The Meeting

So I'm going to Ireland in just a little bit. 

And I have a layover in Georgia. And in my head, Benedict Cumberbatch is in Georgia and is going to be flying back to London. 

Shut up, it's not completely impossible. 

Okay, it is, but I like pretending things are possible. 

Moving on. 

In this impossible possibility, we are going to be on the same plane going to London. And we will be sitting together. Obviously. 

Hey, I upgraded my seat. I may not be sitting in first class, but I have those economy seats where you have the extra leg room. So that means I'm a poor girl pretending to be rich. And naturally Benedict won't want to bother with first class (what a bother first class is...) so he will be sitting in these poor-people-pretending-to-be-rich seats as well. 

Carrying on. 

I will of course get to my seat before he does, and will be reading Sherlock Holmes before we takeoff to calm me down because I hate takeoffs. 

He will find his seat next to me, and smile at me, and I, not wanting to freak out on him, will simply smile back, and go back to my book as he puts his things away in the overhead compartment.

When he sits down, he will playfully tap his long, beautiful fingers on the armrest between us, and I will sneak a peek at him, seeing in his deep, luscious eyes that he also is nervous about takeoff. 

He will see me peeking, and his eyes will crinkle into a broad smile. I will blush courteously, and pretend to go back to reading my book.

"Excellent choice of reading material," he will say sweetly.

"Thanks," I'll say, my voice cracking a little. "I don't go anywhere without a copy."

"Smart woman," he will chuckle, still tapping his fingers on the armrest. His leg begins to shake as well.

"Don't like takeoffs either?" I'll say, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Worst part about flying for me," he'll say, turning to smile at me again. "You?"

"I have to have something to keep my mind off this part of flying," I'll smile back, holding up my book.

 

We'll both stare at each other for another few seconds before I feel myself beginning to blush again and turn back to my book in embarrassment. 

He'll think that's cute.

As the plane begins to crawl out of the airport and head towards the runway, he'll turn back towards me.

"So which one's your favourite?"

"Pardon?" I'll ask, confused.

"Of his stories," he'll say, pointing to my book.

I won't respond right away because while I'm not embarrassed by my favourite Sherlock Holmes story, it's not one many people have heard of, and I'm debating saying a common story so he doesn't think me weird.

"Sorry if I'm being rude and interrupting you," he'll continue in my silence. "It's just, since you said you needed Sherlock to distract you from the takeoff, I thought that sounded like a good idea to me, too, only I don't have a copy with me because I'm not as smart as you, and I thought maybe we could talk about him until we're up the air, you know."

He'll say all of this in a hurried fluster.

"No no no no," I'll say, willing myself to say more than no. "I just have a favourite that's a bit weird for a favourite, so I was debating how odd I wanted to sound."

He'll laugh heartily at this, and I'll sit in utter happiness - his laugh is intoxicatingly wonderful.

"If I tell you mine, which is quite a random one, will you tell me yours?"

"Go on, then."

"The Adventure Of The Dancing Men. I know it's an odd choice, but I just love it."

"I approve," I'll say slyly.

He'll smile for a moment before saying, "All right. Your turn."

"The Dying Detective."

He'll blink at me for a moment, then a wonderful smile will creep across his delightful face. "Perfect choice."

"I do think you ought to convince Mr. Gatiss to incorporate my favourite into one of the shows since he incorporated yours," I'll say, then go pale.

I hadn't meant to reveal that I knew who he was. I curse in my head, afraid he'll stop talking to me now.

 

Instead, he laughs again. "So the game's afoot, and I've been discovered."

"It's hard to miss that face." I close my eyes in exasperation. Could I sound ANYMORE like a stupid fangirl?

"You're right, I must do something about this big, ugly face," he says good-naturedly.

"No, I think it suits you." Well now I just sound ridiculous, looking around the plane for the nearest exit.

He'll look down at his hands, and I'll notice he's blushing. 

Dear god, I'll think, I made the beautiful boy blush. This somehow will give me confidence to again put my foot in the vicinity of my mouth.

"In the interest of sounding like a complete, loony fangirl, I hope you don't mind me saying that I cannot wait till season 3. I'm envious you've gotten to read the script and I'm still here waiting."

"To be honest, I can't wait for you to see it," he'll say, recovering from my compliment and jumping right back into the conversation. "It really is a doozy."

"Spoilers," I'll say warningly before realizing I said this in a total Doctor Who reference, even doing the Riversong voice.

He'll of course pick up on this. "A Doctor Who fan as well?"

"Guilty."

"And which Doctor is yours?"

"Christopher Eccleston," I'll say, not even hesitating.

"And you even pronounced his name correctly!" he'll praise. "A true fan."

"I've watched ridiculous films just for him," I'll say, hoping that's not going too far.

"Don't tell me you suffered through G.I. Joe too? Worst. Movie. Ever."

"Obviously you've never seen The Green Hornet," I'll say.

"Let me guess, you watched that just for Christoph Waltz?"

"I suppose I'm just a sucker for men whose name starts with C," I'll offer shyly.

"Do last names count?" He'll say, beginning to blush a little again.

It will take a moment to click in my head that his last name is Cumberbatch, and I will blush furiously once I realize this. He'll see me blushing and think it's absolutely adorable and laugh again.

"I think we made it through takeoff," I'll say, looking out the window.

"Not quite," he'll say, offering me his hand. I'll take it, hoping my handshake isn't too weak or girly.

"Benedict Cumberbatch."

"Meagan Bateman."

"Bateman," he'll say, "Is that kind of like Batman?"

"Just add an extra e and you've got it."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bateman."

"It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Cumberbatch."

"Please," he'll begin, cocking his head down and looking at me a little sarcastically. "We're past takeoff. Call me Benedict."

"Only if you'll call me Meagan," I'll say shyly.

"For now," he'll say, winking. "So, business or pleasure?"

"Pardon?" I'll say again, blushing furiously. He'll laugh heartily at my blushes again.

"I mean this trip for you. Is it business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," I'll say, suddenly realizing that if he asks what I'm going to be doing, I'll either have to lie or sound like a crazy person, or worse, a stalker.

"What's your pleasure?"

Gah, I can't lie. Not to that beautiful face, those adoring eyes. I'll have to tell the truth. I'll say it all in a hurry and hope he doesn't ask to switch seats after he hears it.

"My friend and I are traveling around London on a Sherlock Holmes excursion and we've gone through all the stories and films and made a list of all the highlights from both and we're taking a week and seeing them all and please don't think I'm creepy I'm just really nerdy okay I know that's not much better but I've just been in love with Sherlock Holmes since I was fourteen, not you, I would never be in love with you I mean you're wonderful I mean you seem wonderful but I'm hopelessly in love with a fictional character and have been spoiled for all other men because of Sherlock and wow you did not need to know this about me and I'm sorry and I'm going to shut up now."

Through this whole ordeal, his smile will have gotten broader and broader until it's taken over his entire face and when I finish he'll erupt in giggles.

"I think that sounds absolutely perfect," he'll say once he composes himself. "I'm a little bit jealous."

I'll smile weakly and again look for the nearest exit. "It should be fun," I kind of whisper.

"Oh yes, the trip sounds great, but I meant I'm jealous of Sherlock. He's a lucky man to have you."

I'll stare blankly at him, not knowing what to say. He'll keep my eye contact for a moment, then look down at his hands, then back at me slyly.

To save me from saying anything else incredibly stupid, the flight attendant will thankfully show up right at that moment and ask us both what beverage we like.

"Just water for me, thanks," he'll say.

"Do you have apple juice?" I'll ask, without thinking. (You know I love me some apple juice).

Benedict will burst out laughing. "Apple juice? Oh my god, you're adorable."

The flight attendant will silently laugh when he sees my face turn red as an apple, then hand us both our drinks.

"To Sherlock Holmes," he will say, raising his glass of water.

"To Sherlock Holmes," I'll reply, clinking my glass with his.

"The lucky bloke," he'll say under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

"So, so, so what about you, business or pleasure?" I'll say, trying to save face.

"Not business, but not exactly pleasure either. I mean, more like relaxation and boredom. I'm not expected for filming for another two weeks, so I'll really have nothing to do. Another reason I'm jealous of your trip."

An idea will pop into my head, making me so nervous I nearly spill my apple juice my hands are shaking so much.

In order to calm myself down, we'll chit chat some more about whatever subject comes up. I'll try to steer away from bragging on him or anything, which I think he'll take notice of.

"Excuse me," the attractive woman across from us will interrupt. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but aren't you Benedict Cumberbatch, the famous Mr. Holmes?"

What follows will be an annoying conversation where this woman makes an even bigger idiot of herself than I did, fawning all over him and making sure she's leaning down enough to show a disgusting amount of cleavage. Benedict will be very polite, but I will be able to hear the triteness and slight annoyance in his voice as she brags on and on about all of Benedict's achievements. It will start to disgust me, so I will slip on my headphones and begin watching one of the in-flight films.

A few minutes into the film, I'll feel a finger poke my arm in repetition. I'll slip my headphones down to my neck and grin in a way I hope is not too stupid at the pokester sitting next to me.

"How am I suppose to bug you with headphones on?" he'll tease.

"You're doing a good job with the poking," I'll say sarcastically back, then hope he realizes I'm joking.

When he smiles, I'll realize he gets my humour.

"So if I were going to chose an in-flight movie, I'd chose the same one as you."

"Oh yeah?" I'll respond. "Great minds think alike, I suppose."

"The problem is," he'll start, "is that you're ahead of me now in the movie by a full six minutes. I'll want to keep looking over at your screen to see what's going to happen six minutes down the road."

"Dear oh dear, whatever shall we do about this conundrum?"

"I think you're just going to have to share your headphones with me so that I can watch it on your screen with you."

I'll pretend to think about this for a few seconds, leaving him in suspense. "You know something, I think you've hit on the only solution to this problem. Only I'm not starting the film over again. You're just going to have to catch up on your own time."

"Fair enough," he'll smile, taking one of the ear pieces.

So we'll watch this movie together. And we'll laugh at it and gasp at it and feel all the emotions together.

He'll insist after this movie that we should watch the next one together since this one turned out so well for us. Which we will.

At the sound of the pilot announcing we're nearing London, I'll jerk awake, my head rising up from Benedict's shoulder, his arm snuggly around my back, his hand resting on my own arm.

"Geez, I'm sorry," I'll say, making an attempt to extricate myself from him, only to feel his hand firmly grasping my arm as if to hold me in that position.

"Don't be," he'll say, turning from his book to smile at me. "You fell out pretty cold during that second movie, and I joined you shortly after myself. I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of taking out your earpiece and giving you a blanket. Also, I miiiiight have used the top of your head as a pillow for most of the night."

I'll look down at the blanket sweetly placed over my legs, feeling another blush creep up my neck.

"How, how, how, how much longer do we have till landing?" I'll ask, trying to remember how to talk.

"About twenty minutes is what the pilot just said. So not long now."

I'll feel a slight twinge of disappointment - only twenty minutes left with this wonderful man.

"Listen, I was wondering about something," he'll begin, looking at me in a very sincere and endearing way. "I was just thinking, you said you've included things from Moffat's Sherlock in your Sherlock adventure. And since I know a great deal about that version, I thought I could maybe take a looksie at your list and make sure you've not missed anything, you know, and if you have, well, I mean, I'm not going to be doing anything for the next two weeks but sitting around my flat wondering if I should repaint the walls so I don't have to stare at whiteness."

My heart will stop beating for a moment. Is he really saying what I think he is? I'll wonder to myself. I won't trust myself to speak so I sit in silent shock.

"Anyways, just a thought," he'll say in a somewhat hurt voice, mistaking my silence for a deafening no.

 

"That, that, that, that, that would be," I swallow before continuing. "Brilliant."

He'll smile the broadest smile yet.

"I'll give you my number, and you can just call me after you connect with your friend. We can meet up then. That is, if you don't mind me tagging along. I don't want to interfere with your vacation. In fact, I'm probably imposing a lot, inviting myself along like this."

"No no no no no no no no!" Okay, I'll think, say something besides no. "I mean, we may make you wear the long coat and scarf so as to pretend we really have Sherlock with us."

He'll laugh at this idea. "I may not be your love Sherlock, but I daresay I'm the next best thing."

For the millionth time, I'll blush fervently.

"Oh, by the way," he'll say, leaning in so his lips are mere centimeters from my ear, "you're pretty cute when you blush."

"You're not so bad yourself," I'll say, hoping he can't hear my heart from how loudly it's beating.

When the plane lands, he'll make sure to help me gather up all my things and walks right next to me out of the terminal, ignoring the sounds of recognition the public makes at the sight of him.

"Are you hungry?" He'll ask, turning towards me. "I'm always starved after a flight."

"I could go for a giant plate of fish and chips," I say hungrily, my stomach growling so loudly at the thought I slap my hand to my stomach in embarrassment.

For the millionth time, he'll laugh. "Your stomach obviously approves of this," he'll say, touching my stomach with his hand as he says this. When he takes his hand from my torso, he takes my hand in his.

"Allow me to treat you to the best fish and chips of your life."

And so we'll walk to gather our luggage and find the best fish and chips in all of London, hand in hand.