Sherlock Holmes arrived at the airfield in Fitton with John. He really hated that he had to do a job on so little information, but it was Mycroft, and he had a peculiar way of twisting one's arm.

"So why MJN?"

"It's discreet, apparently, though I rather doubt it." Sherlock did not approve of their method of transport, and looking out the window, it was even less encouraging as their airplane loomed into view.

"Look on the bright side," John said. "Can't be worse than an Army transport plane."

Sherlock didn't look so sure of that.

"Ooh, look, here they come," bubbled Arthur Shappey. "Wonder what they're like this time!"

His mother, Carolyn, sighed. "Rich and unfussy, I hope."

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and pulled his coat around him. He was most displeased with the aircraft he was going to be flying in, but he trusted Mycroft's judgment. After all, if there was one thing the elder Holmes could do, it was be overprotective.

"Welcome to MJN Air," Arthur proclaimed loudly. "It is our pleasure to be transporting you to the destination to which your ticket has promised you're to be transported to today."

Sherlock could see that this was going to be a very long trip.

Bing-bong.

"This is your captain speaking. On behalf of us all at MJN Air, we'd like to thank you for flying with us and hope you have a wonderful flight."

John looked at Sherlock. "He sounds like you."

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Hope we get there in time."

"If we don't, it's a crime."

"…would you like a lime?"

"What a silly rhyme."

"I…I…" There was a knock on door to the cabin. "Come in, Arthur," Martin Crieff said, relieved that the game which he was losing at was interrupted.

"Hey, Skip! What game is it this time?"

"Rhymes," said Douglas Richardson.

"Oh, cool, what have you got?"

"Time, crime, lime, rhyme."

"Uh…ooh! I know…no I don't." He frowned. "Anyway, I didn't know you had a twin, Skip!"

"What? No, I don't, not unless Mum didn't tell me—why?"

"Our passenger looks just like you. Well, he's a bit taller and his hair's a bit darker—quite a bit, actually, now that I come to think about it—but other than that you're the same! And you're even identical!"

Both Douglas and Martin decided to let that particular misphrasing slip. "Can it be that there is someone else in the world graced with our captain's good looks, rapier wit, and singular charm?" asked Douglas acidly. "I don't know if I could stand the thought of it!" Martin glared.

"Let's just get back to flying the plane, shall we?"

John realized he had no idea where they were going. Mycroft hadn't given them any information beyond the fact that their plane was leaving from Fitton, and that they'd be out of London for several days. Sherlock was staring out the window, probably trying to work out where they were, but John just settled into his seat for a nap. The next thing he knew, there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir," said the steward, Arthur. "Would you be so inclined as to incline yourself towards a dinner of your inclination?"

It took John a moment to realize what he was asking. "Um…"

"Chicken or beef?"

"Chicken, please. Thanks."

"My pleasure!" Arthur retreated to the kitchen area. John noticed that Sherlock was in a different seat now, closer to the cabin, as if trying to spy on them. Just then, the face of someone who could almost be Sherlock's identical twin stuck out from behind the curtain.

"Oh, God," the captain whispered. "Oh, God. Oh, God," he said and then the face vanished.

Sherlock sighed the sigh most famous for expressing exasperation. John stared at the door where Martin had vanished through.

"Why," asked Sherlock, "Is everyone suddenly obsessed with me?"

"You look a bit like Martin and it's brilliant. But weird. Like the Beatles. Or those inside out pizzas. Here's your chicken," Arthur added, handing John a plate. "Enjoy your meal!" He tottered off, making the occasional glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock sulked, still staring out the window, while John ate. Midway through the meal, there was a sort of wheezing grunting sound from further back in the plane.

"Um, chaps," said Arthur slowly, "Have we got a new drinks cabinet?"

"What? I don't know, ask Carolyn."

"Oh, right, yeah." Arthur returned to the cabin. "Hey mum," he said, "Have we got a new drinks cabinet?"

"No, of course not. Why?"

"'Cause there's this big blue box in the back of the plane that wasn't there when we started and it's got to hold a lot of drinks."

In the main passenger area, the door to the box opened. A tall, thin man stepped out, wearing a brown suit and white trainers.

"Oh, hullo," he said as he caught John staring. "I'm the Doctor."

Sherlock turned around to look at the newcomer, not sure how there could even be a newcomer as the flight had been in the air for some time.

"Aah, yes," said the Doctor, seeing their confused looks. "I…um…yyyeeeaaahhh." He took a seat.

"I'm John Watson," John decided to say after a bit. "That's Sherlock Holmes."

The strange man's eyes lit up. "Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes."

Bing-bong.

"All passengers are reminded that jumping up and down on a plane in flight is inadvisable at best, so if you could please sit down, that would be lovely."

The Doctor stared at the speaker and then took the seat next to the increasingly reluctant Sherlock. "Aww, this is brilliant!"

"I'm glad you think so," said Sherlock shortly. He gave his best leave-me-alone smile.

"No, really, properly brilliant! I've always wanted to meet you!"

(John was feeling left out again. Sherlock got all the attention.)

"Have you done Norbury yet? What about Milverton?"

Sherlock looked at him cautiously. "Why? Ought I to have done it?"

The Doctor seemed to have made a mistake. "No, no, just…wondering."

"Sorry," piped up John. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm the Doctor!"

"So you've said," shot in Sherlock.

"Yes, but what sort of doctor?"

"Well, all of them. Well, not medicine. Well, not much medicine. Well, not really any." The man grinned.

"What is going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that there's a large blue box in the passenger compartment that wasn't there when we left and we seem to have a stowaway."

Martin turned to face Carolyn. "Well, I don't know how it got there!"

"No," said Douglas. "Martin was too busy ogling the passenger."

"I was not ogling him, Douglas!"

"You saw him and kept repeating 'Oh God'. If that's not ogling, then, pray tell, what actually does the word mean?"

Martin couldn't speak. Even though he was the captain, he often found himself lower on the social ladder than he would have liked. But at least he was still able to overrule Arthur.

"Go and talk to him," Carolyn commanded.

Martin entered the passenger compartment, determined not to react strangely at the near-mirror of himself.

"My God," said John.

"No!" said the Doctor, looking back and forth between Martin and Sherlock with an even larger grin than earlier. Martin flushed, Sherlock sighed, and Arthur stared.

"Brilliant," he said quietly.

"Yes, well, um," began Martin. "There's a bit of a problem, I'm afraid."

"Your impossible telephone police box has added unforeseen weight to the airplane, as have you, and they in their incompetence haven't figured out how to work around that little miscalculation."

Martin stood, a bit shocked. "Yes. Exactly. So if you would be so kind as to remove it from the plane in the same way that you got it in—"

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry," said the Doctor. "Didn't mean to end up here, anyway, was on my way to the Crab Nebula but the TARDIS materialized in the wrong place. Sorry. Nice meeting you all!" So the Doctor returned to the TARDIS, and dematerialized, leaving a rush of air and a grating noise.

The fact that something could do that with no logic at all completely flummoxed everyone in the airplane who'd been there to see (basically everyone but Douglas). Except for Arthur.

"Brilliant!"

The rest of the flight was uneventful, except when they could hear Carolyn shouting at the pilots for some reason (even Sherlock's keen senses couldn't make out what).

"Golf Echo Romeo Tango India requesting permission to land," said Martin in his crispest of voices.

"Roger, Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, you have clearance."

In the passenger compartment, the seat belt signs came on, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the trip was finally coming to a close and he could see what the fuss was all about. The landing was one of the roughest Sherlock had ever been in (not John, of course) and it was highly unpleasant.

Bing-bong.

"This is Captain Crieff reminding all passengers to take their belongings with them as they leave. Thank you!"

They headed to the exit, the only two passengers on a plane. They exchanged looks of "that was rubbish but a bit interesting" and left the plane, Arthur's voice trailing behind them.

"Thank you for flying MJN Air! We hope to have the pleasure of your custom again soon!"

Sherlock rather doubted it.

A large and imposing vehicle came to pick the detective and his friend up. They got inside, no questions asked, and were soon on their way to the crime scene, the strange blue box and the man inside a puzzle to be solved later.