Chapter Text
The bar is empty at this time of day. Warm sunshine streaks in and mingles with the dim lights as the door swings open to admit one customer.
Luke is polishing a wine glass, but he stops and glances up to take in the new guest.
He knows this person. He’s seen him on the news before, and on the occasional billboard. In the space of a single second, Luke takes in the nervous way the customer glances around the bar, their lingering hand on the door, and their split second decision to walk inside.
Enter Artem Wing: the youngest senior attorney in Stellis, and one with a more than stellar win rate.
Artem fiddles with his hair as he steps inside. It’s short and wavy, but even the dark strand he tucks back fails to detract from the other locks that stick out. They look like they refuse to obey any variety of combs and brushes.
“Hi,” Luke says.
Artem’s gaze flickers to him, his eyes slightly widened like a stray cat caught in headlights.
“Hi,” Artem echoes. He clears his throat. “Are you… open?”
“Yeah,” Luke says, spreading an arm — the one holding the microfiber cloth — at the empty seats. “Come on in.”
Artem looks a little lost, so Luke beckons him over to the bar stools. The stray cat analogy strikes him again, and Luke hides a smile at the thought. He places the wine glass and microfiber cloth down. “First time at Bar L?”
“Yes,” Artem says, gently perching himself atop a bar stool. “I heard about it from a coworker.”
“Oh, really? We always welcome new customers.”
Artem’s posture is still tense, so Luke tries to adopt a friendlier stance. He notes the too-straight back, the way Artem’s fingernails are digging into his palms, and the thick silence between them. Time to act.
Luke gestures to the blackboard behind him. While the food at Bar L is delicious, it is the drinks that stand out. From whiskeys classed under Sentimentality to shots of Boldness and Confidence, there is a reason why so many flock to this place. “Take your time with the menu, all right? I’ll go put on some music.”
Artem nods, and Luke heads to the back of the bar where the speakers are. With only one customer at the moment, he has a little more leeway with his song choices, but he still has to choose wisely when more people enter later. To be safe, Luke puts on a blues playlist.
When he returns to the bar, Artem is still staring at the blackboard.
“Ready to order?” Luke asks, just to be polite.
Artem’s gaze flicks to him. “Yes.”
“All right.” Luke waits expectantly.
“Just a black coffee, please. Hot.”
Luke blinks. “Just a black coffee?”
Artem pauses, but it seems deliberate. It is a pause full of words yet to be spoken, words that are still being strung into sentences. “Then… is it true? There is a special order?”
And there it was. While it was true that most drinks at Bar L could be classified as special, there was really only one special order on the menu. Luke fights the urge to grin and gives Artem a quick nod. “Yeah. Your coworker told you about that, too?”
Artem hesitates again, perhaps afraid to be thought a fool if the stories were only rumors. Fortunately for him, Luke knows that such rumors are oceans away from falsity.
“I heard there was a detective bartender here,” Artem says.
This time, Luke smiles. “You’re speaking to him right now.”
“Oh.” Artem blinks. “So is it true? Can you…?”
“Yeah.” Luke nods enthusiastically. “I solve cases and make drinks.”
It is an oversimplification, but it is often easier to let his actions rather than his words explain.
Artem’s brow creases slightly. Luke gets that a lot, the surprise that someone so young — or someone working in a bar, for that matter — can be a renowned detective. But rather than point that out, Artem does him the courtesy of changing the subject. “I don’t exactly have the highest alcohol tolerance,” he begins, “so I can always order a coffee if you’re not able…” he trails off when Luke shakes his head.
“I can also do mocktails,” Luke says. “Do you have any allergies, or are you leaving it up to me?”
“Oh,” Artem says again. “No allergies, thank you for asking. Then — surprise me. Please.”
The special order it was, then, although perhaps it is a misnomer to call it a special order. It tended to change with each customer, after all.
The cogs begin to turn in Luke’s head. For someone like Artem… maybe something not too intense? Being a lawyer sounded like a rough job.
“Give me a minute,” Luke tells Artem, and then dives right into preparing the drink.
Special orders were special because they gave him the chance to mix a unique drink for each customer, usually with a suitable Feeling after he’d casually analyzed them. Luke loves the challenge, the opportunity to create something new and exciting. In a way, each customer is a puzzle to solve, and the drink the resulting answer. Regulars often returned for their personalized blends, all of which Luke kept safely memorized in his head.
For Artem, Luke selects a non-alcoholic spirit marked Refreshment, perfect after a long day at work. He mixes that with an equal amount of cold brew coffee under Flavor Enhancement and syrup for Satisfaction. After a moment’s thought, he adds in a drop of orange extract for Confidence.
All of the ingredients go into a Boston shaker along with a number of ice cubes.
“Did you grow up here?” Luke asks, if only to start a conversation.
“Oh — yes.” Artem pauses, like he’s trying to figure out how much to say. “My mother works in the city.”
“Cool.” If his memory served him right, Artem was referring to one of the professors at Stellis University. Luke shakes the drink for fifteen seconds, then pours it into a glass tumbler over a pile of ice cubes. He sets the drink in front of Artem. “Special order for you.”
“Thank you.” Artem picks up the glass and sips it tentatively.
Luke is trying to be subtle about it, but he watches Artem closely — waiting for the reaction, the one customers always had their first time trying the special order.
“Hm.” Artem places the glass back on the countertop. “Coffee.”
Luke grins. “You got it.”
“Hm,” Artem says again, then takes another sip.
Luke studies Artem for another moment, then grabs a cloth to wipe down the counter. He shrugs inwardly.
Some customers were just tough crowds.
At first, Artem thinks nothing of the bartender detective’s mocktail. He tastes coffee and some kind of spirit, as well as a hint of citrus, but he doesn’t know if it truly is anything to write home about.
Then he takes the second sip, and oh.
He’d watched the bartender mix his drink right in front of him, but there must have been something in one of the ingredients because—
It seems to happen in the blink of an eye.
Artem feels like he’s been transported back home, in his loft apartment. A steaming cup of tea is beside him as he browses a new recipe book. Rain patters gently on the windows, tiny luminous gemstones dripping down the glass. If he closes his eyes, he can just picture himself jotting down something on a sticky note — a modification — before pasting it onto the open recipe page.
What was in that drink?
Artem inhales sharply as he refocuses on the bar. The dim lighting brings him back to the present, the blues playlist still continuing softly in the background. “Is this—”
Safe? He’d wanted to ask.
But he had stopped himself, only because asking if drugs were involved seemed like a rude question.
The bartender only pauses in his work, damp rag still loosely held between his fingers. “Hm?”
“What’s… in this?” Artem dares. A question perhaps more bold than he would have preferred, but a touch of boldness was always useful in a lawyer.
Amusement flashes in the bartender’s eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? You watched me mix it.”
But surely there had to be something extra. Not just a non-alcoholic spirit, or coffee, or sugar. Maybe there was something in the orange extract, an additional element dissolved into the syrup.
The bartender smiles. “Would you say I got it right?”
“Got what right?”
“Your drink.”
Artem glances down at his tumbler, still cold to the touch even as his fingertips press against it. “I — I suppose so.”
The bartender’s smile only grows wider. “I’m Sherlock,” he says, tapping the metal name badge pinned to his uniform.
“Your parents must have liked Arthur Conan Doyle,” Artem responds, and to his surprise, the bartender’s smile flickers. He recovers quickly, however, and maintains his relaxed expression.
“It’s actually a stage name,” the bartender says.
“Ah.”
A brief silence falls between them, a silence where Artem takes another sip of his drink. “I’m Artem,” he says, then tries a small joke. “It’s not a stage name.”
Sherlock smiles a close-lipped smile. “I know.” He purses his lips for a second, then clears his throat. “You’re a good lawyer.”
Artem glances up at him in surprise, but the bartender has already gone back to his work. Then again, of course the bartender knew who he was. For such an infamous detective, and one called Sherlock at that, Artem realizes he would not have expected any less. He raises his glass again to drink.
When the bartender finishes wiping down the counter, Artem clears his throat, and the sound seems so loud in the open bar. “May I ask a question?”
“You just did.”
Artem arches a brow, and the bartender only laughs. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He tilts his chin up expectantly. “Ask away.”
“Is… the L short for anything?” Artem gestures to the thick letters spelling out Bar L on the blackboard.
Sherlock snorts softly. “It can be.”
That wasn’t a very straightforward answer at all.
“What is it short for?” Artem hazards. There was just something about the bartender that made him increasingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it was his friendly nature, or the knowledge that they could be intellectual equals.
Perhaps it was the fact that there were identities they both kept hidden, the public persona and the private individual.
Sherlock only pauses for a second, trimmed fingernails drumming gently on the counter. “Limitless,” he finally says. “Just like you.”
Artem’s lips twist wryly. “That’s not true at all.”
“Mm,” Sherlock responds, and it is unclear whether he is referring to the bar’s name or Artem’s own capabilities.
“Everyone has limits,” Artem says.
Is it just the dim lighting, or does a shadow flicker over the bartender’s gaze?
“Some people are not allowed to have limits.” Sherlock tips his head back and adjusts a wine glass hanging above him.
“I know.”
The bartender doesn’t look surprised at that.
“It doesn’t change anything,” Artem adds.
Sherlock only gives him a grim smile, one set apart from the rest of the customer-friendly expressions he seemed to have no trouble putting on.
Artem draws in another breath to speak—
And light streams into the bar as the door opens to let in another customer. Sherlock’s head snaps up, and the previously dark smile morphs into something buttery and sweet. “Welcome back to Bar L. Did you manage to track down your dog?”
Artem swallows his words. With the bartender’s attention diverted, Artem breaks off their conversation and returns to his drink. He finishes it by the time the new customer has placed their order.
When Sherlock returns to the bar, it is only to mix the customer’s drink. Artem senses that the bar is only going to become busier with every additional minute he spends here, so he decides it would be best to take his leave. “When you’re done with that,” he says, “could I have the bill, please?”
Sherlock glances at him as he picks up a shaker. “Yeah, no problem.”
Artem waits patiently, but it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to finish his next drink. Artem hands him his credit card, the exchange is made, and soon he is free to go.
“Thanks for the talk,” Artem says.
Sherlock only nods. “You’re free to return any time.”
With his schedule so full in the coming days, Artem doubts if he’ll be able to revisit the bar in the near future. But he smiles at the bartender anyway, a polite affirmation. “I’ll see.”
The bartender raises his hand in farewell as he leaves.
Some people are not allowed to have limits.
It doesn’t change anything.
When his shift is over, Luke returns to the break room and sits with his head in his hands. Artem was only meant to be another customer, not another reminder of all the trials he’d gone through to get here — nor of all the hardships that are still to come.
That conversation could have gone wrong in so many ways. The famous lawyer had been far more perceptive than Luke had guessed.
Vaguely, he wonders who the coworker was, the one who had introduced Artem to the bar. Had he met them before? Or had they arrived on one of Mr. Cole’s shifts?
Whoever it had been, it didn’t really matter. He’s never using limitless as an answer again, not even as subtle encouragement. The word is too dangerous, too sharp when pointed back at him.
Luke mutters a soft curse under his breath.
He’ll need to be more careful in the future.