The city was dark, and there was an air of subdued anticipation in the chill stillness, that prickle of expectation that something was about to happen. The explosion of light, like that of a distant firework, was accompanied by a soft whistling sound as something entered the atmosphere, ending in a muted thud as they left a minor crater in the midst of a concrete parking lot. All of this went largely unnoticed by the mostly recumbent residents of the never quiet but occasionally still city. Only the slightest of tremors was felt, and then from the settling dust emerged a man. To look once at him you would see nothing immediately remarkable: a tall whip thin frame swathed in black, a long sweeping coat that fluttered like a dragon's wings or a magician's cloak as he stalked down the silent street, boots silent on the pavement, an angular face of pale skin bearing dark eyes that darted about soaking up everything, a sharp nose with quivering nostrils, a mouth that would have been full and inviting if not set in a harsh line of grim determination. Topping this slightly unusual physiognomy was close cropped black hair, swept back from his forehead and slightly greased in place; not perfect, not styled, merely controlled. To take the time to look twice would begin to unsettle you as all those little details one misses at first glance come into focus. Like the rather odd and otherworldly look those noiseless boots have, and that they are well worn, not a fresh buy for a costume. However flamboyant his clothes, that is what they are; this is not dressing up, nor a man playing a character, although he does seem to be acting a role. Or the way a hank of hair has fallen forward towards his eyes like a forelock, despite the hardness in his gaze that telegraphs he is subservient to no one. And the unsettling prickles that run up between the shoulder blades as you realize his manner of walking, stalking, moving silently and attempting to blend in (yet still sticking out in some indefinable way) is like a predator, a hunter, a seeker of answers and quarry. His constantly cast-about gaze seems to be absorbing information, the flared nostrils are breathing in answers, and he seems unnatural to this place, as though he's never been to this city, this country… this world.
Sherlock Holmes had just emerged from 221b Baker Street to do a disgustingly normal thing: he was taking a walk to get some air to clear his head. Such a bizarre and pedestrian notion, that walking around and breathing normally will somehow have a similar effect on stymied mental processes as airing a room after a stuffy shut-in winter. But Mrs. Hudson had put her foot down and kicked Sherlock out of the haven of the apartment to "clear the cobwebs out", likely owing to the numerous loud noises and vile odors emanating at all hours and the 28 new pockmarks he'd added to the wallpaper with a .22 Magnum mini-revolver bought in the name of research, rather than any real concern for his mental health. Pausing to secure his scarf about his neck, Sherlock leaned against the entranceway and ran through several possible destinations, discarding each as it occurred as not interesting enough to shake his ennui. Where did one go alone in London by foot? John might know, and of course would have been a pleasant diversionary addition… and a buffer who would've prevented the need for the asinine suggestion in the first place, but he was on a mini-break with Sarah and not due back til Thanksgiving.
And so it was that at 1119pm, he found himself in a unique and perfect position to spot the unusually attired individual stalking up the street. He knew the moment the creature spotted him too, as its perambulations abruptly halted. Why he immediately concluded this was not a man, even at the present distance, was not yet clear; all earmarks of a fellow Homo Sapien were present (indeed one who was nearly an identical physical match to himself, discounting the tamed and obviously curl-free locks), yet there was a sense also that the earmarks had been selected for just that purpose, expressly to convey normalcy. It was a mask, a front, an almost generic and almost convincing facade… except for the predatory aura that oozed from underneath, leaking at the seams of the well constructed pretense. Sherlock couldn't stop the smile that stretched his cupid bow mouth as he walked closer to the being; at least he wasn't bored anymore.
Author's Note: This was borne of someone opening their big mouth and asking for a fic about the villain from Star Trek Into Darkness. Then I wondered what would happen if he landed on Earth and ran into the master detective. I couldn't help it; they're the same person! Stay tuned to see what happens... Please R&R and as always, enjoy.