One foot on the ground (Part 7)
Well. Apparently my muse has decided to cooperate so I can finish up this thing. I'll be finishing up on this bad boy sooner than I thought. But before I do, I have one (well, two) questions:
In England, what do the houses that are rented out for university students look like? Would they have a scrounged up couch sitting on the porch like around here?
For those of you new, this is an idea the muse planted in my head for a Cabin Pressure/Sherlock crossover featuring Molly, Martin, fluff, a murderous feline, Glee and possibly a cameo by everyone's favorite consulting prat detective. Part One is thataway.
Usual disclaimers: Not mine. Let's hope that Finnemore, Gatiss and Moffat don't hunt me down. Edited by me. All errors are mine. If everything's a mess, please let me know.
Comments are like a nice hot bath for Arthur.
They had been dating for about three months and Martin wanted to surprise Molly with a nice evening. He begged for favors from Douglas, and in turn, Martin promised first crack at the cheese tray, his desserts after meals and allowing Douglas to handle takeoffs and landings for three months.
“Is she really worth all this?” Douglas asked, eyebrow arched. “Giving up the Camembert and the cheesecake? Allowing the first officer to take the lead role in takeoffs and landings?”
Martin nodded without hesitation. “She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“You mean --” he shot back. “Our Captain is in --”
“Don’t make me say it to you before I’ve had a chance to tell her,” Martin interrupted, his cheeks growing hot. “You know that’s not sporting at all. Now will you do this or not?”
Douglas’ normally sardonic expression softened, before he agreed to Martin’s terms. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You and your lady friend will be having a lovely evening. I have a few friends who owe me favors.”
Thanks to Douglas, Martin had reservations to one of the nicer restaurants in London and two tickets to the Glee tour. Martin didn’t dare ask how Douglas pulled it off -- no doubt it was part of his tangled smuggling operation. It’s amazing how many things start with a cheese sandwich, he mused.
Martin didn’t tell Molly about it, wanting to surprise her. On the day of the date, he just told Molly to keep her evening free and that he would pick her up at work and that she should dress for date. Screwing up his courage, he willed himself to head to the morgue of St. Barts. He wasn’t sure how suave he could be if there was a dead person in front of him. Quietly he offered a prayer to a benevolent spirit that he wouldn’t faint or throw up if there was a body in her office.
The office was bright, clean and sterile. It reminded Martin of the science labs he had seen in secondary school. Thankfully there was no corpse on the table. Molly was standing next to a tall, lanky fellow who was peering into a microscope. But once she saw him, her eyes lit up and a happy smile spread across her face.
“Martin!” she squealed, bouncing over to him and kissing him on the cheek. “How was Barcelona?”
“The usual,” he replied, “Are you almost ready?”
Molly nodded. “In a bit. Sherlock’s been requiring assistance so I’ve been aiding him in that.” She turned around. “You needing anything else Sherlock?” she called. “I’m hoping to leave in a few minutes.”
The man standing over the microscope stood and gave an imperious stare and Martin could feel a cold rush come over him. There was no other way to explain it other than cliches really, because they’re something familiar to cling to when suddenly the world has gone sideways.
It was his face staring back at him -- well, not exactly his face. Instead of false bravado, this man had a haughty confidence that Martin knew wasn’t in his features. He seemed taller, but Martin wasn’t sure if it was presence or actual height. Obviously he came from money, because no one wears posh suits like what he had, unless they were rich. His hair was a mop of dark curls, making him look like some sort of romantic hero out of a Bronte novel.
What was more unsettling was the way the other man was sizing him up. Martin couldn’t tell exactly what was going through the other man’s mind, but it was clear he didn’t seem as weirded out as Martin.
“I’m impressed,” his double said, shattering the silence. “You’ve managed to find someone who looks like me, but isn’t as clever. Probably good that -- given how the last clever one ended.”
Martin gawped. Molly sighed.
“That’s Sherlock,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Don’t mind him.”
He couldn’t help himself. In the back of his mind, there was a portion of his brain saying, Do not engage. You will not win and the loss isn’t worth it. Sadly, that portion of his brain was not in charge of his mouth. If it was, he certainly wouldn’t have said:
“What do you mean not as clever?” Martin huffed. “I can be plenty clever.”
The man arched on eyebrow impassively. “Really?” he asked. “An airline captain for a second-rate charter company who makes his living moving boxes? How so?”
Martin glanced over at Molly. “You told him,” he said, feeling an arrow of betrayal -- for what reason exactly, he couldn’t pinpoint.
Molly turned a bright pink. “I did no --”
“She didn’t,” Sherlock said, overrunning Molly’s protestations. “Your business card and uniform told me everything.”
Martin continued to gape as Sherlock continued. “Well, you have four stripes on your sleeve which denotes airline captain, but you’re much too young to be a captain -- most of them are in their late forties or fifties. Not to mention the fact that your uniform is worn at the elbows and some of the threads on the embroidery are coming loose. This indicates that whoever you work for doesn’t have money for replacement uniforms. Hence a second-rate airline. However that doesn’t work, because your uniform doesn’t have pins indicating what airline you work for. Therefore it must be a charter service of some type.
“Also, do you realize that apparently you’ve got the hat of a South American military dictator and not an airline captain’s cap?
“As for the moving boxes for pay -- that was child’s work. Molly mentioned that she was moving to a new flat and had hired a mover. I spotted your business card on her desk after the move -- no doubt she was debating about calling you to move something heavy like a box of academic books or a case of soup -- when she introduced you, I just put the name together with the business card.”
Martin felt his stomach drop. Part of him wanted to say “Brilliant,” while the other part of him hated his doppelganger for being better than him.
“I asked for the standard captain’s cap,” he mumbled.
Molly sighed. “He does this to everyone Martin,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “You were right on the books and soup Sherlock.”
Sherlock smirked.
“I’m still clever,” Martin snapped, wanting to say something, anything, to wipe that smirk off of his double’s face.
There was a snort from Molly. His head snapped towards her and he dropped her hand. “What?” he asked, panic beginning to overtake him. “You don’t think I’m clever? What about Johannesburg and letting the air out of the tires so we could get the truck to the field?”
Molly’s eyes were wide. “I do think you’re clever,” she said, a slight tone of panic in her voice. “I think you’re plenty clever, but this is like the all-star version of clever. Beyond word games clever --” he could see her furiously backpedaling over her last statement.
“Her last boyfriend, well I should say pseudo-boyfriend since he was using her to get to me, pretended he was a closeted gay man, kept me busy for forty-eight hours solving puzzles and if I didn’t solve them, innocent people would die,” Sherlock interrupted. “Not to mention, the mastermind behind several interesting crimes over several years. Now that was clever. But I still maintain that he’s a closeted gay man.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Martin processed the information spewed by Sherlock. Suddenly he felt quite small and the urge to flee took over.
“Right then,” he said, adjusting his hat and willing his voice not to crack. “Since it appears that you fancy the clever posh type, I’ll be going.”
Before anything else could be said, Martin turned and fled the lab.
Molly bolted after him, but cowardice seemed grant him the power of super speed. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t find him. Stupid girl, she berated herself as she trudged back to the lab to get her things. You just mucked up the best thing that ever happened to you.
Sherlock watched impassively as Molly gathered her purse, willing herself not to cry in front of him. As she was heading out the door, she heard him say, “Bit not good?”
Leaning against the doorjamb, Molly let out a shuddering sigh and wiped a tear from her eye. “Yeah,” she said, before drawing the last of her strength to leave.
Part 8
In England, what do the houses that are rented out for university students look like? Would they have a scrounged up couch sitting on the porch like around here?
For those of you new, this is an idea the muse planted in my head for a Cabin Pressure/Sherlock crossover featuring Molly, Martin, fluff, a murderous feline, Glee and possibly a cameo by everyone's favorite consulting prat detective. Part One is thataway.
Usual disclaimers: Not mine. Let's hope that Finnemore, Gatiss and Moffat don't hunt me down. Edited by me. All errors are mine. If everything's a mess, please let me know.
Comments are like a nice hot bath for Arthur.
They had been dating for about three months and Martin wanted to surprise Molly with a nice evening. He begged for favors from Douglas, and in turn, Martin promised first crack at the cheese tray, his desserts after meals and allowing Douglas to handle takeoffs and landings for three months.
“Is she really worth all this?” Douglas asked, eyebrow arched. “Giving up the Camembert and the cheesecake? Allowing the first officer to take the lead role in takeoffs and landings?”
Martin nodded without hesitation. “She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“You mean --” he shot back. “Our Captain is in --”
“Don’t make me say it to you before I’ve had a chance to tell her,” Martin interrupted, his cheeks growing hot. “You know that’s not sporting at all. Now will you do this or not?”
Douglas’ normally sardonic expression softened, before he agreed to Martin’s terms. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You and your lady friend will be having a lovely evening. I have a few friends who owe me favors.”
Thanks to Douglas, Martin had reservations to one of the nicer restaurants in London and two tickets to the Glee tour. Martin didn’t dare ask how Douglas pulled it off -- no doubt it was part of his tangled smuggling operation. It’s amazing how many things start with a cheese sandwich, he mused.
Martin didn’t tell Molly about it, wanting to surprise her. On the day of the date, he just told Molly to keep her evening free and that he would pick her up at work and that she should dress for date. Screwing up his courage, he willed himself to head to the morgue of St. Barts. He wasn’t sure how suave he could be if there was a dead person in front of him. Quietly he offered a prayer to a benevolent spirit that he wouldn’t faint or throw up if there was a body in her office.
The office was bright, clean and sterile. It reminded Martin of the science labs he had seen in secondary school. Thankfully there was no corpse on the table. Molly was standing next to a tall, lanky fellow who was peering into a microscope. But once she saw him, her eyes lit up and a happy smile spread across her face.
“Martin!” she squealed, bouncing over to him and kissing him on the cheek. “How was Barcelona?”
“The usual,” he replied, “Are you almost ready?”
Molly nodded. “In a bit. Sherlock’s been requiring assistance so I’ve been aiding him in that.” She turned around. “You needing anything else Sherlock?” she called. “I’m hoping to leave in a few minutes.”
The man standing over the microscope stood and gave an imperious stare and Martin could feel a cold rush come over him. There was no other way to explain it other than cliches really, because they’re something familiar to cling to when suddenly the world has gone sideways.
It was his face staring back at him -- well, not exactly his face. Instead of false bravado, this man had a haughty confidence that Martin knew wasn’t in his features. He seemed taller, but Martin wasn’t sure if it was presence or actual height. Obviously he came from money, because no one wears posh suits like what he had, unless they were rich. His hair was a mop of dark curls, making him look like some sort of romantic hero out of a Bronte novel.
What was more unsettling was the way the other man was sizing him up. Martin couldn’t tell exactly what was going through the other man’s mind, but it was clear he didn’t seem as weirded out as Martin.
“I’m impressed,” his double said, shattering the silence. “You’ve managed to find someone who looks like me, but isn’t as clever. Probably good that -- given how the last clever one ended.”
Martin gawped. Molly sighed.
“That’s Sherlock,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Don’t mind him.”
He couldn’t help himself. In the back of his mind, there was a portion of his brain saying, Do not engage. You will not win and the loss isn’t worth it. Sadly, that portion of his brain was not in charge of his mouth. If it was, he certainly wouldn’t have said:
“What do you mean not as clever?” Martin huffed. “I can be plenty clever.”
The man arched on eyebrow impassively. “Really?” he asked. “An airline captain for a second-rate charter company who makes his living moving boxes? How so?”
Martin glanced over at Molly. “You told him,” he said, feeling an arrow of betrayal -- for what reason exactly, he couldn’t pinpoint.
Molly turned a bright pink. “I did no --”
“She didn’t,” Sherlock said, overrunning Molly’s protestations. “Your business card and uniform told me everything.”
Martin continued to gape as Sherlock continued. “Well, you have four stripes on your sleeve which denotes airline captain, but you’re much too young to be a captain -- most of them are in their late forties or fifties. Not to mention the fact that your uniform is worn at the elbows and some of the threads on the embroidery are coming loose. This indicates that whoever you work for doesn’t have money for replacement uniforms. Hence a second-rate airline. However that doesn’t work, because your uniform doesn’t have pins indicating what airline you work for. Therefore it must be a charter service of some type.
“Also, do you realize that apparently you’ve got the hat of a South American military dictator and not an airline captain’s cap?
“As for the moving boxes for pay -- that was child’s work. Molly mentioned that she was moving to a new flat and had hired a mover. I spotted your business card on her desk after the move -- no doubt she was debating about calling you to move something heavy like a box of academic books or a case of soup -- when she introduced you, I just put the name together with the business card.”
Martin felt his stomach drop. Part of him wanted to say “Brilliant,” while the other part of him hated his doppelganger for being better than him.
“I asked for the standard captain’s cap,” he mumbled.
Molly sighed. “He does this to everyone Martin,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “You were right on the books and soup Sherlock.”
Sherlock smirked.
“I’m still clever,” Martin snapped, wanting to say something, anything, to wipe that smirk off of his double’s face.
There was a snort from Molly. His head snapped towards her and he dropped her hand. “What?” he asked, panic beginning to overtake him. “You don’t think I’m clever? What about Johannesburg and letting the air out of the tires so we could get the truck to the field?”
Molly’s eyes were wide. “I do think you’re clever,” she said, a slight tone of panic in her voice. “I think you’re plenty clever, but this is like the all-star version of clever. Beyond word games clever --” he could see her furiously backpedaling over her last statement.
“Her last boyfriend, well I should say pseudo-boyfriend since he was using her to get to me, pretended he was a closeted gay man, kept me busy for forty-eight hours solving puzzles and if I didn’t solve them, innocent people would die,” Sherlock interrupted. “Not to mention, the mastermind behind several interesting crimes over several years. Now that was clever. But I still maintain that he’s a closeted gay man.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Martin processed the information spewed by Sherlock. Suddenly he felt quite small and the urge to flee took over.
“Right then,” he said, adjusting his hat and willing his voice not to crack. “Since it appears that you fancy the clever posh type, I’ll be going.”
Before anything else could be said, Martin turned and fled the lab.
Molly bolted after him, but cowardice seemed grant him the power of super speed. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t find him. Stupid girl, she berated herself as she trudged back to the lab to get her things. You just mucked up the best thing that ever happened to you.
Sherlock watched impassively as Molly gathered her purse, willing herself not to cry in front of him. As she was heading out the door, she heard him say, “Bit not good?”
Leaning against the doorjamb, Molly let out a shuddering sigh and wiped a tear from her eye. “Yeah,” she said, before drawing the last of her strength to leave.
Part 8