Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
A rainy day
First, it had been a stupid prank. Sneaking into Mycroft's home and stealing his favourite umbrella. His brother had dozens of them, of course, but this one was clearly special – you could identify it by the grain of its handle.
The weather did a sudden 180 – as usual for London really – which meant that, instead of just holding it until back home to study it in peace, Sherlock had to use it for its intended purpose, at least until he got back home.
The fact that traffic was so slow and he so eager to arrive and start his study that he actually got out of a cab midway, because he'd be quicker on foot despite the dismal weather and strong wind, had been the second step.
The third had been cutting through Regent's Park…and that was when he had seen the man. Ex soldier, even someone blind would see that, with a cane, and pushing himself to walk. Not wanting to get home? Or having set a course for himself – a sort of patrol, if you want – and being too stubborn to be sensible enough to turn back?
At least, the man had an umbrella, too…but it was one of these foldable cheap things that didn't do a good job in the best conditions. While Sherlock was…observing, not staring, of course, a gust of wind turned it inside out and snapped a rib. The blond soldier got a shower and unleashed a rather impressive string of expletives in multiple languages.
Now, Sherlock usually wasn't a good Samaritan. But he had a thing for soldiers, a perfectly serviceable umbrella and for once, more questions than answers – this man was not boring. So, of course, he quickened his steps and approached the man, covering him with Mycroft's brolly. His brother would probably be disgusted if (well, it was more of a when) he knew.
It took his new acquaintance a second to process the situation, so unexpected it was. Then he said, "Thank you! But why aren't you under your umbrella too? We would fit."
The sleuth happily complied, but pointed out, "Suddenly getting in very close quarters with a soldier who's not expecting it didn't seem the best idea. Cane or not, I have no doubt you could land me in a puddle before realising I was trying to help."
A quick smile crossed the blond's lips. Too many people had been treating him like an invalid, had they? Idiots. "Wait, do we know each other? I'm sorry, I would have sworn I couldn't forget someone like you," he asked, licking his lips.
"Ah, no, I've never seen you. But it's obvious you are an army doctor, from your stance, your hair, and – now that I'm close – the callouses on your hands. Back from Afghanistan, if your knowledge of Urdu is any indication," Sherlock replied.
The other blushed – probably because his Urdu had been particularly colourful, certainly more than his English outburst, and he hadn't expected anyone to understand. Not when the violent rain had cleared the park of most people. But instead of becoming defensive, like most people when faced with his deductions, the man fervently said, "You're brilliant. And in case you haven't figured that out from my jumper or something equally as ridiculous, I'm John. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."
It was Sherlock's turn to blush. Compliments weren't something he really knew how to face. There hadn't been any need to. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he offered, extending a hand. John's handshake was firm and strong and the sleuth suddenly hated that he was – utterly sensibly, mind you – wearing gloves.
"No idea what that is, sorry…but maybe you can explain it to me somewhere with heating?" John replied.
"Well, Speedy's is close…as well as my house, and the landlady who always 'bakes too much'. Your pick," the sleuth proposed.
"Semi-industrial against homemade baking? Has anyone ever picked the first option?" John quipped, grinning.
The sleuth shrugged. "We're still strangers. I say I am a detective, but for all you know, I could be a serial killer," he remarked.
"And I could have you flat on your back before you managed to hit me, as you're well aware," John replied nonchalantly. It was only when Sherlock blushed again that the double entendre hit him, and he grinned again. "Do you like the idea?" Three Continents Watson didn't dillydally.
The detective sputtered, before blurting, "At least buy me dinner first!"
"Oh, I'll bring you on all the dates you like. First, if it's still on the table, we'll go to yours. I'm honestly curious about what a consulting detective is, and I promise to be a perfect gentleman. Afterwards…we'll see how it goes. Sounds good?"
"Good," Sherlock agreed, steering him gently towards Baker Street. It sounded very good. Very good indeed.