Chapter Text
In a figurative sense, you had never had a home. You had never had a place where you felt safe, comfortable. Your father could never find a place to settle down in, with somebody to settle down with. He was always moving between women and between houses. So, when he had finally managed to find a woman that he loved, and a home that he felt comfortable in, you were ecstatic. Finally, you could settle down. And settle down you did, for three years. However, everything came crashing down when you applied for college. Your stepmother left you and your father after he was diagnosed with cancer. You went to a local college so that you could stay with your dad for as long as possible.
So, here you stood, behind the counter of a local café, called Hug in a Mug, in which you were employed. You still lived with your father, whom you loved dearly. Though, you feared you wouldn’t be living with him for much longer. You stared down at the counter, waiting for somebody to saunter up to you a demand a cup of piping hot coffee. That's the thing about coffee shops- People walk in and out of coffee shops, ordering the same things, paying, and then continuing onto wherever they were going. They all seemed the same. Yet, they all had names, and complex lives, and families. Each person was their own. Yet, all of the faces blurred together into one little section of the world. Those who went to the coffee shop.
This is why you worked at the coffee shop. You found yourself deducing what people's lives were like. You memorized names, orders. Because people don’t change. They live the same, mundane lives. So why not make a game out of it? You had a head full of coffee orders and worries, and you honestly would not have it any other way. As people filed in and out of the cafe, you grew increasingly more bored. You could feel every passing second, as you stared at the door, waiting for someone else to saunter in. As if somebody had read your thoughts, you hear the bell connected to the door give a small ding, and your head tilted slightly. Tall, 30 some year old man, dark curly hair and eyes like ice. You found this man to be Sherlock Holmes. Not a regular customer, in fact, he had never been there before. No, you recognized this man from the papers. He was popular, often reported solving mysteries that even Detective Investigator Greg Lestrade wasn’t able to. So, why was this genius of a man sauntering into a small coffee shop at 5:30 in the afternoon?
He waltzed up to the counter, his hands folded neatly behind his back, as his gaze flicked from the menu that hung behind your head, to you, “I’ll take a medium caramel latte,” he spoke, his voice ringing clearly throughout the otherwise empty cafe,
“Coming right up, Mr. Holmes,” you replied, as you turned on your heel, taking a mental note of the time of day, and what he ordered as you made the latte. You finished it off with a simple design of a leaf drawn out of creamer, before putting a lid over the beverage, and setting it on the counter, “That will be $3, please.” You announced, though your voice was still soft. However, the detective had already sat the correct amount of money on the counter. He took his drink without so much as a thank you, leaving you slightly dumbfounded, but intrigued. And with that odd event, your day ended. You pulled your apron off of your petite body, and hung it on the wall, before grabbing your belongings and rushing out of the door of the cafe.
You fiddled with your keys, as you unlocked the door to your shared flat with your father. Something seemed off about the atmosphere of the flat. Normally, there would be some sort of soft jazz music playing throughout the house, but today it was eerily silent. “Papa?” You called out, in hope of getting a response, but to no avail. You set your bag down, a wave of unease washing over you as you slowly made your way throughout the flat. Eventually, you happened across your father room, and you knocked on the door, but received no response. With an apprehensive sigh, you gripped the doorknob, and twisted it, pushing the door open.
“Papa…?” your voice barely reached that of a whimper, as your eyes landed on his lifeless, pale body sitting in a pool of his own blood. Your hands trembled as you reached for your mobile phone, and dialed the emergency services number into the keypad, explaining the situation you found yourself in as best as you possibly could. Within 10 minutes, you heard the sounds of sirens outside of the flat complex. You stood with your back against the wall of your father's bedroom, staring at your hands, as you heard voices talking loudly within the small space of his room.
“Miss? Miss!” You heard a voice call, as your head snapped up to meet the eyes of a dark-skinned woman, with eyes that showed intrigue, “Please, come with me,” She finished, as you slowly moved away from your spot against the wall, and followed the woman out of the bedroom. You settled yourself down on the couch, and she drew out a notepad, “My name is Detective Sally Donovan. Now, I need you to tell me what happe-” her phrase was cut short, as two men rushed through the front door of the flat,
“Where is the body?” came the all-too-familiar baritone voice. A voice in which belonged to a Mister Sherlock Holmes, being closely followed by his dear friend John Watson. You heard Donovan let out a groan of frustration, as she mumbled something about a Sherlock being a freak. You rubbed your hands together, staring down at your lap as you continued to process exactly what was happening.
“Ma’am?” you heard somebody behind you, his voice quiet and gentle. You turned your head in his direction, rubbing the knuckles on your right hand with your left, “May I sit down?” his voice was kind, making sure that his voice was soothing rather than intimidating. You nodded your head slowly, though you were still apprehensive as he slowly sat next to you. You recognized this kind, aged man as Doctor John Watson, who investigated with Sherlock. As if on cue, Sherlock approached the couch, his hands folded behind his back as he paced back and forth.
“How was your latte…?” your voice was quiet, as you watched the detective. His eyebrow quirked in surprise, as his head snapped towards you.
“It wasn’t horrible,” he announced after a moment of thinking, as he turned his attention back to pacing, “You lived with your father, for all of your life. You could have moved out several years ago, however, he fell terminally ill and you decided that the ideal situation for him would be to be with his only daughter. Of course, you were open to the idea that his death could occur at any point in time with little to no warning, however, you are still surprised by the fact that he turned up murdered inside of his own bedroom. This added to the fact that there was seemingly no forced entry, and that the wounds were made sporadically, and by several different weapons. Both knives and a blunt instrument were used, meaning that whoever did this didn’t have much time to think about how they were going to kill him,” he paused for a moment, his gaze turning to you with a deducing gaze, “the approximate time of death was 6:15, and you were the only person to see him whatsoever today. However judging by your labored breathing, and the small dribbles of sweat dripping from your forehead still, you walked here. Your shift ended at 5:45, and it is a 40-minute walk from your place of work to here, meaning that there was no way that you could have killed him.” He finished, as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“Great deductions, Mr. Holmes. However, you seem to neglect the fact that a vase over there is broken,” you pointed in the direction of a shattered blue vase in the kitchen, “therefore meaning that there was some kind of struggle, which would explain the multiple bruises on my father's arms and legs. Oh, and there are muddy footprints throughout the flat,” your voice was quiet as you told him this, almost nervous that he would look down on you for calling him out, however, what you did was something that you had never expected from him,
“Very good, Ms. (L/N). Upon further inspection, there seems to be a missing knife from this knife block, and there are pieces of blood on the vase. This leads me to believe that the blunt instrument that he was hit with, was, in fact, the vase.” He nodded his head in your direction, giving you acknowledgment for the deductions. You nodded your head in response, as you crossed your arms. You turned your head slightly, to see John Watson’s eyes flicking between you, and Sherlock, his face showing confusion.
“How did you do that?” John’s voice was quiet as his eyes finally settled on you. You simply shrugged your shoulders in response, the shaking of your hands having ceased a few minutes prior.
“Now, (Y/N). I need you to give me every piece of information you have on your father. Past relationships, his doctor, everything you can.” He demanded, his eyes narrowed at you in concentration. With those words, you began to go into extreme depth of everything that you knew about your father, eventually ending on the last woman that he had been with, Cynthia Rose. Sherlock seemed to be taking mental notes the entire time, as his eyes stayed fixed on you. You felt as if this wasn't going to be the last you saw of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.