It was Scotland Yard's yearly Christmas party, which meant that every sergeant, forensic and inspector joined the party. Anderson had chosen to leave his wife at home and asked Sally Donovan to be his date to the party. Sally had of course looked her best; she had chosen her tightest dress and most expensive shoes.
Sally wasn't afraid to let people know anymore, Anderson had said that he was going to divorce from his wife and finally make it official. Everything was in perfect that moment, but of course that moment ended. She didn't know that Detective Inspector Lestrade had invited Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to the party.
Lestrade smiled when he saw John and Sherlock arrive. Lestrade had given them permission to bring a date, only John brought one though, a pretty woman called Jeanette. Sherlock had of course no date, his only reason for coming was that John had convinced him that it would have seemed rude if he didn't attend the party.
If Sherlock would have described the party in one word it would have been boring, because it was. He really didn't get why people was so crazy in love with the thought of dancing to ridiculous music and drinking so much that you would be drunk the day after. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scanned the room after some way to escape. On the dance floor he saw John and his current girlfriend dancing, none of them was particularly good at it.
At one of the tables Sherlock saw D.L Lestrade with his wife, but Lestrade didn't seem to notice how she looked at the handsome new sergeant. Lestrade was too busy with talking with the man across the table. Even though Sherlock couldn't see his face, he could see that the man wasn't very tall, maybe three or four inches higher than John. When the man was talking Lestrade seemed to be extremely interested, just like how a child looks when a story gets exciting. Lestrade met his eyes from the other side of the room and smiled, something that Sherlock had learnt meant he had to go to him.
Sherlock sighed and went the fastest way across the room, across the dance floor. He ignored all the looks people gave him when he pushed them aside. He could barely hear Sally over the music, but he wasn't interested enough to pay attention. In the middle of the dance floor he bumped into John, but ignored him when he asked where he was going. He finally got over the dance floor and went towards Lestrade's direction. Lestrade didn't seem to notice him or the fact that his wife had disappeared with the new sergeant. When he finally saw him he gave sign that he could take a seat.
"-and that is how I, Hercule Poirot, solved the case of Arlena Stuart," the man finished, he had a soft voice with a heavy French accent.
"Fantastic!" Lestrade said impressed.
Sherlock could recall that he had heard something about one Arlena Stuart, but he wasn't interested enough to listen when John told him about it.
"This is the man I told you about, Monsieur Poirot," Lestrade said and nodded towards Sherlock, "Monsieur Poirot this Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock this is Hercule Poirot."
The man turned to look at him. The man was in his early forties with black hair that had started to turn grey and a upward-curled moustache. His eyes were green. The man had obviously been outside for not so long ago, his face was red of cold and his nose so red it could have been mistaken for a fire truck. The man seemed to be the only man in the room that wore a tuxedo.
The man rose from his chair and shook Sherlock's hand. The man smelt strongly of aftershave and stood with a straight back.
"Ah! Monsieur Holmes, a pleasure meeting you," Poirot said when he let go of Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock only smiled a forced smile and sat down. He wondered what that man was doing in Scotland Yard's Christmas party. Maybe he was someone inside French politics or just an old friend of Lestrade. Lestrade disturbed his thoughts:
"You two have the same profession, almost anyway," he said while he poured a glass of wine for Sherlock, "he's a private detective, but he has a rumor of helping the police out to sometimes."
Sherlock almost smiled; is that man with the funny moustache supposed to be a detective?
"Almost, yes," Sherlock said and accepted the glass Lestrade offered him.
Hercule Poirot drank slightly from his glass of wine.
"Oui, Monsieur Holmes," he said and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin, "I've read your website, The Science Of Deduction, better than most people in my profession."
Sherlock frowned, he didn't like the way he said my profession, like he was the best detective in the world.
"With all kinds of respect, Monsieur Poirot, what do you precisely mean by your profession?" Sherlock asked.
Hercule Poirot was just about to answer when John and his girlfriend appeared behind Sherlock.
"Hello, Lestrade," John said to Lestrade, "and hello mister…"
John left the sentence unsaid. Poirot smiled and filled in the gap.
"I'm Hercule Poirot," Poirot said and shook John's hand.
"I'm Doctor John Watson and this is my girlfriend Jeanette," John said and held the chair out for Jeanette before he sat himself.
"A pleasure, Dr. Watson, mademoiselle Jeanette," Poirot said.
Jeanette blushed, it seemed like she liked being called a mademoiselle.
"Well, John, you have just missed an interesting conversion," Lestrade said and grinned.
John poured a glass of wine for Jeanette and himself.
"Really?" He said and drank a little wine.
"Yes, this is Hercule Poirot, the great private detective," Sherlock said with little sarcasm.
John eyes widened, but Poirot ignored both John's surprised look and Sherlock's sarcasm.
"Really? You're a private detective?" John said and studied him.
He don't look like a detective, but hardly anyone does in a tuxedo, John thought.
"Oui, Dr. Watson, I am a private detective," Poirot said, his voice was soft, but his eyes gleamed like a cat's, "I understand that you help monsieur Holmes on his cases, Dr Watson."
John's eyes gleamed with pride, Sherlock noticed he straighten up his back.
"Well, I do my best," John said and tried to act shy.
"You write about it too, I've heard, in a… blog, I think it was," Poirot said, "my secretary, Miss Lemon, is quite fond of it."
John gave Sherlock a glance that said I told you! But Sherlock ignored it.
"Sherlock is really a great detective," Lestrade said proud like Sherlock was his own son, "he can read your whole life story only by looking at you."
Now it was Sherlock's time to proud, he tried to act shy but failed. He coughed.
"Everybody can do deduction, but most people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish so they can't even see the most obvious of things," Sherlock said, "and with obvious I mean the obvious like knowing that you are an French police man that have given up your job to move to London in hope of becoming a private detective, I can see on your clothes that you succeeded and have a lot of wealthy clients, most of your clients are probably lords and ladies and other wealthy people with money enough to pay you, something that I think is good because it leaves some clients for me and John as well, clients that can't afford so expensive detectives, right John?"
John knew better than to answer. Sherlock looked Poirot straight into the eyes. Poirot leaned back and smiled.
"Bien. You are right," Poirot said, "except of one thing. I'm a Belgian, mon ami, not a French."
The moon was hiding behind some clouds and it snowed lightly. Sherlock stood outside the party, even with his coat it was freezing. He lit a cigarette he had stolen from Lestrade's pocket, nicotine patches wasn't enough for him either. He took a long drag and smoke leaked out of his mouth and nose. A female moan came from his pocket. He sighed; it was an Irene text, again.
"Woman problems, mon ami?" A voice with accent said.
Sherlock didn't offer Poirot a glance. Poirot held his lit cigarette between his fingers and he brought it to his lips.
"The mystery of les femmes is a mystery even I can't solve, Monsieur Holmes," Poirot said and sighed.
Women were the last thing Sherlock wanted to talk about. They stood there in silent for a while.
"Do you know what I can deduce of you, Monsieur Holmes?" Poirot asked suddenly.
Sherlock dropped his cigarette in the snow and turned to him with a smug grin.
"Do tell, Monsieur Poirot."
"I see a genius man that don't understand feelings and often misunderstood because of it," Poirot said simply and studied Sherlock to see how he was reacting.
Sherlock chuckled.
"Is that it, Monsieur Poirot?" Sherlock asked with a little false disappointment.
"That is everything I need to know, Monsieur Holmes," Poirot said in a sad tone.
That man is more intelligent than the whole Scotland Yard and still he believes in caring and sentiment, Sherlock thought irritated to himself.
"I don't need your pity, Monsieur Poirot," Sherlock said in an irritated tone.
"As you wish, Mon ami," Poirot said and turned to leave," Wish your brother, Mycroft, a merry Christmas from me, Monsieur Holmes."
"Wait!" Sherlock said.
Poirot turned with a smug look on his face. His face was already turning red.
"How did you know I had a brother named Mycroft?" Sherlock asked confused.
"Elementery, Monsieur Holmes, I used my little grey cells."
This was actually very hard to write, both of them are very complicated characters, but I hope it went well, even though I think Sherlock became a little OOC. The story Poirot was telling about Arlena Stuart was "Evil Under The Sun". I've thought about making this a whole story about how Poirot and John clears Sherlock's name after the Fall, but maybe it would be better to just end it here, what do you think I should do?