Benedict...?

"You see John, nothing strange happened. …John?" Sherlock turned around to send his companion a superior smile, but he wasn´t in sight. Neither was the old crossroad the men had been standing before.

Sherlock looked around in honest confusion; He stood all alone in a small street, under the hypnotic light of an old, monotone flickering street lamp. It took him a mere second to deduce that he wasn´t in London anymore, maybe not even in Britain.

"I´ll see you in ten years, Gentlemen." The voice seemed to come out of nowhere and was followed by a deep, growling chuckle, definitely belonging to the self-claimed crossroad-demon.

It took Sherlock a while to collect his thoughts, but as soon as he was aware of his situation, as far as it was possible since he would never admit that there could be supernatural factors included, he watched the area interested. While he mumbled,

"Where am I even?" he noticed a small newspaper rack just a few steps away. With long strides, he went over and pulled out one of the newspapers. The date was correct, October 3rd, but the country… "(*your country*)? …how by Jove?" When he read some of the Headlines, he got even more confused. "The prime minister did…who is this man? That´s not the prime minister! …Who are all those people, and what are these headlines anyways? Is this supposed to be a fake-paper? I know I´m not all up to date when it comes to `celebrities´ and todays who´s-who but this is ridiculous…"

His mumbling was interrupted by his own thoughts. He had to find out his exact position and somehow he had to get back to London, he couldn´t just stay away for too long. He looked around one last time and glanced carefully at the nearest building: The only house in the area with enlightened windows. Perhaps the only one because, according to his watch, it was still in the middle of the night. The detective decided to try it and ask the owner about his position and for a phone call, since there was no phone box in sight.

It was already after 12pm when you finally finished all the housework. In the one week-lasting absence of your parents/ fellow occupant(s) you promised to keep the house clean and do all the unfinished work that was laying around; washing, cleaning, ironing and all those bothering unnecessities humanity invented within the last centuries. You whipped a bang of (c/H) Hair out of your face to obey the clean kitchen: It might have been worth the whole work. Usually you didn´t expect visitors at this time of the day, so you winced a bit when you heard the sharp knock at your front door. You turned around to glance at the door with narrowed eyes; if you just waited, the nightly visitor might as well go away.

Another loud knock destroyed your flimsy hope, whoever this was; he probably had a reason to be here at such a time so he certainly wouldn´t just go away. Therefore, you just gave a short sigh, fixed your hair a bit and opened the wooden door, expecting maybe one of your neighbours who suddenly needed a last-minute babysitter or something similar. What you saw in front of your house was miles away from far away to similar.

"What the…Sherlock Holmes?" You couldn´t hold back the surprised exclamation, after all you were happy that you didn´t faint in an instant. That was Sherlock…wait no, that was BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH. In front of YOUR house, at 1….at 1am? What was Benedict Cumberbatch doing in front of your house at 1am? And why the heck did he knock?

"Yes, correct, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you saw the picture of me with the terrible hat? Most people did, that´s a nuisance. However, might I come in for a second and use a telephone? I seem to have left mine at Baker Street, and I need to call someone urgently." With the last words, he had already entered your house, looking around curiously while all you could do was stare and try to find your speech again.

"What the heck is Benedict Cumberbatch doing in my house…somebody pinch me…"

He seemed to hear your mumbling, because he turned around, focusing you irritated.

"Benedict? Who is Benedict? I´m Sherlock Holmes as you already stated correctly…ordinary people are such interesting. So where can I find a phone?" He started to head in the direction of your room, so you quickly placed yourself in front of him and led him to the kitchen. This man was either Benedict who took too many pretty, colorful pills or, which sounded even more absurd, Sherlock himself. In each case the sight of your room might have caused a severe shock to him; the newly purchased (fav. Sherlock-Character)-poster on your wall actually hang directly across the entrance to your room.

You gave him a sign to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs and handed him your mobile, still unsure how to react correctly in such a situation. He immediately started to tip in a number and dialled, but even after the second try, nobody answered the call.

"It says the number doesn´t exist…what in deuce´s name is going on here…I swear if I can lay my hands upon this self-claimed, black haired crossroad-demon, I will…" "Wait; did you say Crossroad-demon?" You interrupted him harshly, which caused him to frown a little bit, but he gave a short nod and you felt your stomach twisting uncomfortably. The whole situation reminded you of a certain Supernatural-episode…

"At least he didn´t say anything about a blond angel..." you mumbled, before you gave the detective the order to tell you what exactly happened. At first Sherlock didn´t gave the appearance as he´d even consider telling you anything but after he looked at you for a while, he nodded and started telling you the whole story. His narrative lasted good twenty minutes.

Once he finished, you nodded thoughtfully. Problem One: The man in front of you definitely looked like Benedict Cumberbatch but he didn´t seem to be on drugs, so just one option remained: He was Sherlock and god damn it, he told the truth. Problem Two: Crossroad-demons obviously existed.

"However this man was a fraud, I just have to figure out how he managed to bring me here, maybe he gave me some sort of drug…I´ll just try to find him one more time and negotiate with him, then he will…"

"You won´t." You didn´t even look at him while you talked with a voice that was so calm, it nearly surprised yourself. "You can´t just re-negotiate with a demon, they have one principle: Make a deal, keep it." The detective questioning raised an eyebrow at you.

"However this man is a fraud…"

"You should consider rethinking your opinion about this man." You sighed and just left the kitchen, moving in direction of the living room. You heard fast steps behind you, implying that Sherlock followed you. Without a word, you just started your notebook that stood on a desk, and started a film-data on your desktop. It had the name "Study in Pink".

After the first quarter hour, he couldn´t handle it anymore and shut your notebook close. "What on heaven and earth…" Sherlock stared at you, disbelief in his eyes and it took a while to explain him…well to explain the probably most unsuperstitious person in existence that a demon sent him to an alternate universe. Oh and that the same demon would, in ten years, send some hellhounds after him to rip him apart to get his soul. He stayed almost conspicuous calm. You weren´t sure whether he didn´t believe you or had a slight panic-attack on the inside.

"Well, I´ll summon him and with some simple trick…"

"You might be a genius, but not even you can simply trick out a demon. This guy is probably some thousands of years old."

"You seem to know this things ways better than me, lady." He remarked cynic, but you just smiled at him. "Yes it appears I do so." God, if this wouldn´t work you were so screwed. "So, what are you going to do…?" He obviously intended to use your name, but that right moment he seemed to notice he didn´t even ask you about it.

"Y/N. Y/N L/N. And what we are going to do is…" You jumped from the couch, searching through a small shelf next to you. After some seconds, you pulled out an old spray-can and showed it Sherlock with a triumphant smile.

"…blackmailing him."

Once more Holmes raised an eyebrow at you, glancing at you as if you´d be slightly insane.

"That´s definitely going to be entertaining."