(NIGHT TIME, 221B, Alice’s POV: )

Sherlock sat in his armchair, gently plucking the strings of his violin. I sat on the couch, wishing I had Sherlocks chair to glare directly at Irene, who was eyeing him too closely for my taste. I knew what me was thinking about, and I was thinking the same; Mycroft’s phone call.

 “Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot.” Sherlock finally roused a little and looked up.

 “Coventry.” He suddenly said. Irene, still wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown, was sitting in John’s chair watching him closely. Again, too closely for my liking. I wasn’t sure if my feelings were jealously or protectiveness, but Irene didn’t need to be all over Sherlock.

 “I’ve never been. Is it nice?” She asked.

 “Where’s John?” Sherlock asked.

 “He went out a couple of hours ago.” I replied. “When you shoved me out of my chair.” I added. Irene looked at me, just daring me to go further. I narrowed my eyes at her but didn’t say anything else.

 “I was just talking to him.” Sherlock whined. “And it’s my chair.” He snapped, looking at me. I smirked.

 “He said you do that. What’s Coventry got to do with anything?” Irene answered, smiling. I glared at her.

 “It’s a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to know that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.” Sherlock explained. I nodded, as I knew the story.

 “Have you ever had anyone?” Irene asked suddenly. I turned my head towards her immediately, glaring at her and daring her –as she had me- to go further. Sherlock frowned at her blankly and I almost smiled at his innocence.

 “Sorry?” He asked.

 “And when I say ‘had’, I’m being indelicate.” She added, not looking at me but looking smug. I almost stood up and slapped her.

 “I don’t understand.” Sherlock said, sounding like a small child.

 “Well, I’ll be delicate then.” She began. Getting up from the chair, she walked over and kneeled in front of Sherlock, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it. “Let’s have dinner.” She offered.

 “Why?” Sherlock asked. I relaxed a little bit, seeing he wouldn’t let her do anything... at least with me in the room.

 “Might be hungry.” Irene reasoned.

 “I’m not.” He said. I held back a snicker; he was never hungry.

 “Good.” Irene said seductively. I held back a defensive growl. Irene seemed to have forgotten I was in the room. I was prepared to remind her at any given moment. Hesitantly, Sherlock sat forward a little and slowly turned his right hand over, curling his own fingers around her wrist. I was about to protest when I realized what he was doing. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

 “Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” Sherlock asked, quickly glancing at me. Too quickly for Irene to notice as she leaned forward, her gaze fixed on his lips.

 “Oh, Mr. Holmes...” She trailed softly. Sherlock’s fingers gently stroked across the underside of her wrist. “...if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?” She questioned.

 “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. It made me jump and release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Sherlock’s eyes slid towards the door, him stopping at me quickly.

 “Too late.” Irene mumbled ruefully.

 “That’s not the end of the world; that’s Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock answered dryly. I smiled softly. Irene pulled her hand free and stood up, walking away from him as Mrs. Hudson came in with none other than the guard from the Palace who wanted Sherlock to get dressed. Plumber...? I think that was his name.

 “Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She turned around to Plummer and pointed at Sherlock. “He shot it.” She explained. I raised my hand sheepishly.

 “Actually... that was me. Sorry, Mrs. H.” I interrupted.

 “Have you come to take us away again?” Sherlock asked tetchily to Plummer, sounding protective. Or was that my imagination?

 “Yes, Mr. Holmes.” Plumber answered.

 “Well, we decline.” Sherlock said indignantly, glancing at me.

 “I don’t think you do.” He said, taking an envelope from his jacket and offering it to him. Sherlock snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was a Business Class boarding pass for Flyaway Airways in the name of Sherlock Holmes and Alice White for flight number 007 to Baltimore, scheduled to leave at 6:30.

Very shortly afterwards, Sherlock and I had put our coats on and were getting into the back of a car outside the flat. Plummer got into the passenger seat and the car drove away. In the car, Sherlock got out the plane tickets again, and then told Plummer what he had deducted.

 “There’s going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they’re going to let it happen. The plane will blow up.” Sherlock said, sounding smug.

 “Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new.” I added unhappily. Neither Plummer nor the driver responded to us in any way.

 Sometime later the car arrived at Heathrow Airport and was driven past hangars to a 747 Jumbo Jet parked on the tarmac. The car stopped near the plane and Sherlock and I got out and walked over to the steps, which led up to the entry door. A familiar figure was standing at the bottom of the steps. It was Neilson.

 “Well, you’re lookin’ all better. How ya feelin’?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, in a deliberately fake American accent. I smiled up at him then glared back at Neilson.

 “Like putting a bullet in your brain... sir.” He replied. Sherlock let out a quiet snigger and started to walk up the steps with me behind him. “They’d pin a medal on me if I did...” He trailed off. Sherlock stopped. “ ...sir.” He added insincerely. Sherlock half-turned back towards him, then decided he couldn’t be bothered and continued up the steps. I gave Neilson the finger and followed Sherlock.

Inside, he pulled back the curtain obscuring the passenger seating and walked into the aisle. The lighting was very low and it was hard to see. There were people sitting in almost all the seats but none of them were moving or speaking or showing any signs of life at all. My eyes scanned back and forth. I also listened carefully for footsteps behind me in case this was all a trap.

Frowning, Sherlock walked forward and looked more closely at the nearest passengers. An overhead light showed more clearly the faces of two men sitting beside each other and Sherlock realized the truth: they were dead. Although they were not yet showing any signs of decomposition, their skin was very grey and they had clearly been dead for some time. He turned and looked to the passengers on the other side of the aisle, turning on another overhead light to get a better view. The man and woman sitting there were also long dead. I squinted at the people, mildly disgusted. I pulled a cloth out of my pocket and over my nose and mouth. I slowly moved up to Sherlock.

 As Sherlock straightened up, realising that everyone on board the plane must be in the same condition, his brother spoke from the other end of the section.

 “The Coventry conundrum.” He said. Sherlock turned as Mycroft pushed back the curtain and stepped through into the cabin. For the first part of the ensuing conversation he talked softly, almost as if out of respect for the dead bodies in front of him. “What do you think of my solution?” the elder brother asked, leaning royally on his umbrella. Sherlock gazed around the cabin, still taking it all in. The same as me. I looked over Mycroft, taking note of the rain on his umbrella and the mud on his shoes. “The flight of the dead.” He added.

 “The plane blows up mid-air. Mission accomplished for the terrorists.” Sherlock said.

 “Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.” I finished, my usually strong voice muffled by the cloth.

 “Neat, don’t you think?” Mycroft asked, looking at both of us. Sherlock smiled humourlessly. “You’ve been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages – or were you too bored to notice the pattern?” Sherlock flashed back in his mind to the creepy client and the two girls. “We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight.” We thought of the body in the boot and the passport stamped in Berlin airport. “But that’s the deceased for you – late, in every sense of the word.”

 “How’s the plane going to fly?” Sherlock asked, but he answered himself immediately. “Of course: unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

 “It doesn’t fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.” Mycroft said regretfully.

 “Your MOD man.” I said.

 “That’s all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.” Mycroft replied, obviously referencing to Sherlock and Irene. But he had looked me directly in the eye. Did he mean me? No, certainly not. Irene for sure.

 “Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully.” Sherlock answered, quirking an eyebrow. I looked at his eyebrow longer than required.

 “I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I’m talking about you.” Mycroft spat, loudly and angrily. I sighed, putting my free hand in my pocket and looking away. Sherlock frowned, genuinely confused. “The damsel in distress.” Mycroft said, a bit softer. He smiled ironically. “In the end, are you really so oblivious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “...and watch him dance.”

 “Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock scoffed.

 “Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?” Mycroft tested. I coughed sarcastically.

 “I think it was less than five seconds.” Irene suddenly said, revealing herself behind me. I jumped and spun around at the same time Sherlock did. She was standing at the end of the cabin, dressed beautifully, fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured. This is The Woman at her immaculate best. I scowled at her, stepping in front of Sherlock a little bit.

 “I drove you into her path.” Mycroft said ruefully, speaking to his brother. He paused momentarily. “I’m sorry.” He lowered his eyes. “I didn’t know.” Sherlock was still looking at Irene as she walked towards him.

 “Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk.” She said. I fought the urge to tell her off, knowing it wouldn’t get us anywhere.

 “So do I. There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on.” Sherlock confirmed. He put a hand firmly on my shoulder and pushed me gently out from in front of him. I didn’t resist.

 “Not you, Junior. You’re done now.” Irene said, walking past Sherlock and me. She continued down the aisle towards Mycroft. Sherlock turned and watched her go as she activated her phone and held it up to show his brother. Sherlock stepped in front of me this time. “There’s more... loads more. On this phone I’ve got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me – unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother.” Irene threatened viciously. Mycroft could no longer hold her gaze and turned his head away, lowering his eyes.

 “How do you know it’s not me?” I suddenly spoke. They all looked at me, Sherlock looking particularly disturbed.

 “Please, Miss White. You’re too busy with...” She trailed off, looking at Sherlock. She smiled sweetly. “Your business.” I lowered my eyes from Sherlock’s, not in shame, but from the pressure of his glare.

Whoo! I am a bit more caught up bit I barely had time to post this today, so still only one chapter. Just don't kill me. Anywho. Enjoy, vote,  and comment, fun peoples! =)