The dark-haired man stalked across the chalky grey pavement, tetchily adjusting his scarf and straightening his long coat around his wiry frame. The livid glint in his eye was thrown into momentary darkness as he passed under the drooping wing of the small aeroplane, and his eyes flickered upward for just enough time to observe how the metal was beginning to corrode in certain especially vital places before returning his attention to his mission.
He strode up to the door of the jet and pounded forcefully on it with his fist, feeling the feeble metal give a little under the strength of his touch, before simply grabbing the handle and yanking the door open. He was never known to be a very patient man, after all.
The man swung himself up into the aeroplane, sweeping through a door into what he immediately identified as the galley. He began making his way to the flight deck when a man suddenly barreled out, stopping dead when he saw the man standing in the galley.
"No…!"he cried dramatically, mouth falling open as he gaped at their guest.
The tall man raised an eyebrow, glancing at the man with the name tag reading "Arthur." "Arthur" was obviously the steward, based on his uniform, but lives with his mother, a fact which is made obvious by the creases left over from recent ironing. Considering the wrinkles on the rest of his uniform, Arthur certainly wouldn't have gone to the trouble to iron then allow wrinkles to appear later, so mother it is.
"I demand to speak to the captain of this plane," he said curtly, sweeping his eyes past the steward and toward the door of the flight deck.
The steward didn't take the blatant hint and move, however. In fact, it seemed as though he had barely heard the tall man speaking at all. He continued to stand directly in the path of the flight deck door, gaping openly at the mysterious visitor for far longer than seemed necessary, before suddenly hollering at the top of his lungs.
"DOUGLAS!"
A tall man with graying hair wearing a pilot's uniform emerged from the flight deck, a smug, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face when he noticed their visitor. The dark-haired man distrusted him already. Before the pilot had a chance to speak, the visitor interjected.
"You're not the captain."
The pilot, Douglas, seemed slightly thrown off by this statement, but didn't reply. The visitor continued speaking, casting his eyes up and down the sturdy form of the pilot.
"You carry yourself like a captain, but your epaulettes suggest the position of first officer. You don't like this, obviously, but you do your best to appear unbothered by it. This, paired with your age, suggests a former captain. But still not the captain of this jet, whom I still insist on speaking to."
Douglas raised an eyebrow, noticeably impressed.
"Captain Crieff is not in any, er, medical state to speak at the moment, so I will be representing this jet on his behalf." Douglas glanced towards the door of the flight deck, which had been left slightly ajar.
"So you were the one flying this jet?"
"Yes, I took control upon Captain Crieff's…injury. Speaking of Captain Crieff, I should probably call a medic for him…"
"No."
Douglas stared at the stranger, obviously offended.
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean that nobody is entering or leaving this jet until I find out a few things. First, I need your phone."
"My…phone,"Douglas sneered.
"Yes, your phone.I need it. Now."
"What for?"
"I need to make a few calls. Four, in fact. Two of them are extremely urgent and can't wait."
Arthur leaned forward and hissed to Douglas.
"Douglas, he looks rather keen…Maybe you should give him your phone?"
"Don't be an idiot, Arthur. Oh, what am I saying? Anyway, just stop talking. I know what I'm doing, and I am not giving him my phone."
A fire flashed in the dark stranger's silver eyes. He reached out a pale, slender hand, palm facing upwards expectantly in front of Douglas.
"Your, phone, please. I. Need. It."
"No."
Douglas was a stubborn man as well, and was not about to let this strange man push him around. Especially when he had just saved his life, for god's sake. Arthur glanced tentatively between Douglas and the stranger, realising that for once, Douglas had a worthy rival for his wit.
"Let's get a few facts cleared up, then maybe I'll let you use my phone. How's that?" Douglas suggested lightly, quite enjoying the way the stranger's jaw clenched and he looked as though he were trying to set Douglas on fire with the heat of his glare.
The dark-haired man still didn't reply, but simply withdrew his hand and shoved it back into his pocket with a graceful and dignified flourish. Douglas's grin widened.
"Very good. Now, first of all, just to clear up a little disagreement between myself and my colleague - that wasn't a suicide mission on your part, was it? You didn't want to die."
The stranger stared at Douglas with only partially concealed shocked silence. This man was clever, much more clever than he would have guessed. But he still didn't understand; he had no idea of the magnitude of the situation.
"I wanted to jump," he said finally. "I needed to end my life."
"But it wasn't suicide. Good, good."
The pilot, Douglas, reminded the stranger uneasily of his brother. Certainly not as cunning and powerful as the older sibling, no, but enough so to trigger immediate distrust. He bit his tongue, holding back his temper. He couldn't take much more of this.
Arthur beamed and clapped his hands wildly.
"Wow, Douglas, you were right! I knew it! You are definitely Sherlock Holmes."
The stranger turned his anger and confusion upon the giddy steward.
"Of course he's not Sherlock Holmes. That's me."
Unfortunately, instead of shutting him up, this only seemed to fuel Arthur's excitement.
"Whoa! You're Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes? I knew I recognised you from somewhere! But you also looked a bit like Skipper in person so that threw me off and I wasn't sure. But wow! Sherlock Holmes…!"
"Do please shut up," Sherlock Holmes spat at the adoring steward, who promptly closed his rather large mouth, but continuing to gape in awed silence at their famed visitor.
Sherlock longed to wipe that smirk off of Douglas's face; he seemed even more full of himself now that he's realised he'd "rescued" Sherlock Holmes.
"Now, I have some questions for you," Sherlock snarled, taking two large steps forward until he and Douglas were face to face. "What the hell did you think you were doing? I didn't want to be rescued; if I had wanted that, I could have had it, easily!"
Sherlock had thrown his hands up in the air and was now pacing back and forth in the tight space of the galley.
"And how in the world did you even manage to pull this off? This defies all of the laws of physics; there is no way that should have worked. It is physically impossible for a man to hang onto the wing of an aeroplane while in flight, yet I survived. How. Did. You. Do. It."
"He's magic," Arthur declared from his corner, shaking his head in a solemn manner. "I've said it for a long time, but this is ultimate proof. The first officer of MJN, Douglas Richardson, is magic."
"Of course it's not magic," Sherlock sneered. "Oh, why do I even bother? Alright, Mr. Richardson, I've answered your bloody questions, and by this point I frankly don't care how you did it, I just need to use your phone. Please."
Sherlock seemed to throw the final word in as an afterthought, reaching out his right hand towards Douglas's phone.
"Ah-ah, not so fast," Douglas cried, pulling the hand that held the cell phone back away from the detective. Sherlock looked as though he was about to punch him.
"There's just one more thing I want to clear up first," Douglas continued, tossing his phone scrupulously from hand to hand. "Why did you jump?"
The two men stood, staring at each other, the challenge between their gazes quite clear. The phone that fell between them that the detective so desperately needed added to the sense of tension, and even Arthur could feel the conflict in the air, and for once, kept quiet.
Finally, Sherlock spoke.
"Haven't you been reading the papers? I'm a fraud. I lied to everyone about my detective skills. I jumped out of shame."
"First of all, no, we haven't been reading the papers lately, because Carolyn's been forcing us to fly this piece of scrap metal halfway around the world and back this whole week. And secondly, that's not the truth, Mr. Holmes. As a rather skilled liar myself, I can tell when people aren't telling the truth, and you're keeping something from us. And I can tell how badly you need this phone, and I know how to turn people's desires to my advantage and get something out of it. And all I really want right now is the truth.
Sherlock stared at the first officer, his face smooth and emotionless. Despite the silence, Douglas could practically hear the gears turning in the detective's head. He kept his smirk internal this time; Douglas was done trying to provoke a reaction from this man.
"To keep my friends alive," Sherlock finally replied, not meeting Douglas's eye. When Douglas didn't reply, Sherlock took the hint to elaborate.
"If I didn't jump, the only three people in this world who I care about would be shot. And that's why I need to make those phone calls, to make sure they're alive. Because I don't know if the snipers needed to see my bloody body on the pavement, but if they did, then they could be gone. I need to know."
There were a few moments of shocked silence. It was finally broken, as shocked silences on GERTI usually were, by Arthur.
"D'you want a hug?"
"No, I don't want a hug."
"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes? Arthur here gives rather good hugs," Douglas asked jokingly, before allowing the seriousness to set back into his face as he held out his cell phone. "Here you go. I…hope they're alright."
Sherlock took a deep breath as he accepted the phone, staring with some trepidation at the lit up buttons.
"Me, too."
