Author's Note:
Inspired by a Tumblr post, this is an AU in which John and Sherlock meet in an airport. To keep some of the authenticity, some of the dialogue is directly from the series itself. This is my first fanfic and I would appreciate constructive criticism. Enjoy!
John Hamish Watson, dripping wet from the ever-present London rain, limped into Heathrow Airport an hour before his flight. He was flying to the States, meeting an old military friend in Vegas for his bachelor party. God, how he hated storms. He didn't mind the rain so much as the thunder and lightning. Reminded of his military past, the sound was too similar to that of gunshots for his comfort.
Watson went through the typical airport timeline; go through security, give them your bag, don't carry bombs aboard. After receiving his ticket from a very kind staff member, he went to find his terminal. Thunder clapped as he set his bag down in a seat, causing him to jump with violent flashbacks.
"Scared of a little thunder?" a voice taunted.
John looked a few seats down at a man he didn't recognize. He was tall, lean. His dark curls swept elegantly around his head, an organized chaos of twists and turns that swept above stern green-grey eyes. They were shocking; they seemed to see past John and into his life, his very soul beneath his skin. The buttons of the white shirt tightened and struggled against the man's taut chestbone, as if they would break open at any moment. A grey trench coat sat next to the man, a blue scarf sitting atop. Otherwise, no luggage could be seen.
"I.. I'm sorry?" John said, taking his eyes to the green-grey depths of the other man's. "No, no, the thunder just-"
"Reminds you of gunshots?"
John stopped, eyed the smug turning up of the thin lines that made up the man's mouth and curling against his defined cheekbone. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man pondered.
"Sorry?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"
"I pay attention."
John sat in silence for a moment. In the single second they had known each other, in the one instance John jumped as thunder crackled, this man knew he had been at war. What else could he tell, if anything? "What else do you know?" he asked after a few more awkward moments in silence.
"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. Does that answer your question, Dr. Watson?"
What? "How do you know my name?"
The man grinned. "It's on your luggage."
"...oh."
John sat in silence again, trying to decode this man's impossible behaviour. How had he figured out all of that just by looking at John?
"Did I get anything wrong?" The man asked.
"Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker." John typically hated to share that, but it was apparent that the man already knew. He wished he knew this man's name, but unlike John, there was no luggage to read the label of. Only a coat and scarf.
The stranger was quite pleasd with himself. "Spot on then! I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"'Harry' is short for Harriet," Watson commented, then pleased with the slight look on the stranger as he was taken aback. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and high-functioning sociopath."
John didn't respond.