Title: Burning HeartsFandom: Cabin Pressure, SherlockGene: Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mystery, FluffCharacter/s: Sherlock, Martin, Mycroft, John, Douglas, Carolyn, Arthur, Lestrade, Moriarty, OCs and other minor Sherlock charactersRating: PG-13 Summary: Round Two. Only this time, the stakes have changed... and so have the players.Warnings: Violence. Bit of foul language. Spoiler for The Great Game.Notes: Sequel to Thicker than Water. Reading that first will help understanding this fic.Thanks to Elvendork for her betaing.
Mycroft had glared at them the whole taxi trip home from the hospital. John had ignored it, well used to the glares of Holmes. Sherlock had matched it, stare for stare.
“I have people to care for me.”
“And a big empty house with many stairs to fall down.” Sherlock retorted. “You’ll break the other leg and then Mummy will yell at me.”
“And an empty home is worse than your full one? How exactly are you going to fit a seventh person into your flat?” Mycroft sneered.
“Easily.” John said. “Douglas has the sofa, Carolyn and Arthur my bed. I’m on Sherlock’s floor and you and Martin will have to share Sherlock’s bed.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself at the organisational skills of Baker Street. “And Sherlock?”
“Ah, he’s not exactly been sleeping." At Mycroft's raised eyebrow John added, "Not at Baker Street at least."
"John." Sherlock said in a quiet but dangerous voice.
"Of course." Mycroft said with a frustrated sigh. "My mysterious nightly visitor."
"Your nurses really were awful at obeying the visiting hours. Who did you think was sitting at your bedside?" Sherlock asked.
"A nurse with a crush." Mycroft said in disgust.
Sherlock started laughing. After a moment Mycroft smiled at his brother.
Helping Mycroft up the stairs to 221B was a lesson in patience that left John swearing as they entered the flat.
"Doc, you can't say that!" Arthur cried from his seat on the sofa. Or Martin, both were applicable.
"Why not?" John asked, his tone dangerous as he all but threw Mycroft onto the sofa beside Arthur and Martin.
"Mum will wash your mouth out with soap."
John turned to look at Carolyn with a raised eye. She moved over to the sink and raised a bar of soap threateningly. John flinched and Carolyn lowered it slowly with an evil grin. Douglas laughed at the pair of them and headed over to the oven to check the quiches he was cooking.
“Everyone want tea?” John asked moving into the kitchen though still giving Carolyn a wide berth.
A chorus of “yes”s followed so John was forced to recruit Carolyn’s help. He had looked at Sherlock first but Sherlock flopped down in front of the sofa, his head near Martin’s hands.
“Fine Sherlock. If you’re not going to help here, put the movie on.”
Grumbling, Sherlock raised himself off the ground and put the movie on the coffee table in the DVD player. Then he checked the title.
“Star Wars?” He said in dismay.
“We did say Star Wars marathon, didn’t we?” John called from the kitchen. With a groan Sherlock collapsed back into his original position.
“Star Wars?” Mycroft asked.
“All the Stars Wars by the sound of it.” Martin replied. “Six movies.” Sherlock made a noise of disgust.
“Agreed.” Martin said as Mycroft said “An uncivilised way to put it but agreed.” As what was said registered, Mycroft stared at Martin in surprise.
“What? The only thing we apparently share is our taste in movies.” Martin said, fidgeting under the glaze.
“Ah. Tinker Tailer?”
“Course. Winnie the Pooh?”
Sherlock’s head snapped to look at Mycroft even as he narrowed his eyes. “Yes. How?”
Martin blushed. “When I was four, you called me a little-”
“Piglet.” Mycroft interrupted. “Yes I recall. You always were rather pink.” Martin’s blush deepened.
“Drinks are here!” John called out as he and Carolyn very carefully carried in three mugs each. “And I think the food is almost ready. You three need to eat with
your medication and popcorn doesn’t count.”
“Will there be popcorn?” Arthur asked, even as the sounds of popping corn came from the kitchen.
“I think it can be arranged.” John said, setting into one of the arm chairs.
“Why is he getting a medal? He nearly got them killed a dozen times and he’s an awful pilot!” Martin cried, waving his hand around in frustration. But he was careful to keep it away from his lap where Arthur’s head had fallen into halfway through the movie and was now gently snoring.
“What does it matter?” Sherlock drawled. “It’s an ineffective measure anyway.” He glanced at Mycroft. “But what more can be expected from government?”
“Subtle, Sherlock.” Mycroft snapped.
“I work with subtleties. Which is why I’m su-”
“Oh not this again. Sherlock they are not related. There’s no evidence for it!” Mycroft hand joined in with Martin’s waving.
“They clearly are! Father and son, it fits perfectly!”
“And he’s so reckless with his ship! No real pilot is that reckless with their ship! I bet he’s never even heard of regulations.”
Martin didn’t seem to realise no one was listening to him. Across from them, John slipped the next movie in and shared a peaceful smile with Carolyn and Douglas as the three brothers continued to bicker and rant.
“Oh for goodness sake. John!”
“Oh turning to John as always.”
“What does that mean?”
“He shot that poor man-fly-alien thing, why do people like him?”
With a sigh, John moved over to break up the madness before a stitch got torn or another bone was broken.
Just another day at Baker Street really.