"John?" Sherlock, who up until then had been lying on the couch looking bored, inquired of his companion as he suddenly sat up.
"Mmm?" came the vague reply from behind the laptop screen.
"We're leaving for America this afternoon. Have you packed yet?"
"Mmm."
"Oh good. The plane leaves in two hours. Should grab a cab soon," Sherlock added as he stood and picked up his violin, intending to make full use of what little time he had to play it before they would have to leave. He had barely arranged the instrument into a playable position when John suddenly looked up from his blogging, his face portraying a mixture of confusion and worry.
"Wait, what?" he exclaimed, " Plane? Cab? Plane? Sherlock, what's going on?"
"I did tell you we're catching a plane to America today," Sherlock replied calmly without looking up from his violin.
"No. No Sherlock, you didn't." Hearing the irritation that was creeping into his voice, Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John's.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion
"Yes, quite. I would certainly remember something like that."
"But I told you half an hour ago," Sherlock stated, now frowning slightly.
"When you arrived back?" John asked.
"Yes."
"I wasn't here Sherlock."
"Oh. Weren't you?" Sherlock asked, and John sighed at the polite disinterest that was clear in Sherlock's voice.
"No, I wasn't."
"Well then, best get ready. The plane leaves in two hours." And with that, Sherlock turned away from his companion to stare out the window as he began to play his violin.
Less than thirty minutes later, the duo found themselves seated on the next flight to America. John was looking out the window with mild interest as Sherlock stared wordlessly ahead. After awhile, John turned to his companion.
"So, America...why America?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything. Sherlock turned to John and replied in a slightly hushed voice, so that the other passengers couldn't hear.
"Do you recall the body that was found three days ago? It was in a garden shed and I was called in to look at it."
"A Deduction of Illness?" John asked.
"Excuse me?" Sherlock sounded almost offended by the title.
"The name of the case; A Deduction of Illness," John explained patiently.
"You put it on your blog? I told you not to mention the unsolved ones!" Sherlock exclaimed reproachfully, turning to look away from John in childish petulance.
"It was solved," John argued, no longer sounding patient.
"No it isn't!" Sherlock whipped his head back to face John, "Why do you think we're travelling to America? The only possible explanation for the case is murder, how else are we going to prove it?"
"How is going to America going to help you prove your point?" asked John.
"Obviously, because that's where the body is."
"Why is the body in America? And what do you mean 'obviously'?"
"Oh come on, John. I just told you that the case is why we're going to America. Of course that's where the body is. How could you not come to that conclusion?" Sherlock stretched his hands out in front of him in exasperation and lowered his head into them briefly before looking back up at John, "And the body is there because, according to Lestrade, it's where 'the best medical diagnostics team is'."
John thought a moment before replying, knowing better than to react to Sherlock's condescension; "The 'best medical diagnostics team'?"
"I doubt it."
"Well, I guess we'll find out then," said John, turning once more to look out the window as below them Britain gave way to a huge and seemingly endless ocean, "When we get there."