A Hell of a Detour
A Hell of a Detour
by berrigan
Crossover | Gen | G | 1800 words
A multifandom comedy for sexonwheels_67 's birthday. Implied slash pairings.
It was a pleasant day in Smallville, Kansas. People were milling about, and there was a plane flying dangerously low over the town, smoke billowing from one of its wings. No one batted an eyelash as it zoomed overhead in the direction of the Luthor mansion.
Onboard the plane, the Captain was reassuring everyone that everything was perfectly all right. It would have been more reassuring if the microphone wasn’t picking up a stray ‘PULL UP! PULL UP!’ in the background.
“SHERLOCK THIS IS A BIT NOT GOOD,” John said forcefully. He was gripping his arm rests so hard that his knuckles were turning white, but Sherlock didn’t even look up from staring sullenly at his dead mobile.
“Oh, calm down, John.”
“We’re about to crash! I think we could all do with panicking a bit!”
“Last week you were running around a crime scene shouting ‘DON’T PANIC’ at the top of your lungs. I do wish that you’d make up your mind!” Sherlock sighed.
The plane shook suddenly before stilling, and when John leaned over Sherlock to look out the window, he could see that they had stopped in midair.
“What on earth...?” John murmured. They began to move again, but slowly.
Sherlock shoved John out of the way and pressed his face to the small window, murmuring calculations underneath his breath.
When they were safely on the ground, they were ushered down the emergency slide by an overly-chipper young attendant.
“We are never flying on that airline again. Ever. Even if it means asking your brother to pay for plane tickets,” John said firmly, leaning down to touch the ground. They seemed to have landed on someone’s lawn, and underneath the belly of the plane John could see a helicopter pad. Before them was a castle.
“I wasn’t aware they had castles in America,” John murmured, staring up at it. He watched as one of the many side doors opened and a parade of men and women came out, carrying blankets and trays of beverages.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This was obviously brought over from Europe. Most likely Scotland, judging by the architecture,” Sherlock said. He appeared unmoved by their miraculous landing, and was bent over his cell phone, texting rapidly. A woman wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“How can you tell?” asked John.
“The bricks are old, but the motar is new, not to mention the house has been modernized in ways which are only possible by taking it apart entirely.”
The men and women seemed to be herding the people from the plane up towards the house, and John tugged Sherlock into step with them.
They were only a few feet from the house when Sherlock finally looked up from his phone and blinked. “Why is this blanket on me?”
-
They were all been shown into a large parlour, the servants still passing out cups of coffee (not tea, unfortunately, for which John suffered) and re-applying blankets to Sherlock. A few minutes later the door opened and a tall, bald man entered, a dark-haired teenager trailing behind him. Sherlock finally looked interested, and John watched as he dismissed the bald man to focus on the teenager.
“Hello, welcome to the Luthor mansion,” the bald man said pleasantly. “My name is Lex Luthor and I am pleased to offer you my home for the time being.”
“We apologize for crashing into your garden, sir,” piped up the chipper flight attendant.
“It’s no problem,” Mr. Luthor said, waving his hand.
Sherlock nudged John’s shoulder. “That teenager’s shirt is covered in engine oil.”
“So?” John whispered back.
“Engine oil from the plane, John.”
“He probably helped to put out the fire.”
Sherlock hummed but didn’t reply.
-
Mr. Luthor, as it turned out, was not only nonplussed at having a plane land on his front lawn, he was perfectly willing to help in the form of purchasing an entire tour bus to take them to the nearest airport, in Metropolis, but also to requisition an entire flight to take them the rest of the way to Vancouver.
“It’s rather decent of him,” John said to Sherlock. “Can’t imagine what it must be costing him. Very kind, indeed.”
“Yeah, he does stuff like that,” a voice said behind him. John turned to see the dark-haired teenager. “I’m Clark.”
John introduced himself and Sherlock and shook Clark’s hand. Sherlock sat up and looked Clark over with his overly intense stare, but Clark didn’t seem to notice.
“Sherlock,” he warned in a low voice.
Sherlock, of course, didn’t heed his warning and pointed to the oil stains on Clark’s jeans and t-shirt. “That’s oil from the plane’s engine, and there’s fuel soaking the cuff of your jeans. Yet there’s no extingushing foam, which means that John, you were wrong and he was not helping to put out the fire. So how did you get those stains...?”
Clark blinked, and John could practically see his defenses snap shut. “I-”
“Sherlock!” John snapped. “Just-stop. Leave him alone.”
Sherlock frowned and turned to John. “I’m not-oh.” His head swivelled back to Clark. “Oh, of course. That explains it.”
Clark looked terrified now.
“Well, now that’s solved, I’m bored again,” Sherlock said, huffing dramatically. “John, entertain me.”
“Entertain yourself,” he muttered.
“By doing what?” Sherlock asked.
“I don’t know-deduce some things!”
“This parlour has been in disuse for too long to hold much information, and I’d deduced all our passengers within the first twenty minutes of the flight.”
“You’re hopeless,” John said. Sherlock gave a snort and wandered off in search of something to occupy his mind.
Clark tapped him on the shoulder. “Er, your friend.”
“Whatever things he’s figured out about you, don’t worry,” John said. “He’s probably already deleted them from his ‘hard drive.’”
“Oh.” Clark didn’t calm completely, but at least he didn’t look close to hyperventilating. “So, um, are you and him travelling together?”
“Yeah,” John said. “There’s a serial killer in BC that’s stumping the local authorities. Bunch of missing prostitutes. Somehow that git managed to convince them to let him in on it.”
“So he’s a detective, or something?”
“Consulting detective,” Sherlock said, coming up to them once again. “John, this is the most abyssmally dull castle on earth.”
Clark looked irked at that. “It’s not that bad!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you live here. You’re hardly unbiased.”
Now Clark was blushing. “What-how did you know that?”
The look Sherlock gave him was rather condescending, and even John could see how relaxed he seemed in the large, uncomfortable house, far more at home than a guest would be. Of course, Sherlock would have figured it out by his shirt collar or his haircut or something equally obscure, but it was the same conclusion.
“Is Mr. Luthor your father?”
“No,” Clark said quickly. “He’s just a friend.”
John raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced back.
“Oh,” John said slowly.
-
Clark vanished after that, his face bright red. Sherlock wandered off once more to study the wood panelling of the walls. John, meanwhile, passed the time by getting to know the other passengers.
“So, Arthur, why are you going to Vancouver?”
“For business,” Arthur said. John could see his fingers tighten over his silver briefcase out of the corner of his eye. He turned to Arthur’s British companion.
“And you?”
The man smirked, and sent a heated look in Arthur’s direction. “Oh, for pleasure.”
-
He excused himself to cross the room and keep Sherlock from getting into an honest-to-God fistfight with an older man leaning heavily on a cane. His friend, a slightly less lean brunette, was likewise trying to do the same.
“I’m sorry,” they said to each other in unison.
“He’s kind of-” John started.
“Irritable?” the other man finished.
They laughed, and both Sherlock and the man with the cane scowled and stalked away.
-
“I think you’re the only passenger who’s travelling alone,” John said, glancing around.
Merlin (and John would have laughed at his name if he hadn’t seen some of the reactions Sherlock got upon introducing himself) nodded. “Well, I don’t have anyone to travel with.”
“So why Vancouver?” John asked. “If you’re not going to meet anyone.”
“Oh, but I am. I’ve been offered a job there, actually.”
“Well, congratulations,” John said. He wondered why such a young man needed to travel half-way around the world for a job.
-
He was talking to two brothers who were traveling to BC for a hunting trip when he noticed a peculiar stain on the younger brother’s shirt.
“Is that blood?” he asked.
He looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
John wondered what it said about his life that he actually did find that statement reassuring.
-
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Crieff.”
John stared. “Now that’s just creepy.”
“What?”
“You look just like him,” John murmured.
“Like who?” Captain Crieff asked, looking confused.
“Only... stupider.”
“Excuse me!” the pilot said, his face turning the same shade as his hair.
John shivered and edged away from him.
-
“So if you’re trying to get to Miami, why are you on a plane to Vancouver?” John asked.
“Well,” the man said slowly. “You might say I’m...”
For some odd reason he paused, took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, and slid them onto his nose.
“...Taking the scenic route.”
John just walked away.
-
“The bus just arrived,” John overheard someone say. He turned to see two young men, probably college kids, looking out the stained-glass windows. They were rather odd, the blond one more so, as he seemed to be wearing some sort of housecoat.
“About time,” said the blond. “We should have come by broomstick. You and your precious muggle technology can shove it.”
The spectacled boy settled a hand on the blond’s shoulders, murmured something, and eventually the blond sighed. “All right, I’ll give it one more chance on the flight back.”
-
“Well, that was interesting,” John said as they buckled their seatbelts aboard a much larger and hopefully safer plane. “And first-class seats, too!” He sat back. “I’ve never flown first class before.”
He looked over at Sherlock, who had once again claimed the window seat. His eyes were closed, fingers steepled beneath his lips. John could practically hear the cogs in his head turning, and he gave him a fond smile.
“I don’t think my leg will ever ache again, after that,” John said. To the untrained eye, Sherlock appeared to be ignoring him, but after he said it, the crinkles around Sherlock’s eyes twitched just so, and John knew that if they had been alone, Sherlock would have smiled.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek as the plane began to move.
Sherlock’s eyes flew open just as they began racing down the runway.
“John! I’ve solved it!”
John began to giggle, and after a moment, Sherlock joined in.
fin.
by berrigan
Crossover | Gen | G | 1800 words
A multifandom comedy for sexonwheels_67 's birthday. Implied slash pairings.
It was a pleasant day in Smallville, Kansas. People were milling about, and there was a plane flying dangerously low over the town, smoke billowing from one of its wings. No one batted an eyelash as it zoomed overhead in the direction of the Luthor mansion.
Onboard the plane, the Captain was reassuring everyone that everything was perfectly all right. It would have been more reassuring if the microphone wasn’t picking up a stray ‘PULL UP! PULL UP!’ in the background.
“SHERLOCK THIS IS A BIT NOT GOOD,” John said forcefully. He was gripping his arm rests so hard that his knuckles were turning white, but Sherlock didn’t even look up from staring sullenly at his dead mobile.
“Oh, calm down, John.”
“We’re about to crash! I think we could all do with panicking a bit!”
“Last week you were running around a crime scene shouting ‘DON’T PANIC’ at the top of your lungs. I do wish that you’d make up your mind!” Sherlock sighed.
The plane shook suddenly before stilling, and when John leaned over Sherlock to look out the window, he could see that they had stopped in midair.
“What on earth...?” John murmured. They began to move again, but slowly.
Sherlock shoved John out of the way and pressed his face to the small window, murmuring calculations underneath his breath.
When they were safely on the ground, they were ushered down the emergency slide by an overly-chipper young attendant.
“We are never flying on that airline again. Ever. Even if it means asking your brother to pay for plane tickets,” John said firmly, leaning down to touch the ground. They seemed to have landed on someone’s lawn, and underneath the belly of the plane John could see a helicopter pad. Before them was a castle.
“I wasn’t aware they had castles in America,” John murmured, staring up at it. He watched as one of the many side doors opened and a parade of men and women came out, carrying blankets and trays of beverages.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This was obviously brought over from Europe. Most likely Scotland, judging by the architecture,” Sherlock said. He appeared unmoved by their miraculous landing, and was bent over his cell phone, texting rapidly. A woman wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“How can you tell?” asked John.
“The bricks are old, but the motar is new, not to mention the house has been modernized in ways which are only possible by taking it apart entirely.”
The men and women seemed to be herding the people from the plane up towards the house, and John tugged Sherlock into step with them.
They were only a few feet from the house when Sherlock finally looked up from his phone and blinked. “Why is this blanket on me?”
-
They were all been shown into a large parlour, the servants still passing out cups of coffee (not tea, unfortunately, for which John suffered) and re-applying blankets to Sherlock. A few minutes later the door opened and a tall, bald man entered, a dark-haired teenager trailing behind him. Sherlock finally looked interested, and John watched as he dismissed the bald man to focus on the teenager.
“Hello, welcome to the Luthor mansion,” the bald man said pleasantly. “My name is Lex Luthor and I am pleased to offer you my home for the time being.”
“We apologize for crashing into your garden, sir,” piped up the chipper flight attendant.
“It’s no problem,” Mr. Luthor said, waving his hand.
Sherlock nudged John’s shoulder. “That teenager’s shirt is covered in engine oil.”
“So?” John whispered back.
“Engine oil from the plane, John.”
“He probably helped to put out the fire.”
Sherlock hummed but didn’t reply.
-
Mr. Luthor, as it turned out, was not only nonplussed at having a plane land on his front lawn, he was perfectly willing to help in the form of purchasing an entire tour bus to take them to the nearest airport, in Metropolis, but also to requisition an entire flight to take them the rest of the way to Vancouver.
“It’s rather decent of him,” John said to Sherlock. “Can’t imagine what it must be costing him. Very kind, indeed.”
“Yeah, he does stuff like that,” a voice said behind him. John turned to see the dark-haired teenager. “I’m Clark.”
John introduced himself and Sherlock and shook Clark’s hand. Sherlock sat up and looked Clark over with his overly intense stare, but Clark didn’t seem to notice.
“Sherlock,” he warned in a low voice.
Sherlock, of course, didn’t heed his warning and pointed to the oil stains on Clark’s jeans and t-shirt. “That’s oil from the plane’s engine, and there’s fuel soaking the cuff of your jeans. Yet there’s no extingushing foam, which means that John, you were wrong and he was not helping to put out the fire. So how did you get those stains...?”
Clark blinked, and John could practically see his defenses snap shut. “I-”
“Sherlock!” John snapped. “Just-stop. Leave him alone.”
Sherlock frowned and turned to John. “I’m not-oh.” His head swivelled back to Clark. “Oh, of course. That explains it.”
Clark looked terrified now.
“Well, now that’s solved, I’m bored again,” Sherlock said, huffing dramatically. “John, entertain me.”
“Entertain yourself,” he muttered.
“By doing what?” Sherlock asked.
“I don’t know-deduce some things!”
“This parlour has been in disuse for too long to hold much information, and I’d deduced all our passengers within the first twenty minutes of the flight.”
“You’re hopeless,” John said. Sherlock gave a snort and wandered off in search of something to occupy his mind.
Clark tapped him on the shoulder. “Er, your friend.”
“Whatever things he’s figured out about you, don’t worry,” John said. “He’s probably already deleted them from his ‘hard drive.’”
“Oh.” Clark didn’t calm completely, but at least he didn’t look close to hyperventilating. “So, um, are you and him travelling together?”
“Yeah,” John said. “There’s a serial killer in BC that’s stumping the local authorities. Bunch of missing prostitutes. Somehow that git managed to convince them to let him in on it.”
“So he’s a detective, or something?”
“Consulting detective,” Sherlock said, coming up to them once again. “John, this is the most abyssmally dull castle on earth.”
Clark looked irked at that. “It’s not that bad!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you live here. You’re hardly unbiased.”
Now Clark was blushing. “What-how did you know that?”
The look Sherlock gave him was rather condescending, and even John could see how relaxed he seemed in the large, uncomfortable house, far more at home than a guest would be. Of course, Sherlock would have figured it out by his shirt collar or his haircut or something equally obscure, but it was the same conclusion.
“Is Mr. Luthor your father?”
“No,” Clark said quickly. “He’s just a friend.”
John raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced back.
“Oh,” John said slowly.
-
Clark vanished after that, his face bright red. Sherlock wandered off once more to study the wood panelling of the walls. John, meanwhile, passed the time by getting to know the other passengers.
“So, Arthur, why are you going to Vancouver?”
“For business,” Arthur said. John could see his fingers tighten over his silver briefcase out of the corner of his eye. He turned to Arthur’s British companion.
“And you?”
The man smirked, and sent a heated look in Arthur’s direction. “Oh, for pleasure.”
-
He excused himself to cross the room and keep Sherlock from getting into an honest-to-God fistfight with an older man leaning heavily on a cane. His friend, a slightly less lean brunette, was likewise trying to do the same.
“I’m sorry,” they said to each other in unison.
“He’s kind of-” John started.
“Irritable?” the other man finished.
They laughed, and both Sherlock and the man with the cane scowled and stalked away.
-
“I think you’re the only passenger who’s travelling alone,” John said, glancing around.
Merlin (and John would have laughed at his name if he hadn’t seen some of the reactions Sherlock got upon introducing himself) nodded. “Well, I don’t have anyone to travel with.”
“So why Vancouver?” John asked. “If you’re not going to meet anyone.”
“Oh, but I am. I’ve been offered a job there, actually.”
“Well, congratulations,” John said. He wondered why such a young man needed to travel half-way around the world for a job.
-
He was talking to two brothers who were traveling to BC for a hunting trip when he noticed a peculiar stain on the younger brother’s shirt.
“Is that blood?” he asked.
He looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
John wondered what it said about his life that he actually did find that statement reassuring.
-
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Crieff.”
John stared. “Now that’s just creepy.”
“What?”
“You look just like him,” John murmured.
“Like who?” Captain Crieff asked, looking confused.
“Only... stupider.”
“Excuse me!” the pilot said, his face turning the same shade as his hair.
John shivered and edged away from him.
-
“So if you’re trying to get to Miami, why are you on a plane to Vancouver?” John asked.
“Well,” the man said slowly. “You might say I’m...”
For some odd reason he paused, took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, and slid them onto his nose.
“...Taking the scenic route.”
John just walked away.
-
“The bus just arrived,” John overheard someone say. He turned to see two young men, probably college kids, looking out the stained-glass windows. They were rather odd, the blond one more so, as he seemed to be wearing some sort of housecoat.
“About time,” said the blond. “We should have come by broomstick. You and your precious muggle technology can shove it.”
The spectacled boy settled a hand on the blond’s shoulders, murmured something, and eventually the blond sighed. “All right, I’ll give it one more chance on the flight back.”
-
“Well, that was interesting,” John said as they buckled their seatbelts aboard a much larger and hopefully safer plane. “And first-class seats, too!” He sat back. “I’ve never flown first class before.”
He looked over at Sherlock, who had once again claimed the window seat. His eyes were closed, fingers steepled beneath his lips. John could practically hear the cogs in his head turning, and he gave him a fond smile.
“I don’t think my leg will ever ache again, after that,” John said. To the untrained eye, Sherlock appeared to be ignoring him, but after he said it, the crinkles around Sherlock’s eyes twitched just so, and John knew that if they had been alone, Sherlock would have smiled.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek as the plane began to move.
Sherlock’s eyes flew open just as they began racing down the runway.
“John! I’ve solved it!”
John began to giggle, and after a moment, Sherlock joined in.
fin.