Sherlock paced frantically back and forth outside the small aeroplane, hands clenched tightly together behind his back. It had already been forty minutes since he ended the call with John, and the journey only should have taken about thirty-seven. Three minutes late. Three long, unexplained minutes. Anything could happen in three minutes.
What if the vehicle Mycroft sent had crashed?
What if Moriarty's men weren't content with seeing him fall, but needed to have someone dead in the deal as well?
What if…
Douglas was leaning against the metal side of GERTI with his arms crossed, lazily regarding the agitated and pacing detective.
"Would you mind not pacing?" Douglas drawled, his dark eyes following the detective's path across the grey pavement and back. "It's making me anxious. It's also becoming rather dull, if you don't mind me saying."
Sherlock didn't answer, but continued his feverish pacing, putting all of his concentration into the mental stopwatch inside his head. His phone had been left behind on the rooftop of the hospital, and he would sooner take another plunge off of a building before he asked this egotistical pilot for the time. John's broken face before Sherlock ended the rooftop phone call flashed in the detective's mind. Well, maybe not another fall…
Douglas hated being ignored, and this strange man (who gives a damn if he's supposed to be some famous detective?) was very quickly getting on his nerves. Douglas was determined not to let it show, however. He continued speaking in an uninterested voice.
"Are you sure we can't call a doctor?" he asked, glancing halfheartedly at the door of the plane. "I mean, Martin hasn't woken up yet, and it's been nearly forty-five minutes, and I'm no doctor, but that seems very unsafe to me..."
"Isn't that other chap in there with him?" Sherlock asked irritably, clenching his teeth. Forty two and a half minutes.
"Well, yes, Arthur is in there with him, but that's part of why I'm concerned," Douglas replied.
"When I was in there ten minutes ago, his pulse and temperature were normal, and he was still breathing. Isn't that enough?" Sherlock snapped.
When Douglas opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.
"My friend is a doctor, and he should be here any moment. He should have been here nearly seven minutes ago…" Sherlock glanced anxiously towards the entrance of the airfield.
"I'm sure he's fine. Rush hour London traffic, you know…" Somehow, Douglas managed to turn even this seemingly reassuring phrase into something pompous and sarcastic.
Sherlock continued to ignore him, replaying the events of the last hour in his head. He had called John immediately after acquiring a cell phone, nearly collapsing with relief when he heard John's startled and utterly baffled voice. He had wanted nothing more than to keep talking to John, offer apologies and explanations, because the detective knew that John was going to be properly infuriated with him once he arrived at the air field.
However, Sherlock knew he had to call Mycroft – "brother dearest" would definitely like to know what happened on the rooftop, and Sherlock definitely wanted John to get a ride there safely - so they had an unspoken deal. Sherlock filled Mycroft in on what he knew, and Mycroft sent a car to take John to Fitton.
Sherlock also managed to get Mycroft to send someone to stop by Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson and by Scotland Yard for Lestrade – he didn't have their numbers memorized, he deleted them from his "hard drive" once he got a phone and had no need for them anymore. But in the back of his brain he always kept Mycroft and John's numbers, just in case.
Sherlock squinted at the distant edge of the airfield. Was it…? Yes, it was a car, large and black, consistent with those that Mycroft usually sent.
John was here.
"Look's like you're friend's finally arrived," Douglas began to say, but Sherlock was already sprinting across the pavement at the vehicle. The car stopped a few feet away from where Sherlock was running, and Sherlock swerved to avoid crashing into the front of it. With the tinted windows, Sherlock couldn't see inside the car (it could have been an enemy sniper, for all he knew), but at that moment the only thing on his mind was seeing John safe.
The back door of the car opened slowly, and a familiar "Bloody hell, Sherlock!" emerged from within. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing the door and wrenching it the rest of the way open, causing John Watson to nearly tumble down onto the pavement. Sherlock managed to catch his arm, and pulled him into a tight embrace.
John squeezed him back, equally relieved. He had opened the door of the car with all intent of being properly furious at Sherlock, but with that simple gesture, John's anger had diminished to slight agitation and bafflement.
"You have a bloody death wish or something? I mean, first the building, then dashing off in front of the car…" John's voice constricted a little near the end, and he cleared his throat slightly, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder as he tightened his arms around his back.
When they broke apart, "Anthea" poked her head out of the open door to the backseat.
"Mr. Holmes will be arriving shortly," she said, with a sort of self-satisfied smirk as she disappeared back into the car, and it drove off, leaving them alone in the middle of the giant airfield lot.
"Shortly" was right; Sherlock and John barely had time to blink at each other when they heard the unmistakable whir of a helicopter from above.
The large, white helicopter came into view a few moments later, and it slowly lowered into the large airfield lot. Mycroft Holmes stepped out, black umbrella suitably in hand despite the clear skies.
"Rather conspicuous form of transportation, isn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock called over to him as the elder Holmes approached the two men.
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Sherlock," Mycroft replied smoothly, before turning to John.
"And John, how are you?"
"Er, good, thanks?" John said, glancing uneasily at Mycroft.
"Hello, you must be John, then" drawled a voice from behind them. Douglas had approached them while they were distracted by Mycroft's arrival.
"Yes, that's me," John replied, turning and shaking hands with the tall pilot.
"I'm first officer Douglas Richardson, and it has come to my understanding that you are a doctor?"
"Yes, I am. Um, how exactly did you know that, if you don't mind…?"
"Sherlock informed me he had a friend coming who was a doctor, and you seemed the medical type." Douglas nodded at Mycroft. "You strike me as more of a politician."
Mycroft smiled.
"I occupy a minor position in the British government, in fact."
"Ah, I was correct, once again," Douglas said, more to himself than to the others, before addressing John again. "Well, our captain has been unconscious for some time, and your friend here refused to let us call a physician. Would you mind taking a look at him?"
"Er, no, not at all," said John. "Where is he?"
Douglas led John back across the lot to GERTI, with Sherlock and Mycroft trailing a few feet behind, conversing tensely with each other in hushed tones.
"He's waking up!" they could hear Arthur hollering from inside the jet as they approached.
The four of them climbed into the plane and followed the sounds of Arthur's yells to the flight deck, where small, curly-haired Martin Crieff was lying on the floor with Arthur's jacket wadded up as a pillow, groaning and shifting slightly with his eyes still closed.
"See? I told you he'd be fine," Sherlock said to Douglas as John kneeled down beside the captain and began taking his pulse.
Somehow, Arthur was still cheerily chatting away.
"…and your voice reminds me of someone, but I just can't place it!" he was saying to Sherlock. "It's a unique sort of voice…"
Martin tried to sit up, rubbing his head groggily.
"Wha' happened?"
Arthur whirled around to look delightedly at Martin, as John tried to get the captain to lie back down.
"Whoa, Skip, that sounded just like him! Do it again!"
"Arthur, what're you going on about? Do what?"
"Yes, that was perfect! Brilliant! You should be one of those guys who does impressions of people! Like my dalek impression: 'EEEEX-TEEEER-MIIIIN-AAAAATE -'"
"Yes, Arthur, that'll do," Douglas interrupted him. "And maybe, this is a bit of a stretch, I know, but maybe, Martin and Sherlock just happen to have similar voices."
Arthur scratched his head as he considered this for a moment.
"That's a good idea, Douglas, but…Nah, I think Skip's just really, really good at doing impressions."
"…Of course he is. You know, they even look a tad alike," said Douglas, looking back and forth from Sherlock to Martin. "I mean, looking past the obvious differences, such as height and hair colour and general attractiveness. They have a similar face shape. I think it's the cheekbones. Or, Arthur, do you think Martin's also just really good at making himself look like other people?"
"Oh! I never thought of that," cried Arthur. "Um…No, you know what? I think they just look a little bit alike. I think if Martin could make himself look like other people, we'd notice. He'd look a bit more like…Tom Cruise, maybe."
"Hey!" Martin cried from where he was sitting on the floor, his face reddening, before he directed his attention back to what John was telling him.
"…You don't have a concussion, nor do there seem to be any lasting effects, so you should be fine. Let me know if you still feel off after another twenty minutes," John said to Martin, who nodded, and accepted John's helping hand to pull himself into a standing position.
Douglas finally addressed Martin.
"Hello, Captain, how are you feeling?"
"Er…fine, thanks?" Martin replied, staring up at all of the unfamiliar faces. "Um…who exactly are these people?" His eyes landed on Sherlock and he gawked for a moment before turning accusingly to Douglas.
"That's the man from the building! The man in the dark coat! He was going to jump, and then…and then…Oh my god. You did it."
Douglas smirked pompously.
"How did you - Why would you – oh, forget it. I don't even want to know." Martin shook his head exasperatedly. "I'm just going to keep out of it, so when Carolyn finds out and has a fit, I can just say I had nothing to do with it, and know nothing about it."
"It was brilliant, Skip!" Arthur cried. "You should have been there for it. Well, technically, you were there, but you were unconscious, so you didn't get to see any of it. But you kind of did get to be there for it, because you were physically there, in person, while it was happening - "
Arthur continued jabbering away while Douglas turned to Mycroft.
"Hello, I don't think we've been properly introduced. First officer Douglas Richardson."
"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft replied with a nearly identical drawl, shaking Douglas's outstretched hand.
"Enchante."
"Oh, I assure you, the pleasure is mine."
"Oh god," Sherlock groaned, grimacing as he watched Douglas and Mycroft shaking hands.
"What is it?" John asked, trying to follow Sherlock's gaze.
"Two of the people I loathe the most, and they've become acquaintances already."
John shrugged.
"Well, they're very alike, I suppose. Maybe this'll help keep Mycroft out of your hair if he's got someone else to bother for once."
"Maybe," replied Sherlock sarcastically, and John sighed. Well, he had tried.
"The other pilot doesn't seem so bad," John said, inclining his head towards where Martin was now chatting with a still very overexcited Arthur.
"He's boring."
"Well, he's nice."
"He's dull," Sherlock insisted. "He's a mediocre pilot, at best, and doesn't even get paid to be the captain. He lives in a shared house and works another job on the side, something to do with delivery. He's just another one of those boring, ordinary people trying to 'make their dreams come true,' even though they obviously lack the necessary skills to do so. Dull." The finality in his voice made John decide it wasn't even a subject worth pursuing.
"Just…try to be civil, alright? Don't be rude to these people. They don't deserve it, not even that tall one who's friends with Mycroft."
"…I'll try."
"No, you will."
The stubbornness in his voice was so purely John, that Sherlock couldn't help chuckling.
"What?" John asked, perplexed. "What are you laughing at? What did I do?"
Oh, John. Slow, clueless, indignant John. Sherlock was undeniably glad he had managed to reunite with his flat-mate, regardless of what ridiculous, impossible methods brought him there.
This thought only made Sherlock laugh harder, and after a moment of puzzled and annoyed silence, John's face broke into a wide grin and he started laughing, too. John had to admit, he was glad he was back with Sherlock, too.