Sherlock was tense. When his long fingers weren't wrapped rigidly around the armrests, he fidgeted – with the clasp on the tray table, with his boarding pass, with his seatbelt. He mumbled about the cabin being 'unbearably cold' and complained that eight hours was far too long to be denied a cigarette. Finally, after almost an hour, Lestrade could take no more, and closed his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, which was tight and cold.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, bemused.

The detective only stared back, tight-lipped. The aircraft pitched violently as it passed through a turbulent pocket of cloud, and the colour drained from his face.

Lestrade's eyebrows slid up his forehead. He tried very hard to look serious, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. "So... you don't like flying?"

"Did I say that?"

"No, but it doesn't take any great powers of deduction to see that you're nervous." Lestrade's fingers twitched against the inside of Sherlock's wrist, rubbing gently at the soft flesh there, just once, before he let go. "So then – give me. Is it the height, the turbulence, what?"

"It defies logic that this contraption should stay in the air when so many other forces are working to pull it down," Sherlock blurted in a rush, as though he had repeated this thought in his mind several times over.

"Ah-huh," murmured Lestrade. He fumbled in the seatback pocket for a moment, and then clumsily pulled out a pair of headphones. He held them out to Sherlock. When he didn't accept them, he dropped them in his lap. "Remind me again why we're on this plane in the first place, if you hate it so much," he said, as he plugged the headphone jack into the port on the armrest.

"Because William Hudson murdered an American in Orlando, and the idiots on that jury are about to let him off."

"Any point reminding you just how far out of my jurisdiction that is?"

"Irrelevant. Private client."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pressed a button on the screen mounted to the back of the seat in front of his companion. "Then why am I here?"

Sherlock fixed him with a level gaze. "You know why."

"Tell me anyway."

"Because if I show up alone, with no authority save my vastly superior intelligence, they won't listen. But with the backing of Scotland Yard..." He flapped a hand.

"Right," Greg said. He nodded toward the headset in Sherlock's lap. "Put those on."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though the ever-suspicious Why was on his lips, but if it was, he swallowed it. Almost grudgingly, he did as he was told.

"Good." Lestrade's mouth twitched again, and he navigated through a menu on the touch screen. His fingers moved too rapidly to keep track of what he was doing, so Sherlock didn't try. Finally, Greg seemed to find what he'd been looking for, uttering a satisfied "Ah!" as he made his selection.

Mozart's Symphony No. 31 began to play, and Sherlock's eyes glazed over. "Oh," he breathed. He was silent for a few moments, expression distant and lips parted. After a time, he slipped one of the tiny speakers away from his ear and blinked over at Lestrade.

"I had to teach you how to text," he said in a voice made quiet by the music playing in the other ear. "How did you know how to do that?"

Lestrade shrugged. "It's a self-explanatory system."

Sherlock was silent, but didn't look away.

Greg caved. "I've travelled a bit."

"Mm," Sherlock thrummed, and he seemed to accept this answer. His fingers brushed against Greg's arm as he lifted his hand to replace his headset, and he slowly eased back against his chair. The tension lifted from his narrow shoulders. His eyes fell shut, but his left hand discreetly conducted the symphony from his lap.

Lestrade wore something that resembled a smug grin as he settled back for a good, long nap.