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„Can passenger John Watson for flight A5372 come to the counter please, can passenger John Watson for flight A5372 come to the counter please.”
Barely anybody raised their heads at this announcement. The one person this seemed to apply to stood up quickly in one motion and hurried to the counter. He was a small man with sandy hair, carrying a practical little briefcase by his side. While he strode to the counter confidently and yet impatiently, a second announcement echoed through the airport.
“Can passenger Sherlock Holmes for flight A5372 come to the counter please, can passenger Sherlock Holmes for flight A5372 come to the counter please.”
This time, a tall, dark-haired man appeared soon after the announcement. He was thin and seemed a little jittery. He was wearing an expensive-looking coat. Dragging a slick-looking suitcase after himself, he arrived at the counter just moments after the blond man who had got up at the first announcement. He was already urgently talking to the airline assistant that was standing behind the counter of their gate. At the moment, she was raising her hand defensively. “Listen, I am very sorry about the inconvenience –“ As the tall, curly-haired man arrived, she smiled, showing relief at the prospect of being released from the first man’s impatience.
“Mr. Holmes, I regret to inform you that unfortunately, you have missed your connecting flight to London. Now, we know this is due to the delay from your first flight –“
“Unacceptable.”
The flight attendant’s smile faltered a little. She shot a glance at the smaller man in front of her. “Again, we are very sorry for the inconvenience. We have already booked you on to a new flight that leaves straight away tomorrow morning and will try our best to accommodate you during your overnight stay.”
The man named John Watson spoke up again. “Listen, that isn’t soon enough. I need to be in London as soon as possible. It is imminent that I be in London in the morning, local time.” He seemed furious. Sherlock Holmes catalogued the wrinkle in the man’s nose and the sparks in his eyes before turning back to the assistant.
“I also do not care for spending another night in this country. The people speak with a despicable accent and I am impatient to return home. Is there no other flight we could take?”
John Watson flickered his eyes to him and nodded. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, just briefly. Interesting, thought Sherlock Holmes.
The woman behind the counter shook her head. “I am sorry. This was the last flight tonight. We’ve put you on the first one tomorrow.”
John Watson sighed and mumbled something inaudible. Sherlock Holmes was about to say something when the woman continued. “Since the flight will be leaving tomorrow morning, we’ve booked you a room at the airport hotel. Let me just confirm that the request has gone through and I will give you a map with directions to the hotel and you’re all set!” She flashed another smile, this time definitely a fake one, at the two left-over passengers before looking back at the computer desktop in front of her. Suddenly, her smile appeared even more frozen, Sherlock observed.
“I am very sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. One second please,” she said, and picked up the phone. While she was whispering into the line, John Watson looked at Sherlock. “A fellow Englishman, then? What brought you here?”
Before Sherlock could answer, the airline employee had finished her conversation. “I apologise, gentlemen, but it seems as if there is only one room left at the hotel. And you have both been booked into it. The only alternative is a hotel closer to the city. I can try to get a room there, but I am not sure –“
The man named John Watson stared at her. He was starting to open his mouth to protest, but Sherlock quickly interceded. “I don’t think a hotel outside of the airport will suit either of us. It is late, and the flight tomorrow morning leaves early. Mr. Watson here has been working at a tiring conference all weekend. I myself could need some rest as well. I suggest we take the room; we will easily be able to keep separate.” The last bit was aimed at the man next to him, who looked at Sherlock with wonder. “How–? I don’t–”
“If you decide to take the hotel room closer to the city, you will get approximately 2.5 hours less sleep than you would in this one. Considering how worn out you are from the conference – surgeons? –, you will need to get as much rest as possible before tomorrow, a day you clearly do not look forward to. Yet, you insist on leaving immediately. Therefore, I assume you have an important but unwanted task ahead of you. Probably family matters? A birthday? I understand these events can often demand a lot from you. You should get some sleep.”
John Watson proceeded to stare at Sherlock in amazement.
“You should probably close your mouth again.” Sherlock turned back to the woman, who looked from one to the other confusedly. “I’m sorry, do you know each other?”
“No,” said Sherlock sharply. “I think we’ll take the room, though,” he added, after a quick glance at John, who nodded. A little frown had started to emerge between his brows again, though.
“Yes, I suppose, we will,” he said slowly, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying himself.
The woman dragged the corners of her mouth upwards, nodded, and, after some clicks on the computer screen, confirmed the room number. “Your luggage will be taken care of for you, of course. And please enjoy breakfast on us in the morning.”
The walk to the hotel was mostly silent. It felt awkward to walk next to a stranger and know you would spend the night together. Or, well, at least in the same room.
A couple of hundred metres before the hotel entrance, Sherlock paused for a moment and then, turning partly towards John, said, “You don’t have any luggage either, do you?”
John, who had seemed deep in thoughts, now shot a glimpse back into the direction they had come from, as if he was worried they were being followed by the front desk woman. “No,” he said quietly before starting to giggle. Sherlock looked taken aback at that for a second, but the situation felt too surreal not to join in.
They arrived at the reception desk still giggling. “Good evening, sirs, how can I help you?” The receptionist was looking from one to the other curiously.
“Holmes and Watson, please.” The names rolled off Sherlock’s tongue just a tad too easily.
“Ah, of course. Right away, gentlemen. Is there any luggage we can carry for you?”
They both shook their head, pressing their lips together to keep from laughing. They looked at each other almost thievishly.
The receptionist handed over the keys and wished them a good night. The slim suitcase and leathery briefcase were carried outside the lobby, and up to the second floor.
John unlocked the door and pushed it open. As soon as he had taken a couple of steps into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“What is it?”, Sherlock asked.
Instead of an answer, John stepped aside so Sherlock could take a look at the room.
“Oh.”
Instead of the two expected single beds, there was one single, big bed in the middle of the room.
“This is unacceptable. I’m not– we’re not–“
“Yes. Quite.” Sherlock looked around, cataloguing the room, which conveniently let him shut out the man’s stammering next to him.
It didn’t give him much. Cleaned less often than most would prefer, it was nothing but a quick stopping point for passers-by. Too many people came through here to leave any individual traces worth noting. It was almost calming, in a way. He looked back at John.
“I don’t mean to overstep, but I do believe they said that this is the only room available tonight.”
John looked annoyed, then less so. But it clearly didn’t sit right with him. He opened his mouth to protest. “It’s just–“
“Look”, Sherlock said, “I will sleep on the sofa. It’s fine.”
He strolled into the room, looking more casual than he felt, and put down his suitcase next to the sofa. Then he turned around and opened his arms invitingly. A small smirk played around his lips. “It’s not so bad a room.”
John’s scowl stayed put for a second, but at the ridiculous sight of this man in front of him and the entirety of the situation, he couldn’t help but return the grin. What the hell. This couldn’t get any weirder anyway. He set his briefcase down and closed the door.
“I should sleep on the sofa, though. I am … shorter.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Oh, I don’t actually sleep that much. You look like you need the rest more than I do. No offense.”
John barked out a laugh, but sat down on the bed anyway and started to take off his shoes.
“Sherlock Holmes, is it? How the hell did you know why I was in New York? Are you a weird stalker I should know about? Should I flee from this room right now?” He had meant it only half-serious, but he couldn’t stop a little worry from sneaking into his words.
Sherlock lay down on the sofa, still wearing his shoes and his coat. He looked up at the ceiling. Since he was much taller than the sofa allowed for, one of his feet dangled around in the air while he spoke: “You are clearly a doctor with an army past. Since I myself was just in New York City, I have come across several advertisements of the huge surgeon congress in town. It must have been a big one, which increases the probability of an English surgeon attending, especially when that man is flying back to London on the day the congress ends. Let’s call it an educated guess.”
Sherlock couldn’t see John from where he was lying, but he preferred not to. He expected the door to click shut after the other man would predictably leave after finally deciding that this was, in fact, too weird, so he was surprised when all he heard instead was, “Amazing.”
Sherlock turned to look at the man, trying to hide his surprise. “Do you really think so?”
John laughed again. “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but I suppose I am an open book. Oh well, I can’t hide who I am. Probably for the best, too.”
Now that was something people didn’t say all too often. Most people tried to distinguish themselves with secrecy and by creating mystery where there was nothing to hide. It was boring, and one of the reasons why Sherlock didn’t usually associate with others.
“You think so?” Sherlock asked, feigning distraction. This man was getting more and more interesting.
John Watson put his shoes neatly next to the bed and looked up. “Yeah. I don’t have time for people who won’t tell me who they are immediately. What about you, then?”
Sherlock had taken out his smartphone and was typing away rapidly. He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m no one. I solve crimes for a living. I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world.”
John laughed at that. Sherlock shot him an angry glance, so he put up his hands in a defensive manner. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect that.” He got up and walked over to the mini fridge and asked, “Drink?”
Sherlock hesitated for a second only before saying, “I suppose it can’t hurt.”
John sat down on the chair next to the sofa while Sherlock put his phone away. While John put down the beer bottles on the tiny side table, Sherlock took off his coat in a swift motion and revealed a blindingly white shirt underneath. He observed John’s observing of this with some satisfaction.
“How come you were in New York, then? Has London run out of crime?”
When he had sat down again, Sherlock took a sip from his bottle and shook his head. “Let’s hope this day never comes. I have come to have some sort of reputation amongst police officers for solving difficult cases. The American police contacted their colleagues from London to ask a favour, and life has been terribly boring recently, so I went.”
“And? Did you solve it, whatever it was?” John asked.
Sherlock darted his eyes towards him before returning his gaze back to the beer bottle. “No.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Not the best – what was it – consulting detective out there, then?”
Sherlock stiffened at that. “I’m the best.” The next sentence he uttered under his breath.
John grinned. “Sorry? What was that?”
Sherlock looked more irritated than anything else. “I said, I’m the only one in the world. But I’m still the best.”
John laughed again at that, but Sherlock found that the cared surprisingly little. He didn’t feel like he was the butt of the joke and he … liked the way this man laughed. It wasn’t malicious, and it seemed to light up the entire room.
Sherlock waited for a moment before asking what he’d wanted to ask all evening. “So, what’s so important in London that makes you so impatient to go back?”
John took another swig of the beer, then stared at the bottle as if he saw it for the first time. Sherlock felt awkward, as if he had asked the wrong question. He didn’t know what to do, but before he could start going through options, John spoke.
“It’s my sister’s anniversary tomorrow. Well, it would be. But her girlfriend broke up with her a couple of weeks ago. I don’t want her to be alone tomorrow.”
He didn’t say anything else, but Sherlock didn’t have to ask further. As much as John wanted to support his sister – Sherlock immediately believed the man, which was quite uncommon –, he also wanted to keep an eye on her to make sure she wouldn’t turn to the bottle. There was no other reason why a man would look at a bottle of beer like this, Sherlock was sure. Awkwardly, he extended his arm to pat John on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but John gave a quick smile when he felt Sherlock’s touch, so Sherlock kept his hand there a little longer than he might have otherwise.
They had another round after the first one, and then ordered another one from the bar downstairs. Sleep seemed forgotten for now, like an unwelcome thought pushed back to make room for more pleasant things.
After some time, the conversation had died down. To Sherlock’s, and truth be told John’s surprise too, they both didn’t mind too much. It was pleasant. More pleasant than anything else they had experienced in a long time.
They were also quite drunk, however. Sherlock barely drank, and John wasn’t used to it either for sororal reasons. They both knew they should go to bed, but neither of them wanted this evening to end. Suddenly John sat up.
“Let’s play a game.”
Sherlock looked incredulous. But before he could protest, John grinned at him with a sparkle in his eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I haven’t played ‘Who am I?’ in years.”
Sherlock’s mind was blank. He couldn’t remember the last time he had played a game, or if he ever had at all. But John in front of him looked so eager, and he didn’t want his smile to disappear, so he nodded slowly. “Alright, but you will have to … explain the rules to me. I don’t think I’ve ever played any games like this before.”
John looked disbelieving for a second, but then he thought better. He smiled at Sherlock encouragingly. “That’s not a problem. Here, it’s really simple …”
They didn’t think they had laughed that much in years. Sherlock’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture became evident very quickly, so the game soon turned into John yelling celebrities’ names to see if Sherlock knew them.
“Madonna?” He was laughing so much he had tears in his eyes. Sherlock was obviously trying to concentrate, but when he couldn’t find anything in his memory, he shook his head, frowning.
John tried to calm down. “I just … can’t believe you don’t know any of these people. Where have you been?”
“I just never thought it was important,” Sherlock said. He had some reading to do when he got back home. He wanted to be able to talk to John about what interested him next time.
Next time. When he realised what he had just thought, he sat up straighter. He supposed he had ought to know what would happen, but John had been more radiant than expected. He eyed him inconspicuously. He didn’t know how to go about this; this wasn’t like any experience he could draw from. He had never expected to get on with a stranger this well.
John seemed to sense the sudden change of moods in Sherlock. He became quieter too, almost sobered up. He glanced at the clock and gave a nervous chuckle. Finally, he voiced what had hung between them all evening. “Probably should get some sleep, eh? Since it’ll be a long day tomorrow and all.”
Sherlock nodded. Of course. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep at all, but he didn’t need to tell John that.
“Yes. Please, take the bed. I’m quite comfortable here now.” To accentuate his words, he jumped up and down a little where he was sat, not minding how ridiculous he probably looked.
The goal was to see John Watson smile again, and he was rewarded.
“I’ll take you up on the offer then,” John said, laughing. “Somehow, I feel like we’d be arguing all night about it, so I’ll just give you that one.”
However, when Sherlock lay on the couch, still dressed, and John had crawled into bed, suddenly knackered, and the lights were turned off, nobody fell asleep. Two pairs of eyes stared into the darkness, pondering over what tonight meant to them. They both knew they wanted to stay in contact after this night, but how did one go about that? How did someone tell a complete stranger that somehow, he had touched the other person so deeply in their soul that not seeing him again suddenly seemed impossible?
Suddenly, John smiled into the darkness. “Sherlock,” he whispered.
“Yes,” came the answer, telling the both of them that nobody had been sleeping.
“You were wrong, by the way.” John could almost see Sherlock bristle at that.
“What do you mean?”
John’s smile widened and his voice sounded soft. “I would definitely have slept more had I gone to the other hotel.”
The last thing he heard was an incredulous snort, but he thought Sherlock might have been smiling too. He decided that was the case, anyway.
They did sleep a little bit in the end. The next morning, when they were getting ready, groggy and still half asleep, the thoughts from the night before returned to them. The atmosphere was sombre all the way to their gate. If they hoped they would sit together on the plane, they were wrong. If they hoped they would meet again at the airport in London, they were also wrong. It was a big plane, used to capacity, so they lost sight of each other once they parted at the gate.
They probably wouldn’t have met again if John Watson hadn’t seen an ad in the paper a couple of weeks later, of someone looking for a flat mate. He was scanning the newspaper absent-mindedly when a name caught his eye. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective in the world, looking for flat mate. The address is 221B Baker Street. For inquiries call number below.”
Had there ever been a more obvious nudge from the fates? In any case, John was grateful. Smiling, he picked up the phone, ready to continue what they had started back in that hotel room. He couldn’t wait.