A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for the delay on this chapter. I maintain it has everything to do with the fact I did actually have to study this week, and nothing to do with the fact I went to see Les Misérables at the cinema, twice. Ahem. That aside, may I briefly and shamelessly plug my sister Ashtrees who has at long last got a fanfiction account? A lot of ideas in this story and particularly in my Sherlock/Harry Potter cross over came from conversations with her, and if she hadn't made me I would never have gotten around to this story at all. She's written an interesting piece about Sherlock and his Aspergers, go check it out :) Okay, onto the chapter!

Chapter 10

Gerti touched down in Rome after what was probably the most professional flight in MJN Air's history. True, Arthur had been his usual bumbling self, but there hadn't been any major disasters, the spiders had all be exiled and the lads they were taking out for the stag party seemed to rather enjoy his antics. Douglas, meanwhile, had been the epitome of professionalism. No word games, no conversations unrelated to work, no corner cutting; everything done as Martin used to tell him to do it, which it was fairly safe to assume would be the CAA approved way of doing it. Morris had noticed and had spent most of the flight looking unbearably smug, while Douglas spent it bracing himself for a patronising lecture. He wasn't disappointed.

"Thank you for today, Mr Richardson."

"You're welcome. After all, I was only doing my job."

"That's right, and you did it very well. You have conducted yourself perfectly, your behaviour has been spot on." Douglas resisted the urge to make a smart comment as Morris levered himself out of his chair. "I knew you could be a good pilot, under the appropriate leadership."

"Oh really?" It slipped out before Douglas could stop himself. "And that would be your leadership, would it?"

"Not everyone has it in them to be a captain, Mr Richardson, that's all." Morris pointedly put on his hat and headed out into the cabin. Douglas gave himself a minute to cool down, knowing he was dangerously close to losing control. He just had to wait a few more hours, it would be worth it. And he wouldn't even have to lie.

The plan itself was a simple one. Admittedly it relied in part on Arthur, but in fairness to the steward, he played his part perfectly. When they got out of the taxi at the hotel and the driver helped Morris unload them from the boot, he immediately said "I'll take that for you, Captain!"

"Why?" Morris, unfortunately, wasn't a complete idiot. Douglas was relying on his thinking Arthur was, and his vanity, for this to play out.

"I don't know, I just really want to carry your bags." Arthur said. "Because you're the captain, Captain."

"I see. Well, thank you, Arthur." He said, as Douglas had known he would. "Are you sure you can manage both?"

"Yes, no problem!" Arthur said, taking the case. Douglas stepped forward and lead the way inside. They checked in and Arthur and Morris made their way upstairs, but not before Arthur had had a minor disagreement with the bellboy about who should carry the bags upstairs and won. Douglas lingered until they were out of earshot, and then spoke to the manager.

"Thank you." He said. "And I trust we can count on your discretion?" He casually placed a hundred euro note down on the counter. The manager accepted it, mystified. "Thank you." Douglas said. "I'm certain that the Royal Family of Andorra will be most pleased to hear of your diligence."

The man gaped at him, then bowed low and thanked him, ensuring him that no-one would know of his esteemed guest. Douglas went upstairs without bothering to buy the hovering bellboy's silence. This venture had already cost him quite enough and besides, the last thing he wanted was silence. He wanted the young man and probably the manager to tell everyone about the man they had seen come in, have the door held open for him and his baggage carried and someone to deal with the staff for him; and the comments about the Royal Family of a small European country they were probably googling even now. It was hardly Douglas' fault if they concluded Morris to be the co-prince of Andorra, namely the Bishop of Urgell. It wasn't like he had told them he was, although he may have slightly modified the Wikipedia page the night before, so it now included a picture remarkably like the one Morris had submitted to the MJN Air files. But that was another matter.

Morris was probably quite mystified when he was offered a complimentary upgrade to the penthouse suite, and when he was sent a large bouquet of flowers and some champagne as a courtesy from the hotel, but Douglas didn't think he would mind. Anyway, he would need to be well-rested to deal with the press the next morning. The thing about Rome was, they were quite interested in the behaviour of bishops, particularly why one might sneak into a budget hotel to stay just one night without telling anyone, disguised as a pilot.

Morris was late down to breakfast the following morning. Douglas suspected that it might have something to do with the small camp of photographers that had swarmed on the road outside overnight, all with their cameras pointed at the penthouse suite; and the number of eager reporters that had attempted to get up to said suite to talk to the occupant. In all honesty, Douglas had been hoping for a better turn out, and perhaps some television stations rather than just newspapers. Still, it wasn't bad for a first try, and it had the desired effect. Morris marched into the dining room, clearly livid.

"What have you done?" He demanded.

"This morning?" Douglas asked innocently. "Well, Arthur and I have just finished a hearty breakfast and now I'm reading about Andorra. Fascinating country, tucked right down into the corner of France and Spain. Did you know its capital city is the highest capital city in Europe?"

"You know what I mean!" Morris was talking so loudly now people were looking over to them. "Why did you feel the need to tell them I was the prince of this Andorra place? It was childish, infantile-"

"Aww, it was just a bit of harmless fun." Douglas said. "A kind of welcome to MJN Air. We did it to Martin, too."

"Only he got a call girl." Arthur said helpfully.

"Yes, he did." Douglas agreed. "But I didn't think you'd appreciate that, Captain, so I had to think of an all new initiation for you. Anyway, I didn't tell them anything. I simply dropped the Royal Family of Andorra into conversation and they assumed. The thing is, though, they don't even have a Royal Family, they are co-ruled by the princes more usually known as the President of France and the Bishop of Urgell. It isn't my fault if the hotel staff and the press made an erroneous assumption."

"I rather think it is, Mr Richardson. Did you even think about the consequences of your actions? What if the real Bishop gets excommunicated over this? What if we get arrested for impersonating him?"

"Impersonating a Bishop." Douglas repeated. "Is that a crime now? What a strange old world. It will certainly make fancy dress shops rethink some of their stock."

"Don't be flippant, Mr Richardson, you know perfectly well it's fraud!"

"No it isn't. Neither of us actually said you were the prince, did we? We didn't even imply it. No, it will just be written off as a harmless and very well organised prank. On a related subject," Douglas casually sipped his coffee. "Did you know they used to have Days of Misrule for centuries here? Yes, it was all fun and festivities, pranks and jolly japes. One thing they used to do was take a foolish young boy with no idea about the real world, dress him up as a Bishop, and let him pretend to be in charge."

"They still had to do what he told them." Morris said, leaning in a little too close to Douglas' face.

"Yes, they did." Douglas agreed, not backing away. "But not for long."

Well, He thought, satisfied with his day's labour, It's certainly going to be an interesting flight home.

oooooooooooooooooo

Some food and several drinks after they had entered the pub, Liz asked Martin the question he really didn't want her to ask.

"So why all the flight manuals?" She said, innocent of the distress she would cause. "I get that you like planes, but it seems like a little much for an amateur."

Martin thought about lying, but perhaps part of him wanted to talk about it, or perhaps it was just habit that made him say "I'm not an amateur though. Well, I wasn't. I was a pilot. I was a captain, for a while."

"Really? So why leave?"

"I made a mistake." Martin said, haltingly, and suddenly this was absolutely the last thing he wanted to talk about again. "But that's all in the past."

"Is it?"

"Most definitely." Martin said, tripping over his tongue. The alcohol made his mouth slippery and the words were having trouble getting out. "It's all, most definitely, totally in the past."

"Let's do karaoke!" Liz was either trying to make him feel better or had forgotten what they were talking about. Either way, Martin was not keen on the idea.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." He said. "Let's just have another drink. I'm not a good singer."

"Come on." Liz wheedled. "I always say you're friends for life once you've done karaoke with them."

"I thought we were friends for life because we moved together." Martin suddenly realised what he had said, and laughed. "I mean, you helped me move. Not that we moved in together. No, wait, Liz, no, stop!"

Too late. She had hauled him up onto the little raised stage in the corner. At least no-one was looking at them, but that soon changed as they launched into a unique interpretation of Meatloaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Martin found he rather enjoyed it. It reminded him of his boyhood, when he had been very young and they'd had the album spinning round and round on his friend Paul Jones' very first record player that he had got second hand from his dad. Martin had been so jealous of Paul back then. He wondered what had ever happened to him, and reached no conclusion. Paul's mum had given Paul's dad a rollicking when she realised they had the album; she said it was 'inappropriate', which had naturally made the boys love it even before they understood what it was about. Martin also wondered if Liz's choice of a song about sexual endeavour was some sort of signal, and reached no conclusion. He didn't think about it too much though, because he was thoroughly enjoying singing it. It felt good. The world felt good, like a good, fun place, and he felt very happy, except that he missed flying planes.

Liz stayed on the stage after they had finished to give an encore that nobody demanded except Martin. She chose Chiquitita, which had been Martin's mother's favourite song. Martin began to feel a bit weepy. It was at this point he decided he probably shouldn't drive the van home. He applauded enthusiastically for Liz as she made her way back over to the table. She was laughing helplessly.

"That was a disaster." She said.

"No it wasn't, I thought you were very good!"

"No, I mean, I was seen by the parents of one of the children in my glass- class!" She covered her mouth, trying to stop the giggles. "Do you think they realised I was drunk?"

"Um… probably."

"I'm supposed to be responsible for children."

"You're responsible for children." Martin agreed and suddenly the whole thing seemed rather funny, and he was laughing too, in spite of Liz guiltily shushing him between her own outbursts of giggles. "Should we go? Do you want to leave?" Martin asked. "I can't drive." He added.

"We better had, or I'll sing again."

They sang again anyway, as they walked down the road. A lot of people gave them funny looks, but they weren't actually as drunk as everyone thought; especially not out in the sobering chill of the night air. They were doing it because it was fun and somehow quite liberating, to sing in the street regardless of who heard and what they thought. It was fun and Martin made a mental note that if he ever saw Arthur again, he would tell him that this could be added to his list of small things that made people perfectly happy. Then he scribbled the mental note out, because encouraging Arthur to sing in public places was not a good idea. Then they reached Liz's house, much sooner than Martin would have liked. He wanted to kiss her and realised it was one of those times he just needed to take the initiative, one of those times he needed to be confident, be a man. They'd had a good night, surely he had charmed her. The mood was right, the time was right; everything else was going right for him- maybe the magic would last, maybe it would touch this too. Still, she had evaded him earlier, when the mood was wrong. He had to respect that, so he approached very slowly, very gently, and she put her hand to his cheek and he thought, for a moment- but then she turned away.

"I'm sorry, Martin, I can't." She said. "I don't want this to turn into a… thing."

"Oh." Martin said. "I sort of thought it was already a thing."

"Oh, Martin, I would love it to be a thing." She bit her lip, nervous. "But I'm moving myself soon, to Manchester. Really soon. And I don't want to leave anything… any thing behind. It's a headteacher's job. A good job. I'm getting right out of Fitton and I'm never coming back."

"Oh." Martin said, realising he had to say something. He left it at that.

"But… um, you're definitely in the friend zone, Martin!" She said, as if it was a compliment. It didn't help in the slightest. Neither did her next comment, "I wish you'd turned up a year or two ago."

"Yes, me too."

He went home, cursing, although he didn't know why he had expected any different. He may have left MJN Air and got a proper job, but he was still the same old Martin, with the same old luck.