The Coffee Shop

Chapter One - Saturday 1st April 2017

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. - Oscar Wilde.

"Sherlock. Coffee and biscuits order for table number 9 - hurry up!" Lestrade barked. Sherlock only glared disdainfully at his friend.

John Watson sat at table 11, situated sensibly at the back. This, for its privacy, was why he had chosen it.

He peered astutely over the top of his morning newspaper at Sherlock. The detective, if you could even still call him that, was carefully, and somewhat foolishly, balancing a tray of the cafe's products on his right hand and a pack of sandwiches in his left. This did not surprise John. In fact, he was reminded suddenly, and quite shockingly, of the colourful hornbill Zazu, from The Lion King. The image was not exactly appealing.

He wasn't sure if the discomfort he felt was guilt, for ending their friendship, or just simply second-hand embarrassment. Nevertheless, he told himself it didn't matter to him, for he had plainly come to this shop to order a latte (it was so cold outside), a biscuit (to satiate his sweet tooth) and then be on his way (he had much to do).

Sherlock's unruly hair and ice blue frenzied eyes were difficult to ignore, however. He coughed.

The music... coming from a small, strong radio, it comforted John. It was jazz, relaxing but also tantalizing. It made for a nice atmosphere to unwind.

Outside, a clap of thunder sounded and John turned to the window just in time to see lighting in the sky. He shivered.

His eyes, of their own accord, returned to the broadsheet he held in his hands. Pictured in colour, a kid at the local comprehensive held a prize, which he had received for his efforts in an art competition. In the photo, the boy was surrounded by what John had to assume were his friends and family. He shut the paper.

"Sherlock!" He yelped in surprise, then looked around a little self-consciously, hoping no-one else had heard his shock. For here was the man he craved, yet despised, standing before him, unruly curls and all.

"I've booked us a taxi."

"Excuse me?"

"Your ears are perfectly functional; you heard me."

John's fingers migrated to his brow, rubbing his temples.

"No, Sherlock. It's not going to work. I came in here to order a coffee. Nothing more," He said, gently, "Nothing less."

Sherlock's smirk faded from his countenance, and after a moment, nodded curtly. He said nothing.

The other man sighed, exhausted. Perhaps John was old, or weary, or both, as the thrill of the game didn't feel like a thrill anymore.

"What do you want?" John asked.

"Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent. He opened his mouth, once, thought on it, then closed it again. There were so many things he wanted to say, but where to begin? And he trusted John Watson, with his life without fail, but with his secrets? A thought like that was disruptive to his equilibrium.

He didn't like it one bit. But he pushed on.

"I want you to come with me," He said, feeling his hackles rising, but repressing the feeling greatly. There was nothing he could do but stare at the other man with his eyebrows raised, like a child, insolent and stubborn.

"Latte for you, John." Lestrade spoke cheerily, handing the army doctor his coffee. He glanced at Sherlock, then did a double take, noting his raised eyebrows and quickened breathing, then cleared his throat.

Lestrade may not have been an expert in deductions, but all his time spent in Sherlock's company was not for nought - he understood Sherlock. Therefore, he was inclined to leave him alone, but as it was his coffee shop, and Sherlock was his employee, he felt no guilt whatsoever in giving the man a nudge and murmuring in a low tone that there were customers to attend to.

Sherlock understood, made a move to escape, and the sandwich he was holding crashed to the floor. This job wasn't complicated, but he complicated it, and composing himself, he lowered himself onto his knee and picked up the sandwich. John watched him, then looked away. He raised the mug of coffee to his lips, wincing when it burned his tongue.

Mycroft, umbrella swinging, entered the café and reflexively Lestrade rolled his eyes. "What are you doing here?" He asked, without a hint of shame, and just for the fun of it, raised his eyebrows, Sherlock-style. Mycroft scoffed.

"I have to check up on Sherlock. Mummy asked it of me, and I wouldn't want to disappoint her. You understand, don't you?" He directed his attention to his brother.

"You're so controlling," Sherlock muttered, under his breath, but Mycroft, none the wiser, did not hear.

"I believe we are table 9?" A couple sitting to the right, a woman and a man, waited expectantly.

Shit. Sherlock moved to the front of the cafe, trying to remember the order, and Lestrade tapped him on the shoulder.

"We'll do it together."

Sherlock satisfied them both with a smile.