The sun rises over the clouds as the plane lands at Heathrow. You-are-my-everlasting-soulmate music follows the plane's descent. Inspector Clueless reports his "success" to the detective who's come on board after landing. He's pompous and takes credit for everything. As he tries to tell the detective what he did, without including John, Pavel comes and clamps Clueless's mouth shut with his hand, saying in Russian, "English man sounds best when he makes no sound." Then he leaves. In first class, Rachel and John share a glass of brandy. She says, "So, it's all about deduction." He says, "Precisely, my dear Watson." Sherlock Holmes turns in his grave and wishes he were back in The Hound of the Baskervilles. He just can't take anymore of this hogwash. John then asks Rachel when her divorce papers come through. Which comes out of nowhere. Hell, they can't even have a tender moment without the big brains coming in and ruining everything. Blah she twists a nonexistent ring on her finger, blah it takes eighteen months to get rid of that habit, blah marriage blah. Wow. He's presumptuous. They bicker about whether or not she's traditional, about the fact that it might have been a different kind of ring. He says, "If it wasn't a wedding ring, what was it?" She says that if he really wants to know, he'll have to ask her for dinner, and strawberry rhubarb pie. They smile. And then they kiss while a song in the background sings, "Desire, desire, desire, desire." I'm sorry, but this is quite possibly the worst onscreen kiss I have ever seen. They both sort of half-open their mouths and lightly plunge them together as if waiting for something to happen. Their lips sort of fall on each other and stick there like rice in the bottom of a glass dish. There's no passion. There's no hot burning desire. There's nothing but a bit of awkwardness and some really bad tunes. Well, at least we know John's not good at absolutely everything.