InsaneJournal

Who: Sherlock Holmes, Amy Pond, and John Watson
When: Mid January
Where: Random Street
What: Random Encounter
Rating/Warning: A for awkward
Status: Awkward. And complete



Sherlock was a man of habit. He’d worked at the same school and lab since moving to America. He drank the same coffee and ate at the same places--unless he was conducting some sort of anthropological experiment. The one thing he varied regularly was the path he took home: it might involve public transportation, it might have been on foot or by bicycle, the important thing was the his trips would eventually take him through every street of the city and surrounding area. In his line of work, a knowledge of every nook and cranny was vital.

Amy was a bit of a tea junkie. Or a coffee one, but mostly tea. She wanted to try the tea at every shop in all of Southern California, to find the best. Sure, she had favorites… but part of being Amy Pond was the love of adventure, the thrill of the chase. She was dragging John to a new shop she’d read about on Yelp, but was having problems finding the place. And her ridiculous smartphone was too smart and too user friendly. She couldn’t figure out how to pull up the Google Street View of the place so they could actually find it. She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, her Scottish Accent coming through quite a bit more strongly now as she swore at the useless technology in her hands.

Sherlock’s ears honed in one the woman as he came closer. Hmm… Scotland to America, by way of England: a well-trod path; and the young woman herself was clearly working in the entertainment industry. So was just about everyone else in the southern end of the state, but this one was having an easier time getting work than most, though Sherlock himself didn’t think her so remarkably pretty. His eyes were on her as he passed.

Amy finished her long string of curses and was about to chuck the damn dumb phone into the pavement when she saw someone passing her. Tall, dark hair. She didn’t register much else besides that, and she cleared her throat in his direction. “Excuse me, you don’t know where Bella’s Tea Room is, do you?”

The first thing Sherlock wondered was whether he’d accidentally signaled to her that he was concerned by making eye contact. Eye contact itself was a risky business. Now he knew, from experience, that he ought to stop and answer her question. “Yes,” he said, turning and extending a long finger back the way he had traveled. “It’s two blocks that way.”

“Course it is. Lost again, Pond? Told you not to rely on all those fancy Apple apps to try and give you a map. You could have texted---Oh.” John Watson was suddenly wordless. He’d been on time - no, early - for his coffee meet with Amy, and knew her well enough to know that she’d probably parked (awfully) and out of the way and then gotten a bit lost. He hadn’t realized that by going to find her when she’d ended up late he’d run into the man of his dreams.

That came out poorly. The man in his dreams.

“Sherlock,” he said, sounding more than a bit shaken - something that shouldn’t have been so easily done, not with a background like his.

Amy was about to give some sort of snappy comeback. Really. She had it on the tip of her tongue--her lips, even, when John went all blank and ... droopy? Decidedly droopy. She glanced from him to the tall, dark (and handsome) man she'd asked for directions, then back again. Sherlock?

The hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stood straight up with a chill that had nothing to do with the odd weather the area had been experiencing. Still, he thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his long, black coat. The man who apparently knew him by name was not someone he recognized. No, not at all. He was English, but there was no memory of him from his days back home.

“Yes…?” Sherlock said at length, his face in knots.

John Watson was not droopy thank you very much. He was just… surprised. Taken aback. Suddenly lacking in any sort of natural charm he might have usually been able to pretend he had.

"Hi," he said, actually amazingly lamely - so lamely, in fact, that he had to force himself to look away from Sherlock and instead at Amy. At least she knew that he was occasionally a bit silly. Then again, just from what he knew of the dreams, he figured Sherlock knew about half of his life from just the last minute of interaction anyway. "Uhm. Fancy meeting you here."

It just kept getting worse.

Slack-jawed, maybe? Amy was amused, more than anything, at John’s surprise. His lameness. She grinned right back at him, though there was quite a bit of curiosity behind her grin. What on Earth was he on about? Then she turned back to the tall, dark and handsome man. “I assume that means he knows you?”

To date, Sherlock had not had any dreams. He did not live at 221B baker Street. He was not a consulting detective. And he had never met the short man standing before him now, though he could surmise that he was former military and some time had passed since those days. Afghanistan, perhaps. Maybe Iraq, but it seemed less likely.

Sherlock, however, didn’t give a witch’s tit about the war or this man’s involvement in it. He wanted to know how he knew him by name, and he wanted to know now. It annoyed him that he couldn’t figure it out on his own. “I don’t know him,” he said, glancing at the woman, and then back to the man. “London? Did we meet in London, at some point?” Some utterly forgettable party, perhaps?

Uhm, no. Not slack jawed either. Back off, Pond. No one needs your sass. In fact, John shot her a little look that said exactly that because he could practically feel the upcoming amount of sass rolling off of his (still oddly perfect) girlfriend in just… waves. Huge sassy waves.

"It's a bit hard to explain," he said a bit blandly before sticking his hand out to greet Sherlock properly. "John Watson, and we've met absolutely nowhere before. Without sounding too crazy, I dream about you. You keep absolutely dreadful things in the kitchen."

Amy may have been a huge ball of sass for the most part, but she knew when to back off. Or, maybe she could tell when it was time to back off from the intense look she’d just gotten from John. In either case, she simply remained quiet and curious and watched back and forth between the two men like she was viewing a tennis match.

Sherlock began to roll his eyes, though the kitchen comment brought on more of a scowl. The dream phenomenon was nothing more than a case of mass hysteria. That much was quite clear. This Watson fellow was probably a member of that message board he occasionally visited. The kitchen thing was a bit odd, because he did keep objectively unconventional things in the kitchen, and on occasion they had been called ‘dreadful’.

But he’d never met one of the dreamers before. And Watson seemed game to shed a little light on the psychological epidemic. “And about what else do you dream?” He’d read everything from superhero fantasies to people who believed they were demons.

This must have been very awkward for Amy. At least her dreams included folks who were both around and invited the both of them to time parties. This was just… standing on the sidewalk looking daft while no one really knew what was going on.

"Er," John said, before giving a shrug and sighing. Might as well just out with it. There was no real point in being ashamed or embarrassed over something like this. It was silly right up until it was true, after all. "Mostly you piss everyone off, we solve crimes and then I blog about it."

Well, the two of them may have looked daft. Amy looked absolutely fabulous. As always. She was grinning a little as she turned from Sherlock to John and back again. “Blog?” She asked. Then she realized that she knew almost nothing about John’s Dream Life. “You’re a blogger?”

Well, yes. She looked fabulous. She always looked fabulous. And smug. But that was her problem, not John’s. He crossed his arms, had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Well. It’s not like a boring blog. I wasn’t giving up cookie recipes or anything. Just… you know. Crime solving stories.”

Smug and sassy. That was our dear Amy Pond. She was grinning brightly, though, as she watched John try to explain his blogging. That was… actually, quite hilarious. Though she didn’t laugh. “Crime solving stories, eh?” She added, almost giddy. “I just can’t picture it. You, sitting at home on the computer.”

"Right, well." It was no good. John couldn't exactly demand saving from this conversation from Sherlock, considering that he didn't even know John here. "You know the dreams are strange. I'm a doctor, too. So it's not like that's all I do." Although, admittedly, the doctoring he did in the dreams consisted of an awful lot more sleeping in his office than it did here (although if he had an office here, he was sure he couldn't make any promises against it, either).

"This is awkward," he said, finally. Might as well admit it.

Amy gave a little nod. She made a mental note to ask John more about his dreams--and more about this tall, dark stranger--later. But for now… oh, right. Awkward. It was. She’d nearly forgotten about the tall, dark stranger, actually. But now her attention was called back to him, and she gave something of an apologetic look.

To say Sherlock’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them would have been something of an understatement. Their conversation got boring quickly. He spent the time studying their shoes, hemlines, pores… and that got quickly boring, as well. Sherlock sighed and bounced on his heels, more ready to continue on his way. He tilted his head at the woman once she made eye contact again.

“Yes. Awkward. Glad you found each other. Like I said, the tea room is two blocks that way.” He pointed again.

“Right,” Watson said, standing a little straighter before looking off in the direction of the tea shop. “We were just going that way. See you later.” It seemed like the right thing to say, considering that he most likely would. Later, he would laugh to himself about how Sherlock was just a complete ass in this world too. An ass he’d like to be friends with, of course, but that didn’t change the facts.

“Coming, then, Pond?”

“Yes. Yes, right.” Amy said, giving Sherlock another glance. She broke into something of a smirk, deciding that she rather liked Tall, Dark and Handsome. Not the same way she liked John, of course. (She didn’t like anyone the same way she liked John, thankyouverymuch.) But still, she rather liked Sherlock. She turned to slip her arm through John’s and head with him down the sidewalk toward the tea shop.

“So, you’re a blogger, then?” she grinned at her boyfriend as they put some distance between them and Sherlock. She had a feeling, though, that they’d be seeing more of him. And soon.