forehead against his and then I kissed him. The first time I really talked to him afterwards was when we were finished shagging each other into the floor. Shagging had been better than talking, more intimate and straight to the point of our feelings. Ever since then, we have simply accepted that talking is not one of our strengths.
Now, with the plane damaged and my stomach doing strange things, I wish I had been more insistent about this talking thing. I mentally write it onto the to-do-list that is hanging at the office of my mind palace.
I am still unable to fully relax.
"What does the forum say?" John asks with an innocent look on his face, "Is her behaviour still normal?"
I cannot help but give him a little half-grin. He only mentions it now because he can feel my tension. Talking about Rosie, no, anything that has to do with Rosie, usually makes me relax.
I recall the posts of countless other parents. "Apparently yes," I tell him. "It looks as if children at the age of three are just as eager to test their boundaries as children at the age of two are." I only partly listen to myself while I quote from some of the more drastic reports. Stomping, screaming and kicking is mentioned a lot, and I watch John nodding in agreement.
It is one of his big worries in life that Rosie after all might have been harmed by her first year. He still regrets giving her away so often after Mary's death, he is scared that he might have damaged the bond between them, scared she might not love him because of that. And it is easy to doubt the love of your child when you are screamed at just for turning off the TV.
We are in the middle of discussing how to deal with the fact that Rosie has started (again) to find out if beating us is really not okay, when another loud bang shakes my newly-regained confidence in the Airbus A 320-200. Almost instantly, the plane lurches high into the air.
"Oh my God," I hear John say. Around us, hell breaks lose. The plane lurches again and again, people are screaming, the flight attendants trying to keep control. John instructs about how to brace for impact and that I need to put on my oxygen mask before I help him with his should he be unconscious already. He is on the edge of panic.
I am not.
We are 27,500 feet up in the air, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop whatever is going to happen now. There is no way out, no trick to escape, no way to outsmart a plane crash. I am absolutely helpless, and without any responsibility to save our lives.
Never before have I felt that calm.
I take John's hand, a gesture that stops his emergency monologue instantly. "She loves you," I tell him, "And so do I."
I watch his face fall. We look at each other for what feels like an eternity. "We will survive this," he says stubbornly.
"Maybe," I concede him that. But maybe not, I think without saying it. I am aware of how high in the air we are, and the sheer distance to the ground makes my stomach jerk.
"If we crash into the ocean, don't inflate your life jacket before you are out of the plane," John continues his monologue, unable to stop. He needs to have control, even if it is just imaginary. There is a silent plea in his eyes, and I nod obediently while the erratic movement of the plane makes my skin to crawl. It feels like we are still lurching about without descending. It cannot have been more than two minutes since the second bang but it feels like an eternity.
For some reason I wish the plane would finally start to speed towards the ground.
One of the flight attendants (Amy or Amanda or Annabelle) tries to give us instructions while the others are strapping themselves into their emergency seats. I can barely hear her over the screams around us. John's hand feels warm in mine, strong and steady. I will have to let it go to brace for impact.
The captain's voice sounds shaken when he informs us that we have nearly reached Leeds airport but that we should prepare for a crash landing anyway. No joking. The plane vibrates violently, the remaining engine is howling.
And then it suddenly stops. There is a second of silence. It is a s if all people stop screaming to listen to the engine and hear nothing. Both engines have stopped working now. We are still about 27,000 feet high and both engines have stopped working. I do not see how we can survive.
Then the plane dips. It feels like a roller coaster going over the highest point, and suddenly we are going down so fast that I am pressed into my seat. So this is the end. Should I not be afraid by now?
"Brace for impact, Sherlock!" John shouts but we cannot let go of each other's hands. I hold it for one more second, and one more, and then I break contact. My hand feels cold without his.
High velocity impacts usually make it hard to identify the victims. The fact that John's body and mine might get inseparably scrambled touches my heart. It's poetic, in a cruel way. I look at him one last time, take in all I can. My final gulp of air before drowning. Then I brace for impact.
I close my eyes and my ears take over. It is loud inside the plane now, you can hear the air rushing by outside, and people screaming and screaming, and I am not sure if John says "I love you" or not. There is nothing I can to except hiding my head between my knees and hope for the best.
The velocity is breathtaking. Why are we still falling? How long can it take to crash into the ground? And yet, we are falling and falling. I can hear somebody praying. We are going to die.
I should have called my parents or Mycroft or Mrs Hudson when there was still time. I can feel the speed of the plane in every cell of my body. It is tugging at me, making my skin crawl, hammering against my eardrums. I should have left John at home. The thought of him dying is unbearable. And yet, I am glad to have him here, by my side in my final hour. But that will leave Rosie an orphan, alone in the world. Funny how you can regret and praise one and the same fact at the same time.
We are still falling.
I risk turning my head towards the window. There are some trees rushing by. Funny to see them that at eye level from a plane window. Will Rosie miss us in a few years, or will she barely remember us?
And then we hit the ground, only for a second, and are bounced up again. We are weightless for a moment which feels strangely good. The plane slowly (can't be slowly but feels like it) descends again, and the next ground touching is not soft but brutal. I am pushed against the limits of my straining seat belt, metal screeches, I am thrown back into my seat, the plane still moves forward, there is pain somewhere but I cannot say where and I lose all sense of direction and I need to maintain the emergency position -
And then I am pushed forward again with brutal force. There is an eerie second of silence before my world drowns in blackness.