A/N: So, after the positive feedback on a couple of my other S/J fics where the boys get up to antics on various forms of transport (A Quick Trip and It's Not ALL Bad), and a suggestion from the lovely PurpleOrchid85, I was lucky enough to be attacked by plotbunnies on a recent plane trip.

This story is considerably longer than those ones, but I hope that doesn't ruin the fun!

So, I bring to you some hopefully not-rubbish plane sex! Hooray! Enjoy, and remember, comments are love!

To be honest, John had been somewhat surprised that Sherlock had suggested the holiday trip that was a compromise between their differing wants.

John wanted to visit Italy, and Spain, and enjoy some places where people smiled, and emoted, and bickered amiably. He wanted sunshine and beaches and meals that had ingredients with variety and colour.

What had Sherlock wanted? To stay in London. And when pressed to choose an actual overseas holiday location, had shrugged and relented. "France, then. It was quite interesting last time I went."

John had never realised how very Gallic Sherlock truly was in some of his self-expression and body language. He wondered whether all the sorry individuals in Britain who had been lumped with the label "sociopath" were, in fact, merely first-generation Brits with French heritage, just like the consulting detective. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. It was impossible for all the first-generation Brits to also be super geniuses.

"France? I don't want to go to France at this time of year, Sherlock... What about Mauritius? They speak French there." John suggested, trying to be accommodating.

Sherlock turned from his book and scowled at John in such a withering manner that were John absolutely any other man on Earth, he would have been utterly destroyed. Lucky for John that he was not so susceptible to Sherlock's derision.

"Mauritius," Sherlock growled malevolently, "Is not France, John. They speak a derivation of French, have an entirely different climate, ecosystem, societal structure –"

John cut him off with a hand raised in a 'cease and desist' gesture. He just wanted to get the damn holiday booked.

"Alright, Sherlock. I won't make such a horrible mistake again."

Sherlock clenched his jaw in a way that suggested that his sensibilities were still deeply offended, but he knew that for the sake of keeping the peace between the doctor and himself, would be better off discontinuing his tirade. Apparently, John was having some effect on his ability to be considerate of others, after all.

"See that you don't." he muttered angrily, turning back to his book.

John sighed. He wanted them to have a holiday they'd both enjoy, and was willing to make compromises to make it work, but he couldn't do that without any proper input from Sherlock.

"You're going on this holiday, too. You could help me figure out what to book, and where." John grumbled, clicking on yet another link proclaiming itself to lead to "The Real Bueno Spaña" and rolling his eyes at the cheesy flash animations that popped up on his screen as a result.

"No need to book," Sherlock explained, just a shade away from his truly condescending 'just-how-much-of-an-idiot-are-you' voice. "I own an estate in Bordeaux. Inherited it from my grandfather. It's been in the family for years. There's a permanent groundsman and housekeeper, and it would only be a matter of a few texts to the right people to organise for the chauffeur, butler and maid to be called to their duties."

John was amazed at Sherlock's matter-of-factness about it all. An estate in France! Sometimes he forgot how different their childhoods must have been. "Servants?" he exclaimed.

"Please, John." Sherlock said with a note of disgust. "Staff. They're human beings, you know."

John bit back his laughter at Sherlock telling him to be more considerate of others' feelings for a change, and admitted, "Okay, I'm intrigued now, Sherlock. I want to see this house."

"Estate." Sherlock corrected in a bored tone, his mobile now in his hands.

John ignored him. "But I still want to go to Spain."

Sherlock sighed, but there was no true exasperation, just an expression of how very tedious he found the whole conversation.

"Mallorca?" he inquired, and John knew better than to ask how Sherlock had deduced that, when John had never mentioned a desire to visit the city previously. Instead, he nodded.

"Tolerable." was Sherlock's generous verdict.

"So which one should I book?" John asked, hand hovering over the mouse.

Sherlock glanced up from his lightning-texting. "I told you," he explained in what passed for patiently in Sherlockese. "You don't need to book Bordeaux – I've done that now. So go ahead and book Mallorca. Whatever hotel takes your fancy. And please, don't complain about the costs. It's a holiday, John."

John clicked 'book' before he realised exactly what was going on. "Wait…are we going to both?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I don't see why not. It seems a perfect compromise." he stated, and John had to stop himself responding in surprise again to Sherlock's ability to make any allowances for others.

Instead, he stood, moved to the couch, and perched only slightly awkwardly on the gap between Sherlock's hip and the edge of the sofa. Sherlock turned his full attention to him, his expression unreadable. That mean he was uncertain, John had learned. Sherlock in an unfamiliar situation locked himself away behind a mask of indifference as a form of self-defence, rather than admit a lack of knowledge. He leant forward, looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

"You're brilliant, you know." he whispered, a huge smile on his face.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I have rather had my suspicions." he grinned, then feigned a thinking expression. "Brilliance is the one that gets rewarded, right?"

John chuckled, and dipped his head down to kiss Sherlock lightly on the lips. "It definitely is," he agreed, and proceeded to ensure that Sherlock well and truly received his reward.

"Why would you deliberately book a seat in the emergency exit row?" John griped, as he struggled to shove his bag in the overhead lockers – they seemed to be specially designed just a couple of centimetres too narrow so that fitting any luggage in them was guaranteed to be a challenge.

"Long legs." Sherlock responded, stretching them out as if to demonstrate.

Naturally, he'd already stowed his bag, and had claimed the aisle seat, tapping furiously away at his phone before he was forced to switch it off.

"It's not healthy to endure a cramped position for an extended period of time. Inhibits thought processes." he explained.

John rolled his eyes. He was sure he'd never heard anything about leg cramps being associated with thought processes during his years at medical school, but hey, what would he know?

"It's a flight to France," he pointed out. "We'll be in the air for less than an hour. You can't sit in a small space for less than an hour, but you can sleep curled up on the sofa?"

"I'm asleep then. I don't need to have efficient thought processes." Sherlock refused to admit fault in his logic.

John placed his hands on his hips. "Being in the emergency exit row gives us responsibilities, Sherlock." he stated, determinedly not complaining, just pointing out facts.

"Which you are entirely capable of carrying out." Sherlock mentioned coolly, but the compliment was noticeable.

"Thank you, I know," John said, finally fitting his bag in the locker and shutting the door. "But I'm on holiday. I don't want to have responsibilities. Responsibilities are entirely against the point of holidays."

Sherlock looked up from his phone and fixed John with a steady gaze. "We're going to be in the air for less than an hour. Do you truly think it's likely that the circumstances will arise that you will need to carry out the duties inherent in sitting in this row?"


Sherlock smirked, realising that he'd won. His face then took on an inquisitive expression. "What is the point of holidays?"

"Oh, I don't know. They don't really have a point. Relaxation. A change of scenery. Spontaneity." John waved his hand dismissively. Trust Sherlock to want definitions for the indefinable. "Can you move? I want to sit down now."

Sherlock had returned to his mobile, and his only concession to John's request was to tuck his legs out of the way. John resigned himself to squeeze past, and shuffled awkwardly, his stomach pressed against the seats in front of theirs.

It seemed that Sherlock was not ignoring John as much as he'd pretended to be, because just when John got directly in front of him, two hands latched onto his arsecheeks, fingers splayed and squeezing appreciatively, thumbs tracing down along his crack and deciding to tease around his perineum.

John gasped. He had never been so simultaneously glad and annoyed about wearing clothing around Sherlock.

He was released after a moment, and dropped into the window seat, turning to face Sherlock and tell him just how inappropriate that was, when he realised that Sherlock had snaked over into the middle seat now and was right within John's personal space.

Irrationally, John felt trapped, backed up against the side of the plane. Sherlock wasn't really a predator...so why was he looking at John like the other man would have a very good idea as to where Sherlock's next meal was coming from?

"An hour is a very long time when I'm bored, John." Sherlock stated. "I'm not allowed my computer," he traced one finger up John's leg, beginning at the knee. "My phone, or my violin. The only thing left is to conduct some...experiments." he glanced meaningfully at John's crotch on the last word, and john found that his mouth had completely dried up.

"You're not going to blow me in the middle of an airplane, Sherlock." He meant it to be an order, but it turned out as more of a plea.

Sherlock's grin was triumphant. "I haven't decided." He continued to trace teasing patterns with his fingers near John's crotch, then slipped his hands down the outsides of John's hips, away from his cock, and John craved the illicit contact again.

"Safety first!" Sherlock instructed, in a near-agonisingly chirpy manner, fastening the just-retrieved ends of John's seatbelt together, and planting a darting kiss on John's lips.

He sat back in the seat and fastened his own seatbelt, switched off his mobile, and folded his hands in his lap, looking for all the world as though there was nothing more interesting than the safety demonstration currently taking place.

John tried to pay attention to it, but his cheeks were burning and his mind was racing. Sherlock wasn't really going to blow him in their seats, was he? It was way too public! It would be an entirely new level of exhibitionism in their relationship, and John was sure that he wouldn't enjoy it, but his cock seemed to have different ideas and perked up hopefully the more John thought about Sherlock's wicked tongue.

He shifted uncomfortably as the plane taxied down the runway. He'd have to go to the bathroom once the seatbelt sign was switched off. This was intolerable.

The plane, as planes do, built up momentum and began to lift off, and John found himself pressed against the back of his seat as a result of two entirely irresistible forces: gravity, and Sherlock Holmes.

"If you wanted the window seat," John complained breathlessly, "Why didn't you just book it for yourself when you selected our tickets?"

Sherlock just pushed John further into the seat as he attempted to stick his own head through the window. "The window seat is entirely dull for the rest of the flight, John. I have no tolerance for that."

"Of course." John muttered sarcastically, trying not to get more turned on by Sherlock's proximity and delicious smell.

A mercifully short moment later, Sherlock withdrew, commenting on the fortuitous timing of their holiday, as London looked set to be agonisingly crime-free for at least a month. John couldn't even begin to imagine what Sherlock had seen out the plane window for him to come to that conclusion, a mental process which was further prohibited by Sherlock maliciously brushing his hand over the tent in John's trousers.

John groaned at the contact, and Sherlock hmmed, apparently quite pleased with himself. John glared at him.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and John unbuckled straight away.

Sherlock looked at him curiously.

"Bathroom." John muttered. "I have to take care of something. Do you mind not molesting me as I go past you this time?"

Despite grinning sinfully, Sherlock sat on his hands in a gesture that he would do no evil.

John darted past as quickly as possible, and was relieved that the bathrooms were still unoccupied. He slammed the door shut and locked it, barely able to undo his trousers in time, his hands were shaking so much. He may even have audibly moaned at the relief of pissing, and he hadn't done that in ages. He lowered the lid, flushed, and washed his hands.

But biology had a different idea, and his cock let him know that he still hadn't found the desired release.

Unsummoned, his mind conjured up pictures of Sherlock licking, sucking, playing, and John sat on the toilet lid, working one hand down his pants, and stroking. Imagine if Sherlock really did jump on him at their seats. Imagine getting caught. Imagine the pleasure completely intertwined with embarrassment.

A knock on the door stopped him short.

"Um, it's occupied," he called out.

"John, open the door," came a very familiar voice in response.

"My trousers are undone," John replied without thinking, then mentally kicked himself for making such an utterly stupid comment.

"Yes...I imagine they are. Now open the door." Sherlock insisted.

John didn't reply. If he let Sherlock into the cubicle, there was only one likely sequence of events.

"Do I have to pick the lock?"

Sherlock was getting impatient now, and John wouldn't be surprised to find out that Sherlock knew how to pick the lock on a plane toilet door, and was able to sneak the lock-picking implements through airport security.

He made sure he wasn't likely to expose himself, and slid the bolt across on the door.

Before he had a chance to open it, however, Sherlock had hurled himself through, colliding with John and making him stumble back onto the toilet seat lid.

Without turning away from John, Sherlock reached behind himself and closed and locked the door.

"No-one can see us in here," he said, looming over his conquest.

"People will still know what we've been up to," John protested, although his words were somewhat undermined by the fact that he was reaching up to pull Sherlock's face to his so that he could kiss him.

Sherlock complied, bending with difficulty in the confined space.

"We're on a flight to France, John. Sexual relations in the bathroom are practically compulsory." he pointed out. "Don't tell me you are unaware of that social stereotype." he teased, impossibly twisting his knees onto the tiny shelves on either side of the toilet seat, effectively depositing himself in John's lap.

He slithered a hand down John's still-opened trousers, and the two men moaned simultaneous expressions of appreciation.

"I thought social stereotypes were offensive and ridiculous?" John gasped, hardly able to string the sentence together.

Sherlock's hands felt so good. Much more enjoyable than John's own hands, and John actually did know his own feelings and desires – he was the one experiencing them for crying out loud, unlike Sherlock, who assessed John's enjoyment through observation...but damn, he was good at it.

"Do you really want to get into that now?" Sherlock inquired, his breath coming in hot pants against John's ear.

"No." John cut off the conversation thread. "I'd much rather get into you."

What the fuck was he saying? He instantly berated himself, blushing at the ridiculous line.

"Excellent." Sherlock declared, and stood in a rapid, fluid movement. John was distracted by Sherlock using those lethal hands to strip himself off, but then managed to come to his senses enough to work his own trousers down his legs.

"Oh god, Sherlock," he moaned, as Sherlock slid back into place. The heat of their arousals so close to each other was not just disruptive to thought patterns; it was entirely destructive.

"Lube?" John requested, trying not to back his elbow against the sink as he stroked Sherlock to full hardness.

"Fuck, John, fuck!" Sherlock exclaimed, the rhythm of his hips and his strokes of John's cock both stuttering. "Holiday spontaneity doesn't quite lend itself to good preparation..." he observed, but John felt a cool gel get transferred from Sherlock's hand into his own.

John forced himself to focus. "Huh?" he asked eloquently.

Sherlock darted his eyes to one of the containers on the sink top. Complimentary moisturiser.

"It'll have to do." Sherlock stated. "Please, John, quickly." he encouraged. "The plane will begin its descent in a few minutes, and I'd much prefer that we disembark in states of satisfaction, not frustration."

"Good plan," John breathed, and set about ensuring that Sherlock was ready.

The moisturiser was not nearly as helpful as actual lube would have been, John realised, after removing his fingers, and finding that he needed to grit his teeth against the dragging burn of his entry into Sherlock.

"Ah!" Sherlock gasped, slamming a hand into the wall next to John's head.

"Sorry." John whispered, holding as still as he could, to allow Sherlock time to adjust.

"It's okay," Sherlock ground out through his clenched jaw, then released a breath slowly. "Okay," he grinned, and the in-control genius was back, riding John slowly, in that familiar way, but now it was better, so much better, with the underlying vibratory hum of the plane's engines, and the combined pressures of a time limit and potential discovery. It was quicker than usual, and John couldn't help but think that was mainly due to Sherlock pacing them – clenching and releasing and rocking in such enticing and tortuous ways – how was John expected to be able to even consider having anything remotely resembling self-control?

"Come on John, do it, yes, come on, yes, yes, yes," Sherlock was chanting nonsensically, the mantra drowned out suddenly by John finally, thankfully reaching completion.

The two slumped against each other, panting heavily, and John moaned a regretful "Oh god."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, the concern in his voice saying what he didn't express in words – Didn't you enjoy it? Did I do it wrong?

John kissed him reassuringly. "It's fine, don't worry. That was great. That was more than great. You're fantastic. It's just...I can't believe how fucking cliché this is. I mean, print off our membership cards for the Mile High Club already, right?" he chuckled, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock smiled, and leant in for another kiss, the change in his position causing John to realise that the detective was still half-hard. He broke off the kiss quickly, and enveloped Sherlock's cock with one hand, barely beginning any movements before Sherlock batted his hand away.

"Ssst!" he hissed, and John looked at him in confusion for a second, until a rap on the door revealed what he had been paying attention to.

"Sir? Is everything okay in there? We will be beginning our descent in a moment, and you are required to return to your seat for landing." the voice of one of the stewardesses called out.

"C'est occupé!" Sherlock called back, feigning ignorance of her words.

"Je suis désolé, monsieur. Comment vous sentez-vous? L'avion apprêtait à atterrir. Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaÎt."

The confidence in her voice diminished significantly when she was speaking French, John noticed. She didn't speak it very well? Sherlock sneered critically, confirming John's assessment.

"Vraiment?" Jesus, he was even sarcastic in French. "D'accord. Merci pour l'information." [*A/N: Translations at the bottom of the page]

Her muffled footsteps moved away, and Sherlock finally lifted himself off John's cock, causing John to sigh at the sensation of cool air.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John whispered urgently, gesturing towards Sherlock's crotch, which the detective was efficiently hiding away beneath his clothes again.

"It's fine," Sherlock shrugged off John's concern. "It was your fantasy to fuck on a plane, anyway." he smiled, and John felt that irrepressible chill that occurred every time Sherlock proved yet again that he could read John's mind.

They spaced their returns to their seats, but John's ears still burned, as though he was wearing a huge sign proclaiming 'I just had sex in the loo!' for all to see.

"You're quite charming when you blush," Sherlock noted, as John tried his best to vanish into his seat cushion. "I should make you do it more often." he added, ponderously.

"Fuck," John whispered, terrified, yet inarguably excited about what he'd managed to get himself into.

"That's one way, certainly," Sherlock agreed, steepling his fingers as he plotted various other make-John-blush strategies.

The wheels descended then, and the plane dipped toward the earth. John was only half prepared for Sherlock lunging across to stare out the window again.

"Oh, good." he commented. "Laurent is waiting for us."

John couldn't see out the window due to the wild mane now blocking it, but he was certain that the airport wasn't visible from this side of the plane.

"Don't be simple, John," Sherlock criticised, though John hadn't verbalised his scepticism. "I can see the estate from here, and the traffic patterns between it and Laurent's usual route to the airport indicate that he would have had an uninterrupted drive, especially since he would have left at least twenty minutes ago, to allow for the possibility of traffic delays. He is terribly conscientious, you'll find."

"I'm sure I will, Sherlock." John smiled, wrapping one arm around the detective's waist and planting a kiss in his hair.

"One question before we disembark, John." Sherlock announced, straightening up in his seat.

"Um, sure?" John permitted, with no idea what Sherlock could possibly need to ask him.

"What on earth is the Mile High Club?"


A/N: I don't speak French, so if anyone wants to French-pick the little dialogue in the middle there, feel free! Although, the stewardess is *meant* to not be brilliant at French, so please don't get hung up on her dodgy language skills :)


C'est occupé! – Occupied!

Je suis désolé, monsieur. Comment vous sentez-vous? L'avion apprêtait à atterrir. Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaÎt. – I'm sorry, sir. Are you well? The plane is about to land. Please return to your seat.

Vraiment? – Really?

D'accord. Merci pour l'information. – Okay, thank you for the information.