Preposterous!

As far from London as he ever cares to be, Sherlock Holmes stands outside the three-story house on Bleecker Street, staring at the ridiculous front door. He is here because he was invited; and, since he was invited, he should be able to just walk right in.

He’s expected, of all things, he thinks, pacing back and forth. There’s never been a lock or a door he couldn’t open. Sherlock was quite irritated to lose one of his favorite lock-picking kits at Heathrow. It was only for pure curiosity of why he was invited to New York that he didn’t bother arguing about the kit. Besides, he’s got at least four others at the flat.

Crossing his arms, he frowns up at the house. It has now become a challenge and he’s been incredibly bored for incredibly too long to not at least try something. He fiddles with his gloves, his mind in a delicious free-fall as he tries to figure out how to get into the house.

Not once does he stop and consider that maybe this time that he may go a wee bit too far in the name of boredom. Nor does he consider all those things he thought were so ridiculous two days ago when he was searching for answers back at Baker Street.

Some of those words come crashing into his underworked brain as he stares up at the round window on the third floor. For a brief moment it seems as if someone is looking down at him; the sunlight refracts oddly, making the figure look as if it were dipped in brilliant yellow paint. He can vaguely make out shadows where eyes and a mouth would be.

Sherlock stands there, staring up at the strange window, playing with something in his coat pocket. As he fiddles with the unseen object, he finally must admit to himself that it doesn’t appear anyone is going to answer the door. He returns his attention to the door; then glances back up at the window and there is nothing or no one looking back at him.

He absolutely does not consider any of this odd; maybe there is something in the attic or room up there that throws a unique shadow. Perhaps someone has a television on up there and he caught a reflection of it in the glass.

After a while, he simply refuses to think about it anymore and walks around the house, searching for another way to get in. It seems that there are no windows on the first level at all. The ones that are on the higher floors are all completely clear of any suitable foliage for climbing.

Sherlock frowns at this inconvenience and walks back around to the front door. He climbs the three steps and wonders if his mind is jetlagged: what was a plain brown wooden door when he left it a moment ago is now deeply stained blood red. He stands there, one hand in his hair tugging a curl at the nape of his neck, the other resting on one of the loose ends of his scarf.

He finally decides he’s been kept waiting long enough so he marches up to the door and gives it a good thud with his knuckles. Oddly, the sound reverberates as if it were passing through a huge, but quite empty, cavern. Sherlock knows that is not possible, that the brownstone may not have much in it, but certainly someone resides here.

He turns his head back towards the street at the loud sound of a stereo in a passing car. Turning back to the door he takes notice of a large, ornate doorbell that he seems to have missed in his irritation. He jams his finger against the bell, hard, and counts to thirty while he holds it. No answer.

Then he counts to ten as he pokes at the button. Even harder this time. When that fails to get a response, Sherlock raps the door again with the side of his gloved fist and almost falls face first through it when it opens with a dramatic creak.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.” A somewhat amused man’s deep Vincent Price-ian voice says brightly.

It seems to Sherlock that it takes him a long time to catch his balance, almost as if everything around him has been slowed down. Once again, he writes it off as a jetlagged intelligent mind that has far too little to do the past couple of weeks. For an instant, he flashes back to Greg Lestrade’s tiny office and wonders if the DI has found most of the parts to his name plaque yet.

Sherlock, being very much himself regardless of the ensuing craziness, shakes off the slight twinge of homesickness. He has many questions he’d like answers to, but as he is wont to do, he simply goes with the most straightforward one first.

He regards Stephen Strange’s unique wardrobe with a mixture of barely hidden curiosity and even less barely concealed condescension. His eyes travel over the other man, sizing him up; from the shiny toes of his black boots to the white streaks in the hair on his temples.

“I was invited here by a Mr. Strange. I assume you are here to introduce us, though I believe it is too late in the season for fancy dress.” Sherlock makes a big production of dusting himself off and misses the sly grin that passes upon the doctor’s lips at the complete and utter error in Sherlock’s thinking.

Stephen eyes his guest carefully, noting each tell. He decides to ride it out since the man so rudely pounded on his front door. As with Stark, he knows he will eventually get his chance to let him know who is really in control here. “Would you like me to grab your luggage, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock looks around then seems to be surprised to find that he doesn’t have any luggage. “No, I’m not planning on staying in New York for long.”

Stephen is a little disappointed at being unable to show his skills right off, but decides he’s going to have some fun anyway. He gestures towards the staircase and does his best to control the laughter at seeing someone working so hard at being disbelieving. The tails of the Cloak of Levitation point in the same direction; Sherlock seems blind to it.

This is certainly a twist he wasn’t expecting, Stephen thinks to himself. The Great Detective, indeed. How can someone purport to deduce so many otherwise hidden clues when he is willfully ignoring some of the ones in front of his own face?

“Right up the stairs, please.”

Sherlock nods and says nothing, quickly turning away from his inspection of the furniture in the foyer and leading the way up the flight of steps as if it is he who owns the place. Stephen follows, patiently waiting on the detective to open the wrong door. He is a bit baffled, and more than a little impressed, when Sherlock never wavers and leads them right up to the third floor.

“I assume this is where our meeting will take place.” Sherlock walks into the library, green eyes scanning every artifact, every piece of furniture, the seal over the round window, and the shelves crammed with books of every color, age, and size.

Stephen waits, even counts backwards in his head from five. Sherlock doesn’t disappoint him.

“You are Mr. Strange, I presume?” The detective looks up from where he is running his fingers among the spines of the books on one of the shelves.

Stephen wants to make some smart-ass remark about it taking him long enough, but he says nothing, instead busying himself by conjuring up a tea service on the table in front of the sofa where he’d met with Thor earlier.

Casually Sherlock he pulls a volume off a shelf and opens it in his palm. He studies the pages for a moment, closes it, then flips it so he can better look at the binding. “Human skin, is it not?” he queries without looking up, not really needing an answer to his former question.

“It is, and yes, I am.” Stephen agrees as he takes a seat in one of the comfortable chairs.

Just for fun, he stops time, allowing himself a few moments to study the Englishman. There’s something familiar about him, something Stephen can’t quite put his finger on, so he moves past it, for now. He takes in the other man’s bearing, the way he stands, a way in which he seems so easygoing at first glance. Further study, however, shows that Sherlock is surely trained in some form of self-protection; the way he seems to be on the alert constantly, ready to defend himself.

The mage thinks about his own protection, his magic and the axe hanging on the wall in a mirror dimension just beyond this house. He felt it was better not to have such a powerful weapon in plain sight of a man rumored to have blown bullet holes into the walls of his own place out of sheer boredom.

Stephen knows there are many published books about the great Sherlock Holmes, oh yes. One does not travel between dimensions without learning a thing or two; however, he has yet to finish a single one. He prefers, instead, to learn about someone in his own time. He chuckles a little at his own joke, and allows time to resume.

“That was interesting.” Sherlock says softly before slipping the book back onto its place on the shelf. He sits down on the chair across from the doctor and waits for the usual questions.

Stephen merely watches him. He’s dealt with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers enough times to know when a guy is just looking for someone to tell him how great he is. He rests his chin in his hands and waits. The cloak gently floats from his shoulders until it is resting next to him on the sofa, confidently mimicking Stephen’s posture.

For a little while, the library is silent save for a clock chiming the hour downstairs somewhere. At some point before the sun sets, Wong stops by and brings greetings from his family in Hong Kong. They have a short conversation, Stephen introduces Sherlock to his friend, Wong invites him to dinner and then they are alone again.

“Don’t open the refrigerator*?” Sherlock finally breaks the ice.

Stephen laughs this time, glad that out of all the questions Sherlock could have asked, he stuck with that one.

“I wish I had a photograph of the look on your face, Mr. Holmes, but yes, the unaware should stay out of my kitchen. I have a certain affinity for some rather peculiar fare, but don’t worry, Wong is quite a brilliant chef and leaves anything not from this dimension or planet out of most of his recipes.”

Sherlock settles back into the chair and crosses his legs; he will never admit that he’s a bit unsettled by that. “For what purpose was I invited here, to this rather intriguing place?”

“Intriguing, yes,” Stephen says, “yet you are denying any proof of what makes it so.” His voice is so low, it is almost a growl. Once again, he waits patiently, hoping that he chose the right man for the job.

Sherlock is caught out. He is unaccustomed to anyone being able to read him so clearly. There’s a few chilly seconds between them as they each attempt to stare the other down. Like a protective pet, the cloak returns to Stephen’s shoulders.

“This is preposterous.” Sherlock states. “You are ridiculous.” He gestures as Stephen. “Clothes, hair, that little beard.”

“You are preposterous.” Stephen grins back at him, finally beginning to enjoy himself, “This is ridiculous.” He raises one eyebrow and allows the cloak to point for him. “Clothes, that hair. Tell me, who are you pining for so much that you’ve let your own hygiene slip?”

Sherlock’s overly serious expression seems to be about to break, but his attention is torn from Stephen the second someone else walks into the library and somehow, the last question seems to echo from the walls.

“I apologize for barging in, Doctor, Wong said you were here. I believe I left my…” The man’s words simply stop on an inhaled breath. “What are you doing here?”

Everett Ross is standing in the doorway, staring at Sherlock the way a man looks at a ghost. All the blood seems have run out of his face; his cheeks are pale, blue eyes wide, lips parched and mouth slightly open.

Sherlock, unknown to himself, is staring at Everett the way a drowning man surely looks at a life preserver when he’s been out at sea so long he’s forgotten that there is more to the world than just water.

Stephen just watches the entire thing unfold, curious as to how these men know each other. He knows that Holmes often had a companion, a certain Dr. Watson, though he wasn’t aware that they were much more than friends until this moment. It doesn’t take him long, however, to realize that neither one is aware of how the other feels.

This is certainly going to prove to be more interesting than he had intended. He mentally prepares all of the Sanctum Sanctorum’s protective charms because Everett Ross is looking positively dangerous.

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*one other small change: I want Strange to have his unique tastes for the sake of the tastes, not for the balancing of the magic.