Disclaimer: I own nothing. Believe me, if I owned Sherlock, the Sheet Scene would have ended very differently ;)
Sherlock disliked the man from the moment he first met him.
The first reason for this, although Sherlock would never admit it, was because they were the same height- within an inch if his observations were correct.
Sherlock, rather childishly, always enjoyed being the tallest in the room. It gave him a satisfying feeling of superiority, so much so that he often had to stop himself from smiling smugly during arguments with John, when his rather tiny flatmate would glare angrily up at Sherlock's scarf-height.
Mycroft was the only person Sherlock knew who could look down on him- in a literal sense, and the fact had always been an increased tension between them (and yet another reason to be arch enemies in Sherlock's eyes).
So, in short, Sherlock felt he had very good reason to feel both affronted and insulted by the man standing before him.
The person in question, had curly blonde hair, and very pronounced cheek bones. He was wearing an expensive suit, Westwood, Sherlock guessed. His shoes were equally pricey and the outfit reminded the detective all too much of James Moriarty- although it was clear that dress sense was their only similarity. This man clearly lacked both the intelligence and insanity to capture Sherlock's interest for more than a few minutes, let alone days.
'Hello, I'm Benedict.' The man said, with a warm smile. Sherlock did not return it. He had confirmed his earlier suspicions- it seemed that 'Benedict' also lacked the maliciousness and ruthlessness to be a criminal mastermind.
Shame.
Sherlock noticed the man was still smiling at him. It was rather infuriating. He was also holding out a hand- was he expecting Sherlock to shake it?
The detective snorted in disbelief and rather pointedly ignored it. It had taken him weeks to start returning Lestrade's handshakes- he certainly wasn't going to start with strangers.
No, Sherlock decided, this man had definitely not earned a handshake (and probably never would, Sherlock added, rather scornfully, in his head.)
He sent one of his best glares, and was satisfied to notice Benedict's smile fade. That was better, Sherlock thought. He didn't look quite so idiotic now, so ridiculously cheerful.
The downside of this was that John was now elbowing Sherlock, hard in the ribs. Soldiers were strong, Sherlock reminded himself, hiding his wince.
John was glaring now too. Here we go, Sherlock thought dismally, although he at least had a good enough sense of self preservation to refrain from saying it out loud.
Sherlock tried to study it objectively. He had obviously done something wrong again, and John's expression was angry? No, it was something else...the expression John always had after dates, and sometimes while on the phone to Harry...
Ah disappointment! That was it. Sherlock felt pleased with himself momentarily before remembering the situation. John was disappointed in him for being rude. Sherlock rolled his eyes- why was John so insistent on being friendly? A more sociopathic flatmate would definitely be more practical, Sherlock mused.
But then sociopaths were rarely came with their own revolvers (Sherlock would miss John's) and sociopaths probably wouldn't put up with Sherlock's experiments or violin as well as John did. Besides, he was becoming embarrassingly fond of his doctor, and Sherlock didn't really want to be bothered with finding another flatmate. Learning to live with someone else was not an appealing prospect.
No, John would have to stay, the detective decided. Even if it mean gritting his teeth and being polite to complete imbeciles.
Sighing with reluctance, Sherlock turned back to Benedict, who had been watching the exchange with a slight mix of bemusement and confusion.
'It's Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock greeted, managing a twitch of the lips (which he felt counted as a smile, at least). Yes, that was perfect, just the right amount of friendliness (very little). It would be enough to satisfy John, but it still made it clear that Sherlock did not want to be in this conversation.
'Pleasure to meet you Mr Holmes.' Benedict responded (far too enthusiastically, Sherlock thought). 'I'm a great fan of your blog.' He added with a nod at John.
Wonderful. Sherlock groaned internally. Did no-one read proper books anymore? Was John really the best the literary world had to offer?
He glanced down at the man in question, to find him mumbling thanks, and looking all too pleased with himself.
Sherlock mourned briefly for the future of libraries.
He was momentarily surprised, when John replied rather nervously to Benedict.
Nervous? It wasn't particularly obvious- only a brilliantly observant mind would notice the slight twitching of his left hand and the rose pink tinge to his cheeks- but the signs were there all the same. John was nervous? Why?
'I'm a big fan of yours too, actually.' John mumbled, clearing up the mystery. Hero worship, then, idolism, Sherlock confirmed. Again, why?
'Fan?' He queried, looking at John, but it was Benedict who answered.
'I'm an actor.' He clarified. 'I was meant to be working with Tara, when this awful business happened.' His voice became more serious, trailing off rather dismally. There was a hesitant silence as they each though briefly of Tara Dorton, the actress who had been brutally murdered that morning, with no weapons to be found and neither suspects nor motives for the killing.
It was one of the best cases Sherlock had had in weeks.
'Awful business.' Sherlock echoed, nodding, but there must have been something insincere in his tone, because he felt John treading on his foot, hard. He was being inappropriate, then.
'So, you're an actor?' Sherlock prompted, changing the subject in a reasonably polite way. That was sure to please John, he thought (... not that Sherlock relied on his flatmate's approval.)
He turned back to Benedict, and found himself rather annoyed for not guessing his profession immediately. He clues seemed blindingly obvious now; the stage make-up on his collar, the clear way he projected his voice, and stood unnaturally straight, as if he'd been trained. Not to mention, his presence at the crime scene (a film set) and also, that irritatingly photogenic smile.
The signs were everywhere; even John could have worked it out. Lord, John had known before him.
'Yes, I've been in a few plays, TV shows here and there.' Benedict said, oblivious to Sherlock's inner frustration. 'Cumberbatch? You might have heard of me?' Benedict added, somewhat hopefully.
Yes, Sherlock did recognise him now, he'd been in that ludicrous spy film that John had found captivating.
'Nope, sorry, doesn't ring a bell.' Sherlock replied, somewhat airily, giving his best confused face. John gave him another look, (clearly Sherlock's confused face wasn't his most convincing persona.)
'Sherlock barely knows how to switch on the TV.' John smiled apologetically at Benedict, who had begun to look rather disheartened. (Good, Sherlock thought coldly.)
'He didn't even know who the prime minister was until last week, so don't take it personally.' John added with a laugh.
Sherlock felt that it was a rather unnecessary implement to the conversation. He had already explained that reasoning at the time... Perhaps John hadn't heard him properly?
'Prime ministers change every few years anyway, and it's not like they have any real power.' Sherlock muttered, just to clarify. John smirked but said nothing. His flatmate was clearly bringing up his ignorance as a punishment for Sherlock being rude earlier.
This was unbelievably frustrating.
'It's useless information.' He continued, wanting a reaction out of John. 'I'd only have to delete it later.'
'Delete it?' Benedict questioned, and Sherlock glared in frustration. He was sorely tempted to snap sharply about the actor's recent ex-girlfriend, or slight hangover, but he restrained himself, rather reluctantly. 'What does he mean, delete it?' Benedict asked again.
How had this man gained so many female fans? Sherlock wondered angrily. Aside from the obvious good looks, he had no obvious assets. He was tiresome and far too curious for Sherlock's liking. Not to mention the smiling.
Perhaps John was getting fed up too, Sherlock thought hopefully, as the doctor dismissed Benedict's latest question with an exasperated wave and a 'don't ask'.
'We should go John.' Sherlock said, seizing the opportunity. 'The crime scene is waiting.' John nodded.
'Besides, I'm sure we can return for another delightful conversation with Mr Cumberbatch, if need be.' Sherlock added drily, unable to resist a disdainful sneer. This actor had a ludicrous name, Sherlock thought, somewhat hypocritically.
'Well, it's been wonderful to finally meet you.' Benedict said, with a well mannered smile. Sherlock noticed it was directed mostly at John.
'Pleasure's all mine.' The doctor replied, with one last handshake (Sherlock shuddered internally).
Acting was a stupid profession he decided. Full of stupid tall people, with stupid names in stupid films. And what did they do, but dress up and prance around and tell lies for the sake of 'entertainment'. Absurd.
And yet millions dreamed of acting? Why?
This thought did not annoy him as much as he'd expected though. Certainly there were millions of actors, but how many consulting detectives were there?
On his last count, he believed there had been a total of one. And he was very good.
Sherlock's momentary good mood was ruined when he saw that John was still smiling and looking pleased, even 52 seconds after the conversation. It was wrong. That look was supposed to be reserved for Sherlock. It was the look John was supposed to have when he received praise, or when he gazed up at Sherlock in wonderment. It was all wrong!
'He was dull and unintelligent.' Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but apparently he had misjudged, as Lestrade turned towards them, ducking under the police tape to join the conversation.
'Who's this?' He asked, raising an eyebrow, just as John muttered 'Don't even start, Sherlock.' In a very dark tone of voice.
'Benedict Cumberbatch.' Sherlock sneered, unable to resist the argument. 'John appears to be a fan. Don't know why, seeing as he seems to be a complete moron.'
He didn't know what he had been expecting from Lestrade, but he found himself both disappointed and appalled as the DI assumed what Sherlock could only describe as a bashful grin.
'Oh, not you too.' Sherlock found himself complaining. This was getting ridiculous.
'What?' Lestrade retorted defiantly, although Sherlock noticed that he was blushing slightly. 'And actually, on this count, you're wrong Sherlock. I was talking to him earlier...' Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
'For the purpose of investigation,' Lestrade added pointedly. Sherlock very much doubted this, but allowed the man to continue anyway. 'He's actually pretty intelligent.' Sherlock doubted this too.
'Compared to your team, perhaps, but in the line up with the rest of the human race, he ranks fairly low down.' he snapped, exasperated.
'Yeah, I get it, he's no Sherlock Holmes.' Lestrade said, undeterred. 'But he's actually great to talk to. One of the most well educated, cultured actors I've met.'
Sherlock stared in disbelief. It seemed that the acting world was as lacking as the writing world.
'Not to mention, he's a looker.' John added, with a grin, which quickly turned into an embarrassed cough, as Sherlock glared. 'Not that I care.' He mumbled, with what was evidently meant to be a manful shrug, to show nonchalance.
Lestrade didn't seem to notice, and continued gushing (yes, there was no other way Sherlock could describe it.)'God, tell me about it.' He chuckled. 'I- I mean my wife- loves him.'
Sherlock decided this conversation had gone on long enough.
'She loves her tennis partner more.' He snarled, and feeling only slightly guilty when Lestrade's face fell.
'Pleasure talking, must dash, crime scene.' Sherlock finished with an unnaturally bright smile. Leaving John and Lestrade staring after him in shock as he strode over to the police tape.
He could hear them muttering behind him as he left. He determinedly ignored them. He told himself that it was all utterly unimportant. Why did it matter if Benedict Cumberbatch was 'intelligent' or good looking, or tall, or unusually named, or knowledgeable about current prime ministers?
It was all unimportant.
He wouldn't last five minutes against a serial killer, or a consulting criminal, or the woman, Sherlock thought smugly.
Despite this knowledge, Sherlock found it irresistibly tempting to put this theory to the test.
No, Benedict wouldn't last very long. At all.
A/N. Please drop a review if you liked it. I wrote it all in the space of about an hour at about 2am, and it's not my usual style at all, so I'm not quite sure how it'll read, but let me know regardless.
I'm slightly tempted to do a couple more- with Martin & John, etc. but I'll see how the response to this is first :)
Thanks for reading. xxxx