After John had taken off there was a bit of debate between Scottie and Emily as to whether or not they should sneak off after him, but they ultimately concluded that their presence would only screw up Sherlock's little scheme in exposing Mary to her husband and instead stayed behind in 221B with Mrs. Hudson. Luckily they weren't waiting around for much longer than an hour before the rest of the pack came trudging into the flat and without saying a word to one another. John strode in first and tossed his jacket down over the dining table. Mrs. Hudson came out from the kitchen.
"John?"
Mary came in at a much slower pace.
"Mary!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, to which the other woman smiled only slightly. Scottie and Emily peered out from around the corner in the kitchen and hesitated, as if unsure if it were safe for them to come into the living room just yet.
Sherlock appeared in the flat's door frame. He was propping himself up against the edge of it.
"Oh, Sherlock!" the landlady gasped. "Oh, good gracious, you look terrible!"
"Get me some morphine from your kitchen," the man instructed. "I've run out."
"I don't have any morphine!"
"Then what exactly is the point of you?" Sherlock suddenly spat, causing the woman to tense up.
"What is going on?" Mrs. Hudson demanded.
"Bloody good question," John practically growled.
"The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do," Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson.
John came up into Mary's face angrily. "Oh, I have better question. Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?"
"Yes," Sherlock, Emily, and Scottie all said at once. Mary merely gave a nod of agreement.
"Good that we've settled that," Sherlock went on, stepping inside. "Anyway, we-"
"SHUT UP!" John spat angrily.
Mrs. Hudson let out a surprised "Oh!" as she threw a hand over her mouth.
"And stay shut up," the doctor went on, "because this is not funny. Not this time."
"I didn't say it was funny."
"Oh hey, speaking of funny…" Scottie leaned into Emily's ear and whispers something. She snorted.
"Shh. Don't bring that up now."
"But it's just…"
"I know, but…" Emily chuckled again and immediately threw a hand into her mouth to keep from laughing at the inside joke Scottie had reminded her of.
John turned to Mary. "You. What have I ever done… Hm? My whole life… to deserve you?"
"Everything," Sherlock pressed.
"Sherlock. I've told you… shut up."
"Oh, I mean it, seriously," Sherlock said softly. "Everything - everything you've ever done is what you did."
"Sherlock. One more word and you will not need morphine."
But Sherlock just couldn't keep quiet. "You were a doctor who went to war," the man went on, beginning to raise his voice. "You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high." Beat. "That's me, by the way. Hello." Sherlock gave a little wave before pointing to Mrs. Hudson and continuing. "Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."
"It was my husband's cartel," Mrs. Hudson shot back defensively. "I was just typing."
"And exotic dancing."
"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been YouTube-ing-"
"And don't even get me started on the pair of doofuses giggling in the background!" Sherlock shouted with a flail of his arm in the direction of Emily and Scottie who were, in his defense, currently trying to choke back laughter. "Somehow they know everything about our lives, down to very the last most intimate details, claim to have lived with us in some sort of… alternate reality, which, as far as we know, might even be true, because for the love of God, we STILL can't explain who they are or where they came from!"
Scottie wheezed, a short trail of laughter escaping him.
"Okay, yes, thank you," Sherlock sighed. "I proved my point already."
"I'm sorry," Scottie tried. "It's just… I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Go on. We'll be quiet." Now Emily was the one snickering.
Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh. "Anyway. John. You are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people… so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"
John grimaced and threw an accusatory finger at his wife, eyes still locked on Sherlock. "But she wasn't supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?"
"Because you chose her."
"Why is everything…" John started pacing, "always… MY FAULT?!" The man threw a furious kick at the table beside Sherlock's chair.
Mrs. Hudson jumped, flailing slightly. "Oh, the neighbors!" she worried just before hurrying out of the room.
"John, listen," Sherlock tried, his voice low. "Be calm and answer me. What is she?"
"My lying wife."
Emily and Scottie both chuckled.
"No. What is she?" Sherlock asked again, ignoring the kids.
"And the woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her."
Laughter from the peanut gallery grew louder now. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on the issue at hand. "No. Not in this flat; not in this room. Right here, right now, what-"
"She wears snort snirt I wear sneep snop," Scottie said under his breath, starting to fan himself to keep from losing it. Emily wheezed even louder, tears starting to come out and she clutched the edge of the kitchen door to keep from falling over.
Mary shifted her eyes over to them and couldn't help but start to smile a little.
John clenched his fists. "For the love of…" John pulled up a chair and placed it in front of her. "You. Mary. Sit."
His wife did so uneasily. Emily came into the living room and took a seat on the couch as well, as she was now crying to the point where she couldn't even keep her own legs upright.
Scottie looked equally messed up over the whole thing. "Sneep snop," he whimpered, his face going red. He then toppled over onto his knees.
Now it was Mary's turn to let out an audible laugh.
"MARY." John warned with a large frown.
"I'm sorry," Mary apologized between a gigglefit of her own. "I'm so sorry, John, I know this serious, but… I just can't. I don't even know what they're laughing about and I still can't."
"SH-SHE WEARS SNORT SNIRT I WEAR SNEEP SNOP," Emily let out loudly, her face an odd contortion of pain and pleasure. She was lying on her back across the sofa now. Their laughs seemed to fuse together and only grow in volume, eventually sounding more and more like a band of cackling hyenas.
John's eye twitched. "That's it. I'm getting my gun. I'm going to kill all three of them, and then I'm going to shoot myself. Goodbye Sherlock."
"No, wait," Sherlock tried, stumbling up to John and placing his hands over the man's shoulders. "While you're at it… can you please shoot me too? I'm kind of sort of bleeding internally. Thanks."
As he said this, the detective's legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. "Oh my GOD," John gasped, stumbling backwards.
As if what was happening couldn't possibly deviate from the original script any more, the door to 221B flung open again by none other than Stephen Bainbridge. The young man stood there for a moment, wide-eyed and panting.
"I… Emily was texting me, and," he wheezed, "and she said something about Sherlock escaping from the hospital, and then… and then she was going to meet up with the person who shot him, and… I tried calling and she wasn't answering, and I just-I panicked, I…" Stephen swallowed and scanned his eyes across the living room. Emily, Scottie, and Mary were still dying of laughter, Sherlock was apparently dying of internal bleeding, and John had reached a point where he probably wouldn't give a shit if any one of them actually did die. "So… So is everything alright? Was this a bad time? I've missed something, haven't I?"
John pinched at the bridge of his nose for a moment before responding. "Hello, Stephen."
"Oh fucking shit," Scottie exhaled, scrambling to his feet.
Emily stopped laughing just long enough to pop back up again as well. "Ah, yes, Stephen, good timing! Um, there was a… heh… bit of a thing earlier, but… but it's all being worked out now… haha…" She clenched her teeth, holding back yet another stream of laughs.
"What the bloody hell is a… snoot sneet anyway?" Mary asked, wiping away a tear.
"You know what, I've seen enough," Stephen practically growled, turning away.
"Nu! Stephen! W-Wait!" Emily called after him, hurrying to his side and very nearly toppling over in the process.
"Use a condom!" Scottie called after the couple, to which Mary clipped his ear.
Scottie flinched. "What? She should, shouldn't she?"
Emily followed Stephen outside of the building, where he violently whirled around at the foot of the steps. "Stephen, I didn't mean to ignore you like that," Emily tried to explain. "It's just… A lot was going on, and sometimes it's hard to-"
"To what?" the boy spat. "To let your fucking boyfriend know that you aren't dead?!"
Emily frowned. "Geez, calm down. What did you really think would happen to me?"
"What did I think? I'll tell you what I thought! First you text me to cancel plans because Sherlock just got shot. Then, then you say he's run away from the hospital, and a couple hours later you finally bother to answer me again, saying you're going to confront the assassin?!" Stephen clenched and unclenched his fists. "And then… on top of all that… I hurry my arse over here, terrified that you might be in trouble and not even sure if you're going to be there, only to find the whole gang together and rolling on the floor laughing like I've just missed the punchline of a really good inside joke!"
"Okay but in my defense, it was a pretty good joke..."
Stephen threw his arms out to the side and then let them drop again dramatically. "That's it. I can't do this anymore."
"Do what anymore?" asked Emily.
"This. Us. You."
Emily looked hurt and offended. "I'm sorry, did you just say me?"
"I did. And you know why? Because of this shit! All the time! I'm… I'm constantly worried that you're going to do something dumb and get yourself killed!"
The girl huffed. "Well, excuse the fuck out of me, but you wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me and my… my shit!"
"Don't you try to play that card with me! Dr. Watson saved my life, not you. And when you're not with me and you don't check in, I can't help but assume the worst, knowing you! And - and when you are with me, there's always this nagging feeling like I'm not good enough. Not exciting enough. Not the way HE is, anyway."
"Wh… Don't make this about Sherlock!" Emily said bitterly, folding her arms.
"It is, though, isn't it?" Stephen went on. "He's the one who gets you into these situations. It's like… Sometimes I feel like there's you guys, the heroes in some crazy wacked-out adventure story, and then I'm just a lowly side character in comparison!"
"You don't even know the half of it…"
Stephen took a sharp breath and a cautious step forward, palms out in front of him. "Emily. Do you remember what we were talking about before? About… About my offer?"
The girl took Stephen's hands in her own but shook her head knowingly. "Don't do this. Don't make me choose, because we both know it's going to be Sherlock. It's always going to be Sherlock."
"I know," Stephen sighed in defeat. "I just wanted to hear you say it. Goodbye, Emily." The man let go and turned to leave.
Emily watched him go helplessly, starting to tear up again, but this time not from laughter. "Sneet snort," she muttered miserably just before turning back inside.
Scottie came and found Emily sitting on her bed in 221C less than an hour later. "Well that was exciting," the boy breathed, shutting the door behind himself. "Not too long after you left the paramedics had to come and take Sherlock back to the hospital, and John and Mary had their talk, which I think we may've made even worse. John is still upstairs, but Mary's gone already." He paused, realizing that Emily hadn't looked up since he came in. "Hey, I thought you'd be with Stephen right now? Emily?"
"Go away."
"Is… everything okay?"
This time instead of answering, the girl shook her head.
"Do you want to talk about it or…?"
Emily shook her head again.
Ignoring his friend's wishes to be left alone, Scottie let himself into their room and took a seat next to Emily at the edge of her bed. He could now see that she was on the verge of tears. "Well, tough, because I'm not leaving until I know what's the matter and if I can do anything about it."
Apart from Emily's sniffling, the two of them sat in silence for some time before Emily finally whimpered, "Stephen and I broke up."
"Oh. Hey… Y'know, what I said earlier about dating being off-limits… Well, you didn't actually have to take my advice about it," the boy said. "As long as he made you happy-"
"He dumped me," Emily's voice cracked. "Sort of."
"Oh." Scottie swallowed. "Did… he say why?"
"He said… He said he felt like everything going on with me was so complicated, and… a-and that he couldn't take constantly being worried if I was safe or not, chasing after serial killers and forgetting to pick up the phone or text back ever…" Emily rubbed at her eye with the back of her hand and blinked up at the ceiling before continuing. "He, um. He wanted me to pick between him and… and Sherlock."
"Seems like a reoccuring problem around here," Scottie whispered. Emily shot him a look. "I-I mean, but um, so… So what did you say, then?"
"Well. We're not together anymore, are we?"
Scottie made a sympathetic smile and put an arm around her. "It's probably for the best, you know. I mean. The Bloody Guardsman sure had a fine piece of ass on him, but if a guy is going to get all offended because you'd rather take a bullet than let him keep tabs on you 24/7, is he really worth all the trouble? And just look at you!" Scottie gestured with his other arm. "You can do so much better than a minor character!"
"Y-You think so?"
"Oh yeah. Primary cast, even. Like, if John were a good twenty years younger and not already married, he'd totally tap that!"
"Thanks," Emily tried not to blush. "It… It means a lot to me."
"Sassy gay friend whenever you need one," Scottie smiled back. "So. Are you okay, then?"
"No. But… I will be."
After having gotten to this point, Scottie went back upstairs to rejoin John, who was currently sitting on the couch and staring blankly forward at the fireplace.
"Hey," Scottie began awkwardly and took a seat beside him.
"Hey yourself," moaned John.
"Uh. So Emily's downstairs, and I thought I'd give her a little alone time. Stephen broke up with her."
The doctor sat for another couple seconds before forcing himself to his feet. "I'll go get my gun," he grumbled.
John did end up moving back into 221B Baker Street. In the following months it was almost surreal how much things had started to feel like the good old days, minus the obvious fact that as much as he brushed off the topic whenever it came up, John was not all right. Mary had all but vanished from their lives, and Emily hadn't seen Stephen since the breakup.
"Look, are you going to put the thing into a computer or just stare at it a couple times a week for the rest of your life?" Scottie finally asked one more as he caught John once again turning the flash drive about in his hand. It was labelled A.G.R.A. and had been the one Mary gave to him the last time they'd both seen her. Apparently it contained all the details of her old life, but although very much tempted, John never did bring himself to look further into it.
John turned away from the window and looked over at Scottie. "That really isn't any of your business."
"If you're not going to look, can I at least have a peek?" the boy practically begged. "I promise I won't tell you anything if you won't want me to."
"Absolutely not," John said sternly and gasped the flash drive tighter in the palm of his hand.
Scottie nodded slowly. "Okay. But see, what you don't know about me is that I'm very skilled in the art of SNEAK ATTACK!" as the boy shouted the end of his sentence he launched himself forward and made a grab for the flash drive. John stepped out of the way just in time, however, and Scottie came skidding to a halt, unable to stop his momentum before he knocked over Sherlock's music stand. Several loose pages of sheet music scattered.
Scottie straightened again and whirled around at John. "Alright," he nodded. "Good play. I'll give you that one. But I bet you weren't expecting the same thing twice!" With this Scottie hurled himself in John's direction once more and John lifted his arm so that Scottie had to jump to try and snatch away the flash drive. He, however, missed yet again and this time Scottie lost his footing altogether and came crashing to the floor.
Emily came into the room then. "What are you boneheads doing?" she demanded. "We're leaving any minute now! It's a two and a half drive to Gloucestershire, and that's assuming the traffic is good."
"Oh shit that's today isn't it?" Scottie realized but made no attempt to get up from the floor. "Christmas party at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes'."
"Yeah. Take note of the lights around the windows. Also, do you recall how we exchanged presents earlier this morning? Or, perhaps, the festive holiday sweater I'm wearing?" Emily gestured to her attire.
"Is that… my jumper?" John asked slowly.
Emily looked down at the sweater and then back at the man. "Um. No, because if it were it would be enormous on me, and as you can clearly see this is tight-fitting. Although I will admit that it looks strikingly similar to the one you wore on Christmas Eve three years ago…"
"How would you know that?" the man asked suspiciously.
"Um. Facebook pictures?"
It was around an hour or so past noon when the group arrived at the Holmes' house, which had been done up with Christmas decorations. After Sherlock's parents greeted the four of them, they were ushered into the kitchen, where Mycroft was already waiting along with another man that Scottie and Emily had yet to formally meet, but certainly recognized from the show itself.
"You already know my brother," Sherlock was saying. "This is Bill Wiggins. Bill, these are my assistants, Scottie and Emily. There are two of them because they're both equally awful at everything I ask them to do."
"Sherlock's homie," Scottie said.
"And I'm Sherlock's homegirl," Emily also said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, muttering "Example A."
"It's a pleasure," Bill nodded, shaking Scottie and Emily's hand in turn.
"Mary is in the sitting room," Mr. Holmes said to John.
"Oh," breathed John. "Good to know. I'll… I'll be a couple minutes, but then. Yeah. Thanks." He smiled at Sherlock's father, who smiled back and nodded on his way outside.
Sherlock, Scottie, and Emily each took up a seat around the kitchen table. "Well, aren't you going to say hello to your brother?" Mrs. Holmes asked expectantly and placed a hand over her hip.
Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled a little, although it looked quite fake. "And a merry Christmas to you too, Mycroft. I do hope this isn't too uncomfortable, considering the last time you saw Scottie and Emily…"
"Yes. I remember."
"I still haven't forgiven you for that," Emily frowned, rubbing at the spot where Mycroft had struck her all those months ago.
"Me neither!" huffed Scottie.
Mycroft put on an equally fake smile. "Yes, I figured you might not."
"Oh, you needn't worry about him, dears," Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes. "Mikey's promised to be on his best behavior for today." She set a tray of crackers and cheeses out in front of them. Emily took some of each, stuffed them into her mouth, and then got up again.
"Do you need any help?" the girl offered.
"Oh, no, but thank you, dear," Mrs. Holmes smiled. "You just enjoy yourself. So how's work been?" she asked, seeming to address Sherlock. "You have been able to get back into the swing of things, haven't you?"
"Dreadfully slow," the detective droned, his hands resting beneath his chin . "Haven't had a good case in weeks. Months, even. The other day I was so bored I almost agreed to play Twister with the children."
Mycroft whipped his head around with a look of urgency about him. "You must be strong, brother!" he insisted.
"Of course. Don't you think I realized it was a trap?" Sherlock let his hands drop and reached out to pick up a nearby newspaper.
Mrs. Holmes let out a soft chuckle. John had since disappeared down the hall. Mycroft leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Oh, dear God, it's only 2:00," the man said despairingly. "It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it be only 2:00? I'm in agony."
"Mikey, is this your laptop?" Mrs. Holmes asked and pointed at the device in question on the table.
"On which depends the security of the free world, yes," Mycroft answered. "And you've got potatoes on it."
Mrs. Holmes shrugged. "Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important." The woman took up a basket full of Christmas crackers, which she set down again as soon as Mycroft started to speak again.
"Why are we doing this? We never do this."
"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy," said Mrs. Holmes, leaning over the table. "Not to mention he's got a family now. Isn't that exciting? Having a niece and nephew of your own?"
Mycroft raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Is it, now? I haven't checked."
"Behave, Mike." Mrs. Holmes lifted the basket again.
"Mycroft is the name you gave me. If you could possibly struggle all the way to the end…"
"Mrs. Holmes?" Bill came over to the host with a glass of punch.
"Oh, thank you, dear," Mrs. Holmes said and took the drink from him. "Not absolutely sure why you're here."
"I invited him," Sherlock explained.
"I'm his protege, Mrs. 'olmes. When 'e dies, I get all his stuff. An' 'is job."
"No," Sherlock disagreed without looking up from his paper.
"No, that would be me," Scottie added.
"Also no."
"Oh. Well, I help out a bit," Bill shrugged.
"Closer."
"I help out a lot," Scottie countered.
"If 'e does get murdered or something…" Bill trailed off hopefully. Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes shared an appalled look at this remark.
"Probably stop talking now," Sherlock mumbled.
"Okay."
"Lovely when you bring your friends round," Mycroft said softly. "How many more should I be expecting 'round this time next year?"
Mrs. Holmes set her glass down. "Stop it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy, and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous. Ah. This was for Mary." Mrs. Holmes retrieved something unseen from the countertop and took it into the other room, saying, "I'll be back in a minute." Sherlock glanced down at his watch momentarily.
"Oh, where's the restroom?" Scottie asked suddenly.
"Down the hall," grumbled Mycroft. "Second door."
"I'll also be back," the boy announced and disappeared around the corner.
Mrs. Holmes returned shortly. "Can I get you anything to drink?" she offered no one in particular. "Some punch, perhaps?"
Emily hesitated. "Shoot."
"Is… something wrong?" the woman asked, looking every bit concerned.
"Well. It's just that I have this nagging feeling that I shouldn't, but…" Sherlock's mother waited for a moment longer before Emily continued cheerily: "Oh well! If I can't remember it must not've been that big a deal, right? Yeah. I'll take a glass."
Sherlock got up without a word and went into another room in the house. He returned with his coat on and gestured towards the front door. Mycroft nodded and followed him out. Emily watched them go and awkwardly sipped at her glass just before Scottie reentered.
"Having fun yet?" the boy asked and took a seat next to his friend again.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Scottie shrugged. "I dunno. Whatever you want it to. Merry Christmas."
Emily smiled a little. "Yeah. Okay."
Bill came back into the kitchen with yet another glass of punch and offered it out to Scottie, who shook his head and held up a hand. "You sure?" the man asked.
"I'm very sure. Not much of a punch person."
"Oh. Alright. Something else to drink, then?"
Scottie blinked. "Did I say punch? I meant drinks. I don't do drinks in general."
Bill pursed his lips for a moment and then left the room silently, passing Mrs. Holmes, who circled the kitchen and came over to the window, pulling back a curtain to squint out it. "Are they smoking out there?" she wondered aloud. "I bet those two are smoking!" With a displeased huff the woman marched over to the front door. "Are you two smoking?" they could hear her calling out loudly from the other room. After a moment she shut the door again, shook her head, and then went back to fussing about in the kitchen. She put her hands on her hips, sighed, and then migrated over to the armchair by the table that Sherlock had been in earlier.
"Y'know, now that I think about it, before all this I used to wonder what sort of TV show my life would be and this is hardly what I would've guessed at the time," Emily said pensively from where she was seated, her glass in one hand and a nearly finished cookie in the other.
"What are you going on about now?" Scottie asked with a sidelong glance over at her.
"I always assumed some kind of bad sitcom," she went on. "I certainly had the circle of friends and dating history for it, anyway." Emily paused to shovel down the last of her pastry and wash it down with a sip from her punch. "And yet here we are. Living indefinitely in some sort of weird… British crossover sci-fi detective universe. Do you think this could be the original version of the show somewhere, and people are watching us?"
Scottie paused to watch as Mycroft came back into the kitchen and had a seat at the end up. He cleared his throat at the kids and gave a little nod before going back to his own thing. Scottie raised an eyebrow just before returning his attention to his conversation with Emily. "This doesn't have anything to do with you watching Inception recently, does it? Show within a show nonsense?"
"I'm serious. Like… in some alternate universe there could be actors playing us, and we'd… We'd, of course, be nothing more than… than fictional... characters... ourselves." Emily blinked several times, suddenly feeling her eyelids getting heavy.
"I dunno. S'pose so. Stranger things have happened." Practically just in front of him Mycroft slumped over the table, causing the boy to jump a little in alarm. Scottie looked to his right to see Mrs. Holmes had gone limp in her seat as well. He blinked a couple times and then remembered what was going on at that particular point in the episode. "Hey, it's a good thing we both remembered not to drink the punch, right? ...Right?"
When her answer didn't come immediately, Scottie turned to Emily, somewhat dismayed to find her face planted firmly into the table in front of them. He let out a sigh and slouched back in his seat. "Hell, the fact that you haven't been killed off yet is kind of a miracle in itself," he lectured the unconscious girl. Bill reentered the room then to survey his work and frowned at Scottie, who smiled and gave a little wave with his fingers. Not even a little torn about leaving Emily behind, Scottie stood up and pushed his chair in just as Sherlock came back inside, followed immediately by John.
"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?" John asked, eyes wide.
Sherlock made a face at Scottie but moved past him to check on Mycroft's breathing. "Don't worry," he was saying. "Wiggins is an excellent chemist."
"I calculated your wife's dose meself," nodded Bill. "Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er. Couldn't do anything about the boy, though. He passed on everything I offered 'im."
"It's alright, I'm used to this one not cooperating. Although it's typically both of them." Sherlock started to put his scarf on. "In any case, he'll monitor their recovery. It's more or less his day job."
"What the hell have you done?" John asked blankly.
Sherlock took a while to answer. "A deal with the devil," he finally said.
"Oh, Jesus," John breathed. He left the kitchen the way they'd come. "Sherlock…" he called after a moment from the other room.
Sherlock started to put his gloves on. "Look," Scottie started, "I know you're probably going to put up a fight, but…"
"You can come with," Sherlock finished for him.
"...wait. For serious?"
"It's Christmas," the man shrugged. "As long as you don't mind leaving Emily behind…"
Scottie shook his head.
"Please tell me you haven't just gone out of your mind," John begged from where he was still standing a little ways away.
"Can you hand me that?" Sherlock pointed at Mycroft's laptop, which Scottie picked up and gave to him. "I'd rather keep you guessing," he answered John, a little louder than his previous request. There was then the sound of a chopper from overhead, and Scottie and Sherlock both lifted their heads toward the noise. "Ah. There's our lift."
Sherlock held the computer beneath his left arm and grabbed a coat with his right. Scottie followed him outside and they both quickened their pace to catch up to John, who had beaten them out. A helicopter was just landing in the field in front of the house.
"Coming?" Sherlock said loudly over the noise.
"Where?" John demanded.
"D'you want your wife to be safe?"
"Yeah, of course I do!" They both stopped to look at the helicopter.
"Good. Because this is going to be incredibly dangerous," Sherlock said grimly. "One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."
"But… you're bringing Scottie along," John realized. "And it's Christmas!"
Sherlock smiled and met John's eyes. "I feel the same." Beat. "Oh. You mean it's actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"
John scoffed. "Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner!"
Sherlock held out the jacket he'd grabbed to John. "Is it in your coat?"
"...yes."
Walking into Appledore felt a lot like stepping inside a brand new Apple store, which was probably not what inspired its name but just as well could have. The three boys were escorted out of the chopper and inside the vast estate by security. They found Magnussen waiting for them on a white leather sofa, a glass of what was probably whiskey in his hand. The man hardly even looked up when Sherlock, John, and Scottie stopped in front of him.
"Three of you? I could've sworn you only traveled in even numbers. I would offer you a drink," Magnussen said slowly, lifting his glass as he spoke, "but it's very rare and expensive."
Magnussen finished his drink as John and Scottie exchanged nervous glances. Sherlock came over to him and had a seat on the couch several feet from the man. After setting down the laptop between them, Sherlock awkwardly crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap.
"Oh. It was you," he muttered, spotting the looping footage from the incident at Guy Fawkes night being played at one end of the room.
"Yes, of course. Although I admit there was a bit of interference I hadn't counted on. Either way. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes."
"Mm."
Without saying anything, John turned and walked towards the wall to have a closer look at the video. It showed Sherlock starting to run towards the fire. Scottie came into the frame and seemed to be yelling something just before he showed Sherlock to where John was lying on the floor behind the bonfire.
"The drugs thing I never believed for a moment," Magnussen went on calmly. "Anyway. You wouldn't care if it was exposed, would you?" Sherlock made an indifferent shrug. "But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress. Even more so than the adopted kids, I'd wager."
Scottie chewed on his lower lip but didn't respond. Just looking at Magnussen made his stomach churn. Towards the end of their first trip to London he had learned to fear Moriarty, but Magnussen was in an entirely separate category. Magnussen made him feel physically sick, and he briefly questioned whether he was better off staying back at the Holmes' place with Bill and Emily and the others.
John whirled around, almost seething now. "You… put me in a fire… for leverage?"
"Oh, I'd never let you burn, Doctor Watson." Magnussen sat up and set his glass down onto a clear table standing beside himself. "I had people standing by." Magnussen stood up then and met John's eyes. "I'm not a murderer… unlike your wife." Their eyes remained fixed on one another for a tense moment longer before Magnussen looked over at Sherlock and then came up to the wall himself. "Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson."
Magnussen touched a finger to the side of the projected footage. There was a beeping sound and then the man slid his hand across the glass, moving away the video.
"For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well… apart from me. Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife." Magnussen let his gaze fall onto Scottie, who sucked in a quick breath of air and held onto it. "Scottie and Emily, although admitted a beloved addition to the family, are no one's pressure points except perhaps their own. Mere distractions, if you will. The point I'm trying to make, John, is that I own your wife… I own Mycroft." Magnussen came back to the couch and had a seat once more. "He's what I'm getting for Christmas."
"It's an exchange, not a gift," Sherlock reminded him as he stood.
Magnussen raised his eyebrows and hesitated a moment before picking up the laptop. "Forgive me, but… I already seem to have it." The man ran his fingers across the machine playfully.
"It's password protected. In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson."
"Oh, she's bad, that one," cooed Magnussen. "So many dead people. You should see what I've seen."
"I don't need to see it," John said through gritted teeth.
"You might enjoy it, though. I enjoy it."
"Then why don't you show us?" Sherlock suggested.
"Show you Appledore?" Magnussen set down the laptop again. "The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"
"I want everything you've got on Mary."
Magnussen laughed a little at this and scratched at the back of his head. He patted the laptop once more. "You know, I honestly expected something good."
Sherlock tilted his head. "Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop-"
"Include a GPS locator," Magnussen finished for him. "By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived" - Magnussen took up his glance once more - "they'll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr. and Mrs. Psychopath and a couple of interns you picked up quite literally off the street. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He'll be a very, very proud big brother." Finishing the drink, Magnussen set down the glass again.
"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it," Sherlock pointed out.
"Then why am I smiling? Ask me."
John took a step forward. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves… and everything he holds dear. Let me show you the Appledore vaults."
Magnussen rose to his feet and crossed the room into a study. "C'mon," John said softly and bitterly, touching Scottie on the boy's shoulder as he started to follow Sherlock after Magnussen. Scottie made a low moan in the back of his throat, reminded himself specifically of why he had wanted to come into Magnussen's lair at this particular moment in time, and then trailed after the others.
"The entrance to my vaults," Magnussen said, stopping in front of a set of wooden doors. "This is where I keep you all." Taking hold of their handles, Magnussen pulled the heavy doors open to reveal a small room, so white and so brightly lit that it looked like the backdrop of a cartoon, and containing absolutely nothing save a single armchair at its center.
"Okay…" blinked John. "So where are the vaults, then?"
"Vaults?" Magnussen echoed, turning back to them. "What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building. They're all in here," the man purred, taking a seat in the chair. "The Appledore vaults are my mind palace. You know about mind palaces, don't you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it - by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes… and down I go to my vaults." Magnussen demonstrated for them. "I can go anywhere inside my vaults… my memories. I'll look at the files on Mrs. Watson."
Magnussen started to hum almost inaudibly to himself. From outside the room Scottie looked up at Sherlock, who had closed his eyes and shook his head a little, teeth bared. John started back at Magnussen in complete befuddlement. The man cleared his throat after a moment and smiled humorlessly down at the floor.
"Mm. Ah. This is one of my favorites." Magnussen mimed opening up a folder and flipping through some of its pages. "Oh, it's so exciting," he chuckled. "All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh! She's gone a bit… freelance now. Bad girl. Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her." Pretending to shut the drawer again, Magnussen let his eyes flutter open and looked victoriously at Sherlock. "You see?"
John cleared his throat once more. "So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."
"Oh, sometimes I send out for something… if I really need it… but mostly I just remember it all."
"I don't understand," John shook his head.
"You should have that on a T-shirt."
Suddenly Scottie pushed out in front of Sherlock and John, accompanied by his own vocalized trumpet fanfare, and unzipped his jacket in front of Magnussen to reveal that his own T-shirt actually did have the phrase 'I don't understand' printed across it. After a moment he jumped and did a 180 to display the message to Sherlock and John as well, and all three of them proceeded to stare on in stunned silence. Scottie looked back at Magnussen over his shoulder and then back at the others and his cheeky grin faded.
"Seriously? Nothing?" Beat. "Well I thought it was clever. I've got the back prepped too, but we're not quite there yet." More silence. "Okay… this is getting weird. I'll wait outside." Looking sheepish, Scottie squeezed back through Sherlock and John and started towards the room they began in. Magnussen rose and started to button his jacket but didn't say anything.
"Then at least explain that," Sherlock suddenly blurted, gesturing behind himself. "It seems a small compensation, considering."
"I'm sorry?" Magnussen blinked. "Explain what?"
"Him. Scottie. And Emily, while you're at it. What are they? What is their whole deal?"
"Sherlock…"
"Don't you think you'd have better luck asking them yourself? Well. Assuming you get another opportunity, that is. Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly." Magnussen came between them and kept going. "Can't wait to see you arrested…"
"Sherlock," John said again quietly, "what was that? Asking about Scottie and Emily? Was that part of your plan? Do we have a plan?" But Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock," John tried again. When his friend continued to not respond John turned and walked away.
Scottie and Magnussen were already out on the patio when John caught up to them. "You're a fucking great big bag of dicks," Scottie was saying bitterly.
"I don't think you're in any position to talk. What are you now, twenty? That puts you in the same boat as Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Should've stayed back with the other one, perhaps."
"Scottie," John warned.
"They're taking their time, aren't they?" Magnussen mused, turning to face the other man.
"I still don't understand"
"And there's the back of the T-shirt."
"BOOM. THERE IT IS." Scottie flung his jacket off the rest of the way and threw it to the side, exposing the backside of his shirt, which had 'I still don't understand' on it.
John stared back, mouth opened, for a couple seconds before angrily shouting "WHY DO YOU FEEL THE NEED?"
"I'm the comic relief," Scottie pouted. "I figured you could use some of that right about now." He looked from John to Sherlock, who had just appeared in the doorway to the patio, and saw that they were both completely at a loss for words.
Magnussen nodded slowly. "Mm. Yes, I do believe you're quite right. In fact, I could probably go for a bit of that right now. And you've got the perfect, goofy round face for it, too. I'd like to punch it."
Scottie's eyes widened for a moment. "Um. Th-Thanks?" he stammered, now making an uncomfortable face.
"Bring it over here for a minute," Magnussen requested. "Come on."
Scottie went back to holding his tongue, realizing the direction he'd just made this scene go and immediately regretting having said anything. He turned his head back to Sherlock, but the detective wouldn't meet his eyes. After a moment he nodded.
"Come now," insisted Magnussen. "Don't disappoint your daddies." But Scottie wouldn't budge. He stiffened, determined to remain firmly rooted to the ground. "For Emily. Bring me your face."
"Scottie…" Sherlock said slowly. "Please. Just… Just do as he says."
Although it went against every last instinct of his, there was something about Sherlock telling him to obey that made Scottie listen. He seemed broken, somehow; even more so than when he was lying in the hospital, or after he'd bolted and looked like death. Scottie had to look away. Sucking in a deep breath, the boy forced himself to take a couple of steps towards Magnussen.
"Good boy," the man purred. "Lean forward a bit and stick your face out. Please?" Scottie pursed his lips, took another sharp breath, and did so. Magnussen chuckled softly at the obedience that appeared to be physically paining Scottie. "Now, can I flick it? Can I… flick your face?"
"No," Scottie whispered sourly.
"I'm sorry?"
The boy threw his head back, puffing out his cheeks, and then deflated them again just before he brought his head forward and glared at Magnussen. Magnussen smirked. The man brought his hand up against Scottie's face and flicked it with his middle finger just below the edge of the boy's glasses. Scottie felt a shiver run down his spine and anger began to boil up inside him. He balled up his fists and went right on glaring. Magnussen repeated the gesture.
"I just love doing this," Magnussen mused. He turned to look over his shoulder at Sherlock, who kept his gaze fixed on the floor, and then John, who was a bit closer to him and looking on with a clenched jaw. "I could do it all day." Magnussen faced Scottie again and flicked him a third time. "You know, if we're waiting too much longer, I might just have a go with the both of them as well," he told Scottie. "How does that sound? Actually no; don't answer. Take your glasses off for me, will you?"
Scottie narrowed his eyes even more.
"Very well," Magnussen breathed. "I'll help you with that." Magnussen reached out and plucked the spectacles from Scottie's face, which he then tossed aside carelessly.
Scottie took an instinctive step towards them, but was stopped by a warning "ah-ah". The boy pressed his tongue against his cheek and stepped back into place. Everything was slightly blurry now, which only made the whole scenario worse for him.
"It works like this, John," Magnussen said loudly. "I know who Mary hurt and killed." He flicked Scottie's cheek once more, slightly higher than before now that the glasses were out of the way. "I know where to find people who hate her." Scottie was flicked twice more. "I know where they live. I know their phone numbers." Flick. Flick. "All in my mind palace - all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down. And I will… unless Scottie lets me flick his face." Magnussen glanced back at John again, grinning wickedly, and then turned to Scottie. "A lot of pressure, isn't it?" Flick. Flick. Flick.
"This is what I do to people," he said loudly. "This is what I do to whole countries…" Magnussen flicked Scottie yet another time. "Just because I know. Can I do your eye now?" Scottie turned his head away. "See if you can keep it open, hm?" Scottie started to bring his neck back around and was immediately flicked right on his eyebrow.
The boy flinched.
And then he snapped.
Without warning Scottie darted out of the way before Magnussen could launch a second attack of this nature. The boy came at John, pulled out the handgun before the doctor even knew what was happening, and then promptly fired it multiple times into Magnussen. His vision still very much obscured, Scottie hadn't the slightest idea where exactly the bullets were striking the man, but it didn't make much of a difference. Magnussen's lifeless form fell backwards. John tackled the gun away from Scottie and let it fall to the ground.
His heart racing, Scottie kept his eyes on Magnussen's blurry form. Although he didn't really know what good it would do, John threw his arms tightly around Scottie from behind. Scottie swallowed and held onto them. Next thing they knew a helicopter was approaching from above. All three of them looked up towards it. Its roaring was loud, and it whipped up the air around them, causing their hair to lash about and smack against their faces.
"Do you think they saw who did it?" Sherlock asked loudly, suddenly at Scottie and John's side.
"I don't know," John yelled back. "Probably?"
Knowing what he had to do, Scottie tore away from John's grasp and scooped up his glasses, which were a little scratched but thankfully not completely broken.
"Scottie!" John shouted, taking a step forward.
"Stay back!" the boy yelled and brought his hands into the air slowly.
"Christ, Scottie!"
"Let him," Sherlock instructed.
Scottie could now see the armed police that were coming towards the patio. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
"I'm sorry, Emily," he whispered, knowing that no one else could hear him. "I really, really fucked up this time."
"I hope you feel responsible for this."
Sherlock took in a sharp breath and looked away. "So... what happens to him now?" the detective asked softly.
"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "But we'll work something out. Regardless of his motives, your son - oh don't give me that look, he is your son and you know it - your son has just murdered a man in cold blood, and we both know that that sort of thing cannot be overlooked. Especially with how influential Charles Magnussen is… was."
They were standing outside Appledore still. Scottie had been since put into handcuffs and dragged off somewhere by the armed officials, and Sherlock lost sight of John during all the commotion. Now he and his brother were standing beside the chopper Mycroft had arrived in.
"Did you put him up to it?" Sherlock asked accusingly.
Mycroft tilted his head and made a face. "I beg your pardon?"
"Was this your doing?" rephrased Sherlock. "All of this. Bringing him into my life, feeding him information only the two of us could possibly know so that I would be interested in him, to ultimately get me to lead him straight to Magnussen and then take him out in such a way that you cannot possibly be held accountable for?"
Mycroft folded his arms and scoffed. "That's preposterous! I would never trust a child with such valuable information, much less rely on one for a task as high-risk as one of that nature would undoubtedly be."
Sherlock came closer and dropped his voice. "You don't suppose he was working for Magnussen then?" he wondered. "And that's why he killed him? To... get out, so to speak?
"Don't you think you would have noticed if that were the case?"
"I don't know what to think anymore, to be quite honest!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms out to the side. As if frustrated, he quickly paced around in a small circle and then reigned himself back into the conversation. "He knows things, Mycroft. They both do. And not the sort of thing you could figure out with a bit of dedicated research. Highly confidential information. Personal and private experiences. Apparently the near future, too - more than once I've caught them saying something in response to an event that hadn't happened yet, or recognizing people they should have no way of knowing already! Sometimes even saying obscuring things at the same exact time as me!"
"...Sherlock."
"When he and Emily first showed up here they were with another girl, Blaise. I suspect it's a nickname but I never bothered to ask her real one. Not important. Thing is, they took me to an alley where there was this… 20th century police call box. They were all very vague about the whole thing, but insisted that that was how they got there, and after Blaise left the box had disappeared again."
Mycroft stiffened. "Sherlock Holmes, of all things… I hope you aren't about to seriously suggest that Doctor Who is real and your adopted children arrived in the bloody TARDIS."
"The what?" blinked Sherlock.
"A spaceship from a fictional BBC program. Time machine, if you will." Mycroft looked slightly annoyed, although it was unclear as to whether this was in regards to him actually having answer for that or because he couldn't believe he was seriously having such a conversation with his younger brother.
"Look, I know it sounds crazy," Sherlock admitted, "but I also know what I saw, and it very well might have been just that! And it was larger on the inside than out. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"
"I fear that Scottie and Emily have put these silly ideas into your head and you may be reading too far into them, brother dearest. There are more pressing matters at the moment. Perhaps you ought to put your concern into those. Merry Christmas."
With a curt dip of his head, Mycroft turned and began to walk away. Sherlock spun in another small circle and scrubbed his hands over his face.
Scottie squinted up at the plane nervously, then back at his friends and flatmates, and finally to an expectant Mycroft. "This might have been easier to deal with if you were still not a legal adult," the older man said sternly. "But all things considered, you got off much easier than most in this sort of ordeal."
The boy cleared his throat. "Um. If I'm going to be gone for… a while, would it be okay if I had a word with Emily first?"
Mycroft gave Scottie a knowing (and perhaps a bit suggestive) look and nodded. After thanking him awkwardly, he and Emily started towards each other, finally splitting the distance between Mycroft and the others. In an attempt to make light of the situation, Scottie was about say something inappropriately timed that he had been quietly preparing in the past few minutes, but before he even had the chance to share Emily slapped him across the face.
Scottie stumbled backwards in surprise. "The hell was that f-"
Emily smacked his other cheek. "What were you thinking?!" she demanded, teary-eyed. "It should have been Sherlock! Not… not you!"
"He was being an asshole, okay?" Scottie shot back defensively. "Look, you know I'm weird about being touched, particularly by strangers, and… I understand you missed the whole scene where he was physically harassing me. I'm sorry. But he did have it coming and you probably would've done the exact same thing in my shoes."
"I wouldn't have killed a man!"
"No, but you charged at a serial killer once and wound up hospitalized for a week! How is that any less reckless?"
"You're a murderer! Again!"
Scottie huffed. "Well, technically speaking, he was a fictional character scripted to die anyway. Who also most definitely deserved it. And what do you mean, 'again?' I know I kicked Moriarty off of Saint Bart's that one time, but then the series reset and therefore he isn't actually dead. So it doesn't count."
Emily leaned closer, and for half a second Scottie thought she was going to assault him again. Instead she hugged onto the boy, still very much on the brink of crying. "We'll get through this," she promised. "You'll see. Blaise will show up, just like last time, and take us back home in the TARDIS. She will. She has to."
Scottie hoped that she was right, but he didn't admit this out loud. Besides, Blaise's number didn't work in that universe, and she was hardly online as of late, so chances of reaching her anytime soon seemed slim. With his arms still wrapped around her, Scottie nonchalantly changed the subject. "Hey. Since this might be the last time I see you in person, like, ever… there's something I have to get off my chest. You know those Thin Mints we had in the flat earlier this month?"
"The ones I specially ordered online because apparently England doesn't know how Girl Scouts are supposed to work and then I got mad when Sherlock denied eating the last one?"
"Yeah. Those. I, uh… There was this squirrel in the window and he looked hungry, so I might have, ah…"
Finally letting go of the embrace but still keeping her hands firmly around the boy's upper arms, Emily leaned away and stared back at Scottie, her eyes a mix of horror and betrayal. "Are you telling me you stole the last Thin Mint and wasted it on a squirrel?" she asked in disbelief. Her grip tightened.
"...I might be. Whelp. Goodbye forever!"
"GO SUCK A DICK!" Angrily, Emily pushed at Scottie and he stumbled back a couple steps.
Scottie laughed. He preferred Emily being mad at him over her cheesey heart-to-hearts. "Who knows? Maybe I'll have more luck with that in Eastern Europe!"
Without responding, Scottie made his way closer to the plane. He stopped momentarily before boarding to call out over his shoulder "Whelp. Goodbye, I guess. I love you all… Except for you, Mycroft. I can't fucking stand you." Afterwards the others said nothing and the aircraft took off from its runway. At last John came forward and put a sympathetic hand on Emily's shoulder.
"I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now," he tried.
Emily wrinkled her nose. "Well to be perfectly honest, John, I'm feeling a lot like that bastard wasted my last Thin Mint and nearly got away with it."
John wasn't quite sure how to respond to this remark and let his hand drop awkwardly. The further away the plane went, the quieter the immediate vicinity grew. When at last it disappeared in the distance Mary started to head back to her car. "C'mon," she said softly to Emily, Sherlock, and John. With an exasperated sigh Emily climbed into the back seat with Sherlock. But they had only just gotten the vehicle started when Mycroft's mobile went off. Emily wasn't sure what was being said, but just in case, she instructed John to wait for her and hopped out again.
Mycroft lowered the still connected phone and whipped his head around to Emily, who was at his side now. "Jim Moriarty. What do you know about this?"
"...um. Just that he was a consulting criminal who killed himself around the time Sherlock faked his own death?"
"There's no sense in lying to me, Miss Claus. The British government has been keeping tabs on you and your colleague for some time now and we know that you're more informed than you let on. So I'm going to ask you again: what do you know about Moriarty being back?"
Emily hesitated. "Uh. Well. I'm not psychic, Mr. Holmes. If that's what you're implying."
"Emily Marie Claus-"
"I don't know! Scottie might've read some spoiler or something!"
Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Aright. Fine. What's his number?"
"Can't you just shoot the plane down instead?"
The Watsons and Sherlock were out of the car again, and all four sets of shocked eyes locked onto Emily for this. "Emily!" John gaped. "Don't joke about that. He's your best friend!"
"Yeah, who stole the last Thin Mint in the entire building!"
Mycroft frowned. "You mean those American biscuits that little girls in uniform sell?"
"He doesn't even like Thin Mints!"
"Okay, I can understand why you might be upset about something like that, but it's hardly an excuse for-"
"Girl Scout season isn't in another six months! And it takes even longer to ship them over from another country!"
Ignoring her now, Mycroft stepped away and picked up his phone again. "Change of plans: we'll be needing the boy back as quickly as possible. Turn her around."
"SHOOT IT DOWN!" Emily shouted into the receiver over him, suddenly back at Mycroft's side and standing on her tiptoes to reach.
Almost in a frenzy, the elder Holmes brother threw an arm around the girl, his hand cupping over her mouth. Emily flailed and attempted to squirm out of the much older gentleman's grasp with little success. "No!" Mycroft shouted into the phone. "Merciful God, do not fire at that plane! I repeat, HOLD YOUR FIRE!"
Scottie glanced at the time on his phone. It had been more than five minutes since takeoff, and his heart fell at the realization that he probably hadn't been deemed worth bringing back in light of the news of Moriarty's return. He kept telling himself not to worry because just as Emily had predicted, Blaise was bound to show up again any minute now. He'd wake up in his own bed, just as before, back in the US, and then wait another year or two for the fourth season to air. At least, that's what he desperately wanted to believe. But it was seeming less and less likely.
The boy felt himself getting antsier by the minute. In an attempt to escape his own thoughts and doubts, he decided to instead try exploring around the plane. He didn't see any flight attendants to keep him in his seat, so without checking to see if a seatbelt sign was on or not, Scottie got up and made his way towards the flight deck. Without anyone stopping him, Scottie pushed open the door and stepped inside of the compartment.
What he didn't expect to see was the plane being flown by none other than Willow. Her chair spun around slowly and she greeted Scottie with a devious smile.
"Did you miss me?"
TO BE CONTINUED... EVENTUALLY?
AUTHORS NOTE: Hey, Scottie and Emily here (more or less)! First off we just want to say that if you actually read this entire thing then, well, props, but also thank you? I guess? Anyway, writing has been fun and very much fueled by your positive feedback. Due to the insanely long wait between seasons it might be quite a while before this gets updated, but in the meantime we were sort of started tackling some of the cases mentioned on John's blog, and the link to that spinoff series can also be found on my page. If you have any questions/comments/suggestions/insults/fan art(!) or just want to say hi or whatever, please feel free to leave us a comment or message us on here or at eclaus at cca dot edu. Thanks again!
