Archive of Our Own

Blue Scarf had been sitting there for three hours. Nearly John's entire shift.

It wasn't even a practical shift. Night shift in October. Hardly anyone came in, aside from the occasional drunken straggler attempting to sober up before returning to their wife and 2.5 children. Until tonight, when the devil apparently decided to test him.

John had prepared three orders of black coffees for Blue Scarf this evening. Including two sugars. Each time, he had smiled, emphasizing the ridiculous curl of his lips and the glittering of his blue-grey eyes, somehow making John feel as though he had been directly sliced into approximately a dozen times.

Not to mention his voice.

In other news, John was apparently a prepubescent girl now, because he had palpably felt his knees weaken each time Blue Scarf muttered his order, accompanied by a distracted thanks.

So yes, admittedly, John had worse experiences serving customers. He never would forget the elderly man who had inexplicably thought the coffee shop was an eye exam center, or the drunken secondary school girl who had vomited pink all over his shirt, causing Mary to howl with laughter for seven days whenever she saw him.

But it was nearing the end of his shift. In a coffee shop that was otherwise deserted.

Aside from Blue Scarf.

Seriously, couldn't he just go home already?

John had an exam tomorrow. A very important, very integral exam that he could not take while exhausted. Uni students were already perpetually tired; no need to heighten that to new extremes. While he was careful about it, John did sometimes manage to escape his shift a half hour early most nights, the shop and street eerily vacant aside from a few passing cabs that he could rarely afford to splurge on. Apparently not tonight.

Ten more minutes until closing.

John was gong to lose his mind.

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, John watched as Blue Scarf's fingers — of course they were slender, of course they'd distracted John as his thoughts delved into something closer to anatomy than microbiology, which was what he should have been dwelling on for that exam — curled around his navy mug, a perfect match to the scarf wrapped firmly around his throat despite lingering here for so long.

He'd been staring on-and-off for awhile now. Not in a potentially concerning stalker manner. Just observing. It was impossible not to be drawn to Blue Scarf when there was no one else in the small shop, aside from the poor taste in decor his manager had chosen. He could only stand to look at tiny candles in oversized wooden lanterns for so long before his mind numbed.

Blue Scarf's mug hit his table with a clink. Incidentally, John's nerves struck their last straw with the same sound.

One glance towards his watch. Nine minutes.

John didn't know his name. There had been no need to ask for it, not when Blue Scarf had been the only person here all night. He did, however, know that Blue Scarf had the uncanny ability to cause John to choke on his breath with one look. Which was precisely what he'd done upon first walking in, the latte John had been handing his only other customer, a brunette girl wearing too many brightly-colored jumpers layered under a faded varsity jacket, almost slipping out of his hands and onto the floor.

She'd smiled at Blue Scarf as she stumbled out, apparently as dazed as John. He didn't smile back.

Best not to look too closely into why he'd considered that a victory.

It could've been something similar to attraction, John having endured his inevitable sexuality crisis back in secondary school and felt confident enough to admit that much. But that confidence was fading rapidly now as every second drew nearer to closing and farther from a night of rest.

At least, that was what John told himself. Though, as he watched Blue Scarf swipe a bit of coffee dripping down his mug and lick it off his finger, he wasn't too certain.

It was completely unrelated that he had to grip tightly onto the edge of the counter, head spinning in a dazzled blur as an array of definitely-not-appropriate thoughts swirled around in his head until he could suck in oxygen to regain some of his balance.

Yeah. Unrelated.

That's believable.

When John chanced looking over again, Blue Scarf's absurdly perfect lips were quirked into a half-smirk, as if he was telepathically aware of his effect on John. Considering the probing effect of his eyes, John couldn't rule that out quite yet.

Eight minutes.

Blue Scarf had been sipping from his last refill for over half an hour. There was no way he had enough left to merit staying for another few minutes. Surely he wouldn't mind if John explained the situation. John's professors often regarded him as profoundly articulate; he could certainly toss out a few select phrases that would have Blue Scarf nodding in understanding as he hurriedly gathered up his belongings, which looked to be a few oddly secretive black files and three different types of pens.

Right. Yes. Going over, speaking to him.

How hard could it be?

All right. Regrettable choice of words.

John took a deep breath. He was being absurd. This was hardly a big deal. And so, with that thought freshly in mind, John straightened his shoulders, tensed his posture, and stepped away from the counter in lieu of moving towards Blue Scarf's table in the far left corner.

He hesitated, suddenly unsure, and suddenly alarmingly close. Blue Scarf didn't look up from the file he was pouring over, lean shoulders masking the words and photographs from John unless he peered around rudely, which might lead to getting knocked unconscious. Not his best idea. John rocked back and forth on the heels of his knockoff black converse, waiting for Blue Scarf to acknowledge his presence.

He didn't.

Frustration clawed at John's chest. He inhaled, preparing himself to clear his throat and end this apparent game already, but Blue Scarf beat him to it.

"No, I'd rather not leave early, thank you."

His low baritone rang out in the deserted coffee shop, overwhelming John with sudden dizziness he blamed on not eating much today. More appealing than the alternative. But it was the first time Blue Scarf had spoken above a murmur, a mere tease of his voice, and hearing it in its full quality was enough to twist anyone into an unrecognizable disaster of a human.

"I—" John tried to speak, he really did, but his tongue had other plans.

Plans that involved Blue Scarf's tongue, actually.

That was definitely not a thought process he could entertain.

Once again, Blue Scarf's lips curved into an infuriating little smirk, and John's dizziness grew much stronger. Wow. He really shouldn't have declined that unfinished toast Mike offered him that morning. Really catching up to him now. "Problem?"

Articulate. John was supposed to be articulate, not this bumbling mess of . . . messiness. Even his thoughts were disastrous now, a mix of poorly repressed yearnings that could lead to a potential restraining order and an insatiable desire to go home and crash into his bed and sleep this off. People never had this effect on John. He must have just been tired.

Which, he realized with relief, he could blame on Blue Scarf, thus disintegrating any mild attraction into nothingness.

John cleared his throat, much more confident when he didn't sound like a choking walrus. "You could say that." Blue Scarf flicked a single brow, still focused on his files, and John breathed in deeply to stifle his exasperation. The customer was always right. Unless it was six minutes until closing at two a.m. and forty percent of John's grade relied on a class the following morning.

"It's almost closing time," John pointed out, his voice far steadier than he felt, creeping exhaustion, intrigue, and annoyance blending together all at once.

"Yes," agreed Blue Scarf, flipping a page in his file with one swift motion. John considered that good luck. There was no way a person could be that devastating and also manage to be graceful. That was not humanly possible. "Almost. Meaning, not quite yet."

John gaped. "It's five minutes!"

"Six, actually."

"I—" John cut himself off again, though this time, he was far from lost in awe. Whatever the opposite of awe was. Right now, he was betting on uncontrollable agitation. "Six," he corrected through gritted teeth. "Are you really planning on staying here for six more minutes just to spite me?"

So much for always maintaining patience with even the most frustrating of customers.

Blue Scarf glanced up, the first time he'd bothered looking at John since being approached. John's irritation briefly faltered, thoughts of piercing silver eyes and sinful lips and sharp cheekbones that cast off shadows from the nearby flickering light of those absurd candles temporarily stalling control over his brain. He didn't smirk this time, and John was grateful, certain that would cause him to do something unlawful. Like drop to his knees.

To scrub floors. Potential coffee spills. Yes, that's it. Yes.

"I don't know," Blue Scarf said breezily. John blinked, having forgotten their conversation, or that he was capable of doing more than staring in wonderment. "Are you planning on letting it spite you?"

John narrowed his eyes. He feared the effect was flawed by his inability to keep his balance without latching onto the back of the empty chair in front of Blue Scarf. "Yes."

There it was, the world-tilting smirk. "Then yes."

The sound of a pin dropping would have echoed in the silent shop at that moment. John paused, before nodding once to himself. "All right." His voice was calm, an impressive contrast from the silver-colored storm in his head as he dropped into the forgotten chair.

Blue Scarf blinked rapidly. There was a tug of endearment in John's chest that he stomped down rather aggressively. Attraction was acceptable. Being endeared, though? Dangerous waters. He'd pass. "What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Blue Scarf didn't answer, and John sighed in faux-disappointment. "Sitting with you."

"I— you're— what?!" he exclaimed, midnight curls shaking along with his head. John was temporarily distracted by the movement, though when pale fingers loosened on the bundle of files, he lowered his gaze.

Quicker than he would've assumed possible, Blue Scarf slammed the file shut, gripping it with hands paler than usual. Not that John knew too much about his usual. "Do you often make a habit of invading people's privacy?" he snapped.

John smiled cheerfully. "Only when they make a habit of dragging out closing time."

Blue Scarf paused, his unwavering stare seeming to cut through John more effectively than any knife could. Though there was nothing malicious in the gaze. Rather, it shifted into something that resembled respect as his lips twitched; this time, into the slightest of smiles, just barely nodding. The first smile John had seen from him in three hours, despite the boy's habit of checking his phone every fifteen minutes and texting back with growing impatience.

Girlfriend troubles, maybe.

Or boyfriend.

John was wishing for the latter. For representation purposes, of course.

"So, whatcha working on?" John asked. When Blue Scarf only furrowed his brows in confusion, he tapped the file — before it was wrenched away from him in a blur. Jaw agape, John looked down at the empty space when the files had been only seconds before. "Well, that's charming."

"It's not any of your business," Blue Scarf muttered, his voice barely audible once again.

The fear in the other boy's eyes, genuine and poorly hidden beneath his indifferent facade, kept John's indignation at bay. "Curiosity taught the cat intense resurrection tactics," he offered.

It wasn't an apology. Not even close. But it did cause Blue Scarf's not-endearing-because-that-was-not-allowed confused furrow of brows to briefly return, before he cracked another grin. It was contagious, and John found himself returning the smile, significantly wider, as Blue Scarf chuckled.

"I don't think that's quite the saying."

"Well, it should be."

Blue Scarf shrugged, and John took that as agreement and another win. Not that this was a game, or a goal, or anything like that. He knew better than to talk too long to customers. His manager had subtly warned against it, explaining the woes of their former barista — a psychology student about John's age who had used her position to seduce every attractive girl who came through the doors until, eventually, she was fired.

Maybe not so subtly, come to think of it.

Not that John was planning on seducing Blue Scarf. Or taking him out to dinner. Or dedicating a troublesome amount of his shifts to making him smile again, assuming John ever saw him after tonight.

The realization of that possibility, that Blue Scarf would never return, was enough to cause the room's colors to fade. Or maybe that was the dimming fire hazard only a few feet away . Whichever it was, apparently it took control of his brain and flattened it to a useless mess, because the next words out of his mouth were words he would regret until his dying day.

"Do you come here often?"

Blue Scarf huffed out a disbelieving laugh. Not the desired reaction. "Oh, for God's sake— how often do you use that line, then? I truly loathe to break it to you, but I believe its appeal was minimized about twenty years ago."

John grimaced. "No, I—I'm not interested in taking you to bed."

"You must have a lot of free time on Friday nights. Your flirting skills are appalling."

"I'm not— no. I was only curious, that's all." At Blue Scarf's doubtful look, John huffed. "I've been working here for a couple months and I've never seen you before."

"Yes, well. A friend of mine boycotted the place for a few months, and I was dragged along for the excitement." John shot him a questioning look, and this time, it was Blue Scarf's turn to sigh as he waved his hand dismissively. "She accused the management of homophobia."

"Ah. Well, that would be unfortunate."

"Hmm?" Silence. Blue Scarf looked up again, eyes narrowing. It was not a threatening sight, but an inquisitive one, and somehow that was much more intimidating to John. "Why is that?"

John blanched. He hadn't meant to lead to this, especially not after his dreadful inquiry, but he couldn't very well abandon the conversation he'd pointedly sought out now. "Me." Two confused blinks from Blue Scarf. John chuckled breathlessly, though it was an uneven, almost nervous sound that had him reconsidering his vendetta against cabs that would take him far from here as fast as possible. "I'm bi."

Blue Scarf didn't blink again, nor did he look away. Or scan John, as he had upon initially meeting him, which had caused John to nearly drop his first mug of black coffee. Slowly, what felt like years later but what must have been less than half a minute, he nodded once. "Imperial or Bart's?"

John's face slackened. "Sorry?"

"Your medical training," Blue Scarf spoke as if John was mentally impaired; as if it should've made sense how he knew that. "Do you study at Imperial or Bart's?"

"I— Bart's, but how—?"

Suddenly, a ringing noise blared from Blue Scarf's mobile. One glance down confirmed it was an alarm, and a look towards his own watch alerted John to closing time. Two o'clock on the dot. Blue Scarf rose from his seat, gathering up his files in one sinewy movement, and damn it, he was graceful, after all.

"Pleasure to meet you, John."

"How do you know my—?"

Blue Scarf chuckled, louder now, and the low sound would rattle around in John's head for the rest of the night. "Your name tag."

"Oh." John coughed, embarrassed. "Right. But— but how could you have possibly known about—?"

"You're not quite as subtle with your attempts to study behind the counter as you believe you are." Blue Scarf nodded towards the aforementioned counter. where John had the habit of hiding textbooks during particularly slow night shifts. "Your textbooks are notably required for medical training, especially those in their third year. That leaves you with two options, though frankly, Bart's was the obvious answer. Balance of probability. Goodnight."

He dashed out of the coffee shop with John staring open-mouthed after him, his navy scarf and long, dark, billowing coat sweeping out from behind him. He hailed a cab on the street corner, visible from one of the many windows, and vanished into darkness before John could so much as remember how to move.

Two things occurred to him, successfully knocking the wind out of his lungs as he locked up three minutes later than he was supposed to.

One: Blue Scarf had not answered his question about whether he came here often; rather, he'd deflected with the explanation about his friend.

Two: John only knew him as Blue Scarf, too enthralled to get his name, let alone his number or which university he attended.

And despite his exam and its impending, world-halting importance, John didn't sleep that night, tossing and turning in his uncomfortable bed as lost opportunities and the impeccable memory of intoxicating, stormy silver eyes whirled around in his head for hours on end.

. . .

John was not obsessed. Mary was being dramatic.

Just because he spent almost every waking moment being reminded of Blue Scarf somehow, from the black coffee that a forty-year-old man ordered to the sky as the sun slowly set, it did not mean he was obsessed. That would be cause for concern, and despite the way Mary's fingers seemed to twitch towards her phone each time he sighed, a clear sign that she was considering phoning a mental health hotline, that was not necessary.

Maybe Blue Scarf intrigued him. A little bit. That was it.

Four night shifts and two desperate calls to Mary at one in the morning later, John was quickly losing hope.

Maybe it had been a one-time visit. Blue Scarf hadn't answered his question about coming here often, which had seemed understandable at the time, considering the disastrous choice of words and timing, but now, felt much more like an omen. He had mentioned his friend's disdain of the place. It wouldn't make much sense for him to come again if his friend had such strong reasoning against it. Tactless, even.

Blue Scarf had seemed fairly tactless.

John was kind of hoping he would continue that trend.

For entirely selfless purposes, of course. It looked like Blue Scarf had been under stress, burying himself in those suspicious files for hours on end. Not to mention how many coffees he'd ordered, or how late he'd stayed before heading home alone.

Did he live alone? Or did he return to a large, comfortable apartment near his unknown university, crawl into bed with a loving girlfriend? Or boyfriend. Musn't forget that possibility. It was the twenty-first century; no need to cling to heteronormativity as a self-defense mechanism any longer. Besides, John had it on good authority that only people with even a little bit of gay in them had such unhealthy addictions to caffeinated drinks. Coffee, certain teas, hot chocolate, energy drinks.

But black coffee, specifically.

With two sugars.

Not that John had filed that away to torture his mind with for the rest of eternity. That might prove Mary's point, might border on obsession. It had been purely coincidental that he'd remembered.

John glanced at the time on his mobile. 11:37 p.m. Mary couldn't complain if he called now, could she? It was early. Well, by his standards. Besides, it wasn't like she was going to be asleep or anything. Mary never slept. He'd reckon that she had a severe case of insomnia, but whenever he broached the subject, she tended to throw objects at him. Last time had been her travel mug. Which, at least it had been empty.

That settled it. She was awake. It couldn't hurt to phone her.

She answered after four of the longest rings of his life. "You better be dying," she groaned. Her voice sounded groggy, muddled, and he checked his service briefly before returning the mobile to his ear.

He cleared his throat. It sounded much too loud in the vacant coffee shop, and he winced. He would be surprised if this place lasted another month before closing permanently. "Does boredom count?"

Silence for several beats. Then, a resigned sigh, along with the rustling of fabric. Her duvet, he'd guess. There was a swallowing sound — water, unless she'd turn back to late-night vodka — followed by another sigh. This one sounded less resigned, more exasperated. "Oh, no." Her voice was entirely blank. "Blue Scarf isn't there, is he?"

John was not blind to her mocking tone, but seeing as the alternative was counting every scratch on every table in the shop one more time, he let it pass. "Must you make everything about him, Mary? I mean, honestly. Maybe I was jut calling to see how you're doing tonight. Ever think of that?"

"John." Her voice was flat. It used to send a tingle down his spine when she'd say his name, no matter how tired or lacking in fondness her tone was, but that had faded long ago. "I was asleep."

John blinked. "You never sleep."

"Actually." He was used to this edge in Mary's voice. She used it when she was genuinely annoyed, when she was trying to prove a point, or about to show someone just how wrong they were. He had a horrible feeling this was a combination of all three. "I do. Here's your evidence: Goodnight! Sleep tight. Don't let the angst-ridden pining bugs bite."

"Mary—"

Dial tone drowned out his protest. He lowered his mobile, resisting the urge to slam it down on the counter with very careful precision. He wasn't angry at her. Himself? Different story. She was right in one sense. He was being absurd, waiting around for a person he'd only met once, only exchanged a few (cripplingly awkward) words with, someone whose name he didn't even know and would likely never know. He needed to let it go, move on with his life before his mental health really did crack.

"Relationship troubles?"

On second thought, crack away, mental health. Crack away.

John snapped his head up, recognizing the low baritone despite only hearing it once before. Sure enough, there stood Blue Scarf, twisting the fabric of his navy scarf between his slender fingers as he eyed John speculatively. John swallowed, his mouth suddenly going dry as shadows danced across angular cheekbones in the questionable lighting he had previously suggested replacing, but now wanted to stay as dim as possible for the rest of his barista career.

Blue Scarf arched his brows delicately, dragging John back into reality. And reality certainly did not include lunging across this regrettable barrier of a counter and kissing him senseless. Not until after having dinner together, at the very least. Not that John was planning on asking him to dinner. Not yet. A drink, maybe.

Not coffee.

Definitely not coffee.

"I believe this is when you're supposed to ask what I'd like to drink," Blue Scarf reminded him dryly.

"Oh! Right, yes. Of course. I knew that." A beat passed. John was staring. Oh, God, he was staring. Blue Scarf really needed to quit fiddling with that scarf, because his fingers were distracting and what kind of person even had fingers that attractive, anyway? It was unlawful. John coughed, noticing the growing concern in those eyes staring so intently at him. Flecks of sky blue at such a close distance, grayer from afar. Good to know.

John really needed to get a grip on his mid-life crisis. He was only nineteen, for Christ's sake.

"Black coffee, two sugars?" John asked, not bothering with the casualties. Though, judging by the flash of alarm in those blue-grey-ridiculously-lovely eyes, maybe that was not his best idea.

"You remembered?"

John froze, hand already outstretched to the damnable coffee. He was unsure how much time passed. Seconds felt like hours, but eventually, he did manage to remember how to use his bodily functions, pouring with more carefulness than usual to avoid spilling a drop. No need to draw attention to the shaking state of his hands. Nerves. Since when did he get nervous? "You ordered it enough times that night."

"Isn't it against company policy to openly critique a customer's drinking habits?"

"It's also against company policy to sit down with customers." At least his voice was steady. He handed the mug to the other boy — blue, exactly the color of his scarf, starkly contrasting with the pallor of his skin. Which was a coincidence, obviously. John's eyes were drawn to Blue Scarf's fingers as they curled around the cup. There was some sort of stain near his fingernails, but he drew back before John could pinpoint it.

"Oh, wow." Blue Scarf's voice was flat, dripping with sarcasm. He wasn't meeting John's eyes tonight, which was more unsettling than it should've been. Plenty of customers forewent eye contact. He needed to watch himself or he would prove Mary's analysis. "A rebellious barista. Fascinating. And how else do you rebel in your free time? Motorcycles? Stealing candy from children? Drinking from concerning flasks during exams?"

"I stumbled over my shoelaces and almost fell into the casket during a funeral last year."

Blue Scarf blinked in rapid succession. John stared back, trying desperately to avoid shuddering over the memory, when suddenly, that low chuckle that may or may not have been haunting his thoughts for days rang out, Blue Scarf shaking his head as he stared down at his drink. "Terrible. Did no one ever teach you how to tie your laces?"

"What makes you think it wasn't intentional, hmm?"

He snorted, the indelicate noise somehow more endearing than his — horribly unfair — gracefulness. He shook his head once more, before finally raising his gaze, sharp eyes piercing through John's until the rest of the room appeared to blur slightly. "As I said: fascinating."

Before John was given time to process that, Blue Scarf had already drifted to his usual table in the far left corner, almost hidden from view from the counter. John watched the swish of his long coat as he settled in, unable to regard it as anything but a bit melodramatic, something he would anticipate more from a cheesy vampire film than a university student in a local coffee shop.

Before John could dwell too hard on Blue Scarf's pale skin and swooshing coat and habit for coming out late at night, he was distracted by those same files from before. Well, they seemed the same, aside from the fact that there were only two now, rather than three. He watched as Blue Scarf paged through the file on the top, drawing his lower lip into his mouth as his inky curls fanned across the expanse of his forehead.

It didn't seem education-related. Not the sort of homework John had ever seen before, at least, and he liked to believe he was a bit of an expert in that department, considering the growing pile of assignments currently earning residency rights on his desk back in his tiny flat.

And Blue Scarf had been protective over the files, hadn't he? Shielding them with his body when John risked a glance last time was taking things a bit far.

No student was that protective over their ecology essay, or whatever. Not that Blue Scarf seemed the type to study ecology. Psychology, maybe? He was easily the most perceptive person John had ever met, though rather than feeling unnerved by his rapier analysis, John found himself fascinated.

But not obsessed.

Clearly not.

"Do feel free to explain why you're staring."

John blanched. His immediate instinct was leaping out the window, but considering the cab recklessly serving near the entrance, that would guarantee certain death. As he observed the deep brown curls falling delicately into the boy's eyes, ridiculous lips curved into a smile with the left corner of his lips edged upward, a perpetual smirk John never saw him without, that was suddenly a desirable option.

"In your own time." When John didn't answer, Blue Scarf exhaled in exasperation, leveling a severing scowl as he peered through a curtain of dark eyelashes. "But quite quickly," he added pointedly.

The color returned to John's whitened features all at once, an embarrassing flush warming his cheeks. He ducked his head, brushing a hand over the back of his neck before clearing his throat. Awkwardly. So awkwardly. "I wasn't staring at you, exactly."

"Charming as ever, John. Charming as ever."

John blinked in rapid succession. Something warm coiled at the base of his spine, the realization that was only the second time his name had ever left Blue Scarf's lips — to John's face, of course, though why would he bother discussing some random barista to anyone else, even in passing? — striking him hard. He swallowed thickly, not quite trusting the evenness of his voice enough to speak yet, instead bobbing his head in vague agreement.

"I was voted most likely to charm my way into a person's head."

"Heart, you mean?"

"No." John shook his head, heaving a deep sigh. "Only head. My efforts to charm people fail so miserably that it's all they can think about."

A chuckle startled from the boy's mouth, eyes flicking up in surprise as his gaze dragged over John. It might've felt appraising if not for the analytical edge to the look, stirring something warm and tangled in the pit of John's stomach. He stared back unblinking, unwilling to break under the heavy scrutiny. Eventually, Blue Scarf relented, straightening his posture as he nodded fractionally, a glint of something akin to respect in his eyes — tonight, the shade resembling the edge of a freshly sharpened knife.

That explained how it was always so cutting.

"That explains so much," Blue Scarf murmured.

John hoped the nearby Londoners were not alarmed by his heart catapulting from his chest and flying into the street. His lips twitched into a half-smile that he fought hard against — though it was a struggle he quickly lost upon noticing Blue Scarf's watchful eye.

"Who's staring now, I wonder?" John mused, pressing his lips together in faux-thought.

Blue Scarf rolled his eyes, tutting in displeasure. "Who's annoying now, I wonder?"

"Hmm. Daleks?"

Silver eyes flashed, dark brows furrowing in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Daleks. You know, like — like from Doctor Who?" When Blue Scarf said nothing, merely blinked faster, John's jaw dropped. "You seriously live in England and you have no idea what Daleks are?"

Blue Scarf sniffed derisively. "Of course I know what they are." He looked down, obviously feigning interest in the papers scattering from the top file. "They're from . . . that thing. Doctor Who."

"You only know that because I said it."

"Has no one informed you that it's quite rude to judge the life choices of someone whose name you don't even know?"

And there was the opportunity. After one quick glance confirming that none of the people dashing around outside were going to duck in, John abandoned his post behind the counter. sliding into the vacant seat across from Blue Scarf. "Then tell me your name so I can judge freely."

As John was beginning to grow used to, the boy's eyes narrowed. There was a glimmer of unabashed suspicion, just for a moment, though he soon relaxed, letting out a defeated breath as he lowered his attention back to his files, waving his fingers out dismissively. "Sherlock Holmes."

There was no life-stopping moment; no dramatic flash of white light or a stampede in his chest. It might have seemed anticlimactic, his actual reaction, compared to what he had anticipated if he'd ever run into Blue Scarf — Sherlock — again to learn his name. Rather than going into sudden cardiac arrest, John felt unusually calm, a soft smile spreading across his lips.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Bit fairytale, isn't it?"

It was, the posh name sounding like it belonged to a work of fiction from the 1800s, the name of a dashing hero who unintentionally wooed the entire female (and male) population, and while John had been unable to miss the opportunity to reference Doctor Who once again, the name exceeded expectations set by Amelia Pond.

Sherlock aimed an impressive glare at him, though per usual, it didn't quite intimidate him. "I see now what you mean by your 'charm.'"

"Oh, Sherlock." The consonants flew from John's tongue naturally, as if he'd spoken the unmistakable name countless times before. Astonishment flashed in those artwork eyes, and John's tongue abruptly weighed much more as he forced down another nervous swallow. "We really have to work on your knowledge of pop culture."

"I don't remember ordering a side of 'pretentious know-it-all' with my coffee."

John hummed in disapproval. "You should have read the fine print on your receipt."

Sherlock's fingertips ghosted over the files. John couldn't entirely stifle the pang of panic in his chest, though it eased as he watched Sherlock absently slide the papers back into the files, his gaze unwavering as it focused on John. "Mind informing me of your returns policy?"

"Nonexistent. Stuck with me and your barely-sweetened coffee for awhile, I'm afraid."

"Pity. I was hoping to exchange you for one of those white chocolate pastries," Sherlock quipped, John's lips parting in affront.

The two black files were soon forgotten by both conversation participants, untouched until closing time hours later.

. . .

John was not staring.

It was observing. Completely different.

Sherlock — who John still had trouble not regarding as Blue Scarf, despite talking to him for over two hours the night before — was pouring over his files once more. He appeared more preoccupied today, hardly glancing at John as he barked out his usual order of black coffee (with two sugars).

His frustration was obvious, eyes narrowed into an impressive glare at the papers, as if they had personally offended him. His fingers jabbed aggressively at the screen of his mobile when he replied to texts, though never without a snarl of annoyance over the shrill alert noise. Approaching him may have been a consideration, but it was one John was gradually growing wary of, silently assessing if the coffee was still warm enough to provide third or second-degree burns if his interruption was disdained.

Maybe second.

Second-degree burns weren't too bad. It could be worth it.

John's tongue darted out to wet his lips, a nervous mannerism he had never quite broken himself of, as he observed Sherlock. Who was apparently a chemistry student at Imperial. Who had an amazing, nearly impossible knack for deducing people down to their very bones, leaving John speechless more than once the evening before. It was fascinating, the most outstanding thing John had ever seen.

And also incredibly attractive.

Another growl of frustration tore from Sherlock's lips, echoing in the otherwise vacant coffee shop, as he shoved one of the files to the other side of the table. John had just made up his mind about going over, maybe offering a free croissant (Did he like croissants? What if he was anti-croissant?) when Sherlock's mobile rang, inspiring a particularly admirable string of incoherent snarling before he answered, three rings later.

"I would be much closer to finding out if you would quit pestering me every five minutes." His velvet baritone was laced with impatience, leaving John to question his sanity when he discovered that, yes, even that was painfully attractive.

He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but it must not have been what Sherlock wanted to hear, judging by the way he hung up, slamming his mobile down so hard that John was genuinely surprised the screen didn't shatter. Before he could look away, piercing eyes — which John had learned last night were flecked with oceanic shades of blue — flickered up.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

All elements of attraction faded at once. John glowered, pressing his palms to his counter as he leaned over a bit, just enough to meet Sherlock's annoyed stare. "Perceptive as you are, I would've thought you'd know I didn't say anything."

"You're staring. It's irritating."

Color crept into John's cheeks, but he fought it down stubbornly, nails digging into the counter to steady his patience. Easier said than done. "Well, maybe if you weren't throwing a tantrum over there, I wouldn't look over to make sure you weren't about to set the place on fire."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock scoffed. "Pyromania doesn't interest me anymore."

John blinked. "Any— anymore?"

"Should it?"

"Oh my God," John muttered. Aggravation gave way to confusion in Sherlock's expression, which may have been endearing if it was not damn infuriating. "You're making me wish I hadn't fallen asleep during those 'stop, drop, and roll' instructions during primary school."

"You stop. You drop. You roll. Hardly a difficult process, even for you people."

John's mouth had already been open, sarcastic retort lovingly prepared, though it was soon wedged in his throat, lips remaining parted for a solid ten seconds before he caught himself. He narrowed his brows, indignation clawing at his chest. "'You people'?" he quoted.

"Yes. You people. As in, not me."

"As in, you think you're superior."

"Obviously."

John huffed, a little humorless sound. "Obviously," he echoed quietly.

He'd recognized that Sherlock had a pretentious streak from their first actual conversation, long before he'd known his name, and while that hadn't been as off-putting as it perhaps should have been, it unsettled him now. He'd never been too fond of arrogance before, ending almost countless relationships with girls in secondary school who would roll their eyes or curl their lip over the tattered state of his shoes or the off-brand of his jumpers.

Though Sherlock wasn't the same, not really. Clearly he was brilliant; brilliant in a way that even the greatest of John's professors could only dream of imitating.

Incidentally, he was also an arsehole.

"Another coffee."

John blinked hard. He had not known it was possible to actually 'blink hard' before this moment, but apparently it was, his eyes seeming to consider rolling out of his sockets and going for a stroll down Central out of sheer surprise. "Um, sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly."

Jaw setting instinctively, the way it always did with maddening customers — though none of those early-morning lawyers had anything on Sherlock Holmes — John turned to prepare the usual mug of black coffee, shaking his head to himself.

Right. So Sherlock was fascinating. Amazing in every way. Exceedingly clever. And also the type of person that John would probably end up punching in the nose someday.

Good to know. Always smart to discover these things early in the relationship. Eases the necessity for counseling later on.

Or a friendship. Or a customer-employee cordial dynamic. Not a relationship. John Watson's relationships were destined to fail, a fact that his sister profusely pointed out during her intoxicated phone calls, and while he could usually handle it with only mild disappointment, he had the feeling that he would be diving in far too deep with this one.

John curled his fingers around the mug, allowing the warmth to spread through his freezing fingertips. Anxiousness tended to make people cold, slow their circulation, of course he bloody knew that, but it was a sensation he was unfamiliar with. Nerves were not John's forte, not even before those terrifying exams that made you reconsider living in the forest and feasting on tree bark for the rest of your days as opposed to graduating uni.

Much too deep already.

Rolling his eyes at himself, John peeled away from the counter, his smacking footsteps suddenly much too loud in the quiet coffee shop as he neared Sherlock's preferred table. Sherlock was immersed in his mobile, fingers dashing across the screen, teeth digging into his lower lip. Trying not to feel stung by the lack of acknowledgment (it didn't even matter), John reached for the empty mug with his spare hand, preparing to set down the fresh one before making the mistake of glancing down.

Corpse.

Or, more specifically, the photo of a corpse scattered in one of Sherlock's black files. The ghastly image of a young redheaded woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, stared back at him. John's breath left him in a humiliating gasp, his grip loosening just enough on the warmer mug to cause it to crash down onto the table. While it fortunately didn't shatter, it did spill, dark liquid leaking across the file next to the one with the image of the dead woman.

Sherlock made an indistinguishable sound, some sort of combination of a gasp and one of his infamous snarls, as he leapt to his feet, gathering up his belongings so quickly that his movements blurred. John stared at him, his mouth agape, shock immediately shifting to horror as he noticed the dark stain on the expensive-looking button-up shirt that had already clung to Sherlock's body like a second skin.

That forest was looking more and more appealing by the second.

"I am—" John's hopeless apologies caught in his throat. He shot a glance towards the nearest window, as if anticipating a cab to blow by so he could throw himself in front of it. No such opportunity arose, however, and he was stuck to stare at Sherlock, resembling a gaping, unstable fish more than a stunned university student.

Apologize. Just apologize.

"You have a photo of a dead woman."

Well, that didn't go as planned.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, though there was a slight, almost quivering twitch of his lips that sent John spiraling into an inexplicable tangle of guilt. "Very well spotted."

He didn't appear remorseful, or even concerned that John had noticed. Not that John's first assumption was: Oh, wow, look! A murderer! anyway, but he hadn't quite anticipated such a level of nonchalance. John coughed, as if that would somehow clear away the cobwebs that had apparently settled in his throat. "Care to elaborate?"

"She's a woman. She's dead. I'm trying to find out who killed her. It's all very obvious, I would've thought you were capable of piecing it together."

John's brain completely stalled. As mentioned, 'murderer' was not his inherent assumption, but 'young detective' wasn't exactly on the list, either. Maybe some kind of criminology project? Did chemistry students have to take courses like that? It sounded more associated with psychology. "I didn't think Imperial offered courses on murder."

Sherlock shook his head, lips twitching just imperceptibly. "No, they're very limited that way." He glanced down, suddenly appearing so shy that John's mind went white. Maybe he should get used to that around Sherlock. "I assist Scotland Yard."

"You . . . what?" The words left John's mouth in barely a breath.

Inexplicably, Sherlock winced, as if preparing himself for a blow. John looked down at his hands, ascertaining that they were not clenched into fists — another regrettable nervous habit, along with flexing his fingers — and blinking in confusion when he saw they were slack. His gaze snapped back up at Sherlock, who was steadily refusing to make eye contact. "More specifically, I assist one of the detective inspectors. They're all strikingly incompetent, of course, but one is humane enough to admit that it's a miracle he was ever awarded a badge."

Doubtfulness overcame John's expression, batting away any hope at impassivity. "Did he really say that?"

"No, those were my words." Sherlock's response sounded absent, a frown tarnishing his ivory features. His eyes, sharp as the edge of the knife they resembled so unmistakably, were flitting quickly across John's face. Analyzing him to his core, John would assume, if he had to wager a guess.

Maybe deductions weren't John's strong suit, but it wasn't rocket science to determine what was going on here. "You're waiting for me to run away screaming, aren't you?"

Sherlock huffed, a little noise of disbelief, though it was too timid to be particularly convincing. "Don't be stupid. Of course I'm not. It doesn't matter to me what you th—"

"Tell me more."

Sherlock's face slackened at once, any trace of defensiveness vanishing as he blinked. If John didn't know any better, he would have thought he was dazed. Which really was stupid — Sherlock wasn't the type to feel dazed, or anything like that. "I'm . . . sorry?"

Per usual, John dropped into the empty seat across from Sherlock at their table, staring expectantly.

Deafening silence lingered for so long that John was beginning to fear he had made the wrong move, shot a little too far up when his feet were firmly rooted to the ground. Before his concern — and nerves, since when did those even exist to him? — could incapacitate him, Sherlock blinked in rapid succession, seeming to drag himself from his own thoughts. "About . . . what I do?"

John frowned, tilting his head. "Um. Yes. If that's all right with you, of course. I don't want to impose, it's just—"

"Just what?"

Sherlock's words were a bit too sharp to appear casual, and while he may have lowered his gaze to the table, chewing the inside of his lip as he seemed to become in awe of the soaking wet coffee stain, his interest remained obvious to John. Curiosity and confusion alike threatened to overwhelm John, but he was careful to repress it, rocking back and forth on the heels of his knockoff converse before daring to speak.

"Amazing." There was that embarrassing breathy tone again, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his honesty as Sherlock's gaze jerked up at once, wonderment flashing across his face, usually so flawlessly composed. "It's amazing. You're already the most perceptive person I've ever met; I can only imagine how you apply that to, you know. Crime-solving."

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. Which John was most certainly not engrossed with. There were limits. "That's not what people normally say."

John's brows drew together. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

A beat passed. Sherlock's stare was unfaltering, but before John could allow the familiar wave of tentativeness to rush over him, a laugh was startled from his lungs. Sherlock blinked in disbelief, but John couldn't stifle his amusement, attention darting down as he shook his head.

"Just — let me clean this up, all right? Maybe get a towel for your file." He nodded towards the offending papers, which continued to drip steadily onto the vinyl flooring. A flush rose to Sherlock's cheeks, the most observant student in the world apparently not noticing that, and John tried extremely hard not to feel enamored of him.

Failed effort.

Maybe he should start getting used to that, as well.

. . .

"You're completely gone on him."

"Would you like a side of 'mind-your-own-business' with that?"

Mary rolled her eyes, her short blonde bob springing with the disapproving shake of her head. "You're getting defensive. That's the first sign that I'm right, you know."

John's fingers flexed at his sides, another unwarranted piece of evidence that Mary wasn't far off. He studiously ignored that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Concern washed over Mary's face, but he couldn't shake the impression that it wasn't entirely genuine. Probably from the smile she was trying — and failing desperately — to mask. "Denial. You really are hopeless, aren't you?" John didn't respond, swirling his straw around the hot cocoa he'd ordered from Sarah Sawyer, the barista working the day shift. Mary sighed. "Okay. I accept your disastrous fate. So, shall we plan a spring wedding, or would you prefer to speed it along, get hitched during Christmas?"

"Shut up," John said, popping the consonant.

"I'm sure we could book you two a flight to Las Vegas. I mean, it may be pricy, but if that shirt of his really was a Dolce and Gabbana, he could probably cover it."

"Suddenly remembering why I refuse to spend time with you."

"Because you're hopelessly infatuated with the boy in the blue scarf?" Before John could respond, scathing retorts already on the tip of his tongue, Mary clasped her hands together excitedly, beaming. "The Boy in the Blue Scarf!  That would make an amazing book title."

"You don't write."

"I meant for the poetry I'm sure you've started composing about him."

Without dignifying that with a response, John flicked an empty paper packet of sugar at her. She let out a sharp yelp, startling several university students who resembled zombies more than humans surrounding them. John flashed an apologetic smile, but Mary didn't bother with the niceties, reaching across the table and smacking his arm. Hard. "How dare you! You know it's true."

"I'm ignoring you."

"How do you describe his skin? Porcelain? Ivory? Steel?"

"There are so many people in this world I'd rather be talking to right now."

"What about his lips? Ooh, I bet you use the word 'alluring.' Probably more than once. Actually, I think you probably write entire stanzas with that word about his lips."

"Any amount of money to end this conversation."

"What about knees? Have you paid attention to his knees?"

John dragged a hand over his face, pointedly ignoring the warmth he could feel flushed across his skin. "Mary. You are one of my favorite people in this world. I would do anything for you."

As confused as she appeared, she always seemed relatively flattered. A gentle smile crossed her features that, while quite pretty, no longer sent John's heart skyrocketing at an alarming pace. He wondered vaguely if he should feel relieved or concerned about that. "You're so sweet, John. I really appreciate—"

"But if you don't stop talking right this minute, I am going to put you in a box and ship you to Dublin."

Her jaw dropped, all traces of happiness vanishing immediately. Soon, she scowled, setting her coffee mug down with much more force than necessary. "I sympathize with the pressure you're under, John. Really, I do. After the incident with that barista who was fired for seducing the entire female population, I can understand why you're worried about the potential consequences of falling in—"

"Okay!" John blurted quickly. A couple sitting close by watched them with mild suspicious, obviously able to overhear their conversation. The flush in John's cheeks darkened as he dropped his gaze, downing the rest of his cocoa in one impressive gulp. "I'm really, really certain I don't want to know how you were planning on ending that sentence."

Mary looked around, finally seeming to catch the hint. She leaned closer, lowering her voice, as if that would somehow lessen his burning mortification. "Whether it's falling in love or into bed, I don't see any prob—"

Acting on sheer impulse and desperation at its finest, John plucked up the remainder of Mary's sugar cookie, pushing it into her agape mouth. She gasped, a few crumbs falling off her chin as she stared at him in horror. Though her shock shifted into a frightening calm fast enough, and she chewed and swallowed carefully before daring to speak. "I am going to break into your tiny flat. I am going to incinerate all of your jumpers. And then, I will asphyxiate you."

He sighed wistfully. "Promises, promises."

"John."

Startled by the sudden somberness of her tone, John met her eyes. There was something inexplicably sad about her. "I've known you since secondary school." John resisted the urge to point out that she was stating the obvious. Sherlock seemed to be rubbing off on him already. "I've watched you pursue girls, boys, and then I've watched you self-sabotage the entire situation whenever it started to work out."

John's lips curved into a smile, unintentionally bitter. "You really do know how to brighten up my afternoons, Mary."

"I understand why you did it. Even with me." There was a knowing glint in her eyes, an awareness of the unspoken that caused John's hardened smile to fracture at once. "But don't do it this time, okay?" she said softly. "Maybe this is all new, and maybe you're worried and making up excuses because you're an idiot and you overthink too much—"

"Cheers."

"But don't bother with the self-destruction just this once. I haven't seen you genuinely smile while talking about someone special since Sarah. Even then, it was— I don't know. Different, somehow." Panic splintered in John's chest over her sincerity. And accuracy. Seeming to sense that he was pulling away, Mary softened, flicking the sugar packet back towards him. "Instead of screwing up, screw him. Simple."

"It's a miracle you never decided to pursue motivational speaking," John said dryly.

"I'll leave the fancy words to you, thanks."

. . .

Rain continued pounding against the glass windows of the coffee shop. John continued beating on a dead horse with a cracking stick.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home? I wouldn't mind covering for you."

Mary gave John a skeptical look. He didn't think he could blame her, not really. It was the third time he had not-so-subtly attempted to kick her out of the coffee shop, and she'd declined his kind offers each time. If he didn't know any better, it would almost seem like she wanted to work. That, or quite possibly make his life a living hell. "I am now upgrading my calm no to a significantly less calm hell no."

John made a face. Perhaps he was behaving irrationally, but he couldn't be blamed. Not when Sherlock could walk in at any minute. He'd started subconsciously looking forward to their nights together — which was not half as blasphemous as that sounded — and he didn't exactly want to share that. Even if he may have brought this on himself by calling Mary so many nights in a row while waiting for him.

"Don't you want to sleep? As a doctor-in-training, I think it's necessary to remind you that sleep is incredibly important. Keeps you from becoming delusional. Getting into car accidents. Walking into walls. Being abducted by Cybermen. That sort of thing."

"For the sake of humoring you, I'm going to pretend I'm not a nurse-in-training to save your dignity." Mary's voice was sharpening now, and John repressed a wince. For her sunshiny persona, she could turn remarkably frosty. "I slept all day. Also, I take cabs. And Cybermen are fictional!"

John pointed towards her, black plastic straw in hand. "That's what they want you to think."

"I'm grateful my standards for men are so much higher now."

Before John could respond, bells chimed at the entrance. It was more shrill than melodious, the rusting bells resembling something you were likelier to see at a mortuary than the North Pole, but none of that mattered as soon as he set his sights on the person walking beneath them.

"Hot damn," Mary whispered. "Where do I get one?"

John elbowed her, heat engulfing his cheeks. Sherlock chose the wrong moment to look up, brows contracting slightly as he noticed the flush. An array of increasingly unrealistic excuses passed through John's thoughts, but before any could regrettably escape, his gaze slid over to Mary. It locked on her with a startling intensity, the expression John began silently naming his Deduction Face coming over his features, before hardening into ice.

Well. That was unsettling.

John felt Mary's confused stare, burning holes into the side of his head, but he couldn't bring himself to look over at her. words jumbled up in his head, the sight of Sherlock Holmes with raindrops scattering in his tangle of midnight curls not one he believed he would ever be mentally prepared for.

Right. Maybe he was a little bit lost on him, after all.

"Go brew a new pot of coffee," he snipped under his breath at Mary.

She glowered. "Why me?"

"Because I'm not letting you say a single thing I know you're thinking to his face," he hissed. Mary gaped, clearly prepared to make him regret the day he was born. Quickly, John latched onto her shoulders, nudging her towards the coffee machines. He let out a breath he was unaware he was holding when she complied, albeit reluctantly, his stare naturally drawn back towards Sherlock's lingering figure once he could breathe.

Their eyes locked. Only for a split second. Only long enough for John to endure just how it felt when that silver glint of a knife was driven through a person.

Something was wrong.

Clearly, Sherlock would add, condescension dripping off his low voice. And maybe John needed help, after all; hearing someone else's voice inside your head rarely an optimistic sign.

Sherlock had slid into his usual seat, casually dropping a handful of files onto the table. It almost seemed like he was intentionally avoiding looking towards John as he retrieved all the important papers from the files, scattering them across the table as he shrugged off his thick navy Belstaff. It piled around him, forming some sort of blanket around his torso, and despite his growing unease, John's lips quirked into a small smile. He almost looked . . . innocent.

Despite the worried furrow of his dark brows.

John wondered what could have possibly upset Sherlock. He seemed somewhat untouchable. Nothing ever phased him, and he appeared to pride himself on that. But something had unnerved him when he'd first stepped into the coffee shop.

John tossed a curious glance towards Mary. Maybe it was the new company? John had never seen Sherlock around other people before. He could have social anxiety. It was common enough. Mary herself had struggled with it for years during secondary school, and John wasn't completely unfamiliar with the sensation, either.

Right. That was probably the issue. Sherlock didn't like new people. That could be why he only came into the coffee shop during the slowest period. Avoidance of humanity. That was fine. It was all fine.

Maybe John's presence would be comforting to him, then.

Hesitant, like approaching a wounded deer, John took a few steps towards Sherlock's table. He was still over two feet away when Sherlock's head snapped up, piercing gray-blue eyes focusing intently on him. John stalled, fingers curling around the back of a nearby chair as he looked back helplessly. He tried to bring himself to smile, but it was impossible when staring down the full-force of Sherlock's brilliant mind.

"It's good to see you," John said lamely.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into an impressive scowl. "Yes, well. I wish I could say the same." Ignoring the way John's face slackened, Sherlock shifted his attention back to his paperwork. Pale, slim fingers flicked between various pages, but there was something different about him --his breathing was slightly too harsh, not matching the indifferent aura he was attempting to project.

John frowned. This was unlike Sherlock. Not that he entertained the prospect that he was intimately familiar with the many complexities of Sherlock Holmes, but he preferred to believe that he knew enough to realize that there had to be some reason for Sherlock's sudden grouchy behavior. He was always a bit of a dick, but never quite like this. John just couldn't figure out the cause.

He needed Sherlock to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock. Wonderful. He really was in too deep now.

Inhaling deeply, John returned to his place behind the counter. Mary was watching with growing concern, and she tried to wave him over, but he shook his head. Instead, he grabbed a navy blue mug from the collection, filling it with the fresh light roast coffee Mary had just brewed.

Meanwhile, Mary leaned her elbows on the counter, propping her chin up in her palms as she not-so-subtly observed Sherlock. "He's not ugly, I'll give you that," she muttered. "But the attitude. Yeesh. I thought Irene Adler was bad."

"Who?"

"Oh, Irene. She worked here, couple months before you. She was the one who tried to seduce the entire female population of London." Mary paused, making a face. "Myself included."

John's eyebrows shot up at that. He had known the story, of course, but never the name behind the legend. "Did it work?" he asked, amusement flickering across his expression. Mary didn't answer, only glaring at him with surprising fierceness. John put his hands up in surrender, only lowering them once she gave him a stern nod of approval.

Must be a touchy subject.

Making a mental note to interrogate Mary about Irene Adler at a later date, he leaned over her in order to grasp the two necessary white sugar packets. She barely acknowledged his hovering presence over her, too preoccupied with twiddling her mobile between her fingers as she watched Sherlock -- and, speak of the devil, Sherlock seemed more aware of John and Mary's close proximity than either John or Mary.

Oh.

Oh.

Well, that was just rubbish.

It was nothing more than a ridiculous theory, John knew. He was certainly not Scotland Yard's only consulting detective, like Sherlock, and his deduction capabilities were likely subpar at best. But he had a reasonable understanding of human nature. And judging by the way Sherlock's porcelain features tightened with disdain as he glanced between John and Mary, jealousy was the root of the problem.

John bit down on his lower lip, trying to keep himself from smiling. He had his concerns about Sherlock's potential sexuality and whether or not he might have someone waiting for him at some cozy flat, but now, his worries were slowly fading. Of course Sherlock wasn't seeing anyone. If he was, he wouldn't come to the same mediocre coffee shop every evening to see John. To talk to him, laugh with him.

And now here John was, talking and laughing with someone else, and his concerns had suddenly become Sherlock's.

As if John could ever be half as fascinated with anyone else.

Ignoring Mary's startled look, John walked briskly towards Sherlock's table, holding the coffee peace offering in both hands. When Sherlock only stared blankly, John offered him a tentative smile. "This is why you came, isn't it?"

"Pardon?"

"The coffee," John clarified.

"Oh. Right." Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter now, squaring his shoulders. He gave a curt nod. "Of course. Yes. Thank you."

"Sure." John set the mug down, careful to avoid disturbing the pile of papers. He was already about to test his luck; possibly damaging important investigative evidence would not make this any easier. "But then again, if you're only coming 'round for the coffee, why did you forget to order a cup before sitting down?"

A beat passed. Sherlock, for the first time, almost seemed off-kilter. It lasted only briefly, but it was enough for John's confidence in his "deduction" to grow. "Distracted. With the case. Obviously."

"Obviously," John echoed, lips twitching. Resisting the urge to beam like a complete moron was becoming significantly difficult.

Sherlock set his jaw. Suddenly, his paperwork had grown significantly more interesting. Of course, John had seen the man's unusual intrigue over corpses before, but this was a new level. "Whatever you're attempting to imply--"

"I'm not implying anything." When Sherlock glanced up, glowering, John flashed him an innocent smile. "Just that you should order quicker next time. You're supposed to pay for something before you sit down."

As John began to turn away, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Speaking of which," he said begrudgingly, "I have yet to pay for the coffee."

John bit back a grin. "On the house." Before Sherlock could respond, John had already flitted behind the counter again, where he could reveal his ridiculously large smile in peace. Theoretically. Aside from the judging stare of one Mary Morstan.

"That's coming out of your tips, you know."

John risked a glimpse over his shoulder, his smile only stretching wider as he noticed Sherlock's pleased sniff at his drink. Black and two sugars, like always. Of course John knew it by heart. Not only was it absurdly simple, well . . . it was Sherlock. John had started inadvertently cataloguing information about him since their first midnight encounter.

"Completely worth it."

. . .

When it came to strange customers dropping by in the middle of the night, John was accustomed to having only one regular. He had started requesting evening shifts in the hopes of spending more time alone with Sherlock. While his sudden shift of attitude -- from disdain over night shifts to inexplicable enthusiasm -- seemed to confuse his supervisor, they began scheduling him frequently enough. It wasn't like anyone else was willing to work until two in the morning.

It wasn't like anyone else was uncontrollably obsessed with Sherlock Holmes.

At least, that was how Mary was describing it. John thought "obsessed" was too harsh of a term. Perhaps he spent almost every waking moment dwelling on Sherlock, the slightest reference towards anything involving the consulting detective sending him into a hurtle of endless thoughts and pining, but that didn't mean he was obsessed. Of course not. John Watson never became obsessed with anyone. Generally, it was the other way around.

Although he was careful to avoid mentioning that to Mary, considering their . . . complex history.

The point remained the same. John was not "obsessed" with Sherlock. No. This was merely an infatuation. Surely it would fade over time. It would have to.

Right?

If there was even the feeblest possibility that Sherlock reciprocated John's growing sentiment, it was fading fast. Three evenings in a row passed without any sign of the infuriating boy, and as the fourth night began dwindling to an end, John felt agitation prickling at him. He had been thoughtless to never ask Sherlock for his mobile number. Sure, the risk had been daunting, but it would have been preferable to this abyss of emotional purgatory.

Had Sherlock found a better cafe to frequent? Had he picked up on John's strange intrigue (not obsession!) with him and fled from the scene of the crime, so to speak? Or had something dire occurred, preventing him from being able to drop in for his usual order? Was he injured due to one of his unbelievable cases, or was he simply avoiding John?

The possibilities were limitless, and yet John was intent on considering each and every one until he went out of his bloody mind.

Only ten minutes remained until closing time. John had already gone through the majority of the closing process, from washing the seemingly endless dishes left from the morning people, to sweeping the floors, to scrubbing down the counters and tables. He was just beginning to put the chairs on top of the tables when the bell chimed, signaling his first customer in hours, and certainly his last customer of the night.

Sherlock.

John nearly dropped the chair, though he righted himself quickly enough. He coughed awkwardly, setting the chair down and curling his fingers around the back of it. "You're late."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, but offered no further clarification.

Rage boiled in John's chest, senseless and immature as it may have been. "You're a bit of an arse, you know that?"

Sherlock blinked in rapid succession. He appeared genuinely surprised for once, and John would have taken joy in the fleeting look of confusion on his face if he wasn't resisting the urge to punch him. Eventually, Sherlock stepped forward, handing John a piece of torn parchment paper. Several digits were scrawled across it in messy navy blue calligraphy. "My number."

Instantly, the air whooshed out of John. He looked unseeingly at the paper, suddenly reconsidering his resentment towards his younger sister's obsession with tarot, oracles, astrology, and the prospect of "manifesting" good things. Maybe there was some truth to all of that nonsense, after all. That was the only feasible explanation.

"Well, that's fantastic timing, isn't it?" John muttered, half-sarcastically.

Sherlock blinked again, tilting his head slightly. "Problem?"

The genuine innocence in his tone was almost enough to set John's anger off once again. He was so ridiculously oblivious, it would have been hilarious if it involved anyone else's inane feelings. "Nothing. No. Of course there's not a problem. You're the customer, you get to come and go as you wish, don't you?" John's voice came out a little too sharp.

"Ah." Recognition flickered across Sherlock's features, much worse than the prior innocence. John clenched his hands. "You're angry with me, is that it?"

"No. Why would I be?"

Rather than answering like an ordinary person, Sherlock hummed. "Frankly dreadful liar. I'll have to keep that in mind. Well." He nodded again, abruptly awkward. "Feel free. To use my number. At any time."

John sighed, all of the fight draining from him in one breath. Staying upset with Sherlock was difficult, he realized. Apparently it was mostly just flaming rage and then exhaustion afterwards. "What the hell does that even--?"

Before he could even finish his question, the bell was chiming shrilly yet again, and Sherlock's shadowed silhouette was darting across the illuminated brick walls across from the cafe. His impractical coat was swaying behind him, making him appear like the protagonist of a cheesy vampire film from the 1950s more than a real person.

Another sigh escaped John. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. How strange. He had been forgetting to set a reminder to lock the shop's door at two o'clock on the dot, too preoccupied with his impression of a young maiden eagerly awaiting her betrothed to appear at her balcony, but maybe he had remembered earlier and it had just slipped his mind.

The door was safely locked, chairs atop tables and floors spotlessly mopped by the time John spared a glance towards his phone. An unknown number stared back at him, but just recognizable enough for John to realize the source.

Signing his name at the end of the text helped a bit, too.

Good to see you, John.
SH

. . .

John was surely going out of his mind. Perhaps Mary had been correct about her initial assumption, and he should begin going back to therapy immediately. But going to therapy meant less time for the evening shifts at the lonely little cafe, and well, then it would be significantly lonelier. So he ignored the buzzing warning signs perpetually going off in his head and decided to allow this to continue, at least for a bit longer.

Maybe it was just an innocent infatuation. Nothing to panic over. He was an adult, for God's sake.

Theoretically.

It was eleven o'clock at night, a bit later than Sherlock usually showed up. But nothing had been "usual" recently, and John was trying not to dwell upon the possibility that the infuriating consulting detective could simply elect to never return. He refused to consider that Sherlock may be stringing him along, like Mary's increasingly concerned lingering stares seemed to suggest. For Sherlock to lead him on, then John would have to care. Romantically.

And he didn't. At all.

Really.

John continued scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot on the counter, ignoring the irritating thrum of the espresso machine. He usually chose to clean it early on weeknights, as his clientele was often limited to Sherlock Holmes, who only drank plain black coffee, therefore rendering the espresso machine quite useless. John used to make himself triple-shots during late shifts when he started, but due to . . . recent changes, he found himself wired without the addition of caffeine.

When the tiny silver bells strung up on the door rang shrilly, John froze mid-scrub. His fingers tightened around the dampened blue rag as he looked up, something in his chest contracting as his eyes locked on Sherlock. 

His dark curls were unruly as ever, falling into his piercing blue-grey eyes with a stubborn persistence that made John want to brush them away for him. His navy scarf was looser than usual around his porcelain throat, and his coat was buttoned almost all the way up to fight against the Autumnal frost. He was lovely, John realized with a start, and it filled him with a crippling despair.

Mary was right. This was a lost cause.

John opened his mouth, but the shrill bells chimed again before he had the chance to say -- whatever he was planning to blurt out. A dark-haired girl rushed in, fingers latching onto Sherlock's arm as she unbuttoned her faux-fur coat with her spare hand. "Sherlock, darling, be a dear and order my usual, won't you?"

Cold dread gripped John's heart. He released the rag, straightening as his gaze flicked between the pair.

The woman was quite pretty. John would've been blind to miss that. She had hair just a shade lighter than Sherlock's, pulled into a delicate bun. She was wearing an expensive-looking faux fur white coat which came down to her knees, and as she finished unbuttoning it, a formfitting black dress was visible beneath, matching the shimmering black heels she adorned. Her blood red lipstick was the cherry on top, no color pun intended.

And John hated her. 

He hated the way she clung to Sherlock's arm, as if she had the right to be there. He hated how she looked like the only other person who could perhaps come close to Sherlock's brightness. He hated her heels and her eye-catching red lipstick that almost looked slightly smudged in the dim overhead lighting. But mostly, John hated the fact that Sherlock didn't appear to regard her with the same dismissive disdain that he offered all other things, including John himself.

"Bold of you to assume I know your usual order," Sherlock said. He offered John a terse nod. "John."

John's answering smile was lined with tension, which only increased as the woman stepped away from Sherlock and approached him instead. She offered him a flirtatious little wave, head tilted. "Hello, dear. Medium americano with an extra shot. Ristretto shots. And extra cream, too. If you don't mind," she added reluctantly.

John flicked a glance towards the espresso machine, finally calming down after its twenty-minute cleaning cycle. He repressed a heavy sigh. So much for closing early tonight. "Fine," he said tightly. "Anything else?"

She arched a brow delicately. "Well, then. Sherlock. You didn't bother informing me that customer service has dropped remarkably since I was here."

Since I was here. Curiosity nagged at John, but it was nothing in comparison to his frustrations over the women's unexpected presence, and quite easy to stifle. He looked at Sherlock, gaze skipping over the woman completely. "Black coffee, two sugars, yes?"

Surprise flickered across Sherlock's pale features. The sight was unsettling; he'd never seen Sherlock appear genuinely surprised before. He nodded. "Yes." 

John was too eager to turn away from the pair, pulling down two forest green mugs. He filled one with light roast coffee and sugar, and tucked the other into the espresso machine, pulling the long ristretto shots. They were often reserved for flat whites, a specific drink that required the ristretto shots. Some of John's coworkers used the longer shots for their drinks because it was slightly sweeter than regular shots, but he'd reckoned that was knowledge that only dedicated baristas shared.

After adding the extra cream into the woman's drink, John latched onto both mugs and reluctantly headed towards their table. At least there was some modesty in their seating arrangements -- Sherlock on one side, the woman on the other, despite the two open seats next to both of them -- but seeing them together still made something warm and ugly coil in the pit of John's stomach.

He set their drinks down with more force than intended, though neither brunette startled. "Here you go. Anything else I can get you?" His false chipper tone sounded more like the impression of a serial killer than his usual customer service voice. 

Bit not good.

The woman's lips curved into a smirk. Small, but enough to set John's frayed nerves even further on edge. "I said extra cream, dear."

John set his jaw. "Yes?"

"This is not extra. This is . . . moderate, at best." 

Irrational rage boiled in John's chest. He'd had irritating customers before, especially the drunken uni boys who'd stumble into the cafe during late summer nights, and this woman was nowhere near as awful as them. On the surface. But with context, she was the most infuriating person who'd ever stepped foot into this cafe, almost solely because of her unspecified relationship with Sherlock.

Told you that you cared, you idiot, Mary's voice chastised in his head. 

Right. Hearing voices was probably not a positive sign for his fractured sanity. Might want to tone it down a bit.

John inhaled deeply, offering her a small nod. He felt Sherlock's stare, burning a hole into the side of his face, though he didn't dignify it with eye contact. "Just a moment, please," he said politely, offering her a curt nod before heading behind the counter. He pulled down one of the translucent glasses intended for medium-sized iced beverages, snatched the carton of cream out of the fridge, and filled it to the top.

He brought it to the only occupied table, setting it down with an audible clink against the mahogany table, and walked away without missing a beat.

Sherlock's stare seemed to intensify in fire, though John was quickly making an art out of pretending not to notice. John resumed his scrubbing of the insistent countertop, trying to ignore the increased tightening in his chest, as if a wire was wrapping around his body, intent on cutting off all circulation. Everything he had ever read about suffocation in his medical textbooks was coming to the forefront of his mind now, and he was showing all of the signs. 

Sherlock and the woman's chatter, despite being muted, echoed throughout the silence of the cafe. Once John had scrubbed the counter so hard that he could practically see his own reflection, he escaped into the further back of the cafe. 

The dishwasher and cleaning products appeared to be mocking him. Or maybe he was just judging himself and projecting, as Mary often stated that he did.

Mary. Right. Maybe she'd know what to do, then.

John whipped out his mobile, selecting Mary's number and exhaling impatiently as he heard the bland ringing tone. Once. Twice. Thrice. He was beginning to give up when finally, he heard a click. "If the cafe is not burning down, I insist that we resume this conversation at a better time. Such as the morning. You know the morning, don't you, John? When most people have conversations?"

"Neither of us are morning people, Mary. Besides, this is a real emergency."

Mary paused. He heard the faded rustling of her sheets as she presumably sat upright. "What's wrong, John?"

He almost felt guilty for the cataclysmic tone of her voice, but then again, not really. He was not being melodramatic (despite what his conscience insisted). This was dire. "Sherlock just came in with a girl. A girl." 

There was a long, lingering moment of silence. Mary sighed heavily. "Dear God, John Watson, you are bisexual. Just date the both of them. Problem solved."

"No," John said between gritted teeth. "You don't understand. I want . . ." he trailed off, unsure how to conclude that sentence.

He heard a sympathetic hum from the other line. "I know. You want. That is always the issue with emotional context, isn't it? You'll just never be satisfied until you get what you want. I'm sorry, though, but I don't think there's much I can do for you. You know my original suggestion."

Get over it. More or less.

"It's not that simple. He's . . . different." Special. John didn't want to say that. Applying any flattering adjective to Sherlock Holmes made their situation significantly more real. And as long as Sherlock was waltzing in with beautiful girls, John would prefer to avoid that. 

A beat passed. He was nearly certain that Mary would hang up and leave him alone in his misery, but to his surprise, the line didn't cut off. "Tell me about her. The girl you mentioned. Maybe it isn't as bad as you think."

John described her in detail, from the bloodied shade of her lipstick to her flawless bun to the low purr of his voice as she'd ordered the americano. He couldn't keep the resentment out of his voice, and he knew Mary would make fun of him for it later on, but he couldn't bring himself to care quite yet. The silence on the other end of the line seemed to grew tenser and tenser, until John awkwardly trailed off after describing her posh button-up coat in detail.

"Did the americano have an extra shot, by any chance?"

John frowned. "Yeah. Actually, yeah, it did. How'd you know that?"

A deep intake of breath. Worry began to prod at John; it was difficult for anything to bother Mary, even John himself, and he didn't like the sudden turn of events. "Irene Adler."

"What? Irene-- the girl who hit on all the female customers? And you?" he added thoughtlessly.

Mary groaned. More rustling, along with a thunk, possibly her feet hitting the floor of her room. "Yes. The girl who flirted with me. With all of us. She was . . . thoroughly enigmatic, though, and kept her other flirtations with our clientele a nasty little secret from me. You, at least, have nothing to fret over, except for perhaps the fact that our supervisor insisted she was permanently banned and you permitted her to enter the premises."

"I didn't even know who she was!"

"No excuse," trilled Mary. "But other than that, I wouldn't worry. At least not about her dynamic with the boy in the blue scarf." Her obsession with that fancy title for Sherlock normally would've frustrated John, but not now, as relief coursed through him. "Last I checked, she preferred a feminine touch."

"Oh, thank G--"

"Although, then again, what do I know? Perhaps she kept the men a secret, as well."

Just as quickly as it had appeared, John's relief vanished. Frustration clawed at him again. "Thank you for that, Mary. Really, thanks."

"I'm only trying to save you from future pain, John. Even if there's nothing physical between Irene Adler and Scarf Boy, I'd advise keeping your distance. Anyone who associates with Irene is surely just like her."

"And what's that like?"

When she answered, Mary's voice was grim. "Sociopathic."

John narrowed his eyes, about to snip back a halfhearted retort when he heard someone clearing their throat. Not bothering with a farewell, John hung up, spinning around to face the culprit. 

Irene stared innocently. "John . . . Watson, is it?" She pronounced his last name like a slur. "If you have inquiries, you may as well ask me. I am the most reliable source, after all."

"I'm not too sure about that." John scowled. "You aren't allowed back here, this is for employees only. Actually, I don't think you're allowed in the cafe at all. You're a bit infamous, aren't you?"

She smiled coyly. Inexplicably, something about Irene Adler instantly got beneath John's skin. She was too certain of herself, and not in a basic self-confidence manner, but in a way that rivaled even Sherlock's inherent arrogance. Not only that, she appeared equally certain about everybody around her, as well, in a way that also rivaled Sherlock's perpetually knowing behavior. But it was still . . . different from him, in a way that John could not quite pinpoint.

"As are you." She tilted her head. "But you hardly know me, aside from, I presume, your dearest Mary's little opinion of me. Quite irrational for you to be so unpleasant towards me, don't you think? A perfect stranger?"

John masked his expression into impassiveness. "What are you getting at, then?"

She shrugged, graceful in even the simplest movements. Again, John hated her. "Oh, I don't know, John. Perhaps just that it is a bit . . . unusual for you to behave so rashly toward me. Unless you do have an incentive to feel so disgruntled."

"I think you need to leave," John said sharply. 

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?"

The whistling bells chimed, dragging John out of his increasing annoyance. He pushed past Irene, but it was too late -- distantly, through the windows partially fogged from the brisk weather, John could see a tall, dark figure with their shoulders hunched against the chilled wind cross the street. Sherlock was long gone for the evening.

"Well," Irene said slowly, crossing her arms. Her burgundy manicured nails stood out like droplets of blood against her white coat. "Look at us both."

. . . 

12:14
Your coldness last night was highly unnecessary. 
SH

12:18
Quite literally. Even the coffee you served was cold. 
SH

13:38
You never explained how you already had my number

13:39
I know people. 
SH

13:46
People like Irene Adler?
Seen 13:47

. . . 

Waking up to angry text messages from Sherlock Holmes was not John's ideal way to awaken. He'd also slept in, far later than his 9:30 alarm, not waking until afternoon. Luckily he didn't have any classes today, or he would have been significantly more panicked. Still, receiving texts from Sherlock after last night was already efficient enough cause to panic, and John twiddled his mobile between his fingers with increasing jitteriness as he waited for his morning -- er, afternoon -- coffee to brew.

It didn't make any sense how Sherlock knew Irene Adler. If Mary's initial assumptions were correct, she usually kept the company of other women. Not men. Especially not men like Sherlock -- brooding, harsh, dripping with arrogance. And intelligence. And attraction.

Damn it. 

John felt irrationally angry over how long his coffee was taking to brew. He was angry over sleeping four hours late, and it was all Sherlock's fault, Sherlock with his stupid entanglement with Irene Adler, Sherlock with his stupid dark brown curls that John always wanted to brush out of his eyes, Sherlock with his furious intellect and ridiculously long coat. It was all Sherlock's fault, because John couldn't sleep until nearly six in the morning, and his thoughts had centered around the inexplicable consulting detective the entire time.

The doorbell rang.

John's little flat was barely one room. It was all he could afford, attending medical school at Bart's and only being able to work evening shifts at the cafe. He had been surprised, initially, when the landlord had mentioned just how loud the doorbells for these flats were. It echoed down the hall. It echoed through other people's flats. But, since this was mainly the safe haven for poor uni students, the doorbells didn't ring often enough to notice.

Until now.

His doorbell rang once, twice, thrice. An incessant, whining drawl, like a siren for an ambulance. 

John saw red. It was a rare event in which he was furious enough to see red. It settled over his vision, as if he had been pelted with tomatoes. Or something of the sort. Frankly, after the regrettably unstable sleep he had last night, it was difficult to think of intellectual metaphors.

Sherlock probably could've. And that only made the anger increase.

His single-cup coffee maker finished, black swirls twirling under the overhead kitchen lighting. He huffed, snatching the coffee from the machine with more aggression than usual, not even bothering to add cream or sugar before storming to the door. Because damn it, if he was going to have to entertain morning --  er, afternoon -- guests, then he was going to endure it with a cup of coffee as black as his soul right now.

He flung the door open, causing the hinge to audibly squeak. "Listen, mate, I'm really not in the mood for any sort of sales--" 

It wasn't a stereotypical sales man standing on the other side of his door. No seemingly posh magazines, no ads for intensive microwaves, no portfolios for cars that cost more than his entire set of advanced medical textbooks. Instead, it was just Sherlock, ruffled curls and unbelievably tentative blue-grey eyes staring back at him.

"Hello, John."

He was so calm. So fucking calm, as if he hadn't just barged onto John's doorstep. He shouldn't even know John's address, for God's sake, let alone his precise apartment number. But somehow, John wasn't surprised. Not over that part. Of course Sherlock could easily discover his address, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he was as infuriatingly intelligent as it gets. But he had chosen to come here, chosen to visit John, and that specifically was the surprising part.

Not to mention the inexplicable puppy dog eyes.

John gaped. Shamelessly. His jaw was ajar in a particularly pathetic manner, tongue practically flopping in the wind as he stared blankly at Sherlock. It didn't seem possible, not really. There was no reason for Sherlock to want anything to do with him, especially not after his (rightful) tantrum over Irene Adler last night.

And yet. Here he was. On John's doorstep, first thing in the morning (correction: in the afternoon). 

Sherlock coughed slightly. He seemed uncomfortable. It was such an unusual sight that it threw John for yet another loop. "Surely you are . . . shocked to see me. Can't blame you, really. Showing up at your apartment uninvited is one thing, but knowing your address without inquiring? Likely very unsettling for you. If it helps, my methods were not . . . too malicious, and I discovered your address almost entirely naturally." A brief pause. "And in a very non-stalkerish manner."

Maybe John was still sleeping. This was all a ridiculous dream. That seemed like the likeliest possibility to him. 

Because it was completely impossible that Sherlock Holmes would choose to show up at John's apartment for no reason other than a chitchat.

Sherlock cleared his throat, fleetingly ducking his head. It was a strangely endearing gesture, making John simultaneously long to kiss him and punch him. "Yes. Well. I understand if my presence is . . . unwelcome. But I do figure that you'd at least like to know how I received your address prior to filing a restraining order."

John blinked. 

And blinked again.

Then once more, from the top.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out hoarse, a perfect example of how he'd been screaming internally for the duration of this interaction. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Now, it was Sherlock's turn to blink rapidly. Somehow that was also endearing, and it made John want to personally tear his own heart out of his chest to stop that weird aching sensation. "Yes. I'd have thought that was obvious by now, John."

John narrowed his eyes. Maybe this wasn't a dream. He had the feeling that Dream Sherlock would be much less of a dick. "Right. Well. Go on, then."

"What?"

"Explain yourself." 

Sherlock cleared his throat. Absently, John noticed the boy's blue scarf, the navy color popping in the otherwise grayscale series of fla. He thought of the first night that Sherlock had shown up to the cafe, and how the nickname "boy in the blue scarf" had been quickly coined for him. They'd spent so many evenings comfortably alone together, and just for a split second, John allowed himself to feel that flicker of nostalgia for when things were a bit easier.

For when he believed that perhaps this could work out for him. Against all odds.

He knew better now, though. This sounded like the beginning of a polite rejection speech more than anything else, making it humanely reasonable that Sherlock had chosen a private, in-person setting, rather than the cafe or via message. And maybe Mary had a point: if Sherlock was running around with Irene Adler, then it was likely for the best.

It'd be nice if the perpetual throbbing in John's chest would comprehend that, though.

Sherlock cleared his throat. Discomfort bled off his persona, and if John was capable of experiencing any human emotions after the last couple days, he might have bene empathetic. It must be difficult for Sherlock to attempt to accomplish this in an ordinary way. But that just reminded John that Sherlock was everything, everything extraordinary and everything good, and it was really no wonder that he didn't return John's ridiculous affections.

"John, you must understand, I--"

Nope. Not hearing that. Not today, not ever. Preferably, John would be capable of forgetting that this ever happened, burning the entire inexplicable dynamic between himself and Sherlock Holmes from his mind for all eternity, and part of that came down to avoiding the inevitable rejection and just getting on with his life, like Mary had initially suggested. Maybe it was possible for her to be correct. Occasionally.

"I do," John cut in. His voice was a strained cross between sharp and fragile. He hated it. "I do understand. This isn't your preferred scenario."

Sherlock's brows drew together. "Pardon?" 

John inhaled deeply. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. But he should just rip it off, like a bandage. "I'd prefer if you don't come to the cafe. At least for awhile. I realize there aren't, uh, that many cafes open that late, but you know. Human emotions take . . . time. To change."

"To change?"

"To change," repeated John. 

Sherlock appeared excessively confused. It was one of the first times that John had ever seen Sherlock in such a state, the genius of all intellects managing to read people so effortlessly that it made John feel stripped bare sometimes. But now, when it was most important, all of his brain cells appeared to evacuate directly from his body.

It was ironic in a way that made John want to either kiss him (not allowed) or light himself on fire (also not allowed within the confines of his leased, dingy little flat). Or possibly break his nose, but Sherlock's connections to Scotland Yard made that possibility appear moderately daunting.

Sherlock was still frowning. It was an unusual expression on him. Scowling, yes, that was easily expected, but the frown was inherently confused, and that was absurd. Sherlock knew everything. In fact, Sherlock likely knew about John's feelings even before John fully understood it. 

"John, you don't seem to understand why I am here. I--" Sherlock cut himself off, almost as if he were steadying himself. Could it be that complex for him, then, just to shoot John down? That seemed improbable. "It isn't what you think. Truly."

Slowly, all of the fight drained from John. He had spent too many hours dwelling upon the perpetual mystery of Sherlock Holmes, and it was finally catching up to him. His sister, Harry, used to be infatuated with those unsolved mystery podcasts, and perhaps it was biological, considering the fact that he had found himself in the same situation while chasing after Sherlock Holmes. 

But much like Harry at age sixteen, he was growing weary of the incessant suspense.

"It never is, is it?" asked John. "That's the problem. That's the whole problem."

Sherlock let out a low growl of frustration. It was rapidly becoming a familiar sound to John, after witnessing the man pour over his complex investigations -- not that anything ever seemed too difficult for Sherlock Holmes. He was too intelligent, reading individuals like novels, and John was wondering what could possibly cause him to struggle now when he started to speak. "For God's sake-- dinner?"

John froze. It took him a troubling amount of time to remember how to talk, and even then, his response was not impressive. "Dinner?"

There was an unmistakable rush of crimson bleeding into Sherlock's pale cheeks. Surely John must be losing his mind, because there was no probable reason why Sherlock would blush around him. "Yes, dinner. A meal frequently shared between at least two people as they maintain frankly pointless conversations and consume--"

"Yes, I know what dinner is," snapped John. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock stiffened. He cleared his throat, no longer willing to meet John's expectant gaze. "Yes. Well. I was curious . . . er, if you'd bother. Getting dinner with me, that is. I know a fantastic Chinese takeaway people, they stay open until three in the morning, so if you're hungry after your next shift--"

"Sorry," John interrupted. Thinking was difficult. Bloody hell, breathing was currently difficult. "But are you asking me out? On a date?"

Sherlock blanched. His fingers fluttered at his sides, presumably a gesture of nervousness. How strange. "Problem?" Despite the perpetual dismissiveness in his voice, there was an unusual layer of caution in his tone. 

"No, of course not, I just--" John cut off, suddenly uncertain how to finish that sentence. He smiled, brilliant and blinding, and offered Sherlock a tentative nod. "Yes. I think dinner would be lovely. Even if it is a late-night takeaway grab."

Sherlock's lips twitched. Unlike his typical sneers and smirks, something akin to happiness reached his piercing blue-grey eyes. It was unrealistic to John that he could ever make Sherlock Holmes appear so content. "Good. But until then, I require your assistance."

John frowned. "For what, exactly?"

Sherlock's grin widened. It was the same way he looked when John quizzed him on the suspects in his ongoing investigations. "There's been a handful of serial suicides lately. Surely you know, I'm assuming you watch the telly. They found another body this morning, but this time, something was different. Considering your flat is only a couple miles away from the station, it seemed rational to stop by."

John's head was racing with all of the new information. "Rational? Why rational?"

A beat passed. "I need an assistant."

Fleetingly, John wondered if he should feel offended that Sherlock chose to woo him on the way to a crime scene and then ask him to tag along for his own personal gain. Still, John was getting to know the other man well enough to recognize this was simply how his endlessly complex mind must work, and he couldn't bring himself to feel any negative emotions. He still felt like he was floating freely on a cloud, and he doubted that anything would bring him down any time soon.

So John nodded, grabbing his loosely-hung black jacket off his coat rack and shrugging it on. "Right, then. I'll come with you. But you do still owe me an explanation."

Confusion and caution alike clouded Sherlock's eyes. His stare did not flit away from John as they exited the flat, John taking a moment to lock the door behind them. "For what, precisely?"

"How did you get my address? Or my mobile number, for that matter?"

Sherlock smiled, as if sharing an inside joke with himself. He released an ever-suffering sigh as they stepped into the lagging elevator, shining silver doors clicking shut behind them. John pressed the '1' button as Sherlock let out a low chuckle. "I'm sure you recall my friend, Irene Adler. Well, I say friend . . . ."

"What about her?"

That same arrogant half-smirk was still plastered on Sherlock's expression. "Well, perhaps I encouraged her to reach out to that colleague of yours, Mary Morstan. And perhaps Mary eventually agreed to provide Irene with your number and address if Irene agreed to have lunch with her and explain some mixed details about their history."

Mary. Of course that made sense. It explained why she had been so unnaturally timid during their text conversation earlier in the day; she must feel guilty. John didn't feel anger or concern like he should have, however. There was only a lingering sense of gratefulness, even if it shouldn't have been present. In some way, she did help him sort out his issues with the boy in the blue scarf, after all. 

As the pair stepped out of the elevator, their hands brushed. John peered up at Sherlock, pressing his lips together to hide a smile as he noticed the other boy's faint blush. "To the scene of the crime, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "To the scene of the crime."

And the rest, as they say, was history.

(Or, more accurately, the plot line of one of Mary Morstan's elaborate future romance novels.)