I decided to try my hand at a crossover! I wrote this pretty quickly, so any mistakes are mine!
This oneshot takes place after the end of The Reichenbach Fall (BBC Sherlock 2x03, based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, written by Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and Steve Thompson, and directed by Toby Haynes) and Lauren (Criminal Minds 6x18, written by Breen Frazier and directed by show regular Matthew Gray Gubler).
I should warn the Sherlock fans though: I've seen all the episodes one time each; I wrote Sherlock the best I could based on clips I found on YouTube and my memory of the episodes. I know there's also no mention of John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Ian Doyle, Hotch, Morgan, Reid, Garcia, JJ or Rossi, but I just wanted it to be these characters in this moment. No outside forces or thoughts.
I don't own Sherlock and I don't own Criminal Minds. They belong to their respective creators; I'm just playing with the characters.
Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead.
Yet here he was, walking around among the living.
Today, he was sitting at a table placed on the sidewalk outside a French café, a cup of tea, a leather-bound book and a pastry in front of him. His table was placed right by the entryway and the chair he sat in was at such an angle that his face was hidden by the corner of the building as well as by the shade of the overhanging canopy that decorated the shop. Despite the vantage point, he kept his face partially hidden by the book as he watched the street before him.
He had walked by last night, witnessing what appeared to be a trade-off of some sort: two women, a blonde and a brunette, had exchanged a packet between them. Both appeared to be American, from what Sherlock had detected from their voices and both had done well to keep their transaction a secret. He suspected the blonde had left, no doubt bound back to the States, but the brunette it appeared was sticking around for some reason.
And there she was. Still wearing the same white trench coat she'd sported last night. Her clothes had changed though: Today she was wearing black leggings and a dark blue turtleneck under this coat and her black shoes were flats instead of heels. She held a cup of espresso and a French newspaper and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way her eye darted in either direction as she made her way to his table.
"You don't mind, do you?" she asked in perfect French.
Sherlock shrugged, pretending to be engrossed in his book as she sat down and opened her paper. They sat without talking for five minutes, never looking up from their reading materials except to sip from their chosen beverages or to turn a page. Sherlock, however, noticed that the woman kept shooting glances at either end of the street and her leg kept bouncing.
"You're nervous," he stated without looking up from his book.
"I beg your pardon?" This time she spoke in English.
He looked up to meet the woman's dark, stern eyes. "Your legs have been bouncing in the same rhythm for the past three minutes and your eyes have been darting down both ends of the street. I would assume that you are looking for someone, but I highly doubt that it would be a friendly chat or a pleasurable reunion if this person were to turn up, judging by your posture."
The woman stared at him for a moment, looking confused. "How did you do that?"
"Let me continue," Sherlock quickly intoned. "Your fingernails appear to have been freshly painted, but they appear unusually worn ragged and there are clear signs of wear along the cuticles and the actual nail which is worn. However, it appears that the actual nail is even, so I assume you don't bite your nails, but rather pick at them, possibly a nervous habit picked up from a childhood of nervousness. I expect that you will find hangnails there in a few weeks."
The woman looked stunned. "I moved around a lot," she admitted. "What are you trying to say?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Let me finish: When you spoke, you French didn't sound like that of a native speaker, so I assume that with the barista inside the cafe, you ordered your coffee in perfect French, but there may have been a slight accent detected in your speech."
"How did you-?"
"There is a faded scar on your left cheek from where you were punched or hit in some way. It appears that the attacker used a blunt force object, possibly his own fist, to subdue you. You have been unconsciously scratching at the left side of your chest, as though there is a scar or burn there, probably something that was forced onto your person. Also, when you first sat down, you gripped your midsection as though it pained you to sit. My guess is that you were stabbed by something, most likely by a wooden spike or a stake. I also saw fresh bruises around your wrists, which makes me believe you were restrained, most likely by handcuffs as ropes would have caused chafing."
The woman glared. "Anything else you'd like to add?" she hissed.
Sherlock paused, his eagle eyes sweeping up and down the woman's figure. "Your eyes look sad," he whispered. "Whatever brought you to the City of Lights, it wasn't your choice or your decision. That, coupled with your nervous habits leads me to believe one of two things: Either you are in the midst of an undercover mission, or you are in hiding."
"What is your opinion of the matter?"
"I would say the latter. When I started speaking, your hand unconsciously drifted toward your right hip as though to remove a gun from its holster. There is no gun or holster on that hip, although you are clearly used to wearing one. Were you former law enforcement?"
The woman continued to glare.
"You know, if I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now. I'd have placed a sniper on a building, or poisoned your drink when your mind was otherwise occupied, or else I would have pulled a gun from my pocket to shoot you right here."
"And why haven't you?" the woman huffed.
Sherlock smirked. "I don't know any French snipers, there are no poisons on my person and there haven't been any with me. And I do have a gun, but all of my enemies and friends think I'm dead, so there isn't much use for it, except to look threatening. The whole 'look but don't touch' philosophy."
"FBI," the woman whispered after a pregnant pause. "I was a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. They all think I'm dead too."
"They used to call me Sherlock," he muttered. "Sherlock Holmes, "former" genius and consulting detective."
"Emily," she replied. "They used to call me Emily. Emily Prentiss."
They shook hands, two dead souls no longer feeling alone among the living.
A/N: I know you're going to say, "But Emily and Sherlock wouldn't just give their information away like that!"
Let me explain: First, Sherlock is a very insightful person. He picks up on things that most people would ignore, like quirks, tics, movements, etc. He could see that Emily was nervous about something and seeing her in that state made him focus on that trait and then branch out to other parts of her character. It was when he deducted everything he could about her that he opened up to her. Consider it a similar position to where Sherlock was when he first met John Watson.
Second, although we don't see that in this scene, Emily profiled Sherlock. She found that he was a bit of a narcissistic sociopath with autistic tendencies, and after her conversation with him, realized that he was like Reid in the sense that he was socially awkward with a high intelligence level. He never started a conversation with her; instead, he burst out talking to her about what he saw while observing her. It was his admittance that he couldn't kill her and the fact that he had deducted who she was just by looking at her and studying her that made her admit who she was.
If you still think this is OOC for both characters, just put it down as a mutual realization that they are both alone in the world because both have friends and family who think they're dead.
Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this admittedly short story!
Please review!
Love from,
*~N_CBAU~*