I'm sorry it took so long and that it's such a short one, school keeps me very busy. And thank you for keep reading, favouring, commenting and following, it means a lot I will do my best to publish the next chapter very soon

In another plane, a few hours away from the snowy mountains of Norway, sat the detective, the Doctor, and the most important man in England.

Crowded into the tiny chair, Mycroft scowled fiercely. "I still think we should have taken the jet." He hissed at the white-haired man, who looked uneasy cramped up as they were in the blue tiny seats. His arm pressed against the sleeve of Mycroft's grey suit despite the D.I's great efforts to lean as far away as he could from the man, not wanting to spite Mycroft even farther. "You know we couldn't have done that." He spat the words, using all the air his lungs could gather in this half sitting half lying and overall really uncomfortable position. "He would have spotted us." He added when Mycroft gave him one of his annoyed looks. "If you think Moriarty doesn't know we're coming you're an even greater fool than what I thought you were Lestrade." He sneered at him. "He is a smart man, Moriarty. And he, unlike some people on this aircraft, does not make the same mistake twice. He thought I didn't care about my brother after I traded information about Sherlock's life with him but now he knows the truth, which means, he'll be aware that I have knowledge of Sherlock's whereabouts and hence know he is missing which will, in turn, cause me to leave the comfort of my office and look for him myself in order to not reveal the truth regarding his little scheme to the public."

"Y… Yeah" said the confused detective, still trying to process the amazing amount of words thrown harshly at him by the other man so rapidly they sounded like jibber jabber. "Don't underestimate Moriarty again." He added, rolling his eyes at the baffled expression Lastrade's face wore.
After a few long seconds of silence Lestrade spoke again, resuming the conversation despite Mycroft's apparent unwillingness to chat. "Poor John." He said, and Mycroft instantly replied with a sneering look and a quiet "Oh God no."
"I hope he'll be alright" Lestrade continued, ignoring the other man. "Please don't try to 'chit-chat', it is definitely not necessary." said Mycroft. "Fine" replied the detective, "Just trying to be nice." though it was not the entire truth. As much as he hated to admit it, he was quite interested in getting to know this grumpy and overall very unfriendly man. And, it also was the only thing he had to do on this ancient plane.

John was sitting by himself, staring blankly outside the window at the dark sky. And occasionally, a star was bright enough to be seen through the reflection of the blond man's face on the double glass. So he was alive, the bastered. John couldn't stop thinking of the last twenty four hours; he kept going through what he could remember of the previous day, trying to fully process all he'd been through. Sarah is dead, Sherlock is not. It couldn't be. Sarah can't be dead, it's not possible, and what did she have to do with all of this? These two events had to be linked, he had a feeling they were. Whenever someone he loved was hurt or, more accurately, whenever he was in some sort of an extraordinary danger Sherlock was always involved. With this thought he drifted to a dreamless sleep from which he was awoken by the shrill voice of the flight attender asking him to straighten his seat and put his seatbelt on.

In just a few short minutes the plane landed and the three men made their way to the little tavern owned by a man Mycroft knew from the time he spent in Norway about which he refuses to talk. Of course he hasn't been there in quite a while, he hates the leg work.

As soon as they entered the room Mycroft, quite hastily, went to lie on the single bed which meant John and Lestrade had to share the double bed. And in less than ten minutes they were all asleep, gathering strength for the coming days.

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