Nearly a year after Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, John received the news that his cousin in America, Phil Coulson, had been killed in some freak attack, that he was Phil's only surviving relative, and that he was needed to arrange his affairs. How was that even possible? Surely he had had a girlfriend, or siblings, or...something. John couldn't just dash off to America, he hardly had the money to go flying across the ocean at the drop of the hat, even if - oh, Phil's boss had already got him a ticket. A first class ticket. A first class ticket to New York City with an additional letter, requesting that he meet with Phil's employer about his last wishes. Everything would be paid for him.

Well, maybe he needed some time away, after all. John packed everything he would need for two weeks to be on the safe side, including a suit for the funeral, in his old Army duffel within a matter of minutes. Even since moving into Baker Street his entire life was easily condensed to a canvas sack and a garment bag. So easily erased, forgotten, rubbed away like the wrong answer on an exam.

With a hug for Mrs. Hudson and a promise to be safe, he walked to the Tube station and was on his way. He thought it would feel worse to leave the Baker Street flat and all its memories, but really, everything that made Baker Street home to him had been gone for a long time. London felt empty. It should have been impossible, of course, for a single man's death to make any change in the population size, but John supposed it was all a matter of perspective. It was like when Sherlock died, he took the city's very heart and soul with him.

Divorce from feelings, an annoying voice reminded him somewhere deep inside. John sighed and looked out the window, failing to ignore the hubbub of fellow passengers boarding the plane. From the corner of his eye he could see a woman dressed in black, with short red hair and a sour expression. Beside her was an anxious-looking man with curly dark hair and a purple button-up shirt. Even after a year the combination was like a punch in the chest, which was absolutely ridiculous, it wasn't as though Sherlock had held the sole rights to wearing purple shirts, but-

"Well, isn't this quite the party?" a wry, American voice asked from the front of the plane. John looked up and saw - no fucking way - world-famous scientist and engineer Tony Stark ambling up the center aisle. He flopped into the seat beside John's and immediately ordered a drink. "You want anything? I'm buying."

Too taken aback by the billionaire's presence, John mutely shook his head, then instantly began berating himself for it. How often had he heard Sherlock sneer the name Tony Stark whenever what appeared to be an interesting murder turned out only to be the victim's hashed attempt at building a robot or a super suit in their basement? Certainly, his inventions had garnered some reluctant respect, but Sherlock had always thought him too messy and uncalculating to be anyone worth outwardly admiring. Still, John had come close to meeting him on his ill-fated visit to Afghanistan; he'd been filling in on Rhodes' team in the "Hum-drum-vee."

Stark shrugged when he declined the drink and muttered, "Whatever, more for me," before taking a generous gulp of whatever fruity concoction the cheery steward brought. They really weren't in much of a first-class aeroplane, it was a small charter jet with only four crew members, and everyone on the place besides John seemed to know each other. The woman and fidgety man bowed their heads close together before leaning over the backs of their seats to speak with the pair behind them, one man with short brown hair and a blond man who was almost too muscular to seem human. With a slight crane of his neck, John caught sight of what looked like an enormous hammer under the second man's seat. How had he got that past security? In the row in front of Stark and John was another beefy blond man in a rather old-fashioned suit and a very unhappy looking black man with an eyepatch glaring around as though the assembled few on the charter were his unruly children.

"Hey, Steve?" wheedled Stark, and John's eyebrows shot up. He didn't mean Steve Rogers?

"Tony," replied the other man, not looking up from his newspaper.

"Why isn't Bruce sitting over here? I wanna sit by Bruce."

"Because Director Fury wants to keep the plane in the air, Tony."

Once again, John felt his senses jolt, and he couldn't help speaking up. "Sorry, are you talking about Nick Fury?" he blurted. Stark turned to peer at him through his sunglasses, and Rogers actually turned this time. "Only, I got this letter from him about my cousin, and..."

"Oh, so you do speak," interrupted the man with the eyepatch in a booming voice. He stood even taller than Sherlock - I really need to stop comparing people to him - and crossed his arms, glaring down at John with his good eye. "So, you're John Watson. I expected someone a little...more." He made a vaguely disinterested face, rolling his visible eye, and John got the message very clearly.

John fumbled with his seatbelt and stood as well, flushing red when he still had to look up and meet Fury's eye. "I'm not interesting in making an impression on you, Mister Fury, I'm interested in taking care of my cousin's last wishes," he said pointedly, using the same tone as when Sherlock was being a dick to a victim's relative. We're here to solve a murder, Sherlock, not harass old ladies. Stark was staring at him with his mouth hanging partially open. Apparently Nick Fury wasn't a man to use That Tone with. Well, pardon his ignorance. "Excuse me," he murmured to Stark, edging past to use the loo.

What the hell was he doing on a charter jet with the bloody Avengers?

When he got out of the loo, John asked the steward if he could move to a seat in the back of the jet, not wanting to put up with the awkward glances cast his way by Phil's apparent co-workers. Cripes, what did his cousin do for a living?

"Oh! Um, I'm not sure, let me just go ask Mum, she's the one in charge, but she doesn't really like talking to people, so she's staying in the galley. I'll go check, back in a tick!" the cheerful steward replied, practically skipping toward the front of the plane.

"For goodness' sake, Arthur, who else is going to take the seat? Of course the man can move if he bloody wants to! We're getting paid for a full year of service with only one flight; give them the stupid hat off your head if they ask for it!" an old woman's voice railed from behind the thin door. Before "Earth's Mightiest Heroes" could look up and see him fidgeting in the aisle, John quickly turned tail and moved to the back of the jet, trying to make the remaining four hours of the journey somewhat comfortable with curious eyes peering back at him every ten minutes.

"You're quite certain he is the Son of Coul's brethren?" boomed the enormous blond with the hammer.

"Thor!" a chorus of warning voices replied.

John shut his eyes and leaned against the window to try blocking them all out again. This was just too surreal to believe. Maybe he was dreaming, and would wake up along in Baker Street again. He wasn't sure which would be better. Even now, so far taken aback in the face of all this, John could feel the old thrill stirring in his chest like when he first met Sherlock again. The past year of his life had been so bleak, so lacking, that even this small brush with something new put everything in color again.

With only an hour left of the flight, Fury got up and sauntered back to the seat ahead of John's, looking back at him. John stared him in the eye. "This trip isn't about Phil," he said.

"Of course it's about Phil," retorted Fury. The you dumb fuck at the end was heavily implied. "It's about the important work he was doing for SHIELD, and who's going to take his place." He set John with a stern look. "You think I didn't Google you when I found out you're Agent Coulson's next of kin? You think I didn't read your file? Hell, I even read your stupid-ass blog. You see these assembled toddlers behind me?"

He pointed over his shoulder, and John looked just in time to see the short-haired man - Hawkeye, the archer - attempting to climb over the seats into the same row as the Hulk and the Black Widow even though he was sitting in the aisle and could have just gotten up. Meanwhile, Thor was attempting to dump three packets of aeroplane pretzels into his mouth at once, Stark was on his mobile despite the strict policy against using electronics while in flight, and Rogers was snickering at what he'd doodled in the margins of his newspaper.

Fury rose an eyebrow when John looked back at him. "Making sure these idiots don't kill each other was Agent Coulson's main gig. You have experience with adults who act like children. It seems that you're the perfect man for the job, Doctor Watson."

"You want me to babysit your superheroes when they aren't out saving the world?" snorted John.

"Among other things, yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Don't rush into the decision or anything," Fury deadpanned. John fumed. "Just take a few days to think it over. Get Agent Coulson's affairs in order, do some sight-seeing, then come back and talk to me. If you haven't changed your mind, I'll get you a ticket home and you'll forget I ever asked."

John quirked an eyebrow. "Literally or figuratively?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out. I'll see you at the funeral, Doctor."

He scoffed and turned back to the window as Fury sauntered away. Like hell would be spending more than the absolute necessary time around these yahoos.