Brilliant {A BBC Sherlock Fanfic}

Destructively Beautiful

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: DESTRUCTIVELY BEAUTIFUL

~Later, Heathrow Airport~

“Well, you’re lookin’ all better.” Sherlock said in a fake American accent as he stepped out of the car, his eyes falling upon Neilson who stood before the Jumbo Jet, “How ya feelin’?”

“Like putting a bullet in your brain…sir.” Neilson said, Amelia letting a quiet laugh as she walked up the stairs. “They’d pin a medal on me if I did…sir.”

“And if you do it right now, I’ll be the one who’d give to you.” Amelia said.

“Amy—” Sherlock began in exasperation.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” Amelia said softly.

“Amy, please—”

Amelia stepped on Sherlock’s foot, deliberately putting on her weight onto the back of her foot, jamming the heel onto the top of Sherlock’s foot. She huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she quickly hurried into the plane.

Sherlock followed after, stepping into the plane. He pulled back the curtain which kept the business class seating hidden from view. He looked around at the people sitting in almost all the seats, realising that none of them were moving, talking or even blinking.

Somewhere between the door and the seats Amelia had disappeared into the shadows, purposely avoiding Sherlock.

Sherlock tried to ignore the pang of guilt and pain that shot through his heart, choosing to focus on why he’d been summoned here. He examined the “people” realising that they were all dead, their skin grey and starting to smell, although the frigid air of the plane kept them from starting the decomposition process.

“The Coventry conundrum.” Mycroft’s voice said from out of the blue, stepping into the cabin with Amelia trailing behind him. “What do you think of my solution?” Sherlock gazed around the cabin, taking in the ingenious idea.

“The flight of the dead.” Amelia said softly.

“The plane blows up mid-air.” Sherlock realised, “Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.”

“Neat, don’t you think?” Mycroft said as Sherlock smiled humourlessly, “You’ve been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages—or were you too bored to notice the pattern? We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight. But that’s the deceased for you— late, in every sense of the word.”

“How’s the plane going to fly?” Sherlock asked, the answer popping into his almost immediately, “Of course; unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

“It doesn’t fly,” said Amelia, “It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.”

“Your MOD man.” Sherlock accused, turning to Mycroft.

“That’s all it takes.” Mycroft said, looking to Sherlock then to Amelia, “One lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock mused, “You should screen your defence people more carefully.”

“I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock!” Amelia said, her voice rising to a furious shout, “I’m talking about you.”

“The damsel in distress.” Mycroft explained to a confused-looking Sherlock, Mycroft’s eyes briefly flicking to Amelia, “In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle…and watch him dance.”