The inhabitants of 221B Baker Street wake with a start as "I Need A Doctor" suddenly bursts into their hearing. Sherlock promptly rolls over and curls in on himself, knowing that nobody would dare set that atrocious song as a ringtone on his phone. John, however, groans, recognizing the ring. He briefly considers ignoring it, but unlike most Americans, the owner of this particular ringtone is usually aware of the time difference. Feeling blindly for his phone on the dresser, he barely manages to answer it before it goes to voicemail. Voice raspy, he skips an opening salute in favour of a terse query.

"What?"

"John….oh god, the time difference, I'm so sorry…"

If there's one thing that jolts John Watson awake, it's the sound of a frantic woman. Take that however you will.

"No no, it's fine. What's wrong?"

It's impossible for the worry he feels not to seep into his voice.

"I, um…I need you to pick me up at Heathrow, tomorrow, or I guess later today, please, I'm so sorry, but I can't…there's nobody else I can ask and…"

"You're in London?"

"Well…technically I'm on layover in Brussels…but I'm arriving in London around two…acting job and my, um, my ride, well, um, nobody quite knows where she went and I can't put my arrival back any further…we have to start shooting."

"Of course I'll pick you up, we can catch up over tea and—"

The phone is grabbed out of his hand by an impatient Sherlock, who looks down at it with distaste and promptly hangs up.

"Sherlock!"

His lover only rolls his eyes and snuggles back around John. When John does not relax into the embrace, however, he decides something must be done.

"You were being loud and I was tired. She can always take a cab. Anyone who can afford the trip to London on an actors' salary can certainly afford that, and if she's cheap, she can just take the Tube."

John rolls his eyes, but does, in fact, go back to sleep. Plenty of time to argue with Sherlock at a more decent hour.

Devon looks at the phone and briefly considers calling back before deciding that she's burdened John enough. Instead she takes a deep, if rather shaky, breath and reaches for her carry-on. She starts making herself presentable, figuring that she's hardly going to be able to sleep on the final flight to London.

All that careful work is ruined when she sits down at her gate with a coffee only for a tall man in an impeccable (even at three forty five AM, local time) suit to take the seat next to her, stretch nonchalantly, and scratch his elbow.

Plan in action. Prepared?

She slowly twirls one curl around her finger, signaling yes even as her heart drops to the floor.

As she walks to the bathroom with tears in her eyes, there's already a plan forming in her head. Maybe, just maybe she can get him out of this mess. Find some way to bargain…

If there's one thing Devon Brannel knows from years in the acting business, it's that nothing is ever non-negotiable, after all.

She checks her phone one last time as she boards the plane, silently begging John to cancel on her. But the screen remains teasingly, torturingly, blank.