A Case of Mistaken Identity

Head down, knees bent ever so slightly so he doesn't loom over everyone on the crowded street. He's in London, looking for a hotel that he's not completely convinced exists, still in uniform with his hat stuffed under one arm.

Martin feels a drop on his nose and stops for a moment, looking up at the foreboding grey clouds. He's glad he beat the weather here. A shout rises above the murmur of hundreds of conversations: "Sherlock!" It's a man's voice, slightly desperate and very angry. "Sherlock!" Closer this time. Martin looks around for this Sherlock person when all of a sudden, he's run into from behind. He twists around instinctively, and there, in front of him, is a man with very wide eyes and a worry-worn face. "It's you."
-X-
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock says. John's missed that voice so much, but it sounds slightly off. He has a blank look on his face- and it's definitely his face. He's cut his hair short and dyed it a slightly unnerving shade of ginger, and is acting a perfect self-concsious, trying-to-be-in-control-and-failing aeroplane pilot. Aeroplane pilot?

"Sherlock! What the [here he said something he's not particularly proud of] have you been doing for three yea-"

His eyes cloud a bit. "I- I'm sorry, I really don't have any idea...I'm not who your looking for."

No one could look that much like Sherlock. Even so, Watson's starting to believe him. "Sherlock, I..." he trails off.

He smiles sympathetically. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not who you're looking for."

"Oh my...ugh, I'm so sorry. I meant...I'm sorry." His tongue is stumbling and his face feels like it could catch fire.

"It's fine. Really. I just...have one of those faces." The man's face scrunches a bit at that last statement.

"No, you don't." John says.

"No, I really don't." The man's watch makes an altogether too chipper beeping sound, and he looks down at it, flustered. "Listen," he says, before John can walk away. "I really hope you find who you're looking for."

John smiles grudgingly. "So do I."
-X-
Martin watches the man go. He feels awful, that must have been so embarrassing. After a second of people swirling around him, he begins to shuffle on his way again, pulling out his phone to double-check the address of the hotel.

"You! With the...hat!" He turns. A man with a hat pulled low over his face is standing in front of him, panting. "Did you see a man: short, blonde, awful jumper?"

"Erm, yeah, he went- holy!"

The man's taken off his hat to run a hand through damp, dark curls, but that's not the amazing part. This man is...is...he's Martin Crieff 2.0! Martin's features that seem to defy proportion are elegant on him, and instead of bending slightly to avoid drawing attention to his height, this man is straight and tall and somewhat like a column, commanding the eye. He's got a better complexion, better hair that doesn't make him look like the Olympic torch, and a general aura of self-assured smugness.

"Who are you?" The man growls dangerously. Good gosh, he's even got Martin's voice, if it were sanded smooth and dipped in chocolate. "You must be the one Moriarty-"

"No! I- I don't know anything- er, he went that way!"

The man's eyes, almost identical to Martin's in shape and colour, flick over him. "Hm. You're telling the truth. Aeroplane pilot. Poor company, is it just one jet?" He takes Martin's hat away and inspects it. "Do they even pay you?"

Martin's blushing bright red. "Give me that!" He snatches away the hat and jams it on his head. "How did you know-"

He's interrupted by the sound of a gun. "Sherlock Holmes!" A voice shouts in an American accent.

The not-Martin turns his head to look at the window the bullet's just shattered. "You might want to run," he says calmly, then sets off at a sprint, with Martin at his heels.