You're in the airport in Chicago. Your dad can't stop chattering excitedly about the pending flight to London and the tour bus you both are going to take when you're there. You'll be spending just a few days there since spring break would end by then and you've got to get back to school. Since there's limited time, you really wish you could just spend the time in taking walks in the main city and also squeeze in some shopping. But your dad seems so happy about his plan; for years he's wanted the London tour, so you just smile and laugh excitedly with him while he can't seem to express just how pleased he is.
Your sister would have loved to come along, but she's got something crucial going on at her medical school. Her spring break ended a while ago, unfortunately. The London trip would have been a billion times more fun if she could have come, too. You've promised to take plenty of pictures on the trip.
It's a long journey from checking in to the airport along with screening and everything to walking a billion miles across the building to the gate. Your legs ache as you're trudging with those last few steps into the seating area there. It is a relief to sit at last. But you've got an hour to wait here before the plane boards. There's literally nothing to do. Your dad has a book he brought with him in his carry-on. Should have thought of that. Damn. You aren't able to get any Wi-Fi connection to your phone either. Well, it's going to be a long hour.
You look across the rows of seating and observe some of the people that are intent in their work. Men and women busy working on their laptops. A toddler playing around his mom's shoe and peeking into her bag, drawing objects out of it one by one while she busily scrolls through her phone. Several rows across from you, you see the back of a man who's sitting; you can't tell what he's doing but his hair reminds you of BBC's Sherlock. You smile to yourself. There aren't too many people here—no more than fifteen, since it's a rather uncommon time to travel now.
The man who was sitting with his back to you stands and turns around, leaving his carry-on in his seat while it looks like he wants to get a Starbucks coffee from the shop right there. You have a clear view of his person while he bends to dig around for something in his bag. You're too shocked to make sense of what you're seeing—you can't believe your eyes. Several yards away from you, the familiarly tall, slightly lean (but still of a perfect build) figure, lean face, waves of black across his forehead—everything you've always known—he's bent over and retrieved his wallet. He fidgets around with it and your eyes won't move away from his face. No, it can't be. But you've been staring too long and Benedict Cumberbatch's eyes glance toward yours. Benedict Cumberbatch! But you almost flinch from the shock that he was looking at you. Yes, it was definitely him: his eyes of mixed green, blue, and gold are too unique and distinguished to belong to anyone else. He's not looking at you anymore when you glance back up, so you watch him walk to the Starbucks shop.
Benedict Cumberbatch! At your gate! Holy shit! You can totally tell he's not accompanied by anyone. He's already left his hair in the Sherlock style... but how? Has he been filming recently? For God's sake, he's even wearing the famous purple shirt. But what the hell was he doing in Chicago?
"Dad," you shake him quietly.
"Yes?"
"Look over there," I gesture slightly to the Starbucks counter. Well, your dad doesn't exactly know much about your fandom obsessions. So he looks puzzled.
"That man?" he says.
"Yes," you say. "That man's an actor. He's in that Sherlock show I love so much—you know which one I'm talking about?"
"Oh," he says, his brow knitting, "Yes, I know who you're talking about. That tall man and his short accomplice or something... Sherlock Holmes and Watson, right?" You stifle laughter from your dad's description of John, but you nod along with him. "Well then," he says, "you should get his autograph when he sits back down!" This sounds like a wonderful idea and a smile spreads across your face, but then you pause for a moment. Benedict's not accompanied. He came to Chicago quietly, evidently... probably because he didn't want to attract attention.
"Well, perhaps he doesn't want to attract attention here," you say. You draw out your camera from Dad's carry-on and add, "But I can sneak a picture from here." You take several of him at the Starbucks, and when he's returning back to his seat, you take a few, trying to look like you're just casually looking through old pictures you've taken in the past. Mission successful. Your sister, who loves Benedict Cumberbatch just as much as you do, will really love these pictures. Suddenly your dad reminds you there's fifteen minutes to board. It passed quickly. You spend the rest of the time looking through the pictures you took and admiring the back of the actor's head and you think about some of your favorite episodes from Sherlock. You're even tempted at one point to go over to Benedict and ask him about the Reichenbach Fall.
Now it's time to board the plane. You sigh—no more perfect view like this one. There was some deal at your dad's work for business class, so you're the first to board. You look behind yourself for a second, hoping to get one last glimpse of Benedict Cumberbatch, but you can't see him anywhere. You sigh once again.
As you sit, you think about how happy your sister would have been in this experience. Maybe you should have taken a video of Benedict sitting down. Well, it's too late. Everyone else in business class takes their seat and you turn to your dad, who tells you about the book he's reading. He likes it very much, you can tell, as he explains the plot to you very enthusiastically.
The center section of seating in the flight consists of three seats per row, so you feel someone sit beside you. A tall man, with a slightly strong build—he's wearing a really good scent. He's sitting there, seemingly meditating. You glance up, since you're a little too short to see who this man is. Your heart races wildly. Purple shirt, buttons close to bursting and all, Benedict Cumberbatch is sitting next to you. Holy shit. You repeat the mantra more times in your head than you can count. You watch him as he stows his carry-on underneath the seating in front of him, his shirt tight against his back, the way you've always seen it in Sherlock. You pinch yourself; no, you can't be dreaming about this.
Turning to your dad, you ask, "Hey, how long did you say this flight is?"
"A little over eight hours," he says. He hasn't noticed that Benedict is sitting beside you. You're too breathless to say anything else. What the freaking hell are you going to do, sitting here for eight hours, without saying anything to Sherlock? No. You've got to say something. You're terribly worried about you are going to sound... will you burst out in your regularly fangirling way? No, you have to sound intelligent in front of this good man. The flight is taking off now. You've got to say something. The intelligent thing to say would be, "I really admire your work, Benedict. Your roles in Sherlock and Star Trek Into Darkness are among my favorites!"
Your heart beating wildly, your hand shakes excitedly and rather scared as you reach to his strong-looking forearm. You draw your hand back quickly, though. No, you can't. Not now, at least. Your throat constricting a little too excitedly, you're determined to remain silent at least for the next few hours.
Three hours have passed while you've fallen asleep on your dad's shoulder. You're woken by something hitting against your foot. You sit up straight directly and look for the source, rubbing your eyes, a little startled. Benedict's carry-on slid back and hit your leg.
"Oh, my God, forgive me, ma'am," an apology comes tumbling directly. "I am so sorry. I've woken you from your sleep. Here, I'll fix the bag so it stays put in one place." You had no idea how close his face was to yours and the rich, deep, rumbling voice into your ear makes you shiver a little. His voice sounds even better in person. As your stomach winces, you say,
"Oh, no, it's alright!" you say. You're talking to Benedict Cumberbatch. The idea is taking time to sink into your head. Okay, now's your time to tell him something. Benedict looks at you rather apologetically for a moment and he turns back, sitting simply. "Excuse me—you're Benedict Cumberbatch," you whisper softly, audibly enough for Benedict only. Well, no, duh! Of course he's Benedict, you think to yourself. Dumb beginning. Dumb. You tell him your name.
"Very pretty name," he says politely. Your smile is shaking fangirlishly. No, no, no! Calm yourself. "I'm a really big fan of Sherlock," you say. Damn. You sound like an idiot in that high-pitched tone; you've got to fix that. "It's really great to meet you!" Benedict smiles that same, curvy-lipped way as you've always seen, his shining, and his brow furrows in modesty.
"I am delighted that you appreciate my work," he says softly, smiling widely. It makes your grin ten times wider than ever. "It is a great pleasure to meet you, too!"
"So you've been in Chicago recently?"
"Yes, visiting. Chicago is a very beautiful place. You are from here?"
"Yes—not immediately here, but more in the suburbs. I'm going to visit London."
"I think you'll enjoy London very much! What will you do there?"
You're having a freaking conversation with Benedict Cumberbatch. A freaking conversation. "I'm going for a tour with my dad." You gesture to your dad, who's asleep. After assuring that you'll grow to love London (which you already know), Benedict goes on about how very much he likes America. He says he hasn't come here much often, and really enjoyed his stay. He'd like to come back more often, he says. When you ask him if he's done any sightseeing, he says, "Not as much as I would have liked to—but visiting with the very good friend of mine, I was able to take some nice strolls in the main city."
By now there's lunch coming: you shake your dad awake and help him order lunch. After your order has been completed you see an air hostess evidently failing at suppressing her excitement at taking Benedict Cumberbatch's order. She leans over and whispers that she's glad to meet him; with his usual politeness he speaks incredibly more kindly to her than you ever could. You didn't even know being that nice was possible. It makes you a little jealous, having the attention driven away from you. Well, that air hostess was too fangirlish for his taste.
Your dad has noticed who you're sitting next to just now. "It's great to meet you, Mr. Cumberbatch," your dad reaches to shake his hand in his formal way that embarrassed you a little. You look at your dad frantically, urging him to speak more quietly.
"And you, sir," Benedict smiles formally in return, taking your dad's hand. "It's a pleasure to be introduced to your daughter."
"So what have you been doing recently in Chicago?" your dad asks. "Filming some more Sherlock?" The question makes you want to sigh, and he said it way more loudly that he should have. You look around, but luckily no one has noticed. Benedict gives a kind, funny response in his usual open, friendly way. The conversation between them is short and ended promptly when an air hostess asks your dad if he'd like coffee.
"You know, my sister would have loved to meet you," you tell Benedict. "She couldn't come, though. She's busy at something at her medical school."
"Oh, I should have liked to meet her," he says. He continues to say something that expresses evidently his interest in what she's studying. "If it's alright to ask, what is your sister studying in medicine?" You tell him about it all absentmindedly as you admire every feature in his face. Suddenly he asks you about yourself, and what you might like to do—"You didn't tell me what you might study?" You tell him that being in sophomore year of high school, you aren't entirely sure; but art, being a wide field, is a consideration. For a moment Benedict is thinking about something, drawing in his lip, and then from his carry-on he fetches a sheet of paper. Writing carefully and thoughtfully, he signs it at the bottom, folds it, and gives it to you. "For you and your sister," he says.
"Then I will read it only with her," you smile, although you're tempted to read it right now, but you stow it in your own bag. By now you've all finished your lunch and there's only four hours left in the flight. You could stay in here forever. Before you know it you're having endless discussions with the actor you've admired. You discuss some of your favorite books, which he's particularly enjoyed as well; his bass, velvety voice is music to your ears as he tells you a little—just a little, but enough for you—about his work. Some of the time you don't even know what he's saying, since you're just lost in the fact that he's one of the best people you've ever talked to.
But at some point, while he's talking, you find out he came to Chicago to visit his fiancée. You don't know why, because he's always been out of your reach no matter what, but your stomach lurches miserably and inconsolably. You turn a little pale and you think Benedict notices a little. He's such a special person that it just doesn't seem that anyone should deserve him. Well, anyone besides you, of course.
You don't know how the hell eight hours can zip away that quickly. After talking with Benedict over a cup of coffee, the flight lands and you're leaving the plane. It's really stupid, but your throat constricts at finishing so short a meeting. Well, a whole day in his company still wouldn't suffice.
Before you're headed for the security checks and the baggage claim, Benedict touches your forearm which nearly makes you jump. His words are tumbling over and over with apology which makes you smile as you tell him it's nothing. You're rather surprised at how tall he is beside you—you're well a few inches below his shoulder.
"It was so wonderful to meet you," he says, smiling in such a way that you wish you could have just admired it forever. "Do show your sister the letter, and read it for yourself also." You feel his large, warm hand behind your shoulder. You hardly know what you're saying and you really shouldn't trust yourself to speak, but you do anyway.
"Can I hug you?" you ask. What—what did you just say? Your cheeks flush terribly with crimson. Stupid thing to say. You feel like you've shrunk in size and you feel the heat rushing to your face like crazy. Is this how you end a meeting with Benedict Cumberbatch? Asking him for a hug?
Your heart races as you're quite shocked with what he does next; he bends over and embraces you warmly and you wrap your arms around him too. You cherish the warm, giddy feeling of his warm, perfect hands against your shoulder blades. It feels like forever and then your dad, who hadn't realized you'd hung back here, hurries back to you and Benedict with his camera. You shyly ask him if a picture is alright; he nods enthusiastically, smiling at your appreciation.
When you're at baggage claim and waiting for your luggage to come around, you dig in your carry-on for the letter Benedict had written. Within seconds your camera is crushed under some heavy luggage that knocked it out of the trolley, and your letter flies away. You groan... you met Benedict Cumberbatch but there's nothing to remember it!
You and your dad are waiting for a taxi outside of the airport. Someone brushes behind you and presses something into your hand. The letter! The letter! You see the cuff of the purple shirt and a glimpse of the distinguished, curvy smile before Benedict Cumberbatch vanishes away.