Coffee

On November 9th, John Watson started his job at Coffee Co., the well-to-do business that could be found in the hearts of most respectable (and non-respectable) British high streets up and down the nation.

It was a renown company, and although many complained about the extortionate prices for what was essentially a cup of coffee: the small cafe was always inundated with customers. From parents just popping in for a natter, to bohemian hipsters searching for their next espresso: Coffee Co., was not an entirely bad place to work.

The particular establishment in which John had taken up employment was a small, quaint little place, with lots of amber armchairs seated around tables of murky brown discolouring. Coffee hung in the air like tobacco does a smokers' lounge, and the ever present knowledge that each service user was being ripped off reaped the atmosphere like the plague. The whole place was musty, and wouldn't have been completely out of place in a small bazaar. Incense hung in the air, and on several occasions the owner had been told off for the potent smells. John loved it. But what he loved more was when his favourite customer came in.

When he first started he'd been warned about the Holmes lad. The same age as John, Sherlock stumbled into Coffee Co., at approximately 8:17am every weekday before hopping on the bus to his college. There was no denying the fact that Sherlock was punctual, and there was also no debate to be had in the topic of whether or not he was good looking. Something that John had been reliably informed (by Molly Hooper; Sherlock Holmes admirer and longer,) was true.

With this in mind, on his first shift in the hour that Sherlock usually arrived, John found him in his presence just after he'd handed over a dainty old woman's double shot. He'd looked up, to see that someone who was unmistakably Sherlock had materialised in the doorway.

He was tall, with gangly arms that he hadn't quite grown into. A deep blue scarf hung around his neck, and his hands were adorned with black leather gloves. Dark jeans stood about his legs, and his black jacket was zipped right up to his chin, making his whole torso seem longer than it probably was. From his shoulder hung a laptop bag made from a thick leather, which appeared to be in no way cheap. John's eyes gleamed as he raked the newcomer, trying to disguise a smile at the nature of the customer.

"Good morning, what can I get you today?" John started cheerfully, pulling out a cup from it's holder. However, he hadn't gotten very far before Sherlock inevitably cut across him.

"You know what I want. I order the same thing every morning."

John blinked. His own smile was met with a complete scowl, and for some reason John immediately began to feel as though the gravitational pull where he was standing had increased double fold.

"Really?" he feigned, bringing the cup down to meet the counter. "Well, I think you need to re-jog my memory."

Opposite him, Sherlock clenched his jaw. According to Molly, it was best not to annoy Sherlock before he'd had his morning coffee, because otherwise the grumpy adolescent would slaughter the taunter with every power his caffeine deprived mind could muster. Of course, John chose to ignore this. Every single time.

"You think you're funny." Sherlock stated, and John had to quickly work out whether he was meant to reply.

"On occasion," he reasoned, shrugging. He leant his elbows on the counter and readjusted the pen where it was perched against the cup. "Come on then, give us your name."

If looks could kill, John would have died ten times over. Behind Sherlock, the queue was building at an alarming rate, and impatient customers tapped their feet impatiently off the floor. At the front of the queue however, the two bickering students weren't budging.

"You know my name." Sherlock growled, unimpressed with John's humour.

Yes, I do, John thought bitterly. You've never asked what mine is, though.

The fact of the matter was, that no matter what John tried: Sherlock just wouldn't get the message that he was flirting with him. On several occasions he'd been dangerously close to giving up and just throwing coffee over him for being such an ignorant twerp, but he never did. He was certain, that no matter how short and irritating their conversations were; Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant person. And he wanted to know why.

"I need to write it on the cup," John told him, frowning.

"Sherlock." Came the dry response, and John scrawled the pen across the cup. He then passed it to his coworker, who'd been watching the exchange with pursed lips.

Sherlock nodded curtly, and drifted off towards the collection point.

--

John managed around two minutes of dull customers, before Sherlock was back and glaring more than ever. He held the cup out for John to see, John's handwriting set squarely in his line of sight.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" John quipped, fighting back an uncontrollable grin.

"Shirley." Sherlock spat, slamming the now hot cop angrily on the counter. John raised a perplexed eyebrow. "That's not my name." He added, as though John was incapable of reading.

This was almost too much for John, as he took a step back and pretend horror ran across his face.

"Is it not?" He whispered. "Surely you can't be serious?!"

"I am serious," Sherlock growled, hatred flashing across his face. "And don't call me Shirely, John Watson."

John almost wet himself from laughing as Sherlock stormed from the cafe, taking his purchase with him. However, it did take him a moment to realise that despite Sherlock obvious uninterest in him, he did actually know his name. And his surname, which now John thought about it, was a little bit creepy.

I might continue this, but I also might not. Depends on whether it's wanted or not. So... Yeah. This was terribly punny really, wasn't it? I'll show myself out. - Natalie (sherloco_in_the_coco) x