Haven't Met You Yet
A/N: Yes I know – it's been done before, but please just take 10 minutes to read it. The plot bunny wants what the plot bunny wants. You never know you might like it.
One swear word, one sentence about gore and cannibalism ('cause that's fun). Please let me know if I've done anything too Canadian and not enough British! The title of the story kinda/sorta comes from a Michael Bublé song, but not really – it's too bouncy, carefree and ummm sappy for this – maybe if he slowed it down and sang it more torchy (it's a word!) then it would fit, maybe. I only used one verse (had to remove lyrics because I didn't want story pulled). If you listen to all the lyrics then you're gonna want your slash glasses on.
Do not own. That belongs to Messrs Doyle, Gatiss and Moffat and the lovely people at the BBC.
If I did own – well I'm sure you lot would be mad at me.
"Sherlock!"
The tall, lanky Consulting Detective was so far ahead of him that there was no way in hell he was ever going to catch up. He decided to double back and try to come after George Simons from the other direction. Lestrade hoped to god on high that Simons was not armed. He radioed into Donovan and told her where it looked like Simons was heading and requested back up to join him there…
And that Sherlock was right behind Simons and alone and Holmes was unarmed but he wasn't sure about Simons…
And to get the fuck there quickly.
Sherlock meanwhile was gaining on Simons, when Simons came out on to the busy street right into a crowd of people milling about; people coming and going out of late night shops and restaurants. Common, ordinary people whose lives were suddenly disrupted by a completely mad serial killer and an only slightly less mad consulting detective.
Simons barreled into the crowd. This happened to push him into the path of a short man who had just come out of a nearby restaurant to hail a cab. Simons grabbed him around the neck and pulled out an exceptionally long hunting knife and held it against the man's throat. Sherlock slowed down and held out his hands in a placating manner, one he didn't feel on any level. He just knew it was something you did to people who were holding hostages. Not that the hostage really mattered. It was just another part of the game. Another piece to work around. An added element in an experiment.
Lestrade meanwhile had arrived from the opposite way and three panda cars pulled up nearby, officers got out and rerouted traffic and moved pedestrians. Donovan was right behind him. Lestrade was too busy assessing the situation and attempting to tell Simons to lower the knife to notice her right away.
Sherlock moved slightly closer towards Simons.
Simons felt he had nothing left to lose. He had been hunted down and almost captured. He was cornered. They had come across him with a fresh corpse and the knife in his hand. The knife that was now pressed against this man's throat. He thrilled in the knowledge that if he was going to die, he was going to take one more with him. That would make his total seven. Seven was a magic number. It would be good. It would be justified.
Sherlock's eyes, shining and the colour of mercury, flickered and analyzed the situation. He read Simons' dark and chaotic thoughts as easily as if they were typed in text across his features. He watched Simons and knew that he had every intention of killing his hostage. Sherlock assessed the hostage to see if there was anything there that could be used to take Simons down.
He was surprised by what he saw there. Sherlock was rarely surprised. It felt…intriguing and fresh.
Short, compact build, muscular, but lean. Black jacket, military cut, clean, neat clothing. There was a cane lying over on the pavement, behind them. He must have dropped it, so some sort of leg injury. But he wasn't standing as if his leg bothered him. He stood leaning back slightly because Simons had a grip across his chest with one arm and the knife pressed up against his neck with the other. He didn't seem in pain or discomfort. He seemed…
No that couldn't be right….check data…no it was. He seemed bored. Sherlock ran the 'tape' of the capture back through his memory. When the man was first grabbed he appeared startled and then he relaxed almost immediately, almost as if he had been trained to respond in such a manner…Of course. Short blonde hair, military cut, military stance. This man had been trained, most likely in the army. Young enough to have been in Afghanistan or Iraq. Was used to tense situations. Not likely to be afraid, at least would not show it on the outside.
Suddenly and even Sherlock was startled by the move, the hostage grabbed and twisted Simons' wrist in such a way that he was forced to drop the knife. The man then twisted Simons' arm up behind his back, forcing him to kneel for good measure and held him there. He whispered something in Simons' ear and the serial killer, who had gutted, dismembered and eaten five people and was in the middle of a sixth when discovered, paled. Lestrade moved in quickly and cuffed Simons. Now that he had been captured Sherlock dismissed Simons from his mind. He concentrated on the former hostage and edged closer to the man and looked at him curiously.
The man stood and watched the captured serial killer and then slowly rotated his left shoulder as if that had been bothering him or as if it was stiff. War injury, probably shot in the shoulder, obviously the leg injury was psychosomatic because the man walked over to where his cane was, picked it up and there was no sign of a limp or leg injury. He stood there as if this were an everyday occurrence, calmly and coolly.
Sherlock was fascinated to say the least. This man was a puzzle. Seemly insignificant and quiet in his manner, but with nerves of steel. Small in stature but well equipped to take on an armed killer. He listened intently while Donovan took down his information.
He said his name was Dr. John Watson. He had just left the restaurant to hail a cab while his friend Sarah was waiting inside where it was warmer. Simons had plowed into him and before he was aware he had a knife to his throat. No, no he was fine. No, not in shock. Just well trained. Knew what to do. Yes, former army doctor. Certainly, he'd be more than happy to come to the station tomorrow, no trouble at all, but right now he'd like to take his friend home and maybe have a stiff drink. He said it with a light laugh as if it were a throw away line. Donovan smiled slightly, impressed with his ease and calmness. This man who came across all charming and personable. This Dr. Watson.
The doctor spoke in a relaxed manner. As if he were talking about the weather or what kind of soup he'd had at dinner. As if he were simply chatting someone up and they were going to meet later for coffee. As if it were an everyday occurrence that someone held him hostage and threatened his life. As if it were something innocuous. He was simple not afraid.
Sherlock frowned. There was something tantalizingly close. He could almost sense it, taste it, hear it, feel it on a visceral level. It had everything to do with emotions and nothing to do with intellect. Intellect was blown out the window. It was as if he had been looking for something and suddenly, bright and shining it was dangling in front of him. It was there. All of it, in this unassuming hostage with hidden depths. Sherlock could almost read them, all the little puzzles, all near the surface and yet, at the same time, buried deeply down. He knew instinctively he would never get tired of trying to figure out this man. He stood there, seeing the possibilities.
Dr. Watson could feel the weight of Sherlock's stare. Calling to him, claiming him. He turned and looked into impossibly silver eyes. He stared back.
This idea of destiny and fate opened wide between them. Neither of them knew each other. Neither of them had ever met. But it was one of those moments you read about. Impossible moments of meeting your soul mate and hearing the voice in your head say Yes! This is the one! This is who you have been looking for and you didn't even know or realize it or dream they existed.
Sherlock noted that Watson's eyes went wide and his breath rushed out as an electric current passed through them, charged them, changed them, molded the possibilities.
And then just like that it was gone like a summer storm.
As if brushing away a cobweb, fragile, broken and lost.
Sherlock was bemused. What had just happened? For a moment his head had been ringing full of cliché. He shook it and attributed it to the fact that he hadn't eaten in three days and hadn't slept either.
He nodded slowly at Watson. Watson nodded back.
And then they both turned away from each other and that was all there was. At least for Sherlock. Except sometimes when he did sleep he dreamt of a lost treasure, and felt a moment, just a moment mind, of unease. Before he deleted once again.
John sighed and looked at the ground thinking. He recognized the moment for what it was and hadn't dismissed it as flights of fancy. He'd seen the look in that tall man's eyes. Had felt the moment come and pass. A passing of what could have been. The shudder down your back of a cat walking on your grave. Or the intensity of déjà vu. The utter heartbreak of a missed opportunity.
He walked back to where Sarah was now standing, concern on her face. He placed a smile on his. One that felt false and stiff to him, but hopefully not to Sarah. He would take her home. He would go back to his flat and he would try without success to forget a pair of silver eyes.
He dreamt of them often and never, ever forgot.