John closes the door to his house and walks to the car waiting for him on the street.
Sherlock is already inside, all his papers and researches sprawled on every available surface.

- Are you taking all this stuff with you?
- Yes. Why not?
- Of course you are. Fun times!

After a quiet ride, they arrive at Heathrow at 10 am, and while waiting for their 11.15 flight John proposes a review of the case in front of a cup of coffee.

- So…tell me.
- I'm sure there's no need to tell you what Silicon Valley is.
- Thanks for having faith in me.
- You're welcome.
- … I'll probably need a sign with "sarcasm" written on it to make you understand what I'm mean whe-
- Finished?

John sighs.

- Yes, go on.
- Charles McCarthy started his carrier here, in London, as a software developer in early '70's, working for a certain John Turner, tech-genius and philanthropist who became sort of a mentor for McCarthy, even though he's just ten years younger. A couple of years ago Turner decided to open a branch office here in San Francisco – Cupertino, to be precise – and asked McCarthy to move here and work as the director of the American headquarters. McCarthy's wife died five years ago and they had a son, James, eighteen, who gladly followed his father and moved to San Francisco with him. Turner currently resides there as well, he's also a widower but has a daughter instead; he owns a huge estate near the Guadalupe River Park and offered McCarthy to stay there indefinitely. The two families are obviously very close and they lead retired lives. Turner has a considerable household, half-dozen at the least, while McCarthy has two, a man and a woman. That's all I've gather about the families so far. Now, for the facts…"

The two already reached the boarding gate without actually realizing it and they are now waiting in line.

- …on Monday morning McCarthy left his house at about three in the afternoon and walked down the river. He told his house servant he had an important appointment from which he never came back alive. The distance from his house to the river is a half a mile, more or less, and two people saw him walking by: an apparently unnamed old woman, and William Crowder, the gardener. Both witnesses said to the authorities that he was walking alone, but the latter said that within a few minutes he saw his son, James, following him with a gun in his hand. Father and son were seen by the river by the fourteen year-old daughter of the gate keeper, Patience Moran. She heard McCarthy using "strong language" to his son and the boy raising up his hand as if to hurt his father. She ran away, told her mother and…
- Sir? May I see the boarding pass?
- …a few minutes later, James arrived telling them he found his father dead. He didn't have the gun with himself and his right sleeve presented fresh blood stains. They followed him – how idiotic, you think he's the killer and you happily follow him to the crime scene? Seriously John, Darwin is rolling in his grave, the natural selection is failing…
- Sir?
- Sherlock?
- …but anyway, once at the crime scene they saw the body of McCarthy with his head smashed by repeated blows with some heavy and blunt object, might as well have been inflicted by the grip of his gun.
- Sherlock?

The hostess is flinching, visibly worried at the words "body" and "head smashed".

- Sherlock?
- What, John, WHAT?
- Boarding pass?
- Oh.

Walking down the corridor that leads to the plane, Sherlock observes John intently.

Sweating palms. Ragged breathing. Wiggles fingers of predominant hand, makes fists. Rubs his nose every five seconds. Grabs my right arm. Wait, what?

- John?
- I can't.
- What?
- I'm…
- …afraid of airplanes, that much is clear.
- Don't be your usual self right now Sherlock, please, it's a real thing.
- But why, you went to Afghanistan, you invaded a country and fought in a war.
- For Christ's sake, stop with that, I didn't "invade a country", I was an army doctor.
- Exactly, and your squeezing my arm like a scared child.

John snaps his head and looks down: he didn't even realize what he was doing.

- I'm sorry, I didn't…it was a reflex.
- Yes, clutching onto something, or someone, that makes you feel safe.
- Don't flatter yourself.
- I'm not; it's just how it works.

In a moment they both realize they're standing in the middle of the tunnel, blocking the passage; John loosens his grip on Sherlock's arm and they start walking again; the doctor's pace slowed a little and the detective can see anxiety painted on his face: he slowly places his hand on John's shoulder as they walk.

- John. Calm down. Statistically, air transportation is safer than-
- YES, Sherlock, I know, I know all there is to know about statistics and safety and...all that.
- So you see that yours is an irrational fear.
- What do you mean, I'm not a child, of course I do, but it's the meaning of phobia, it's not rational and most of all it cannot be overcome by statistics.
- Technically is not-
- For crying out loud Sherlock, stop it! I'm afraid of flying, you are afraid of pigeons; can't we just leave it at that?

Sherlock stops abruptly and stares at John, slightly amused.

- First of all, I'm not afraid of pigeons. They're just useless flying buckets of diseases. Secondly, we're not boarding on a giant pigeon so your argument doesn't make sense.
- Yes, the next time you'll try to convince me to take another route to the Yard because "it's faster this way" I'll remember to point out the harmless pigeons in front of us.
- I don't know what you are talking about.
- Of course.

Apparently, bickering with Sherlock made things easier for John, since right now they're already seated and fastened. The detective smirks knowingly.

It works every time.

- I know what you did.
- It's futile to argue when there are results.
- I'm not; I just don't want to give you the satisfaction.
- I'm okay with that.

After a while, the plane starts to move and John starts to panic again.

- So you don't care about the wedding, am I right?

The doctor turns his head and stares at Sherlock, flared nostrils and gritted teeth.

- Www-hattt?
- Don't look at me like that. Why don't you try, for once, to read between the lines? Or even listen. I said "wedding", not "marriage".
- So?
- So, you told Mary you didn't want to come because of the "wedding planning" when in fact your first concern was your fear of flying. You don't care about the wedding.
- You're wrong Sherlock. I do care.
- So you care about colours, flowers, centerpieces and invitations?

John winces.

- Yes, yes I care.
- I can imagine. Tell me, do you prefer Jacquard o parchment paper? And what about the flowers? Lilies or Roses? Personally, I'd choose white Ranunculus. And the colours, oh, the colours, if you go with pastel ones you can't lose. As for the centerpieces, I'd say-
- ALRIGHT ALRIGHT, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! Fine, you win! I don't care, I never cared so little in my entire life, I've always imagined my wedding to be a quick one, with very few witnesses and no flowers, no expensive invitations, no Ranunculus, no pastel colours, NO NOTHING. So yeah, I don't care about my wedding, I just wanna get married. Are you happy now?

Sherlock smiles genuinely at John.

- Very. You can unfasten your seatbelt now.