Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson aren't mine and neither is the iPod (duh). If I say that they are, the sky police will come for me.

A/N: Alright. So we've established that as far as posting by deadlines go, I have the integrity of a fruit fly. Hopefully this chapter is worth the extra...nine days. Ouch. I'm not so sure how I feel about this one...it started out nice and then things got weird. But I've heard from my wunnerful beta reader, disoriented-problem, that it's a lovely chapter so here you are. My ability to write in first person is improving woo.

ENJOY AND BE SAD. BECAUSE IT IS SAD. FOR REALS.

Once the plane leveled out in the air, both Holmes and Watson got a hold of themselves, and the blatant stares we were receiving diminished to discreet sidelong glances. I took pity on Watson and let him immerse himself in the contents of my iPod—that awful whining ear-bruiser, as he affectionately called it. Anything to distract him from the way we were shooting through the sky at seven hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Holmes was more difficult to entertain. While I tried hard to read my book, he tried hard to distract me by slamming the tray table up and down. I was doing my very best to ignore him, but when the prune-like old lady sitting in front of him set down her knitting magazine to turn around and glare, I figured I should step in.

I grabbed his wrist. "Holmes. Stop."

"Why."

"Because you're disturbing the peace." I offered an apologetic smile to the woman. She harrumphed.

"'Disturbing the peace'?" Holmes repeated.

"Yes. You could be arrested for that."

"Woman, we are thousands of feet in the air. You cannot hope to convince me that there are policemen in the sky."

"For you, I'm sure there are," I said.

Holmes scoffed. "Tell your sky police to do their worst. I will evade them every time."

I scanned the page for the sentence I had left off on. "I'm sure you will."

Holmes sank low in his chair, a pout on his stubble-ridden face. He was a master at sulking. "I will spring from my seat like a bullfrog."

"I hope that comes with sound effects."

"Then I will sprint up that aisle and burst into the henhouse."

"Cockpit."

"Don't interrupt, woman." He sat up straight, wholeheartedly engaged in this fabricated escape plan. "Following my grand entrance, I shall take control of this craft and veer sharply to the left." He began pantomiming, much to my distress. "Then right. Then left again. Then straight up in a vertical bid for freedom!"

I was growing concerned. "Holmes—"

"Then I perform an aerial miracle, the likes of which have never been seen in this era! And we begin hurtling down towards the earth at an approximate speed of seven thousand kilometers per hour! And just as they close in, I shall shatter the windshield with my bare hands and dive into open space, where the—"

"No," I said quickly. "No. There will be no hurtling. And no breaking windows of any kind."

"But woman—"

"No. Take that whole idea and never think of it again."

"But—"

"Forget it!"

Holmes huffed. "Fine."

The old woman turned in her chair again, burning holes in my face through her delicate little spectacles. "I cannot read. You are being too loud."

"I'm sorry," I said. "We'll quiet down. Right, Holmes?"

He looked pointedly away from me. "I don't listen to dream killers."

I rolled my eyes. "Just sit still," I said, knowing full well that was a physical impossibility for him.

I settled back into my seat and tried to get comfortable, but my eyes were glued to a single sentence as I listened to the click…click and whoosh of Holmes messing with the reading lights and air conditioning above his head. After a minute I looked up, just in time to see his hand hovering near the button to call the flight attendant. He caught me watching him and immediately drew his hand away, a guilty expression on his face.

"You didn't push that, did you?" I asked flatly. He responded with a sheepish red-handed grin and I groaned. "Holmes, we don't need—"

"Can I help you?"

I looked up at the beaming blonde flight attendant and grimaced. Holmes, however, leaned straight over me. "Yes, madam, I have a request. I would like to know the chances of surviving if one were to execute a flawless dive headfirst from the cockpit of this vessel."

Her sparkling smile faltered. For some reason, she seemed confused and somewhat alarmed by his request. "Diving from the cockpit…is not…permitted, sir."

Holmes sighed. "Why are the people of this century so concerned with safety?" He shook his head in disdain. "I suppose I will settle for a liquid refreshment. Unless those are not permitted either."

The flight attendant looked relieved to be given a request she could handle. "The drink cart should be by in two minutes." With a nervous sort of grin, she sidled back up the aisle.

I turned and narrowed my eyes at Holmes. "You'll probably be accused of terrorism once we land."

"I had no idea there was a drink cart," he said as though he hadn't heard me. "How convenient."

Mrs. Knitting Magazine looked over her shoulder and tsked, muttering something about this hopeless generation. Holmes narrowed his eyes.

"If you behave, you can have some root beer," I said, hoping that would satisfy him for a minute.

It worked like a charm. Holmes quietly drew on the flight magazine until the cart rolled by right on schedule. I passed him a plastic cup full of root beer and ice along with a little bag of pretzels.

"Delightful," he remarked. "They are much more accommodating then you, woman."

"Just eat your pretzels." I left him to munching and leaned across the aisle to check on the doctor. "Watson? Hey, Watson." I tapped him on the arm and he removed his earphones. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," he mumbled.

"You really just need to relax," I said. "We've still got three hours. And then we have to get off and switch planes. And then we fly for seven more hours. Watson, you look sick."

He sighed, a little green around the moustache. "I assure you, I am fine."

"You didn't want anything to dri—"

"No. No thank you. I did not want to bother with it." The doctor's gaze drifted to some point behind my head. "Holmes, on the other hand, is asking for trouble."

I turned around and let out a yelp. Holmes had finished his root beer and was left with a cup of ice—a cup which was being tipped gently over the top of the seat in front of him, on a direct path down the back of Mrs. Knitting Magazine's flowery dress.

Even as I reached for his wrist, I knew it was too little, too late. And in some ways, I wondered if maybe I should be grateful that he was getting this grudge out of his system now. I knew that the more I attempted to stop him, the bigger the scene he would cause. Frankly, I should be glad that this was just a little bit of frozen water. Ice cubes never hurt anyone, right?

Wrong.

The way that woman screamed, you would've thought someone had just unraveled her mittens. She shot from her seat and into the aisle like a firework on steroids, diving over the shocked and appalled oriental man seated beside her in the process. The entire plane turned to watch as she jumped and twisted around like a woman half her age, shrieking like a banshee. The flight attendants scrambled over each other in their rush to be the first to offer a complimentary drink and a discount on her next flight.

I hid my face in my hands and moaned. This was by far the most humiliating thing that had ever happened and I was fully prepared to cry. My lower lip was physically trembling with the sheer horror of this whole situation.

"Woman? Whatever is the matter?"

My head snapped up. "What's the matter? Do you not see what you just did?"

Holmes frowned. "I played a practical joke, woman, that is all. You cannot pretend that she didn't bother you as well."

"That doesn't mean you can publicly humiliate her!" I exclaimed. "This isn't your society, Holmes! You aren't the world's greatest living detective here, you're a maniac who doesn't know when to stop! You can't just do stuff like that! There are consequences!"

He furrowed his brow. "I never meant—"

"This is way over the line, Holmes! How are you supposed to fix this one?"

"I don't—"

"Just once, can't you think before you make a fool of yourself?"

I had never seen him at a loss for words until now. He stared at me, stunned, but I looked away. I was done.

"Sir, you're going to have to come with me." One of the flight attendants beckoned to Holmes. He rose from his seat and squeezed past me without complaint, and the flight attendant led him up to the front of the plane. The other passengers retreated back into their novels and card games, and Holmes's poor victim was taken to the front of the plane by another attendant.

I glanced across the aisle at Watson, who quickly looked away—but not before I caught the disapproval in his face. My anger flared up at him. "What? What would you have done?" I demanded.

"Not that," he murmured.

Smoldering, I grabbed the in-flight magazine and flung it open to a random page. Holmes had filled the margins with doodles and coded messages. I frowned and looked up, trying to see his unruly mess of hair over the top of the seats without success. I could only imagine the tongue lashing he was getting…but then again, it couldn't be worse than the one he'd just received from me. But he had deserved it. Hadn't he?

I sighed, too stubborn to consider the possibility that I had overreacted. I picked up a pen and set about cracking his code.

It was uncomfortably quiet.

So what do you think? Was I too hard on the dear detective, or did he have it coming? Please, share your opinions. And keep an eye out for the resolution because obviously, this is going to be a three-part thing. Lol.

I'm going to be on a real live plane myself tomorrow morning-my family and I are taking an eight-day trip around the eastern half of the US-and I should have plenty of time to write. So when I get back, I hope to have updates galore. We'll see how that goes. AND I'M IN NYC ON MY BURFDAY YEAH. Okay I'm done. R&R!