Sherlock could only stare at his foreign surroundings. The general layout was similar to his old flat, the living room (of which he was sitting in) had passageway to the dining room, etc.
But everything felt so…foreign. He sat on a hard-lined recliner staring at a hard skyline, he could not see the sunset past the building towering into the sky. His counterpart's home was meticulous, everything was put away and nothing was labeled, for all his artistic ability he vaguely wondered how the man found anything.
He needed to calm his nerves, get to know people…
The man named Barton sprawled in the seat next to him; did people of this era have that little of manners? Though he could gauge that the man was that of a fighter and not so much of a gentleman. The dark circles underneath his eyes meant he was either ill or lacked proper sleep. Judging from the fact the man's complexion was a healthy pink; illness was out of the question. The light wrinkle around his lips showed the man usually had his lips pursed—contemplative? No, gauging based by the man's other behaviors, such as twitchy fingers (a habit he has seen in people such as Watson and Lestrade) and heavy sighing, this man was a workaholic. A glance exchanged between Ms. Romanov who sat in close proximity to Barton suggested the two met habitually outside work.
Yes, he will get to know them quite well.
Mr. Stark pulled him from his deductions. His fingers locked in an all too familiar gesture of pondering. "So, Holmes…Are you seriously like the character in the books." Was he just as annoying? Dear god, how did Watson put up with him? Stark manic child-like glee was obvious, this man thought he could dissect him. Interesting.
"Mr. Stark, I must inform you, asking me questions of things I have no knowledge of is mildly irritating. I'd prefer if you cease and desist." Holmes legs crossed elegantly, and he mirrored Starks contemplative expression. Fingers crossed, eyes observing.
"Please, call me Tony. Everyone calls me Tony. Isn't that right, Brucey?" A stocky chap, shockingly had the resemblance of Doctor Watson—despite they looked nothing alike—stared tiredly at Tony.
"Tony…Shut up." Despite the reprimand, Tony beamed at Holmes, eyebrows waggling up in a 'you see?' gesture. Bruce turned towards Holmes. Holmes couldn't help the moment of surprise as he recognized the facial structure of the man and the green beast that had saved him earlier.
"Y-you, you are…" He was ashamed of his flabbergasted-ness, never before had he been at loss for words. He stood up and paced around the man, poked him repeatedly with his index finger. He noted how the man's brown eyes shifted towards an unnatural green as irritation crossed his features.
"So that's how that happens…anger and pain. Dr. Banner, remind me never to anger you…a-and thank you for saving me." The Avengers, as they called themselves, seemed shocked with his behavior. Not the first and hopefully would not be the last. Banner seemed genuinely pleased with Holmes, which brought a scowl to Tony's face.
Sherlock went on, "You are a medical doctor." He motioned to his unshaking hands. All humans have a natural shake to their limbs, but this man's hands were rock steady.
"I've had medical training, yes…" there was something he was missing. Temperament? Not even remotely self-conscious, personal appearances were secondary to his craft. He smelt like ozone, very odd for a human—the man himself was an oddity. He grasped the man's fingertips in his own. Flat—possible musician? Perhaps, but that would not be the reason he was here.
He vaguely entertained the idea of a group of heroes lulling villains into custody. No, that mustn't be it then…he saw the tablet in Tony's lap, complex mathematical and scientific algorithms sped across the screen. Scientist? The left hand was smudged with pencil residue. Someone with the technology of the future, but still takes notes with a pencil, left-brained, and focused.
"You're a scientist. Probably one who works in dangerous conditions? You've received medical training, from what you've said" he paused briefly, reflecting on the words Bruce has told him so far. "You've been in India for a brief period –you have a light accent of someone who has been practicing Hindi, probably practicing, no doubt. Maiṁ kaisē kara rahā hūm̐? (How am I doing?)"
Bruce stared, mouth hanging open, partial shock, but a twitch of a smile pulled upwards on his face.
"Āpa ka'ī bātēṁ patā hai (You know a lot). Yes, I'm a scientist, rather a physicist. I study nuclear technology" This gave Sherlock a start, nuclear? "Please explain." Bruce looked troubled, eyes shifting to Stark and back to him. "I… made nuclear weapons…It's not exactly something I'm proud of."
A suddenly protective Stark stood up, "Let's not pick on my science bro, m'kay?" That Californian drawl made Sherlock want to run up a wall…and not in a good way.
"I am not picking on him as you say. I am discerning who I am talking to. Besides, Stark, it is you who behaves like a bully, is it not? Snide remarks to your peers, an arrogance level unfounded in someone of your…stature." Was that a dig on his height? It was, wasn't it?
Tony stared Holmes up and down with a barely repressed rage. Visibly dissecting him, like he had dissected the doctor.
"You are different than in the stories, you know that? No doubt you had a biased author. You are an asshole. An emotionally stunted ass. What's with the need to uncover what should'a been left alone." That was rather rude.
"Emotionally stunted, Mr. Stark? Then you and I are one in the same!" Holmes' eyes raised in caustic laughter, they looked almost silver from outrage. "And from what I've gathered, you rather spend time amongst machines than that of human company." Both bristled and locked into a glaring contest with each other. Silence permeated the room as the Avengers scrambled to figure out a way to stop their fighting.
Natasha tried first, "Boys, you are being children." Sherlock blushed, but had not relented when Stark refused to acknowledge the woman's presence.
Clint didn't even bother, he stood in back as Steve entered the room.
Bruce, Barton, and a recently arrived Steve looked at the scene with keen interest. "They really don't like each other, do they?" Rodgers forever felt like pointing out the obvious.
Barton merely shrugged and turned towards Natasha. "You want some popcorn?" "Come on then." The two left the room, leaving Bruce and Rodgers to stop the fight.
"Come on guys…arguing with yourselves will not help you in the long run." Rodgers put up his hands in a placating manner. Tony turned on him in a vengeance. "Go clean your red sweater, Mr. Rogers."
"I don't get that reference." Bruce sniggered but patted him on the shoulder regardless. The two continued arguing for a good half hour.
Then Tony threw his shoe. Normally, when one throws a shoe, it is meant to hit the intended victim. Instead of hitting Holmes, Sherlock had dodged—like any sane person would do—and let the shoe hit Bruce's head. After a brief period, Bruce had grown tired of the quarrel—he asked Steve to leave. Bruce calmly took off his glasses, shirt, and trousers and placed them in a far corner of the room.
Tony felt a chill run down his spine. The Avengers, minus Banner, were no longer present. Oh…that could not be good.
"Ya' should'a stopped when you had the chance." Sherlock took brief pause to notice the change in Bruce's voice. The stopped their bickering and turned to find the Hulk looming over them with a fantastic sneer plastered on his face. He let off a howl that sent everyone in the building on their toes.
Sherlock looked at Tony. Tony looked at Sherlock. Simultaneously they bolted into a dead run out the door.
They didn't stop to see Hulk changing back into Bruce, nor did they see Steve laughing his butt off behind the door.
They ran to Tony's lab and slammed the door closed.