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PROMPT POST PART IV

Please see the most recent MOD NOTE

(updated 6 June)

Welcome everybody. How you got here I have no idea but thank you for coming and welcome again, nonetheless . As you may have gathered this is a Fic Prompting Meme dedicated solely to the hilarious and oh-so-addictive BBC Radio 4 sitcom - Cabin Pressure. I'm aiming for this to be pretty anything goes - but in order for everything to run smoothly, there are a few guidelines. Don't worry - they're not too restrictive.

FILLING GUIDELINES

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REALLY IMPORTANT ADDENDUM

According to numerous Child Safety laws it is illegal to provide pornographic material to minors. Seeing that the majority of the stuff we have here is rather adult in nature, this Meme is consequently an 18+ zone. Failing to comply to this rule could result in the Meme getting shut down. So if you're here and you're under 18 please back button now.

+ Please do not post anything regarding minors in a sexual situation. It really doesn't matter how tasteful or crass it is, there are laws that classify that sort of thing as child pornography and as such, I'm afraid we're going to have to go with the attitude that safe is better than sorry.

It really is VERY important that these rules are upheld as the consequences are severe.

Other than that - go crazy guys. Any problems please just message me and I'll try my best to work it out.

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OP- If you want to crossover that's fine. I can't guarentee I'll have any clue who you're crossing over with but... have at it!

Then I'll definitely be giving this a shot because I love that piece of dialogue!

Oh my goodness, anon-author! John has been one of my fictional sweethearts ever since a rainy summer where I read all the Vicky Bliss books. How did I never think of him with MARTIN? This is wonderful rare-pair love!

Oh I am so glad you are enjoying and I really do think John T. & Martin would get along famously. (And I should have the section where they meet before the weekend if they cooperate!)

Two Times Zero is Still Zero

Warnings/Notes: WIP. MartinAngst! Multiple Crossover (major character crossover with the Vicky Bliss book series by Elizabeth Peters and minor crossover with BBC’s Sherlock). I’ll be getting to the quote later in the chapter, I promise. If anyone’s interested in my thought process, and in learning a little bit about Martin’s love interest, see here: http://corpsereviver2.dreamwidth.org/451.html#cutid1

1. Seattle, Tuesday morning

Martin looked out the window. It was still drizzling and the pedestrians outside hurried by, huddled down in anoraks or under umbrellas. He supposed he couldn’t complain about the weather; Seattle was merely living up to its reputation of being chilly and grey. Martin stared down at his interlaced fingers on the Formica table top and felt some empathy for the city. The Puget Sound guidebook in the hotel room had cheerfully detailed the area’s abundant activities and features. There were mountains for skiing and hiking, a beautiful lake for sailing, a great city market, and (Martin’s favourite) a large flight museum. Despite all those wonderful qualities, it seemed like no one he’d chatted with about the city could let the conversation end without some version of but the weather is so dreary...the suicide rate is very high... summer only lasts for four days...people can go crazy like this, I could never live here.

If Martin were a city, maybe he’d be like this one. Plenty of good qualities that not enough people were willing to take the effort to discover because they were shrouded by something depressing and sad that no one wanted to look too long at. Martin had good qualities, he knew it. Deep down, he felt like he had a lot to offer the right person. It was just so bloody hard to get to know someone well enough to actually let them see those qualities.

Martin’s descent into a funk was interrupted by his ever cheerful colleague, who actually managed to bound over to the small table while carrying two very full, steaming paper cups. Arthur set them on the little table before pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down.

“Why looking so glum, Skip? I got you coffee." He pushed one of the cups towards Martin. “The line was long but it sure smells like it was worth it!”

“Thanks, Arthur.” Martin blew across the top of the cup and took a small sip. It was absolutely heavenly, and he immediately felt the chill in his bones lessen. “It’s true what they say about the coffee here, then. Even in a dinky hotel coffee shop.”

“It is! I guess when you live somewhere that looks like this,” Arthur gestured to the scene outside the cafe, "it helps to have something warm and strong to keep you going!”

Warm and strong to keep you going. Well, that would be nice. Martin allowed himself to imagine the sensation of being held by someone. Maybe watching the cold rain drip down the window panes would be pleasant if there was someone to share -

Martin’s daydream was interrupted by Arthur waving a hand a few inches from his nose. “Skip? Where’d you go?”

Martin shook his head as if to shake away the thoughts; he pushed Arthur’s hand back down to the table. “Sorry, Arthur, I was just daydreaming.”

“Yeah? What about? I love daydreams. You can be anyone you want, go anywhere, do anything. What are you in your daydreams?”

Martin chuckled into his coffee. “I’m a pilot.”

“Well, that’s all right then, I guess, since you love being a pilot and all. So what do you think about?”

Truthfully, Martin daydreamed about a lot of things. Getting paid by Carolyn for one, or having enough money generally for another. Sometimes he dreamed about having a group of friends to hang out with, but mostly it was having just one special someone, just one person who thought that he was fantastic - or not even that, just someone who thought that he was nice enough to be in a romantic relationship with.

Martin looked up at Arthur. “Where’s Douglas?” Martin wanted to get this off his chest, but he really wasn’t up to Douglas teasing him about it.

Arthur startled a bit, making Martin realise he’d probably spoken more sharply than he’d intended. “He said he had to make some calls. I think he has some friends who want some, um, souvenirs.”

Martin let out a breath of relief. If Douglas was going to be chatting up associates about his little trading hobby, then at least he’d be away for a while. "Mostly I daydream aboutbeinginlove. OrImeansomeonebeinginlovewithme,” Martin blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Oh, Skip, that’s brilliant! Being in love is a great thing to daydream about. Do you daydream about anyone special? Like you know, an actress or someone?”

Martin shook his head. “No, no one specific, or even real. Just imaginary people, really.” He looked down into his cup.

Arthur looked thoughtful. “Well, maybe that’s your problem, then. There was this advice lady on the radio the other day. She said that if you want something - really, really want something - you have to visualize it happening.”

Martin looked up at Arthur and was about to interrupt to tell him real life didn’t work that way (at least it didn’t for people like Martin Crieff), but he looked so enthusiastic that Martin didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Martin looked up at Arthur and was about to interrupt to tell him real life didn’t work that way (at least it didn’t for people like Martin Crieff), but he looked so enthusiastic that Martin didn’t have the heart to say anything.

“So maybe you need to visualize if she’s a blonde or a brunette or whatever you like, you know, just what kind of girl you’d like to be with and - oh.”

Martin felt himself blushing and he knew his ears had to be bright red. They felt like they were on fire.

“So maybe what kind of bloke you like,” Arthur said. “Skip?”

Martin looked up at Arthur miserably. This made him feel especially pathetic. He took another swallow of coffee and cleared his throat. He tried to sound sure of himself, but knew he failed miserably. “Either, really. I mean, um, I like both,” which makes it a thousand times worse that I can’t find anyone since I have, theoretically, a lot more to choose from.

“Oh, okay,” Arthur reached out for Martin’s hand, gave it a pat, and continued on brightly. “That’s really good, then. I mean, it may be harder to make up your mind, but it has to nearly double your chances!”

“Two times zero is still zero,” Martin said into his coffee.

“Don’t be like that, Martin. I’m sure that out there somewhere, someone is just waiting for you.”

Martin shrugged; he felt foolish. Arthur was trying, but so far he wasn’t feeling any more hopeful. “I don’t think it’s that easy, Arthur.”

Arthur clearly wasn’t deterred. “Here’s another thing. Try to visualize what that person is doing now. Maybe they’re on a plane, even! Or at an airport! Or having an adventure! Your person could be doing something wonderful right now while they’re waiting for you to come into your life!”
~*~
Meanwhile, on the M25, John Tregarth gripped the steering wheel in frustration and looked at the acres of brake lights in front of him, cursing the road works, the other drivers, , the overturned lorry, and life in general.

2. London, the previous Monday morning.

John Tregarth perched on the chair behind the counter and tried to make himself concentrate on the paperwork and his spreadsheet. Outside, the day was unseasonably warm and fair, but here in the closed shop, the shut blinds let in little of the sunshine. Only a few sparks of dust floated in the stray rays, dancing like -
Oh that is quite enough. Concentrate, John. This is not the time for your runaway imagination.

He had more than enough work for the day: invoices and bills, orders and requests, and not near enough tea. He should have accepted Paula’s offer to come in and help, but he really didn’t know if he could afford to pay his assistant the overtime. He scrubbed a hand through the blond curls that fell into his eyes. He needed a haircut but that seemed like a luxury, especially given his preferred salon. Things were definitely going to be tight for a while. The dreadful economy didn’t help matters, even if most of the clientele for his art and antiques business were above such concerns. The shop in Truro was doing well enough, but he’d probably made a mistake to buy into the modern gallery over at Marylebone which had seemed like such a sure thing at the time. This location did the best business but clearly could do better; Islington rents weren’t cheap. He frowned as he looked over the figures. John clearly had spent too much time in the past on other endeavours.

And look how that turned out.

John turned back to his laptop and the pile of papers. He was startled to hear the tinkle of the bells at the street entrance.
“Paula? I said you didn’t need to come in today. I can’t pay you so you might as well –“
There were footsteps, but the sound wasn’t of Paula’s fashionable heels. The steps indicated a man and, not for the first time, John berated himself for his natural inclination against firearms. As much as he told his mother and his former fiancée the truth - that he had turned a new leaf and all his business dealings were now completely above board - that had not always been the case.
In fact, it had been only been the case for a very short time. John was keenly aware that there were certain acquaintances who would very much like it if he were to return to his former ways. Some of those persons were very persuasive. Perhaps a little counter-persuasion in the form of a small firearm (though illegal) might have been a worthwhile investment. However, it was too late for that now, so he looked about the desk for potential weapons: his mobile (good for calling the authorities); his laptop (useless); an art deco lamp (frankly his own skull would be easier and cheaper to repair if damaged); and his most treasured of all weapons, his wit (probably less useful than the laptop).

That will have to do.

He sighed, determined that the best defence was, well, a good defence. “I’m sorry; we’re closed,” he called towards the front room. “Regular hours on Wednesday but you can make an appointment for tomorrow.” John had to admit that it wasn’t exactly rapier-sharp threat material, but it was true and, on the off chance the visitor was an errant shopper, would do the job nicely.

Right. A housewife or tourist who picked the lock, as you never forget to lock yourself in.

The footsteps neared. The visitor called out a greeting. John recognized the voice and knew two things. First, his day - no, his life - was about to become immensely more complicated. Second, and this mitigated the first somewhat, it was likely that he would very soon have a solution to his current cash flow problem.

“I know you’re closed, Mr Tregarth. I preferred that we have privacy for our little chat. I do hope you’ve been back in England long enough to lay in some tea? I find I’m a bit thirsty.”

John stood up, dusted off his trousers with a few hasty pats of his hands, and stepped around the counter. He reached out to shake a hand that was infinitely better manicured than his own ink-stained fingers and tried to not look too enviously at the obviously bespoke three-piece suit.

“Mr Holmes.” He pasted on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How lovely,” John said, managing to keep almost all of the edge out of the word, “for you to call so soon after my arrival home. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“John, please. Call me Mycroft. And you must tell me how you found Germany.”

“Like most people, I found it by aeroplane,” John snapped. “And I believe what you meant to say is how did I leave Germany, which of course, you already know.” John crossed his arms over his chest. He knew it was a silly, defensive gesture, but he was damned if he was going to make this bloody toff tea.

“Ah, yes, Dr Bliss. Sad to hear that didn’t work out.” Mycroft Holmes didn’t look sad at all; he continued to smile his deceptively mild smile. “I’m sure time will heal –"

“Please do shut up about Vicky, and get to the point, Mycroft. I have better things to do.”

Mycroft walked to John’s desk, picked up a folder of invoices, and flipped through them while John fumed silently. “Better things?” he asked, “Oh, I think not, John. Now, why don’t you put the kettle on and we can have a nice chat.”

John rolled his eyes. “Lucky for you, my assistant even brings in biscuits.”

“Oh, lovely.” Mycroft sat down in a Louis XVI fauteuil as if he put his posh arse in a £4,000 chair all the time, crossed one leg primly over the other, and waited for tea.
~*~

Mycroft’s offer (John could hardly call it a suggestion but it wasn’t technically phrased as a demand), was surprisingly favourable: almost suspiciously so.

“So, you’d like me to do pretty much what I’m doing anyway.” John sipped his tea and waited for confirmation.

“Yes, with the understanding that if former colleagues approach you or ask for your participation in certain activities,” Mycroft said, his voice rising a bit at the last word although it clearly wasn’t a question, “you will not refuse.”

“And I’ll report to you. Like a good lapdog.” John’s hand wobbled as he set down the teacup. The cup clattered against the table and John noticed Mycroft tense at the sound. Apparently, he recognised the worth of the set they were using. Silly, perhaps, to show off like this with a 19th century Meissen tea set, but it was supposed to make him feel more confident, more refined.

It wasn’t working.

“John.” Mycroft set down his own cup (gracefully, John noted) and leaned closer. “The people for whom we are looking are not nice people. I know from your past that you fancy yourself as, if not a Robin Hood, then at least as someone who does his best to be, shall we say, mostly harmless?”

John nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Rest assured, we have no interest in those people who, like your former self, engage in a little, how did you once say – harmless forgery or light burglary? However, those people can lead us to those people in whom we do have a strong interest. Given your history, John, when you do meet those people again - and even in such an honest establishment as this, you know you will meet them again - on whose side would you rather be?”

Mycroft had a point. It was entirely possible (in fact, probable) that John would. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Still, Mycroft clearly wanted him so John pressed slightly.

“In exchange, you’ll cover my travel costs and I’ll not find myself troubled with the authorities?”

“Easy entry through anywhere in the EU, the Commonwealth, and the US. Given some time, most other places as well. No watch lists, no wanted lists, no INTERPOL.”

“Mr Holmes, I think we have a deal.”

3. London, Tuesday Afternoon

John fiddled with the knobs on the radio; nothing was on or, rather, nothing sounded good to him. He checked the time on his mobile, finding it to be only four minutes since his last check. He was alone with his thoughts.

Given his current state, this was not optimal. He had many things to do and not enough time to do them. He and Mycroft had come to an agreement. John had planned on a business trip to Prague already; Mycroft had merely moved it up. He’d leave in six days, which barely gave him enough time to take care of other matters – the upcoming show at the Marylebone gallery, a pending sale of some creamware (he’d be glad to get rid of it, as he found the animal figurines oddly unnerving), and possibly a very, very quick trip to Cornwall.

Mycroft had already made the flight arrangements, which irritated John. For one, it implied (admittedly correctly) that he knew John wouldn’t refuse him. For another, they were departing from, of all places, bloody Fitton. At 8 am on Monday.

John groaned. This was probably a very big mistake.

4. Fitton, Saturday

Martin didn’t have any jobs scheduled for the weekend, which should have made him sad, but the weather was so lovely he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had come out of the introspective funk brought on by the Seattle trip and was, like the town around him, feeling decidedly sunnier.

He’d taken a walk up to the High Street, had done some window shopping, and was now heading for the supermarket. He hoped he could stretch the few quid in his pocket to get to Monday morning without passing out.

“You look like a bright young man!” Someone tugged on Martin’s sleeve.

"I beg your pardon?” He looked down into an old woman’s wrinkled face. She tugged at the sleeve of his jumper again.

“You! I said, you look like a clever thing! I bet you’re a student at the college! Always reading, students.” The woman, looking like a friendly gnome with her kerchief-covered hair and long, baggy dress, gestured to a rickety little table on the pavement. It was covered in precarious stacks of used books.

“Um, no, actually.” Martin smiled at her; she had said he looked clever which was flattering even if she had mistaken him for a student. "I’m a pilot.”

The woman’s grin broadened and she pulled his sleeve. “A pilot! How smart! Then I have just the thing for you.” She let his jumper go so she could paw through her stacks with both hands. Martin watched, feeling a bit awkward but even more curious.

“Here 'tis!” She thrust a battered, somewhat water-stained paperback at him.

Martin took the book carefully; it felt like it was about to start shedding pages in his hands. He read the title: Fate is the Hunter.

“I bet you know this one,” the old woman said sagely.

“No,” Martin answered, turning the book over in his hands to get a peek at the summary on the back.

“Ah, that’s surprising, you being a pilot and all. This Gann fellow wrote lots of books about flying all over the world.”

“Oh?” Martin brightened for a moment, then remembered that his meagre budget did not include books. His heart sank.

“Now, dearie, don’t you look that way.” The woman tilted the book in his hands so he could see a small green sticker on the spine: 25p. “I think I can part with this one, seeing as you’re a new customer."

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Martin wasn’t doing well by any means, but he certainly didn't intend to deprive an old lady of her supplemental income.

She reached for the sticker and tore it off, taking a bit of paper from the spine with it. “Too damaged to sell anyhow. Besides, if you like it, you’ll come back and buy another?”

Martin smiled at her. "Yes, thanks, I will.” It seemed like today might be just a little bit lucky, and now he had something to occupy himself during next week’s two-day layover in Prague.

OP- Enjoying it so far! I've never read the crossover series but I'm looking forward to seeing where you go with it :D

Glad you are liking. There will be more very soon (if not tonight)

(Finally Martin & John in the same place!)
5. Monday. Fitton.

“Elton John Lennon,” Douglas said.

“Ray Charles Lindbergh,” Martin replied.

“Oh, those are good!” Arthur said, “Hmmm, Oh! Boy George Harrison!”

“Now there’s an image I won’t be getting out of my head any time soon,” Douglas turned to Arthur. “Any chance of some coffee, Arthur?”

“Oh, yeah, Douglas, I’m just making some now for our passenger. Be ready in a jiffy!”

“And how is our lone passenger?” Douglas asked. “Not the chatty sort, is he?"

"Oh, he’s all right now. Apparently drove up from London really, really early. Or maybe really, really late, depending on how you look at it.”

“Oh?” Martin glanced at Arthur as if that would reveal additional information about the attractive blond man who had boarded after supervising the loading of a number of large crates.

“Yeah, Skipper. He seems nice. And he’ll probably perk right up with some coffee!”

“So will we. And by the way, Arthur: David Cameron Diaz.”

~*~
There was certainly no danger of the plane attracting attention. It was older, and in decent enough repair, though certainly not luxurious. Everything about it said nothing to see here, nothing special going on, please don’t mind us . It was perfect. The crew, however, was decidedly quirky. Carolyn, the CEO, had actually greeted him at that ungodly hour, thanked him for his business, and stayed as John’s (well, John’s and Mycroft’s) crew loaded the crates. Her son Arthur, the steward, was definitely one of a kind. He was almost absurdly cheerful in a way that suggested a particular mental state and not the result of any stimulants.

John had only got a glimpse of the pilots as they boarded. The older one, whom John now knew from the to be the co-pilot, had given John a brief wave and a hearty “Good morning” as he entered. John, still not too terribly awake had merely nodded silently in response. The younger one, though, got John's attention. He looked like he was a little younger than John himself. He had a slight build and a few damp ginger curls were trying to escape from under his hat. He’d nodded at John on his way to the cockpit; John had only a moment to see bright, pale eyes under the brim of the hat, but it was enough for him to think well, he’s rather fit, if a bit serious looking before the man had disappeared from view. Belatedly, John smiled and waved back.
~*~

John was already flipping through his paperwork when the first PA came from the cockpit.
The young captain, John thought, had really missed his calling. His voice was…well, it made John sit up a bit straighter and take notice. The thought occurred to him that, if the topic of the announcement had been anything more exciting than flight safety, certain parts of his anatomy would have been tempted to sit up a bit as well. Captain Martin had a lovely baritone, but even more enticing was the combination of confidence when his words were strictly confined to flight safety and a charming something slightly awkward underneath that John couldn’t quite name. It made him almost wish that the ebullient steward was up front in the cockpit and the bright-eyed man in the pilot’s uniform was back here with him so they could have a chat.

That idle thought was interrupted by the return of the steward Arthur and John had to admit to himself that his fantasy would probably lead to a swift and messy death so, daydreams aside, it was probably best that the crew remained in their roles.

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PROMPT POST PART IV

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REPROMPTING

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