John Watson has heard many things about Sherlock Holmes- a fellow Londoner whose name had become something of a household name to many- as much from gossip as his achievements.
The recently honorably discharged army doctor muses as he strolls through the wet streets, that some things had changed since he was last here. His cane in his hard grip is a first testament to that fact. And this Sherlock Holmes, a man who never chose to refute claims on his supposed madness, but took great pains to quell any ideas that brilliance was a trait of the majority, was a change to London.
He was a man who preferred to let the world see him as a mad genius rather than a regular, everyday neighborly bloke. A man who could pick out everything of importance about you from the wears on your watch or the position of mud stuck on your shoes. A man who could send you into heavenly bliss or volcanic rage from his hand clasped against his bow; his bow on his violin strings.
Or so they said. He had yet to see it for himself.
"You will have to be desperate to need this man's help, and mad to want his company at all." Was what someone told him. It was a young man -a student at a nearby university who he had struck conversation with earlier in the day, and dry humor laced his small lips as he spoke, when John Watson had asked about Sherlock's general whereabouts out of curiosity.
He gave an understanding nod, before walking away from the young man, leaving the poor student perplexed as to why he had even asked for Sherlock's whereabouts at all.
And as the skies darkened once again, foretelling yet another downpour across London, John Watson wonders idly if it is true- if he had to be mad to want to meet this man.
But he senses that it doesn't really matter, because he wants to meet the cold Sherlock Holmes of deductions and brilliance. He wants to meet the haunting violinist who played a disconcerting concerto, as he watched humanity echo back and forth.
When John finally meets Sherlock Holmes, it is not on a day he particularly thinks of finding the enigma that is him.
He is experiencing yet another regular day. The bland sort he had found himself thrust into a few months ago. He is having breakfast at a small cafe close to his temporary lodgings, and he sits facing the windows with a plate of toast, scrambled eggs and tea, when he spots two figures across the street having what seemed to be a rather heated argument.
He looks on for a moment in a short span of curiosity, before turning his attentions back to his food.
It takes him about three bites into his toast to realize that most people who were also sitting close to the window are looking past it and onto the street in shock.
John looks back out again, wondering what seemed to pique everyone's interest suddenly, and then he sees it.
There, in broad day light and full view of all of bloody London, one of the men arguing had taken a knife to the forearm of the other. The injured man is bleeding quickly through his coat, and John knows that, because as the man stands with his arms at his sides as if someone had not so much as pinched his cheek, blood is pooling down his fingers and onto the ground.
It takes him less than thirty seconds to rush from his table and right into the streets to reach the scene, and by the time he gets there, the injured man is already upon his attacker. He holds the man lying face down on the pavement, with the man's wrists held behind his back with his uninjured arm, while the other shuffles for what John soon finds to be a handcuff.
The clanging metal closes around the attacker's wrist in a bloodied mess and the other man stands up- well the only one of the two who can stand at this point anyway- and brushes his long coat with a huff.
"Well then, Mr. Rickson," he says to the man cursing against the pavement as John looks on in disbelief "I hope you have an excellent time where you are headed. Do give my warm greetings to your accomplices in jail." He finishes and turns around in a dramatic flourish, to finally take notice of the doctor.
The injured man gives the doctor a puzzling once over, trying to suss out who exactly he is, and John stares at him for a moment longer. He knows who this man could be, maybe, he thinks.
Sherlock Holmes.
This is probably not the best way to meet someone whose probable skills fascinates you, John thinks.
"Um, you're injured." He states, for lack of anything better to say.
The man-whose-name-might-be-Sherlock's puzzled expression grows on his face at that. He doesn't say a word. The silence stretches on and John strangely finds his strength in it, standing with his shoulders squared to stop the man from leaving when he tries to.
"I'm going to attend to that wound, if you don't mind. I'm guessing you're leaving this man for the cops, but you haven't called them to also get an ambulance yet. I would call for one right now but it may take a while to get here and you really don't need that. You're losing quite some blood." John says calmly, by way of explanation, as the man-who-might-be-Sherlock looks on at him as if the planets had all decided to suddenly shrink into tennis-ball sized orbs, and dance a circle about his head.
John ignores the long suffering stare and edges towards the tall man instead. When the man does not back away from him, as John seems sure he clearly wants to, the doctor stops in his steps and gives a short nod towards the cafe.
"I frequent there a lot recently, and I know that they have a first aid kit somewhere. Used it once or twice. I'll have a look at the injury for you if you would like." And then he quickly adds, "I'm a doctor."
The man looks on. "I know."
He stands there, arm bleeding and all for yet another minute or two until he can hear the fast approaching sirens, then he turns his gaze past the doctor, and begins crossing the street. John stares at the impossible man in silence before realizing that he is headed towards the cafe after all.
A small smile catches his lips as he begins to follow the dark haired man in silence into the shop.
This is definitely Sherlock bloody Holmes, he thinks. Then he offers to himself silently in unwarranted guilt that no pun was intended.
Did this on my phone, so the possibilities of it having mistakes it's very high. Reviews are very much appreciated!