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Jake, meet Sherlock. Try not to kill Each other.

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“Sherlock!” John called “Mycroft refuses to stop calling me because you won't pick up your bloody phone!”

        “I’m busy, John!’ Sherlock hollered from the kitchen. His shout immediately followed by several small explosions that make the windows rattle.

        “What in the hell could you possibly be doing at three in the morning that is too important to let me sleep?” John called back with his head in his hands.

“Umm… I’m experimenting.” Sherlock yelled up the stairs.

Well, that's fantastic. John thought sarcastically to himself. Well, might as well get up. Not getting any more sleep tonight. Groaning as he stood up, he padded down the stairs to the living room.

“What did Mycroft want?” Sherlock asked, not looking up from the various test tubes and open flames littering the counter.

“Apparently the U.S. has requested that you help them catch a serial killer.”

“Why me though?”
“Not to fan your already large ego, but you are the best there is and the FBI is stumped.”

“Mmm. Boring.” Sherlock responded, leaning against the counter with his fingers steepled under his chin while staring intently at something in a test tube.

“Come on Sherlock. They have already killed 5 people this week !” John pleaded not particularly pleased about having such a serious discussion before 6 in the morning or at least several cups of tea.

“Fine! Tell Mycroft to get us in a few hours. I need to pack.” Sherlock conceding striding across the flat and flopping onto the couch into his thinking pose (leaving the various burners running).

“Right then.” John murmured under his breath. “Am I coming too?” He asked a bit louder.

“I don't see why not,” Mycroft answered from the phone John had all forgotten was on.

“Lovely. When is the flight?” John asked picking up the phone to get the remaining information necessary for the trip as he was not entirely certain it would make the cut for Sherlock's mind palace.

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Trying to get Sherlock on a plane, John discovered,  was like herding a very intelligent cat. He kept randomly disappearing in the shops or deducing the life of some poor, random businessman or security personnel which did not bode well for the flight, as the 8-hour ride to New York meant he had to sit still and not annoy people.

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John's prediction about the flight was correct. Sherlock was now officially the most hated passenger, surpassing both the gassy drunk man crying over chips and the baby that probably broke a record for the longest consecutive cry. Notable instances include: explaining to the lady next to them why the baby was crying and who her husband was seeing, Loudly complaining about plot holes in the in-flight movie while pacing the aisle, and 'accidentally' setting a toilet on fire and rendering it useless for the rest of the flight. At this point, he was glad no one had suggested chucking him off the plane.  When they finally, blessedly landed and emerged into the swarming crowds of JFK airport, John left a mental reminder for himself to kill Mycroft for suggesting this. Repeditly. And slowly. Preferably with his umbrella. 

Pointedly pretending the Sherlock was in no way, shape or form tied to his presence, he speed-marched up the walkways towards passport control, waited in line, smoothly made his way through, and watched in steadily growing dread as Sherlock one again proceded to dissect the lives of security personnel. 

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Once they had collected their luggage and emerged into the arrivals pick up point, where Mycroft had told them their ride was waiting. His gaze slid over dozens of signs welcoming home parents, siblings, and spouses, before settling on a large one smothered in so many rhinestones it would put the early 2000's to shame. The woman in question was wearing a leopard print jumper and sweats that said floorgasam down the leg. Sherlock had apparently noticed her as well and appeared appalled at the sheer amount of shine that was blinding everyone in its path. Good. Maby he won't be able to make this more awkward if he can't see well enough to deduce anything. Sighing with the weight of all the odd looks ever cast his direction, he rolled his shoulder's back and forced a grin onto his tired an no doubt ashen face. He may look like a nightmare with the travel crusty state he was in, but he really didn't care at this point.

"Hello, Gentlemen!" The woman holding the sign boomed, garnering even more attention. "I am the one and only Gina Linetti. It's a pleasure to meet you." She may as well have purred that last look as she eyed Sherlock's unfairly decent looking form despite being in a tin can for eight hours. 

"Hello Ms.Linetti, thank you for picking us up. I am Dr.Watson." John replied, glancing over his shoulder at the sudden lack of muttering behind him. He saw Sherlock trying to be at one with the luggage to avoid her almost predatory smirk. That was a first. "And this is Mr.Holmes" he added realizing Sherlock was not going to provide his own name.