The Coffee Shop

Chapter Two - Monday 3rd April, Morning

J

ohn had taken a job as a physical therapist (unlike Sherlock, he could not afford to avoid work) and today was his first day on the job. He needed little training, and fondly remembered Sarah, and her jests at him being over-qualified. He blinked, slowly, tired, and sat in his office. The first patient was not due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, so, deciding upon checking his emails, he used his hand to guide the mouse and open up the browser on his computer.

It was customary for his place of work to have the BBC News website be the first thing you saw when you opened a web page, simply for the employee to keep up to date with the happenings of the UK - John felt a certain comfort in that.

A headline caught his eye immediately. A young boy had gone missing.

He sat in his office, guilt wrapping around him like a vice, though if you had asked him why he felt this way, he could not have provided an answer. He could do nothing but wait for it to go away, and he ached to tell Sherlock the way he always used to. But, the former detective was busy working at Lestrade's café, though, John noted to himself, Sherlock would resolutely drop anything in favour of doing what he loved most - solving and scheming, showing off, unable to resist being clever.

He put his head down between his knees. He felt dizzy, and as a doctor he knew that to prevent fainting, you needed to do this in order to regulate your body and increase circulation to your brain. He felt better after a couple of minutes.

There was a knock on the door.

"Doctor Watson, is it? Have I got the right room?" An earnest young man's voice called through the silence. John closed his browser, opened up his notes, and swivelled in his chair. "Absolutely. It's nice to meet you..." He checked his notes. "Finn, is it?"

The younger man nodded, and sat down, facing John. "I know I'm a little early..." He spoke, sorrowful. John waved this away. "My legs..." He began, shrugging. "They're all stiff." He looked up, discomfort evident. John softened.

"That's alright. If you could just step up to the medical examination bed there, I'll take a look." He stood up, absentmindedly scratched his head, and guided the other man to the bed. He reached over to the roll of paper attached to the wall and pulled it down, while Finn stepped up and reclined his person.

He felt along his calf muscles, checked his knee reflexes, and discovered the problem. "Have you partaken in any sports at all recently?" He asked.

"Just football. It's tough when the other team players expect so much from you. I'm just the goalie. It's a lot of pressure."

Thunderstruck, John stepped back. His hands shook violently, his knees weakened. He remembered so suddenly the fighting and the war in Afghanistan, all those years ago. Worse, was that he missed it. Worse still, that Sherlock understood this better than anyone. He caught his breath.

"...I understand." He told the patient. "I'm afraid you're going to have to stop practice for a little while, to give your legs time to recover." He remembered Sherlock, and reflexively held himself a little straighter, lifted his chin with something akin to valour. "Doctor's orders."

Finn noticed this, and nodded. He swung his legs around, hopped off the medical bed, and held his hand out.

John looked at him, puzzled.

"To shake," said the younger man.

"Oh!"

They shook hands. John couldn't help but notice Finn's strong grip. He shook off this feeling. It was not professional, or appropriate.

The other man left through the door, and John exhaled. First day on the job - he could pardon his nerves.

He picked up his mobile, then put it down again, then picked it up once more. He looked at the engraving on the back.

Harry Watson

From Clara

XXX

Despite himself, he missed his sister. Close was never a word used to describe the pair; instead, a grudging respect was born between them. He didn't approve of her lifestyle, and she, in turn, did not approve of his. He worried greatly for her health and her proclivity to alcohol.

It was useless trying to explain this to her.

His thoughts were interrupted by another knock on the door. "May I come in?"

"Of course," replied John. He got up, resigned himself to his thoughts, and resolved to get on with the day - the job would not do itself. It was Monday. He was used to it.

* * *

Sunlight, golden and fleeting, filtered through his window, bathing the office in warm light. It was now five o clock, and John found that the day had passed quite quickly, to his surprise. He saved his notes, logged out of the computer, and picked up his coat. He left the building.

It was quite a journey home. He could take the train, a series of complicated buses, or simply get a taxi, if he were so inclined. He decided to walk a little way and see the streets of London in the daylight.

April, at long last.

"Lestrade?!" He stopped short in his tracks. What on earth was Lestrade doing in this part of London? And why, for goodness sake, was there a black car driving alongside the pavement?

"Will you come." He asked, seriously.

"Come?" John repeated.

"With us. Mycroft's in the car."

"...Hang on," John spoke, suspicious, his heart racing a mile a minute. "I thought you resigned from being a detective inspector. To work at the coffee shop."

Lestrade ran a nervous hand through his hair. "This situation is more important than that. Scotland Yard needed Sherlock, and he needs us." Then the man straightened, looking the doctor directly in his eyes, examining him with scrutiny. "It's a case. Will you come?"

John wanted to splutter, to protest or even to shout, but he could not. The truth lay within him, heavy as a stone. He gave in.

"If I must."

"Right. Good. Get in the car. The crime scene is.. well, you'll see."

John slid into the back - Mycroft was in the driver's seat, Lestrade swapped with him so that he occupied the passenger side.

"Are you ready?" Mycroft mused. John shot a questioning look at the back of his head.

"I suppose."

He wanted to talk to them about a great deal of things, but the unfortunate truth was this: he was a man, and men just did not talk about their inner thoughts the way women did. That was how John justified his silence. Torturous though it was, he bore it. What other choice did he have?

"Then let's go." And Lestrade turned on the engine, changed gear and gripped the wheel. Without a moment's hesitation, they drove.