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I smiled at the bartender, the mojito was damn good. It was nearing the end of the night and I was one of the last of my friends left, but my stamina was running out. It had been a brilliant social at the tiny club in Soho, my rowing team always packed the dance floor (and occasionally trashed the bar too). Luckily tonight the boys had been exceedingly well-behaved, no brawls at all, and we’d danced til dawn. It was just coming to half four and the cocktail was my last drink before I steeled myself to walk in my heels and take the long bus home. I leaned back on the bar, soaking up the last of the dancing energy and the beat, smiling as I noticed the couples I knew still wrapped up in each other on the dance floor. Right then, let’s leave them to each other and head home by myself I think. I’ve got enough cash left to splurge on a taxi and a long lazy day tomorrow. And dear Lord, this is a good mojito, sharp and sweet, minty-fresh with a little kick, why can’t all bars do it as well as this?
A tall man hitting the bar with a substantial amount of force interrupted me from my mojito-and-other-alcohol-induced reverie. For a second I thought it was Teddy teasing me as usual, but it wasn’t one of my feckless rower mates, too rangy and mature-looking. However, they looked oddly familiar (and it wasn’t just that they were exuberant and more than a little tipsy) so I subtly turned towards them, still sipping, trying to see if I knew them in a nonchalant manner. Note to self: nonchalance is not easy at the end of a night, you probably look like a creepy stalker.
“Shcuse me mate, c’ld yer get me ‘nother pint of your finest?”
Alright, he was drunk, but charmingly so, with a wide grin directed to the bartender, hands planted firmly on the bar to stop him swaying. He was tall and lean, with a mop of curls in disarray, dressed in suit trousers and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up (both very rumpled). And attractive, very. That arse is indecent on such a lean man. Unluckily for him, the bartender did not look impressed at all.
“Sorry sir, but I don’t think you should have another, and I might have to ask you to leave.”
The stranger looked taken aback.
“What? I’m perf’ctly sober!” He turned to me with a smile, all pale face under dim lighting and cheekbones I would kill a Jimmy Choo for. “S’cuse me milady, but am I sober or, or, or, well ‘m not drunk, ‘m I?”.
The act of turning towards me had unbalanced him so much he was swaying quite alarmingly, and at that moment, I suddenly realised.
Oh my God, it’s Benedict Cumberbatch, and he’s completely sozzled.
A very small part of my brain quietly piped up: and it hasn’t made him any less attractive.
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He was still looking at me, quite worried and confused, looking nothing more than a lost boy, and I couldn’t help but take pity on him.
“I’m very sorry but you are” I stated as gently as I could with my voice raised over the bar-kerfuffle “shall we go sit down for a minute?”
I took his hand (Ohmigod Ohmigod holding Benedict Cumberbatch’s hand, holdinghishandholdinghishand. Shut UP brain!) and led him to the seating area where it was a little quieter. He followed quite docilely, somehow folded his long limbs onto the benches, not without a stumble or two, but seeming quite content.
“Did you come here with anyone, friends, a girlfriend? Shall I go get them to take you home?” I was trying to look in his eyes to get his attention but his stare was quite disconcerting.
“Mm y’s, I did, m’friends, b’they’ve all gone home, ‘ll got kids or m’rried, bl’dy boring sods. Hmm ‘m th’rsty...”
And he continued mumbling drunkenly into his shoulder, which was exposing his long gorgeous elegant neck, mmmm. Seriously, he’s drunk, that’s just cruel, perving on the man while he’s incapacitated. I shook myself a little bit, and offered his the rest of my mojito, frankly at this stage it wasn’t going to make much of a difference. (Now, what to do, what to do.) I couldn’t just leave him here, he wasn’t lucid and was ripe to be taken advantage of, I’d wager he had a lot more loose cash than I did in the pockets of his rumpled trousers.I could get him home, enough cash for a taxi, the tabloids would never let it go if he was found like this ...oh bugger why do I feel this need to help people?! Decision made, now just to convince him.
“Right, let’s get you home then, you’re in no state to be out.”
He looked at me entirely befuddled, I think I’d cut off his stream of drunken rambling. I helped him up and shepherded him towards the entrance, stopping just before the toilets.
“Need the loo?” Still confused “Right, in you go then.” I gently pushed him and motioned to the attendant, who was clearly used to making sure inebriated men didn’t pass out and crack their heads on the urinal as Benedict came back unscathed.
“Did you put a jacket in the cloakroom?”
“Y’s, I think so.” And he produced a crumpled ticket (is it a special skill of his, creasing things?) which I gave to the front desk as I ordered the taxi. My cheap jacket was returned WITH AN ARMANI SUIT JACKET (surprisingly unrumpled) which I helped Benedict into. As we went outside it seemed he woke up a little and seemed to realise he was going to get into a taxi with a complete stranger, the confused and uneasy look crept back onto his face. I gently sat us down on the wall (I was not catching him if he swayed over, not in these heels. It was uncanny how similar he looked to that Sherlock scene when he was drugged...)
“Hey, don’t worry, we’ll take the taxi to yours so you get back safely and I’ll go home by myself. Look, it’s okay, I’m a medical student, a paramedic’s aide, and a pathological assistant to the helpless.”
I pulled out the relevant cards from my purse (well the first two anyways, I haven’t got the last one on a business card yet) and they seemed to ease his mind a little. In the better light he was startlingly attractive, even more gorgeous than the photos, with those slanted pale eyes, almost colourless by streetlight, and ginger curls curling into his jacket collar. If I didn’t have a boyfriend...or morals. Quick, snap out of it and help the poor boy, uhm man? Like this, he didn’t look fifteen years older than me, he looked like one of my friends on a bad night out. Clearly, I was a sucker for the helpless ones.
“Driver’s licence, address?” He fumbled a minute and pulled them out his wallet. I frowned at them, memorised the address and pretended to look at the name. “Benedict, is that right?” Using all my paltry acting skills there.
“Yer, bu’ call me Ben. An’ you?”
“Sally, but everyone calls me Fizz.” His smile was completely dazzling, despite the alcohol. It just captured his whole face.
“S’nice to m’t you F’zz.” And no joke, he shook my hand. Most gentlemanly drunk I’d ever met. Luckily the taxi pulled up at that moment and we got in, Benedict’s (always Benedict in my head) ridiculously long and uncoordinated limbs making it more difficult than not. It seemed like the moment I told the driver the address, Benedict passed out, half onto my shoulder, half lolling about. I took pity on him and moved nearer, propping him up with my arm. Not an entirely altruistic move to be frank, I smoothed his curls back from his forehead and listened to his deep breathing as we passed through the London night.
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“Ben, wake up, we’re back at yours.” I gently shook him awake, we’d arrived at a lovely little townhouse in N3. He came awake fuzzily with the dry-mouthed tongue-unsticking of the drunk, eyes unfocused.
“Keys?”
“Hmm?” A lovely deep rumble as I attempted to rouse him. Finally out of the taxi, I didn’t want to resort to a pat-down for his keys (Oh you liar, you’d love to pat him down) but he was too groggy to be cooperative. I managed to coerce him inside the house, plainly but cosily decorated, both of us stumbling a little, I didn’t want to turn the lights on. Thankfully we didn’t have to climb any stairs to get to his sofa, and he happily curled up and went back to sleep.
“No, no Ben, just a few minutes! Here, take your shoes and jacket off, I’ll be back in two ticks, promise.”
With a brief exploration I found his kitchen and brought him a glass of water. I had to stop dead when I reached him again though, he’d clearly taken “remove shoes and jacket” as “strip to boxers”. Lord, what a body, just the wiry strength, and the chest, mmhmmm. He drained the glass in a gulp and settled down again, pulling a blanket over himself and flashing me a boyish grin before falling asleep, still smiling. I wasted a moment just admiring the view before pulling myself together and arranging his long limbs carefully into the recovery position and tucking the blanket in tighter so he couldn’t turn onto his back easily. I slipped a pillow under his head and went on another search trip, returning with a full glass of water and some painkillers, which I placed on the coffee table, a bucket for next to the couch, and a piece of paper and a pen.
“Dear Ben,
I hope you feel better tomorrow morning, and your hangover isn’t too bad. You might not remember me, but it was very nice to meet you, not to worry, you were a complete gentleman and utterly lovely.
Don’t drink so much next time!
Fizz
PS: I think you’re a brilliant actor, keep up the great work!”
I picked his clothes up from the floor (ah, the mystery of the rumpled clothes solved!) and folded them neatly, leaving his keys, wallet and phone next to the note, and just before I let myself out his front door, snapped a photo on my phone. He had half a smile on his perfect cupid’s bow, ruffled curls, and one long bare arm over the blanket, utterly irresistible. The photo captured it perfectly, and I dropped a kiss on his forehead. (Well it would have been criminal not to, what a wasted opportunity!)
Stepping out his door and pulling it firmly closed, I strolled into the summer pre-dawn with my heels tucked under my arm. The Tube would be running soon, I’d be back home in about an hour, slip into bed next to my warm sleeping boyfriend and have a lazy Sunday. Wonderful.
Smiling, I pulled out my phone and tapped a message on the Ravelry 221B forum:
“You will NEVER guess who I just helped home!”