Chapter Text
“Half caf no foam three pumps vanilla and two sugar, with extra whipped cream,” the girl, about Sherlock’s age snaps, and then looks up from the mobile she’s glued to, and starts. “Um, please?” she tries again, and gives him what he’s sure she means to be an enticing smile.
It’s not.
“May I have your name?” he asks, and forces a smile because it’s crap, what he’s paid, and he lives off his tips.
Fucking Mycroft. Sherlock does a teeny amount of drugs and his fat, awful brother decides to put his inheritance in trust. He has to wait until he’s twenty-five to see another quid of family money, and that’s six years away.
“Alison,” comes the reply, along with a heavily made up wink and oh yes thank you Alison, a fiver. Sherlock meets her eyes and holds them for a moment and then winks back. Three quid drops into the tip jar alongside the fiver, and Sherlock hears a huffing laugh behind the girl before he whirls away to make her drink.
He packs in the freshly ground beans tightly and twists firmly because if you don’t, theres a mess of grounds and boiling water and Sherlock just bought these shoes, ta very much. He had a particularly fine Sunday morning, tip wise, and decided to treat himself a bit. He was on his feet all bloody day, he might as well be comfortable. He tops the drink-it can hardly be called coffee- with a bit of whip, then looks at the girl, and adds a drop more, and smiles. “Come see me again, yes?” he asks, because good tippers are always welcome. She sighs and nods and pretends she hasn’t just burnt her tongue on her too hot drink as she leaves.
Sherlock turns to the next customer-
And stops.
Because holy God you don’t see that every day. Trim, a bit shorter than Sherlock after his last growth spurt, but well muscled under a tailored suit. He has crinkled, happy blue eyes and more than a touch of grey.
“Hello,” he says, and it’s soft and kind and interesting.
“Hello,” Sherlock answers, just a tiny bit blank.
The man smiles, and his eyes crinkle even more and it’s better. It’s better than anything Sherlock’s seen his whole life. Better than the ocean and an empty chem lab and a full tip jar and anything, ever, ever, ever. The smile tips up, just slightly, and there’s a bit of laughter in his better, better eyes and Sherlock is standing there like an idiot.
“Coffee!” he blurts.
“Coffee?” the man asks, and there’s definitely laughter in his voice now. Idiot.
“Um, yes. You want some?” he asks, like he hasn’t been away to the very best of schools since he was eight years old.
“I do. Want some, that is,” and the man eyes are bloody dancing and Sherlock knows he’s being laughed at but it’s not mean. He knows the difference by now.
“How?” Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, because he has never ever ever ever been this much of an idiot without chemical help. If his fat, awful brother could see him right now, it would be off to rehab again. “Um how do you take it?”
Oh God, he’s blushing now. Brilliant. Just be an idiot Sherlock, I’m sure no one notices.
The man chuckles, and shakes his head. “Black, no sugar. Please.”
“Right. Right I can just-” Sherlock forces himself to stop talking and turns around and reaches for a to-go mug. “You’re not staying?” and he hears how hopeful and stupid he sounds and what is wrong with him? It’s not like he’s never seen a handsome man before. And this man isn’t even gorgeous or remarkable, he’s just... okay. He’s hot. A bit.
“No, not today,” there’s such a smile in the man’s voice, and it’s lovely.
Sherlock pours coffee into the largest to go they have, and hands it over.
“That’s two fifty, Sir,” and the man’s eyebrow goes up at the honorific, and his smile gets even wider.
“Ta,” he says, and hands over a twenty pound note, and walks away.
****
Sherlock takes the next four morning shifts hoping to see The Man.
“Did you put on mascara?” Sally asks. She’s his manager, and it’s the only thing that stops him from throwing a latte in her face. Instead he scowls, and wipes down the frother again, in case He wants something besides black coffee. If He ever shows up again.
Idiot.
The bell to the shop door rings and Sherlock sighs. Sally is greeting the customer, the last of the morning rush thank God because Sherlock wants to sit and eat his feelings in the form of Mrs. Hudson’s blueberry scones in the back, and he’s going to put clotted cream and jam on them and he might-
“Hello.”
Sherlock springs up and shoves Sally out of the way- don’t fire me please but do I hate it here- and stands in front of the register. “Hi. Hello. Welcome to Donovans. Coffee?” Stupid stupid stupid mouth.
Oh. Oh, that’s brilliant. He hasn’t a stupid mouth at all, because the man is laughing quietly, and his teeth are square little white things and his mouth is slightly thin but there’s this soft little patch of blond that he’s missed shaving and stop, stop staring oh God.
“Coffee. Yes.” He’s laughing and it’s sweet.
“I’m Sherlock.”
“Hello Sherlock. I’m John,” the man- John offers.
“Okay,” Sherlock says and stands there.
And John just smiles, and waits for Sherlock to get himself together and stop being ridiculous.
And no one has ever done that before. Just waited for Sherlock to stop thinking and catch up and be normal, and it makes something inside him hurt, just a little. Because he’s nice looking with crinkly blue eyes and he’s patient.
No one is ever patient.
Sherlock shakes himself back into the world, and turns to pour him a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and when John leaves, Sally shakes her head and can’t believe that earned Sherlock a seventeen pound tip.
*****
“Right. Right.” Sherlock looks himself firmly in the dorm room mirror. Mycroft, thank God, is still paying tuition, but he had to give up his flat and move back into the dorms at Oxford. It’s not too terrible, because after three dorm mates they just stopped giving him more, so Sherlock has the place to himself.
He misses having his own kitchen, but he’s not too far from the science wing, and he supposes he’ll make do for a bit longer. “Right. You are not going to turn into an idiot when John shows up. John doesn’t like idiots-” he tells himself firmly, although it seems that John does like idiots, a bit, since he smiles wider when Sherlock babbles all over himself “and you are going to comport yourself with dignity,” he says, drawing his shoulders back “with poise,” he reminds himself.
He returns back to his room and manages to shove himself into a pair of black trousers and looks longingly at his Dolce purple button down. He can’t afford to spill coffee and milk on it, so he shoves it back into his closet and pulls out a green button down that wasn’t two hundred pounds. Fat, awful Mycroft.
He adds a slightly shameful coat of mascara and slips on his shoes. Into battle.
****
John walks in as Sherlock is finishing a double mocha salted diabetes death drink for a soccer mom who is trying to slip her number in with his tip. It’s two pounds, and Sherlock doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes.
Anderson is walking towards the register to take John’s order, and Sherlock hisses sharply. Anderson freezes. Then he looks towards John again and smirks. “That’s hi-”
“Why don’t you go try to put your hand up Sally’s skirt again,” he whispers, and Anderson pales.
Sherlock glides- poised, calm, not even a little bit like an idiot to the register. “Hi John,” he says like a normal person.
“Good morning Sherlock.”
“Yeah, good morning,” Sherlock replies, dreamily. Ugh. Idiot. Why!
But John laughs, so it’s alright. He’s looking particularly shaggable today in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and tan trousers. Sherlock turns to grab him a to go, and John makes a small, disagreeing noise. Almost a tut. Sherlock’s body freezes at the sound.
“No?” He feels stupid, because obviously he’s displeased John, obviously he was being presumptuous. He was always assuming things about people, being so bloody stupid clever. But there was always something he missed. He never won deductions against fat, awful Mycroft.
“It’s alright Sherlock,” John’s voice was gentle, and soft and sweet, and not disappointed at all. “I’m just staying, is all. Maybe a real mug this time?”
Sherlock looks at him again. Hands slightly chapped, probably from excessive washings, good suit but not a city boy, comfortable shoes and no tie. And Sherlock can detect a faint waft of rubbing alcohol. And a sodding lovely bedside manner.
“No patients this morning?” Sherlock asks and John’s surprised look makes Sherlock feel brilliant.
“How on earth did you know I was a doctor?”
So Sherlock tells him, and holds his breath, because why, why would he do that? Why would he bring his freak stuff right out there, for John to see?
“Brilliant,” John announces.
“What?”
“Brilliant. That you can do all that. Extraordinary, simply extraordinary,” John is smiling and shaking his lovely head and Sherlock wants to kiss him.
“You really think so?”
“Oh yes. That’s incredible.”
Sherlock smiles, and waves him over to a table, and when he brings John his cup of black coffee, no sugar, he brings a scone as well. Because no one has ever been as nice as Doctor John.
John stays through morning lull, and two more cups of coffee, and when Sherlock bends over to wipe the tables off after breakfast rush, he catches John staring.
Operation Seduce John begins to form in his head.
John leaves thirty pounds on the table when he forces himself to go.
****
Sherlock’s testicles are never going to forgive him for these trousers, and he knows it twenty minutes into his shift. His shirt is holding on by a prayer and sheer determination, and he has made over seventy quid in tips in the past two hours.
John is late. John has been walking in at seven, every morning, and it’s sodding past nine, and all Sherlock wants to do is peel this stupid outfit off and cry. If he were the crying sort. Which he is not because crying is for idiots.
Twenty minutes and nearly the same amount of customers later, and John finally walks in. He’s wearing a jumper and jeans and he hasn’t shaved. Sherlock has to hold on to the counter to keep himself upright.
No one should look like that in a dowdy jumper. No bloody one.
He gets in line behind a middle aged mum, three children, unhappy marriage, adderall addiction, two Splenda, skim, one pump vanilla. He’s smiling.
God.
“Whipped cream, Miss?” He’s too happy to flirt with her, even if she is a big tipper. At least he doesn’t forget himself entirely and call her Ma’am... they hate that.
“Only if I can lick it off you,” she mutters. Ah, started on the adderall early, then.
“Excuse me?” John’s voice is rough and sharp and commanding and Sherlock straightens up immediately.
All eyes turn towards the counter.
“What?” the woman piffles.
“What the hell did you just say to him?” John snaps.
The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh relax, dressing like that I’m sure he gets it enough,” she tries a wink in Sherlock’s direction, but he’s still frozen.
“I don’t give a sod if he’s naked, you don’t say shite like that,” John hisses.
“He’s just a barista, Christ sakes,” she grumbles. But John is staring her down, and she backs away with a muttered ‘never mind’ and walks out.
“Have a nice day Ma’am!” Sherlock calls after her, because he can move and speak and smile now because John is in front of him and no one defends Sherlock but fat, awful Mycroft and that’s just family obligation. John... John just maybe likes him.
“Thank you,” Sherlock mutters, and his heart fucking stops when John covers his hand with his own.
“You don’t have to take that, Sherlock.”
“Do, a bit,” he mutters, because it’s true. He lives off his tips, and fat, awful Mycroft won’t relent on the money even if he’s clean for the rest of his life.
“Sherlock,” John starts, and suddenly Sherlock wants John to go. He feels so stupid in his awful testicle crushing trousers and his stupid shirt and his idiot job. John’s only being nice because Sherlock is pathetic and pretty and besotted and it’s funny, probably.
So Sherlock shoves a to go cup filled with black coffee and and no sugar and crying is for idiots.
****
Sherlock takes three days vacation and realizes caffeine withdrawal is a real thing. It’s got nothing on cocaine withdrawal but it still brings back unhappy memories and a pounding headache.
He drags himself out of bed and into work on Saturday with enough time to be force fed a sticky bun by Mrs. Hudson, who says he’s looking peaky, and gulp down a truly impressive amount of coffee before morning rush. John’s the eleventh customer in, and Sherlock is in the back getting more scones when he sees him, and Anderson has already given him his to go.
But John catches Sherlock’s eye and a wave of relief comes over his face for the briefest of moments before John finds himself the last open table and plops down.
He nurses his coffee for almost an hour until it slows down, and Sherlock manages stop being ridiculous long enough to bring him a fresh cup and swipe away the cold half full to go cup. “Anderson made that pot, it’s awful,” he shares, and tries his hand at a smile.
“Yours is always better,” John says and returns the smile full stop.
“Well I’d hope so, if I can’t make a proper pot of coffee, I won’t have any hope as a chemist.”
John’s eyes light up. “You’re in uni then?”
“First year. I’m reading chemistry,” Sherlock supplies.
“Oh thank bloody God,” John mutters into his cup.
“Huh?” ‘Don’t say huh say pardon’, fat, awful Mycroft’s voice sounds in his head. It’s echoed by Mummy and Father and Nanny.
Ergh.
“I was a bit worried you were in secondary and that I was a bloody pervert,” John confessed, and then winced.
Sherlock laughed, and then laughed a bit more until he had to sit down because John liked him. He did.
“Well, I can’t say for the pervert bit, but no. I’m nineteen.”
“Oh, I am a bad man,” John tells his cup of coffee.
Sherlock quirked a brow “are you?”
“Oh, God. Go wipe the tables,” he said, but he was smiling, and Sherlock was soaring.
“Yes Doctor John,” because now Sherlock had data. Now Sherlock knew. And now... operation Seduce Doctor John was coming back full swing.
“Watson.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s Doctor Watson,” John corrected, and smiled like sunshine.
“Yes, Doctor Watson,” and a thrill went through Sherlock.
*****
“You’ll make me fat if you keep giving me these scones,” John complains as he lashes on more jam. A great one for strawberry jam, Doctor Watson.
Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. “There’s not any fat on you, Doctor Watson.” Which was true.
“Trust me, there is,” John argues. “Middle age gets to us all.”
“Well I think you look incredibly fit,” Sherlock replies, and smiles when John blushes. He didn’t get to see that blush often, but it always cropped up when he caught John staring at him when he cleaned the tables, or fetched baked goods from the bottom shelf. Or when Sherlock complimented him. Never when he flirted, John just laughed at him then.
“Must be your army days?” Sherlock guesses.
“Bloody incredible. Now how’d you guess that?”
“Your hair’s kept short out of habit, and you go into parade rest when you stand in line,” Sherlock wipes a bit of jam off the table and started when John’s hand took his own.
“You shouldn’t clean up after me Sherlock. I can do it,” John hasn’t let go of his hand.
“I... I don’t mind.” Don’t stutter. Don’t. Oh God. “It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to take care of me,” John insists, and there was something in his eyes that Sherlock can’t even begin to deduce. John flips his hand over, and traces the fresh burn mark from Sally bumping him when he was frothing disgusting almond milk this morning. “Who takes care of you?”
No one. No one took care of him. “I do.”
John clears his throat. “Yeah well. You shouldn’t have to,” and let go of Sherlock’s hand, but not before running a thumb over his wrist. Sherlock’s pulse was frantic.
*****
“Sherlock, it’s getting obscene,” Anderson complains when Sherlock walks into work the next day.
“What are you blathering about?”
“Sally! Sally tell him he can’t come to work like that,” Anderson made a desperate gesture at Sherlock’s trousers. “It’s obscene. You can see his...” Anderson made another gesture.
Sally glances down. And then down again and lingered. Anderson choked and threw a dish towel.
“Relax Anderson, it’s not for her,” Sherlock smirks.
****
“Dirty table, is it?” John muses, voice low.
“Filthy,” Sherlock answers, bending over it a little more. “Absolute animals ate here. No manners. The crumbs John, the crumbs,” Sherlock shakes his head in mock horror.
“You’re killing me, you know that?” John’s voice is rough. “You’re fucking gorgeous and you’re killing me.” It seems that three months of Sherlock’s Operation Seduce Doctor Watson was John’s breaking point.
Three months of quiet snatches of conversation had led to John confessing his army days were over because of a shoulder wound, and his surgery days nearly finished too, until his tremor went away. He had confessed about therapy actually helping, and Sherlock had told him that he couldn’t remember a time in his childhood when he hadn’t seen therapists. Why wasn’t Sherlock talking? Why wasn’t Sherlock shutting up? Why did Sherlock dissect that dead squirrel? Which was already dead, thank you!
Why doesn’t Sherlock have any friends?
They talked about how everyone was dull at university and how Sherlock wanted to quit and couldn’t because then he’d have no place to live.
They spoke about how boring GP and minor surgery was after the bullet wounds and explosions of war.
Sherlock deduced people during lulls and brought John to tears of laughter after each one.
And John had finally broken, after all of it, and Sherlock was abruptly terrified because now it wasn’t some plan or abstract idea or tease. Now it was this brilliant, lovely man looking at Sherlock like he mattered, and no one had done that before.
“Sorry. Sorry Jesus. I thought, but shit sorry. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course not, I’m some forty-eight year old GP and you’re beautiful and young and brilliant. Of course you-”
He is cut off by Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock doesn’t know who was more surprised, John or himself because he doesn’t even remember moving, he truly doesn’t. But there he is and John is all closed mouth surprised for ten seconds.
Sherlock starts to pull away and warm callused lovely hands yank him back and John’s mouth opens and John’s tongue is bitter coffee sweet jam lovely. Sherlock moans as John licks into his mouth and he hears, vaguely Sally shrieking that he is fired and John whispers apologies into his mouth but nothing matters besides the hand in his hair, tugging, and the hand on his hip, warm through his stupidly tight trousers, and the soft, thin lips against his.
John pulls back, looking elated and worried at the same time. “It’s okay, it’s okay love. I’ll take care of you. You don’t need this job if you don’t want it, I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.” Sherlock wants to cry in relief at the words.
Not because he hated his job, which was amusing and tedious by turns- and apparently over. Not even that John was promising him mad things in the heat of it all.
John had him. Warm, brilliant, safe John had him by the hair and the hip and the heart and he wasn’t going to let Sherlock go. He was going to take care of him.
“You have me?” Sherlock whispered.
“Of course. Of course I do,” John promised.