AN- This fic is basically all sevenpercent's fault, since I was out of plot bunnies for this story. Again, meaning of title will be at the end.

John arrived home after a visit to Tesco's to find Gladstone suited up and ready to go, with Sherlock no where to be found. Gladstone didn't seem concerned though, so John wasn't.

"Sherlock?" he called, stepping around Gladstone.

The was a muffled reply from Sherlock's bedroom.

John sighed. "What is he doing?" he asked Gladstone, who only wagged her tail. "Come on then," he said, beckoning her as he headed down the hallway. There was the tapping of claws behind him as he paused briefly at Sherlock's door, then pushed it open.

"Sherlock?" he called again, more quietly this time.

"John?" Sherlock appeared from nowhere, or rather, from out of his closet, hair standing on end and arms full of fabric.

"What are you doing?" John spluttered.

Sherlock ducked his head and muttered something.

John looked at him pointedly.

Sherlock sighed, and repeated it. "Packing. Something you should probably do."

"Right. Packing. Of course. Where are we going and why?"

"Unimportant," Sherlock said dismissively, heading back into the closet.

"Unimportant- Sherlock I need to know what to pack! How long are we going to be gone for?"

"Three days?" was the response John thought he heard from the closet.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John headed upstairs, pulled out his duffel bag from under the bed, and began throwing garments into it.

Ten minutes later he stopped by the bathroom to grab some more items, and then popped his head in Sherlock's room again. This time Sherlock wasn't in the closet, but was fighting with a zipper on his suitcase, which seemed rather determined not to close.

"How much stuff are you bringing?" John asked, dumbfounded.

"Essentials," Sherlock growled, still fighting with the bag as though it were a sentient beast.

John scoffed. "Knowing you, that probably means the skull." He frowned as Sherlock stilled for a moment. "Oh god!" he moaned. "You are not bringing the skull. No. Give it," he ordered, holding out his hand.

Sherlock scowled, but handed it over. The zipper closed easily.

"See?" John pointed out smugly.

Sherlock chose to ignore him.

"Are you ready? The flight leaves at five."

John glanced at his watch. Barely enough time. Typical.

"Yeah," he said, rolling his eyes. "Come on."

Sherlock hauled his suitcase behind him as he headed out the door.

"Got your meds?"


"Take your meds?"



A bark.


One of Mycroft's cars was waiting outside. It delivered them to the airport, where they sped through security and got to the gate with time to spare. It was only when John spotted the plane they were supposed to be taking to... he still didn't even know where it was they were going, that he began to have reservations.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. "What the hell is that?"

Sherlock glanced over to what John was referring. "The plane?" John nodded. "It's a " Lockheed McDonnell 312."

John stared at it. "Is it... airworthy?"

Sherlock snorted at him. "While my brother is annoying and overbearing, I hardly think he wants us dead."

John wasn't so sure.

His fears weren't allayed by the crew.

There was a nervous young man who looked almost related to Sherlock, just a foot shorter, who was the captain of all things, and older man who looked more like a captain, who was the first officer, a woman who looked exasperated with them already, and an excited young man, who John wondered if he should be the one looking after them, or vice versa.

The captain slunk away after the introductions, and the woman left as well, tutting about runway conditions and flight plans.

The young man looked absolutely thrilled to see Gladstone.

"Oh! A puppy!" He held his hand out for Gladstone to sniff, which she only looked at skeptically.

"Arthur," the older man scolded. "She's working. Look at her vest. You can't pet her when her vest is on."

"Oh," he said, crestfallen. "Sorry," he said, and John suspected it was more to Gladstone than to Sherlock.

"Perhaps later?" John said, looking to Sherlock for confirmation.

"Perhaps," he muttered.

Arthur looked thrilled. "Brilliant!" He grinned and ran off to do whatever it was that he did. John had no clue. He hadn't been on a plane this small as a commercial flight before, so he wasn't exactly in the know for how things worked.

The takeoff was less eventful than John had expected. They had survived it after all.

The seat belt sign was turned off and John stood up to stretch his legs. Oddly enough, they were the only passengers on the plane which sat sixteen. John only shrugged and assumed Mycroft had some hand in it.

It was Gladstone's first time flying, and Sherlock was more concerned about how she was taking it than about John.

John was torn between feeling hurt, or taking a picture to commemorate this moment.