The 1st of January, 2105

John makes Watson and I a pot of ginger tea and provides ginger biscuits, toast with marmalade and some fruit, advising us both to see that we eat enough to soak up any liquid in our stomachs, as the sensation of being hungry but full of water can act as a nausea inducer. He then ensures that Briar is all right and did not make a mess while he was at home all alone. Eventually satisfied that all is well, he takes himself away to charge and download any updates from the Yard.

"I am not looking forward to this," Watson confesses as we prepare to get into our suits.

"It will be worth it," is the best reply that I can give. "I have heard that the spectacle is unmissable - a perfect beginning to the New Year."

He politely turns his back in preparation to begin to change into his spacesuit. "Do you mind if I do not dress in my room? I am not sure whether I might need help with this infernal thing."

"Of course, Watson. John used to help me, at first - I know that they can be awkward to the uninitiated."

"You have been into space often, then?"

"To the Moon, a few times. Occasionally a little further afield. This is the first time that I have gone for pleasure."

"Hum," he sounds less than enthusiastic.

What can I do? I give him my word that I shall look after him and that all will be well.

Upon arrival at the spaceport, Watson is immediately all but jumped upon by Teresa Lestrade. She is certainly persistent - as tenacious as her ancestor!

"Would you like to sit with me?" she asks, squeezing his hand. "I want to share this with you."

"I... um..."

She nods. "You're nervous. I get it. Don't worry - I'll look after you."

When Watson confirms that he will sit beside her, I wordlessly hand him the package of crystallised ginger that we were going to share. I very much doubt that I shall have need of the stuff anyway.

The moment that the craft opens its doors, Beth drags me to the window nearest the front, on the left side, and takes the seat there, all but demanding for me to sit down beside her. She squeezes my hand. "Excited?"

"A little worried about Watson," I confess. "He is terribly nervous."

"He'll be OK," she predicts. "Just relax."

I shall try not to worry, but I feel terribly guilty - did I not promise to look after my dear Boswell? I cast him a glance over my shoulder, but he seems to be all right - Teresa is quietly talking with him.

A chime sounds, drawing my attention to the speaker above our seat, close to the shuttered window to my left.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. I hope that you enjoy your flight. Take-off will begin in a moment and then we'll take a few moments getting into position, to begin by watching the sun rise over Eastern Europe. Happy New Year."

I feel Lestrade give my hand another squeeze. "OK?"

I nod and address her with a fleeting smile. I have never much enjoyed the take-offs, though they are usually very smooth - she probably thinks that I am nervous. I suppose that she would not be entirely wrong, either. I tell myself not to worry and to think about something else.

She smiles back, her eyes half-concealed beneath her long eyelashes. I find myself wondering whether she knows just how beautiful she is.

I must be tired, because I remain lost in thought until the chairs swing 'round at a 90 degree angle to face the windows, which are still shuttered, even now. There are attendants walking up and down behind our seats, ensuring that everyone is comfortable as the engines quiet down.

Music begins to play - some sort of noisy thing about a party all over the world - as the windows are uncovered before us to reveal our planet. To the West, the surface is aglow with street lamps while light begins to touch the regions that are farthest to the East. It would appear that Beth knows this song, for hers is amongst the voices that are raised to sing along. Bizarrely, it also feels familiar to me - perhaps I have heard it playing in a shop, or something.

"...Everybody walking down the street, everybody moving to the beat, they're gonna get hot down in the USA. We're gonna take a trip across the sea, everybody come along with me. We're gonna hit the night down in gay Paris..."

I resist the temptation to chuckle. I know that Lestrade is a lover of music - it is not her fault that half-decent music is impossible to find, these days. While I watch the street lamps far below us go out while the light of the sun sweeps in from the East, I find myself wondering what music I would have grown to like, were I of Beth Lestrade's generation - Pop? Rhythm and Blues? Dance? Rock and Roll? Would I have grieved, as so many young people have, had I realised that the artist which had become my favourite had died before I was born and that his (or her) like would not come again?

"Remember that song?" Beth asks quietly, when it has finally finished. "It's by ELO - it was one o' the songs I found, when I did a violin music search for you, when I was taking care o' you last - uh, the year before last."

Ah. That explains the familiarity.

For my part, I mostly ignore the music. I am much too busy watching the golden sunlight sweep across the globe beneath us. It truly is a beautiful sight. I cannot help but listen to Lestrade when she raises her own voice, however - she is a better singer than many of the professional vocalists that my poor ears are being subjected to.

"...Did you sail across the Sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way, to find the lights all faded and that Heaven is over-rated?" Beth is singing, head swaying, while a smile lights her face. "Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star - one without a permanent scar? And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"

This song is terrible! I actually prefer the other one which Lestrade was singing along with. Why the deuce does such an experience have to have horrible music?

"Glad you came along?" Lestrade asks softly, when the song has finally reached its dreadful conclusion.

I nod. "Yes."

"You've hardly said a word since we took off."

I shrug with an expressive flourish. "I know not what to say. You know that I am not inclined to talk for the sake of it. Besides, you have been enjoying the music."

"Yeah, OK. I can listen to the music when I'm at home, y' know - you don't have to worry about interrupting," she smiles at me. "Just so long as there's nothing wrong, Sherlock."

"Not in the slightest, my dear," I assure her, before turning to check on Watson. He is sitting in his seat, with Teresa Lestrade's head at his shoulder.

"Think Watson needs rescuing?" Beth whispers.

I nod. "He might. Would you sit with your cousin, while I take Watson for a little walk?"

"Zed! He's not a dog, Sherlock."

"Well, I should like to stretch my legs, if you have no objections. I could bring you a bottle or carton of drink, if you you would like."

"The attendants 'll be serving breakfast now."

I shrug. "Very well. In that case, I shall wait. But I do want to get up and walk about, for a moment or two."

When I ask him, Watson proves to be happy to walk with me, while Beth chats with Teresa.

"Have you been making friends?" I tease the fellow, once we are far enough away from everyone.

"She has not given me a moment to myself," says he. "She is very nice, though - I have already exchanged numbers and email addresses with her, so that we can remain in touch when she returns to America."

I smile, though I cannot help but feel a pang. Am I going to lose him to a wife so soon?

My Boswell shivers and I cast him a concerned glance. "Are you cold?"

He shakes his head with a grimace. "I am uncomfortable - self-conscious," he confesses. "I still feel as if I am not wearing any clothing. It is peculiar."

I squeeze his hand and lead him back to the window at which Beth and I have been sitting. Before resuming my seat, I decide to approach the window so as to take a number of pictures on my pocket telephone. My companion of old chooses to stand beside me.

"The music is very different, these days," my Boswell remarks, after a long moment of companionable silence. "It will take some time to become accustomed to it."

I sniff. "I doubt that I shall ever become accustomed to it. Modern music is horrible!"

He laughs. "I find some of it very emotive," says he.

"If the modern musicians could only locate vocalists which are actually able to sing, perhaps I could listen to them."

"They are not all bad!"

I frown at him. "Name one good singer - one."

He grumbles. "Many singers fit the music - imagine an opera singer rapping!"

I burst out laughing at the thought of it. He does have a point, of course.

Watson smiles back at me. "You see? It is not as bad as all that."

"I do not feel that rap is real music anyway."

My friend shrugs. "It was an example. Really, Holmes, there is such a diverse assortment of music that you must surely be able to find something that is not bad."

I bite my tongue, but the temptation to point out that he likes Gilbert and Sullivan, whom I have never rated, is difficult to resist. Now is not a good moment to fall into a disputative mood.

He touches my arm. "Aside from the music, are you enjoying the experience as much as you expected?"

Dear old Watson. I nod and take his hand. "Yes. Are you?"

He steps from one foot to the other. "You were right about the sight being worth... everything. I am not entirely sure that I can go quite so far as to say that I am enjoying it, however."

I put my arm about him. "My dear friend, is there anything that I can do?"

"Not unless you can stop me from feeling unnerved."

"Oh, Watson. We really are perfectly safe."

He nods miserably. "I know. I apologise, Holmes."

"I do not mean to admonish you, my dear fellow! I only wish that you were not so uncomfortable - I should like very much to help."

He nods, gazing down at our planet. I feel another shudder ripple through him. "How much longer?"

"Well, we are not yet over the ocean. Once we are, there will be nothing to see for a time - I suppose that it would be a good moment to sleep, if you feel the need."

He nods. "Yes, I think I could sleep."

"Breakfast is being served," I remind him. "Are you hungry?"

He grimaces. "I am not sure."

"Too weary?"

He yawns into his hand. "Probably."

"Well, sleep, then!" I urge him. "I shall order a cold breakfast to be set aside for you, in case you feel hungry later."

He mumbles his thanks and takes to the chair behind him, settling into it somewhat awkwardly. I then assist him in setting it into a reclining position and pat his shoulder.

"Good rest, my dear Watson."

I decide to leave Watson alone while I eat. I am neither messy nor noisy in my eating habits, but still I might disturb my dear friend should I remain at his side.

After reminding my Boswell that I shall not be far away, I go in search of the Lestrades and suggest that we dine together in the provided dining area to the rear.

Breakfast is nothing special. Buns with a choice of eggs, sausages and bacon are the main thing on the menu. I am not keen on processed foods (unless the food in question is John's homemade sausages, of course) and so I opt for bacon and eggs - sans bun. Just a plate, thank you.

Beth and her cousins are eating doughnuts. Ugh. My tastes might well be bohemian, but I draw the line at doughnuts for breakfast - especially when they are topped with bacon!

"Beth Lestrade, I really cannot imagine how you can."

She snorts. "Ever tried bacon 'n' maple syrup as a combination? No? Well, then, don't knock it 'til you try it, OK? Here, let me cut a bit off, for you to try."

"No, thank you."

She frowns at me. "Not very adventurous with your food, are you? Come on - try a bit."

I acquiesce, but only because we are being stared at. It tastes better than it looks, I suppose, but it is certainly not my cup of tea. I shall keep to my horrendously hard-boiled eggs and dry bacon (does nobody know how to boil and fry, these days?).

Watson awakes when we are flying over the Americas. He partakes of a cold bacon sandwich and a cup of spiced pear juice without a word, while we watch the sun rise over Kansas. Once he has had enough to eat and drink, he decides to stand at the window and watch the surface of our planet pass beneath us in silent contemplation for several moments.

"Teresa said that we are moving at the same speed as the rotation of the Earth," says he at last.

"She is absolutely right," I reply. "To those on the ground, we are moving at the same speed as the Sun; in fact, we would probably look like a sun spot, should a photograph be taken with the correct filters and equipment."

"Amazing," he breathes, resuming his seat at my side.

I have to agree. "Beautiful, is it not?"

He nods. "Breathtaking. I am glad that I came, even if my nerves are still a little upset."

"You must not fear," I attempt to reassure him. "We are perfectly safe."

He nods. "Thank you. I suppose that this is at least an opportunity to grow accustomed to space travel."

I squeeze his hand but know not what I should say.

When the time comes to land, everyone straps themselves into their seats and many take weak dosages of sleeping medication. I settle beside Watson, choosing to remain wakeful in case an emergency should present itself - I shall carry him to safety myself, should I have to.

Never before have I witnessed an emergency in take-off or re-entry and today is no exception. It is, however, as uncomfortable and frightening as ever it has been and I am glad that Watson will never know that I am clinging to my seat while my body reacts within my suit in ways that would be terribly humiliating in different circumstances, for I am not normally a free perspirer. This is indeed far more terrifying than a pursuit in Lestrade's police car, but Watson is blissfully unaware.

Upon landing, I slowly calm myself and still my trembling hands. I can still feel my heart racing, but it is slowly returning to normal. My bladder has decided that it is full and I can feel it taking matters into its own hands - something that has never happened to me before, though I have known it to happen to others during or following moments of terror. I remind myself that I am wearing a suit that will deal with it for me and force myself to be calm.

When Watson awakes, I am my old self again and the passengers to the rear, nearest the doors, are being asked to begin to form an orderly queue and prepare to disembark. We chat for a while, until our turn comes to join the queue and to step back out into the terminal.

"I feel that I could sleep for a week," yawns Watson with a sniffle.

I nod and decide not to confess that I have been awake for the entire twenty four hours that it takes for the sun to revolve around the world.

With a sigh of relief, I scramble inside a waiting taxi alongside Watson and close my gritty eyes. I can feel Morpheus calling to me and then I know no more. Perhaps John or Watson will be kind enough to help me to bed without waking me, for I am completely worn out.

What a way to see in the new year!