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Language:
English
Series:
Part 4 of Short Message Service, Part 1 of All mobile phones should be turned off for the duration of the flight
Stats:
Published:
2012-03-01
Completed:
2012-04-16
Words:
3,414
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
47
Kudos:
192
Bookmarks:
15
Hits:
4,370

Ash cloud over Europe

Summary:

Stranded at Frankfurt Airport (due to volcano-related issues), Mycroft Holmes’ PA encounters MJN Air’s Captain.

Notes:

This fic is a one shot, but some things trace back to the Short Message Service series.

I wrote this as a gift to my loyal beta so she would start listening to Cabin Pressure. Two days before I finished it she told me she had already started. Mission completed?

I was rude enough to ask her to beta her own gift, and she’ll kill me when she sees what I did after she gave it back to me. In other words, all remaining mistakes are mine.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things you could say about Iceland, but one thing was clear: when the island was in a bad mood, all of Europe came to a screeching halt. Ash and smoke and suddenly Europe, or at least the transportation systems, was back in the 19th century.

“Take the train from Frankfurt,” Mr Holmes had said when she called the office. “Just take the train to Paris or Brussels, then take Eurostar so you’ll be back tomorrow.”

Take the train. Ha! She’d like to see him take the train (or trains, to be accurate) from Frankfurt to London. No, she was going to stay in Frankfurt. Surely her time was better spent infiltrating Eurozone meetings and keeping an eye on the Greeks and the Germans and, of course, the French than jumping trains to get home in time for Snog Marry Avoid?

Yes, she watched Snog Marry Avoid, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Well, not that ashamed, anyway.

“Gin Tonic, bitte,” she said, making eye contact with the bartender in the airport lounge. He smiled and said something incomprehensible; she flashed a smile and pretended to understand as well as she wished she did. She should really brush up on her German. Or stop pretending she spoke the language at all.

“Danke,” she said, signing the receipt for the outrageous 12 euros the drink cost. How could the prices at airport bars not be at the top of the EU Parliamentary agenda? At least the drink was strong.

She retrieved her phone from her handbag and sent a quick text.

Bored.

My deepest
sympathies. Have
you managed to
get drunk on
tax money yet?
SH

I’m working on it.

Should I ask
John to record
Snog Marry Avoid
for you?
SH

The drink almost came out her nose as she tried not to giggle. It simply wasn’t appropriate to giggle at text messages in public after the age of fifteen.

BBC iPlayer is
my friend. But
I appreciate
the thought.

Remember that
the next time
I’m bored.
SH

Yes, I’ll link you
Snog Marry Avoid
then.

Amusing.
SH

Always.

Stay away from
the pitchers,
would you?
SH

She rolled her eyes. Her boss’s brother was one of the best perks of her job. Sherlock Holmes was like coffee on a roller-coaster – energising, amusing and terrifying.

Still typing up her answer (Only in Japan. A pitcher here would plunge Britain into debt of Greek proportions.) she reached for her drink and missed by a couple of millimetres. That was just enough to knock it over completely, spilling the drink on the poor man standing next to her trying to get the bartender’s attention.

She blinked and started. He looked like Sherlock Holmes! The resemblance, even with the red hair and the freckles, was disturbing. That couldn’t be right. How strong was that drink?

“Entschuldigung,” she said and, ignoring her insane thoughts, she picked up the glass, looking for some napkins to give him. She registered that he was British by his use of profanities, and couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock would even consider that a deduction.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” She handed him some of the napkins she had found and started to wipe up the few drops that had ended up on the bar top.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stuttered, and blushing as if he had been the one spilling a drink all over her. “It’s just…this damn volcano. We weren’t supposed to stay here. And…and this was my only change of clothes. And it’s just…it’s….”

“I apologise,” she said, though she didn’t think it would do much difference.

“No, it’s okay…just fine. Bloody brilliant,” the man muttered, more to himself than to her, as he tried to pat his uniform dry. “This is just…just typical.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” she offered.

“Thank you, no, you don’t have to.”

She ignored him and caught the bartender’s eyes, even though the bar was crowded with irritated, volcano-grounded passengers. Dark eyelashes and a mysterious smile had their advantages: just ask Mona Lisa. With a flick of two fingers she ordered each of them a new drink.

Her phone vibrated on the bartop. She glanced at the screen. “A Friend,” it said. She opened the message as two glasses were placed in front of them.

Try not to cause
an international
scandal.
SH

“Rough day?” she asked.

If the papers didn’t
pick up on the 2009 Nobel
Dinner, I can get away
with anything.

“More like…rough life….” the man muttered, placing the soggy napkin on the bar. She finally took the time to actually look at him; the resemblance to Sherlock seemed to have disappeared at some point during the stuttering. Perhaps she had just imagined it in the first place. Pity.

Pride goes before
destruction.
SH

“It’s not your fault, I’m an accident magnet.”

“Are you sure you’ve chosen the right profession, then?” she asked, eying his pilot’s uniform with an amused, half-mocking smile.

“I- it’s not- I’ve never…. I mean it’s not like….”

“Take a breath, Captain,” she said, nodding in the direction of the glasses, “Drink something. Not like you’re going to fly anywhere tonight anyway.”

“Yes. Yes…. I…. Thank you.”

The man looked (and sounded) more confident and visibly straightened up when she addressed him as Captain. She smiled and turned back to her phone.

Your quoting the
Bible is scary.

Would a different
religious work
suit you better?
SH

“So, um, why are you …. I mean, where are you, were you, I- I mean if-“

“London,” she answered, still texting. Better to put him out of the misery of having to complete a sentence than force him to stutter his way through she figured.

You and religion
don't mix well.

“Going home to a, a boyfriend?”

“No.” She met his eyes with a smirk, making him blush again. It was adorable how he did that. She wondered if Sherlock ever blushed.

“Oh, oh I see, I um, I’m not going home to a boyfriend either. Not that I’d want to, go home to a boyfriend. I’m a man. Not that wanting to go home to a boyfriend if you are a man is wrong or, or, I mean, because it’s not. It’s fine. I just don’t. Want to. I like women. I…. Oh, God….”

He turned away from her, looking like he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear. She supressed a giggle and ignored her phone’s new text.

“Breathe,” she encouraged, and wondered if he’d get a stroke if she touched his hand. That would be cruel. Or incredibly funny.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and emptied half of his drink.

“Stop apologising.”

“Sorry…sorry.”

“Should we start again?” she suggested, offering her hand. “My name’s…Anthea.”

“My name’s Captain, no, that’s not my name…. I am the Captain, a Captain, my name is Martin. Crieff.” He kept her hand in his. He was trying not to look at her cleavage, which was obviously distracting him tremendously. Good, that was what it was there for.

“Nice to meet you, Captain Crieff,” she smiled, wiggling her hand free from his.

“Oh, God, sorry.”

She smiled and shook her head as she glanced at her phone. Upon seeing she had four texts from Sherlock, an idea popped into her head.

“May I take a picture of your thumb?”

“My what? Why?” Martin – no, she decided to call him Captain Crieff, it seemed to do such good things to his posture – looked startled.

“Your thumb. The left one,” she said, opening the camera on her phone.

“Why?”

“I work for the government,” she said, reaching for his wrist. She took the picture before he could ask about the logic in that, and sent the picture before he had recovered from her touch.

“What? Which government? What do you want with my thumb?”

Airline pilot.
Go for it.
SH

She smiled at the message and turned her attention back to Captain Crieff. “Our government.”

“The, the British government?”

“Her Majesty’s Government, yes. That’s why I’m here. Euro crisis, lots of fun.”

“Why would the government care about my thumb?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was a matter of national security?”

“National…? What? No.”

“I have a friend who claims he can identify a pilot by his left thumb,” she finally admitted. The explanation did not seem to put him at ease.

“You sent a picture of my thumb to your friend?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Unfortunately he’s as good as he thinks he is.”

“He could tell I was a pilot just by looking at a picture of my thumb?” Captain Crieff looked stunned. “Most people can’t even tell when they meet me. I mean, you could, that I was a captain even, but people mostly just…they-”

Drunk yet?
SH

“People are idiots,” she interrupted, before he rambled himself into a corner again. He blushed and looked down at his wet uniform.

“Yes, yes they are,” he muttered.

Shut up, Sherlock.
I’m very busy.

“We should get you out of that uniform, Captain Crieff,” she said.

“Um…. I…. um…don’t have any…. It’s….”

“I know,” she said, “You didn’t bring a change of clothes because you didn’t plan on getting stuck here.”

“Yes, exactly, so, I can’t get out of…ehm…” – she looked up and gave him a telling glare – “Oh. OH! I-I-I…. Yes! I mean, yes. We should- it’s a….yes.”

Use a condom.
SH

She dropped the phone into her handbag with a smile and stood, deliberately leaning too close to him. She could hear how his breath got stuck in his throat.

“Well, eh, yes um….where shall we, um, go?”

“Oh, I know places,” she said, and she led him out of the bar.

Half an hour later, Captain Crieff’s uniform shared a pile with a black skirt suit on the floor of a hotel room that Mycroft Holmes would reluctantly have to pay for.

Chapter 2: Tell me more, tell me more!

Summary:

Anthea is more generous with the details than desired while Captain Crieff tries to not kiss and tell (even though he wants to).

Notes:

I expect you all to hum this while reading:

 

Well-a well-a well-a, huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Did you get very far?
Tell me more, tell me more
Like does he have a...um...plane?

Chapter Text

Did you have
fun last night?
SH

He passed the time.

I’m sure he’d
be delighted by
that evaluation.
SH

Oh, hush. He was
sweet. Almost
knew what he was
doing.

I don’t need details.
SH

Good, because
you're not getting
any.

Hm. Interesting.
SH

What’s interesting?

You’re always
eager to share the
details of everyone
else’s sex life.
SH

Don’t tell anyone,
but I make up most
of those details.

You don’t say?
SH

Shocking, isn’t it?

Outrageous!
SH

Don’t worry, I’m
getting punished
as we text.

That’s good to
hear. How?
SH

I’m on a crowded
train headed for
Paris. Your brother
is not entirely pleased
I stayed the night.

Because of you staying,
or your activities?
SH

My not being in
London this morning.
He’s not briefed
about how I decided
to spend my time.

I commend your
decision to keep
Mycroft out of your
sex life.
SH

I’m sure he feels
the same way.

Seeing him again?
SH

Your brother?

The airline pilot.
Don’t play stupid.
It doesn’t suit you.
SH

Thank you, I think.
Why do you want
to know? Jealous?

Of course not. I
just want to know
if I need to do a
background check
on him or not.
SH

That’s sweet, and
offensive, at the
same time - not
to mention
unnecessary. I
have better
sources than you.

Is that a challenge?
SH

Sure, if you’re bored.

Actually, not today.
SH

Really? Shocking.

I have hobbies.
SH

How’s the exploding
umbrella coming along?

Still in very early
development.
SH

You’ve been working
on it for more than
five years.

It’s a very
complicated
procedure.
SH

That’s what he said.

What?
SH

Nothing. I’ve
wanted to say
that for ages,
but you never
give me an opening.

I’m not sure I follow.
SH

Of course you
don't. Ask John to
explain it to you.

Sex-related?
SH

A bit.

Then I’m not
going to ask him.
SH

Prude.

I’ve been called
much worse.
SH

Not by me.

You called me
Mycroft once.
SH

Did I? Well, I’m
sure it was called for.

Have fun on
the train.
SH

Don’t sulk.

Sherlock Holmes,
are you twelve?

God, I miss the
pilot. He was a bit
clumsy, but at
least he behaved
like an adult.

He really knew
how to work
that thumb I
showed you.

Please, no details!
SH

Just wanted to see
how long you
could resist replying.

Who’s twelve now?
SH

Still just you.

Have a nice trip.
SH

Almost in Paris, I
think I’ll survive.

Tell Mycroft hello
from me.
SH

Really?

No.
SH

“O Captain, my Captain,” Douglas singsonged, as Martin entered GERTI sometime around noon. “You look like you’ve missed a good night’s sleep and couldn’t be happier about it.”

“Oh, shut up, Douglas,” Martin muttered, feeling his ears grow pink. He helped himself to a cup of coffee, “Where are Carolyn and Arthur?”

“One is buying tax-free candy, and the other one is trying to huff and puff away the ash cloud so we can get home. Care to guess who’s doing what?”

Martin ignored the question and made a face as he swallowed the coffee. “This is worse than usual.”

“Take up your complaints with our loyal barista when he returns with his arms full of sweets.” Douglas handed him a tiny package of sugar. “It’s more drinkable if you have sugar with coffee instead of coffee with sugar.”

“So, you all slept on GERTI, then?” Martin looked at the coffee, trying to decide if it was worth drinking for the caffeine.

“Yes, Carolyn wasn’t all that keen of using her money to check us in at a hotel indefinitely.”

“Mm…. I was present at that discussion,” Martin remembered absently, deciding to drink the coffee after pouring in two sachets of sugar.

“Is this where I’m supposed to ask where you didn’t get any sleep? I can do that.” Douglas looked smug. “Where were you last night? Mummy and Daddy were so worried. Well, at least Arthur was.”

“How sweet of Arthur,” Martin mumbled, following Douglas back to the cabin where most of MJN Air had obviously spent the night.

“Yes, he’s rather endearing sometimes.” Douglas moved two blankets off a seat and sat down with a frown. “His extensive questioning about your whereabouts made me think I was going to have to tell him about the birds and the bees.”

Martin remained on his feet and endured Douglas’s expectant look.

“Stop that!” he said after a few minutes. “I’m not going to tell you just because you’re staring at me.”

“Oh, come on! You’re dying to tell me.”

“It’s…none of your business.” Martin pretended not to notice how the pink on his ears had started to spread over his cheeks.

“It isn’t,” Douglas agreed and nodding, “and I can’t imagine your sexual conquests to be the basis of a very interesting story, but I’d be damned if I cared about that. We’re grounded until Iceland decides to pause Ragnarök, so now, please, entertain me. Where did you avoid sleep last night, Captain?”

“Steigenberger, if you have to know.”

“Steigenberger? On your non-existent salary?” Douglas gaped. “Now you have to tell me who she was. Or he. I’m not here to judge.”

“It was a she,” Martin huffed. “And I’m not saying anything else.”

“Yes you are.” Douglas rolled his eyes. “You’ll tell me everything eventually, so why don’t you stop being a prude and give me all the juicy details right now?”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No.” Martin sat down at the other side of the aisle. “Stop asking me.”

“Don’t be dull, Martin,” Douglas told him. When it became clear that Martin wasn’t going to say anything more, the first officer continued, sighing: “Then I’ll just have to speculate. The young Captain Crieff left his loyal crew and plane last night because he thought someone was making fun of his hat.”

“You were making fun of my hat,” Martin interjected, glaring at him. “And my safety protocols.”

“Not much more than usual. Honestly, Martin, being stuck here is almost as entertaining as getting a tooth pulled. Having to listen to you go through protocol makes it a root canal without anaesthesia.”

Martin snorted.

“Shall I go on?” Douglas smirked. Martin rolled his eyes and looked down at his coffee, unwilling to admit he actually wanted to hear what Douglas would make up.

“Well then, our brave Captain went to one of the watering holes offered by this fine establishment, thinking that, since the end of the world as we know it was eminent, he wouldn’t be flying tonight anyway, so he could unwind with some alcohol.”

Martin realised that he was nodding along in confirmation. He hoped that Douglas hadn’t noticed, but the smug look on his first officer’s face told him otherwise.

“Through the thick cigar smoke that filled the room-“

“Where do you think I went yesterday? A speakeasy in 1920s Chicago?”

“If you want to tell the story, please, go ahead,” Douglas offered. Martin shook his head. “Well then, as I said, through the thick cigar smoke – only out-thickened by the ash cloud keeping us here – our brave, young Captain caught the eye of the Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Andorra.”

“Don’t be absurd! I don’t even think Andorra has a princess. She’s a British government employee.”

“A government employee, you say? Hot!”

“Yes, she was. Very. Now shut up.”

“Oh, never, Martin. How could someone working for our government afford a quick rendezvous at Steigenberger?”

Martin looked at him, finishing the terrible coffee to stall for time. He had actually wondered the same thing last night, though not for very long, as her tongue in his ear had almost rendered him unable to think at all.

“Actually,” he said slowly, recalling the strange details of last night, “now that I think about it, I think she might have been a secret agent.”

“And that would make you what, Plenty O’Toole?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, well, maybe not ‘plenty’ but you brought at least one ‘tool’, right?” Douglas raised his eyebrows.

“What? God! Douglas!”

“Don’t tell me you’re Pussy Galore, Martin.”

“Of course not!” Martin snorted. Still, as he leaned back and absently tapped the armrest, he thought that for the woman last night, he would have gladly been whichever Bond girl she’d wanted. He smiled, shaking his head, happy that Douglas couldn’t read minds.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Martin shook his head again, still smiling. “Do you think Carolyn’s having any luck with the huffing and the puffing?”

“No, but not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”

“We could always suggest a repetition of Douz.”

“Autobahn, at this hour?” Douglas shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“And it might be a bit difficult to get GERTI to swim across the English Channel.”

“True. But let’s not mention this to Carolyn. She might just be desperate enough to try.”

Martin chuckled. “Well, if we’re going to be stuck here another day, then let’s go and get some proper coffee. Or are you on plane-guarding duty?”

“You mean, am I making sure no one steals GERTI and flies her away through an ash cloud that not even real aeroplanes dare face? No. I mostly just stayed around to wait for you to come back.”

“So, coffee?” Martin didn’t really know what to make of the fact that Douglas had been waiting around for him.

“Oh, why not? Maybe even a bagel.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Martin got to his feet.

“After you, Captain.”

As they left the plane, Douglas put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Happy as I am about your little adventure last night –believe me, I encourage more of it – next time, take a moment to tell us that you’re not kidnapped or dead in a closet somewhere.”

Martin smiled, embarrassed and a little guilty. “Sorry, I didn’t think….”

“Oh no, don’t be sorry,” Douglas protested, shaking his head to emphasise his point. “Just a mental Post-it for next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Martin mumbled.

“I never even thought there was going to be a first time! But look at you.” Douglas nudged him in the shoulder with a smirk. Still embarrassed and blushing again, Martin shoved him back, smiling. Even though Martin knew he was probably going to have to spend more than one night on GERTI, he realised that he was going to remember this as a pleasant experience.