Title: Ginger with a Chance of Freckles - a Sherlock/Cabin Pressure cross


"Why did you never tell me about Martin?" demanded John gesturing to the exhausted pilot sleeping on their sofa.

"I talk about him all the time," snapped Sherlock, "I even named the skull after my little brother."

Life, love and sibling rivalries of three unique brothers: Mycroft, Sherlock and Sherringford "I-go-by-Martin-Crieff-now" Holmes.

Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, Martin/Molly


Genre: Humour/Romance

Warnings: Otters in the flight deck, rabbits of negative euphoria, disaster prone pilots. If you don't know what is going on perform a fish-oboe-check.

AN: You do not have to know anything about Cabin Pressure to enjoy this story. It's actually a sweet, some what cracky story about the beginnings of Sherlock and John's romance.

Chapter 1: Meet Martin S. Crieff

When Sherringford decided to change his name to Martin Crieff, Lady Salisbury was devastated. Her Ladyship, known affectionately as Mummy to her beloved sons, had chosen all their names herself.

"I love my name mother," he had said hesitantly, "but I just don't want to live with the burden of bring Sherringford Holmes anymore."

When Sherringford declared he did not want a penny of the trust fund Robert Holmes, the Marquise of Salisbury, had laid aside for his youngest son, his Lordship had difficulty keeping his eyebrows still.

"I can earn my own way in the world," stuttered Sherringford, "you'll see,"

When Sherringford finally passed his pilot's qualification, his parents wanted to throw a garden party to mark the grand occasion but Martin S. Crieff decided to spend it with just his family.

"The four of you are all I really need," he said, feeling as if nothing in the world could drag him down from the heady height of euphoria, until he popped open the champagne and knocked himself out with the cork.

Chapter 2: Travelling Lemon

When John Watson trailed up the stairs to the living room with a bag of shopping in one hand and The Guardian in the other, he expected to see Sherlock sprawl across the sofa. However he did not expect to see the detective sprawl across the sofa dressed as an airline pilot with a large lemon taped to the top of his hat.

"Oh hello, John," said Sherlock, sounding far too happy to see his flatmate.

"What on earth have you been smoking?" asked John immediately. He mentally listed all the hallucinogenic drugs that he had found in the flat over the last week and cursed himself for not removing them all when he had the chance.

"Oh I don't smoke," replied Sherlock chirpily, "I leave that to Sherlock,"

John fixed his flatmate with his most intimidating glare whilst he visually checked the detective for any signs of impending medical emergency. Sherlock's pupils appeared to be the same size but his general cheerfulness despite the lack of gruesome murders was a sure sign that Sherlock had managed to dope himself with something unsavoury.

"Right," snapped John, dropping the food and rolling up his sleeves with the unwavering confidence expected of all good army surgeons, "you – my bed - now,"

"Um...I'm not sure that's...um ...entirely appropriate," stammered Sherlock, "given that you and my brother are...you know...um...together."

Having spent seven years dealing with shell-shocked soldiers and a miriade of other mental disorders in Afghanistan, John believed he had heard every concievable delusion. However the suggestion that he was some how romantically involved with Mycroft Holmes belonged to a new magnitude of craziness.

"You've really lost it, haven't you?" groaned John,

"Oh – sorry, I just thought – well you've known each other so long and I know how he finds it difficult to tell me people that he like them but I thought he might have told you already, which is why you're still here...oh, God, I'm babbling,"

"Really?" said John with enough sarcasm to demolish an entire squad of new recruits, "I would never have guessed,"

"But he does like you though," continued Sherlock brightly, "he's in love, I can see it. All those times you guys have gone out together – he's told me all about it!"

"Right," grumbled John as he tried to decide on the best way to approach his highly unstable and utterly delusional flatmate, "I suppose the numerous times Mycroft has kidnapped me directly off the street is simply the Holmes' version of a romantic gesture?"

Sherlock looked completely flabbergasted at his response. The expression was so at odds with his usually stoic and superior character that John was sorely tempted to take a picture and send it to the entire Metropolitan Police. However, it was probably best not to remind the police that Sherlock enjoyed experimenting with illegal substances between cases.


"Yes, your endearingly overprotective, pathologically controlling, creepy sod of a brother. Now are you going to get off the couch or do I have to restrain you like last time?"

"No-," protested Sherlock rather feebly, "this isn't what -,"

Sherlock's suddenly undesicive nature was an improvement on his usual oppositional nature and John saw this a brilliant opportunity to brow-beat the detective into following his orders.

"Okay, genius," said John impatiently, "either get your butt into bed – not your bed, it's covered in body parts, my bed – or I will ring Mycroft and inform him of his apparently undying love for me."

Suddenly, impossibly, Sherlock's voice floated up the stairs with its usual clipped impatience:

"John – Mycroft is not gay, I physically disproved that hypothesis years ago."

Turning around like a comically confused cartoon character, John almost stepped straight into the tall looming figure of the world's only consulting detective.

"Sherlock?" he asked uncertainly.

"Sherringford," replied the detective. John assumed he was sarcastically referring to the skull that currently adorned their mantelpiece.

"I go by Martin Crieff now!" snapped Sherlock's doppelganger, completely out of the blue.

"Whatever," muttered Sherlock with an air of supreme disinterest as he threw his scarf onto the coat stand.

"What – so – wait...who is this guy sitting on my sofa?" demanded John angrily.

"I – I thought you already knew," muttered the man-who-went-by-Martin-Crieff-now, "I thought you had agreed with Sherlock to let me stay a few nights at your flat. You didn't seem surprised to see me..."

"I thought you were Sherlock," replied John, feeling that he was currently missing something very important.

"What? Seriously?" said Sherlock, sounding both amused and derisive, "why would I be dressed as a pilot?"

"Captain!" interjected Martin Crieff angrily, "I'm the Captain now."

"I don't know! I thought you'd breathed in too many hallucinogenic fumes again," snapped John, looking wildly from the real Sherlock to his oddly attired double.

"You see but you don't observe," said Sherlock as he flopped down onto the sofa beside Martin Crieff, "Sherry has freckles, his eyes are three millimetres further apart than mine and he is five year younger than I am. Surely even an idiot would be able to see the difference."

"So who is he?" demanded John. The detective rolled his eyes dramatically and then fixed John with an expression of pure disappointment but didn't move to introduce the mysterious pilot - Captain - Martin Crieff.

"I'm Sherlock's brother, Martin," said the pilot as he cheerfully extended his hand. John politely shook Martin's hand with a mixture of astonisment and curiosity.

"Nice to meet you, Martin," he muttered, "sorry about the abuse when we first met, I honestly thought -,"

"Oh don't worry about it, some people always get us mixed up. Mummy used to call us the fake twins and it would have worked if I'm not ginger and Sherlock isn't five years older. I hope I'm not trespassing – Sherlock said it was okay for me to stay here for a couple of night until we fly our customer back to Riyadh. I really didn't want to stay in the hotel Coralyn booked us, I looked it up on Tripadvisor and someone had been bitten by rats there and then someone else had found pubic hair in the sheets -,"

"Sherry, you're babbling," snapped Sherlock, "stop trying to make a good impression, John likes you."

John had to agree with Sherlock's deduction. He did like the bumbling, cheerful and over-talkative Martin Crieff. This man was nothing like Sherlock or Mycroft; Martin seemed positively normal if a little unsure of himself.

"You're Martin Crieff, formally known as Sherringford Holmes," said John smiling, "and am I right in thinking that you are not on drugs,"

"Yep – yep – that's right,"

"So why do you have a lemon taped to your hat?" asked John curiously.


Martin craned his head backwards to get a view of the lemon, lost his balance and tumbled over the edge of the armrest. There was a nasty splat as the lemon collided with floor under the full weight of Martin's upper body. Sherlock didn't even bat an eyelid.

"Well," muttered Martin from his upside down position on the floor with his legs still dangling over the armrest, "at least I found the travelling lemon."

John thought it better not to ask.

AN: For those of you who would like to see the cover art for this story: you can read the story it at Archive of Our Own 3 under wellingtonboots.

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