Chapter Seven

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There's only one thing Sherlock can stare at in that warm café; and it's not the decor.

He sits with his back straight, his lips melted into a mix of impatient and longing, tongue set on his lips with a drink waiting under his chin, settled in between his hands. His leg is splayed into the aisle on the right, and a slight grimace is sent through him when he moves it.

"So," Sherlock says, taking a sip of his earl grey. "Are you going to reveal your country of deployment? Or shall I force it out of you?"

"What?"

"Where you fought. Come on, John, listen. You have ears, use them. You have a brain, interpret my words and respond." Sherlock purses the full of his lips into a rough line, mocking disappointment sparkling in his eyes. "Unless," he adds, "you don't have a brain, which in that case, ignore my previous comments entirely and I will excuse myself to enjoy a lack of conversation with unintelligent human beings-"

"Afghanistan," John says shortly. "I was deployed in Afghanistan."

Sherlock leans forward. "And your leg?"

He pulls his leg in, frowning uncomfortably at the pain, "I'm not entitled to tell you shit."

"I'm buying you fucking tea," he responds. "I think you're entitled to tell me a fair amount."

"Because being a regular person is entitling?"

"No, because I haven't been a regular person for anyone except you," Sherlock says calmly, rolling his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing. Maybe it is the most obvious thing, and the way John almost pushes himself up to walk away gives Sherlock a thrill that stealing has never given him. He's playing a gamble, here, talking to John Watson.

John scoffs and sips his tea, trying to hide the warm flushing his cheeks. "Regular," he whispers. "You don't know the first thing about regular."

"I'm learning, John, I'm learning."

John puts down his tea quite suddenly - it splashes up and onto the table they share. "Do you do this to everyone you meet?"

"Take them on dates?" Sherlock smirks.

"No," John hisses. "Break into their flats, steal vital furniture-"

"The coffee maker is a minor-"

"Shut up, you. Steal vital furniture" - Sherlock scoffs in dissent - "and leave movies that are dumb and stupid and signing some stupid signature that's probably not even your real initials because you want to be cool and mysterious but all you really are is a thief, and-"

Sherlock's voice is a whisper. "You... didn't like the movies?"

"Wh-" John gets halfway through the word before looking at Sherlock, entirely dumbstruck, the syllables not even adding up in his mouth. "The... the..."

"If you want to be angry at me for breaking into your flat, go ahead, but don't be angry about the movies, for God's sakes." Sherlock says it like John is audacious, and he takes a casual sip of his tea.

"Just-" John yells, slamming his fist into the table, "fucking tell me your name!"

The café quiets. The men and women surrounding turn, appalled by the state of events, their lips still open to receive food, and Sherlock anxiously scratches his leg before turning to the people that are staring and gesturing for them to go back to their boring conversations.

The low thrum of vacant talking fills John's head as he turns back to Sherlock, who is staring rather judgementally at him. "Must you know?"

John nods firmly.

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