Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that honour lies with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream.
Sherlock had thought ennui was hell. That, of course, was before he boarded a twenty-three hour flight on economy; sitting behind a colicky baby with a mother inept at shutting the damn thing up.
The worst part being he couldn't, as Mycroft would probably put it, 'make a spectacle of himself'; because John and Sarah were three rows ahead and were likely to kill him if they found out Sherlock was following them.
Not that he hadn't taken precautions - his now strawberry blonde hair being one of the greatest sacrifices Sherlock had ever made in the name of a case - because that is what this is, Sherlock told himself: a case; Moriarty was a worldwide threat with infinite resources at his fingertips.
It certainly wasn't Sherlock being paranoid (what a ridiculous notion!) As Mycroft seemed to think. (He could talk! Did Mycroft think Sherlock would miss the extra security detail at the flat?)
And it was - without even a slither of doubt - definitely not a sentimental concern for his friend that spurred the action to follow him to New Zealand. Not that he could convince the Detective Inspector of that, when he had found out Sherlock's plan.
"You've both been through a lot," Lestrade had said when Sherlock had turned up at his office wheedling for a case, "it would be natural for anyone to be a bit more concerned for his safety than usual, not just you; but following him halfway around the bloody world seems a bit excessive, even by a Holmes' standard. Don't you think?"
"This is hardly about John's safety - I know the man can care for himself; even when strapped to a bomb, John was reasonably functional - but this would be the perfect opportunity for Moriarty to strike, whilst we are separated. I'm not going to give Moriarty the tactical advantage by leaving John unprotected and ripe for an abduction." Of course Sherlock knew that John would probably be under twenty-four hour surveilance as soon as he stepped on the plane - courtesy of Mycroft, naturally - but nobody had John's back like Sherlock, and vice versa.
"Look, I know you're worried for him -" Lestrade began, straightening up in his chair.
"I'm not worried." Sherlock interjected.
"- But let the bloke enjoy his holiday. If I had to live with you, two weeks on the other side of the world wouldn't nearly be enough of a vacation - bloody hell, I want to go to New Zealand now, and I've only been talking to you for five minutes!" Lestrade eyed Sherlock. A warning.
A warning that Sherlock immediately dismissed. "I told you, I'm not worried about John's safety - I shouldn't be surprised at having to repeat myself, you are after all an idiot, - but I am going to New Zealand," Sherlock spoke the last words distastefully, the way he did about any location that wasn't in London; "and you are not going to tell John." Sherlock smiled sardonically.
The Detective Inspector, who had unfortunately chosen that exact moment to take a reluctant sip of his coffee, spat out the lukewarm liquid onto his desk. He sat there, a look of shock upon his face that would of earned him a couple of quips from Sherlock; were the consulting detective not wrinkling his nose in disgust at such a display of 'transport betrayal'.
"Why the hell wouldn't I?" Lestrade eventually said, after much spluttering, red in the face. He did so hate it when Sherlock had the audacity to give him orders. He tolerated it during a case - when lives were at stake, or when he can pawn off the demands to his subordinates - but not on personal matters, there has to be a line somewhere!
"I trust you remember last year's Christmas party? The one you dragged me to, on threat of withholding cases? The one where you woke up on New Brighton beach, if I remember correctly; amnesiac, hungover and quite naked - except for the pink, fluffy slippers?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief.
Lestrade raised his eyebrows in very real horror. "Oh god. You know? I thought I was alone there - though to this day I have no idea how I got to New Brighton in the first place . . . " The Detective Inspector trailed off looking nauseous.
"Oh I was there - studying the effects of methanphetamine spiked punch on an average intellect was too good to pass up - and no, before you jump to conclusions, I wasn't the one who spiked it. I have my suspicions though, but I need more data before I can be sure." Sherlock smirked as Lestrade started spluttering again.
"Do you want to see the photos?" Sherlock asked innocently.
" . . . Photos?" Lestrade, seeing where this was going and not liking it one bit, slumped in defeat.
"Obviously. You were an extremely disappointing specimen - your reactions were very predictable, hardly worth studying; so I took some pictures, for blackmailing purposes, to make up for such a monumental waste of my time." Sherlock slid his finger along the touchscreen of his phone every five seconds; each picture showed Lestrade in a different state of undress.
The Detective Inspector groaned into his hands. Only Sherlock Holmes would deem blackmail pictures a necessary compensation for being high-off-your-rocker on a class A drug and not being interesting enough. Then again, only Sherlock Holmes would know that the punch was spiked with Meth, yet let half of New Scotland Yard drink it.
The rest of the conversation entailed much swearing, talk of past transgressions and, on Lestrade's part, threats of bodily harm that were only half empty. In the end the Detective Inspector agreed to Sherlock's terms and promised not to tell John of Sherlock's plans, if only to get hold of the photos - no man should ever be seen wearing slippers so pink and fluffy.
John helped Sarah get her bag down from the overhead compartment. No, it was definitely not something as mawkish as concern for his friend that motivated him to leave the sanctity of 221B. Though next time he must tell John to holiday somewhere more interesting - Crime is so predictible in this part of the world.
John and Sarah were just leaving customs when the first officers intercepted him.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Male, fifty-five, retiring soon against his will or at least close to termination of his employment judging by the fraying of his cuffs and general lack of care for his uniform; pinpricks in various stages of healing, on fingers - indicative of diabetes, (being fired for not disclosing his diabetes to his employers, perhaps?)
The second officer - female, twenty-nine, employed for six months, having affair with boss - obviously: her pink lipstick is smudged on the man's inner collar; eyes flittering nervously to the other officer - reported the affair anonymously to his superiors, carrying it on the avoid suspicion until he leaves. (Ah, soon to be fired for an inappropriate relationship with his trainees) - stood meekly beside the first.
Sherlock should have known that Mycroft wouldn't let him leave without getting in the last word. Mycroft's 'brotherly concern' and need to thrust 'life lessons' upon Sherlock was quite nauseating. As was Mycroft in general, in Sherlock's opinion.
"No, I will not be coming with you. You can tell the British Government to find another life to meddle in for the meanwhile - I don't think he has terrified The Detective Inspector for awhile - should be fun for him." Sherlock said brusquely, brushing past them in a bid to keep John in his line of sight, leaving the officers behind, dumbfounded.
Sherlock was blocked again by four heavily armed officers as John and Sarah rounded the corner, on their way to exit the terminal.
"Oh for the love of . . . What do you want now? Don't you have a drug mule to detain?" Sherlock waved his hands exasperated.
They drew their weapons and motioned for him to lie on the floor. Ah. He was why the gate was closed. They didn't actually know about the cocaine smuggler who had sat three seats away from Sherlock. Typical. A police force made up entirely of idiots wasn't just a British thing then.
He complied as one of the officers checked him for weapons and another read him his rights. "Sherlock Holmes, we are detaining you for questioning." The sentence had tapered off at the end. Sherlock smirked sensing a chance to have a dig.
"Yes obviously; do you know what you are to be questioning me about, by any chance?" Sherlock put on an overly innocent face as he was hauled up. No handcuffs. Definitely Mycroft involvement - his elder brother seemed to have something against seeing the young detective in shackles.
"No, top secret apparently. The British embassy have sent over someone themselves." The officer eyed Sherlock speculatively as he was led past the interrogation rooms, on the soon-to-be-fired officer's orders, and towards an office suite.
Sherlock entered and closed the door on all the officer's faces; immediately dropping his innocuous facade. He turned, without ackowledging 'Anthea;' and looked directly into the eyes of the person on the laptop screen in her hands.
"Mycroft, I officially hate you more than any other person alive." The man on the screen let out a long-suffering sigh. "And I see the diet is going terribly. How excellent."
A/N: Okay, this chapter is actually a lot shorter than I planned; but I felt that this was a natural stopping point. I think, since this is my first fic and I don't want to get overwhelmed, that I'm going to keep all the chapters short - but I will try to update more regularly to make up for it.
Personally, I don't think New Zealand police officers are idiots. Any derogatory remarks are purely there because Sherlock made me write them.
In future chapters the Maori language will make a significant appearance, but I will have all the translations either in brackets next to the words or at the bottom of the story in an author's note if they are too long.
Thank you to everybody who has taken the time to read this, it is extremely appreciated.
Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.