It was a windy May morning, and Sherlock's expertise was needed by a rather wealthy client. John couldn't have been happier. It had been a slow month, and Sherlock was beginning to verge on being more manic than usual. The client lived in Dublin and required Sherlock's assistance right away, so he hired a charter plane to take Sherlock and John across the Isle. John followed Sherlock aboard the tiny plane and sat in his assigned seat. Looking around, he saw that he could have sit anywhere; none of the other seats were taken.

"This plane is the definition of adequate," said Sherlock, his eyes glancing over the aircraft. "I'm surprised to find that it's not held together by string and glue."

"Easy, Sherlock," John muttered. "I'm sure that if anything went wrong, you could fix it."

"Of course I could. I also do rather want to try out these seat cushions for inflatable devices."

"Yeah, let's hope that we don't have to use them," said John, his eyes flicking up as a young man stood next to them.

"Hello! I'm Arthur Shappey, and I will be serving you on this brief flight to Dublin. I'm going to show you a safety demonstration-"

"You can skip that as John and I already know what to do in an emergency situation," Sherlock interrupted. Their host looked completely dumbfounded. "I'd like to speak to the pilots."

"Sherlock," John whispered, only to be ignored. Here we go again, he thought.

"This plane looks as if it could fall apart at any given moment," Sherlock continued, "so it would be a great relief to find out if the pilot and co-pilot are capable of flying and landing safely. I'm guessing that they're in front?"

Sherlock stood up from his seat and pushed past their host. John gave his best attempt at a apologizing look before scurrying after the detective. "Ah, hello, I'm one of your passengers today," John heard before he caught up to Sherlock. He was talking to two men seated in fake leather chairs. One looked as if he was in his fifties, gray hair on top of his head and a stern look across his face. The other man was wiry and looked about thirty years old. A hat rested upon his red hair.

"And what can we do for you?" the older man asked in a non-committal tone.

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with the captain," Sherlock said, turning to the other man.

"But wait, I'm the captain, not him-" the pilot stopped. "Oh, you really want to talk to me?"

"Yes, of course I do. You're the captain of this aircraft, your hat and uniform tell me so."

The captain beamed. "Not many people get that. Captain Martin Crieff," he said, sticking his hand out for Sherlock to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective answered, shaking the captain's hand. "This is Dr. John Watson. Back to the reason why I'm here; how safe is this aircraft?"

"Oh, Gertie's very safe. I'd trust her with my life," said Crieff.

"Really? With your life?" Sherlock asked.

"She- she passes inspections, doesn't she, Douglas?"

"Martin, she barely passes inspections, though I don't believe that that helps you two feel any better," the pilot named Douglas answered. "First Officer Douglas Richardson, and don't worry about the flying; Martin and I will be just fine up here. If I were you, I'd be more worried about dinner."

"We're not getting dinner," John explained. "The flight should be brief, shouldn't it?"

"Lucky you then," said Richardson. "The food can be pretty atrocious here."

"Most meals on planes are disappointing," said Sherlock, putting his arm around John's shoulders. "Come along, John, they'll need to prepare for the flight."

"Um, thank you for stopping in," Captain Crieff said as they left. "I-I'm sure we'll have a perfect flight."

"Windy conditions like these? I don't know about perfect," answered Sherlock, shutting the door behind him.

"And are you satisfied now?" John asked as he sat down again.

"Almost," Sherlock said, fastening the seatbelt around his him. "Where's that steward? Normally I wouldn't want to watch this demonstration, but I'm just so very bored."