Work Text:
“This place looks good, I’m dying for a cuppa,” John said, tugging Sherlock toward a small corner coffee shop. Sherlock sniffed. American coffee shops never did tea correctly—but at least this one wasn’t a chain.
Inside, the warm, humid air was an appealing contrast to the frigid February cold outside. Washington D.C. was having a cold snap. Sherlock gratefully loosened his blue scarf and unbuttoned his overcoat. John examined the menu while Sherlock, out of habit, examined the shop’s occupants.
A young woman, college student, most likely, with headphones and organic chemistry notes, took up one of the window seats. An older woman with a baby in a sling around her middle was leafing through a magazine.
Two middle-aged men were in the two of four oversized armchairs in one corner. One of them, slim and bearded with thinning blonde hair, was on his phone, his fingers moving in a blur across the screen. The other, stockier with thick black hair and a powerful nose, was gazing at the man on his phone, his chin in his hands, a small smile playing around his mouth.
Sherlock suppressed a smile of recognition. He recognized someone besotted when he saw them now, having been faced with his own expressions captured by John’s camera phone enough times.
“Tea?” John asked, unbuttoning his pea coat. He looked quite dapper today, his silvery hair swept away from his forehead. They’d spent the morning at the National Archives, where Sherlock had dodged schoolchildren and pretended to be annoyed while John recounted the plot of some inane movie he’d once seen about someone trying to steal the Declaration of Independence.
They’d had a late breakfast in the hotel, and had early dinner reservations at Jaleo, so he simply nodded. “You know what I like,” he said to John, then went to claim the other two empty armchairs.
He occupied himself by eavesdropping while he waited for John to bring their beverages.
“Are you almost done?” the besotted man asked.
“Yeah, just gotta try one more—there!” The man on the phone—who’d grown up in South London and had been educated at Oxford, if his diphthongs were any indication—chortled. “We’re in.”
“We’re supposed to be on vacation,” the besotted man said. Canadian—no, upstate New York, with probable time in the military, and lots of time overseas, Sherlock surmised.
“Can I help it if Luther needed my help?”
“I thought he needed your assistance,” the man said. He laughed, exposing a charming smile of uneven white teeth.
The man with the Oxford-finished accent threw down his phone and glared, mock-affronted. “Oh you think you’re funny, do you?”
“I think I’m ready for another cup of coffee. Want anything?”
“Yeah, sure. My usual.”
The other man got up and went to the counter, passing John as he walked up to Sherlock and handed him a small paper cup.
“Thank you, John,” he said, taking the cup and inhaling. Strong notes of bergamot came back at him. Promising.
John sank into the opposite armchair, then noticed the man who’d resumed looking at his phone while his companion went to fetch them more caffeine. John let out a small noise of surprise. “Oh! It’s Benji—isn’t it? Benjamin Dunn?”
The man looked up from his phone, took in John, and grinned. “John Watson! It’s been donkey’s years.”
The men stood up and gave each other back-slapping hugs. Sherlock tried not to feel jealous of anybody else’s hands on his husband, friendly as they might be in this case.
“Sherlock, meet an old friend. We used to play cricket in the park when we were practically kids.”
“Let’s not think about how long it’s been, exactly,” Benji said heartily, shaking Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”
“And you,” Sherlock said diffidently.
“Do you live here?” John asked, settling back in his chair once Benji and Sherlock had done the same.
“Oh, yeah. Fifteen years or so now. But I travel a lot for work,” Benji said.
“And what work is that? Last I heard, you were getting into computers or something.”
“Yeah, bit of this, bit of that,” Benji said vaguely.
Sherlock smirked into his cup of really quite good tea.
“Well, we’re playing tourist at the moment,” John explained. “I’d never been to Washington and Sherlock surprised me with this trip for our anniversary.”
Benji smiled at Sherlock. “Lovely. How many years?”
“We finally got married a year ago. But we’ve been together—”
“Three years, two months, and six days,” Sherlock said.
“Well, that’s precise,” Benji said genially.
“Uh, yes, well, that’s Sherlock,” John said fondly. “What about you?”
The dark haired man appeared at that moment, two small cups in hand. He passed one to Benji, took up residence at his side instead of sitting in the empty armchair. He offered them guarded smiles.
“Ethan, darling, this is John Watson, an old friend of mine, and his husband Sherlock—sorry, I didn’t catch the last name.”
“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes,” he intoned, offering the newcomer—Ethan—his hand to shake.
“Ethan Hunt,” he said, his shake firm and brisk.
“They’re visiting from out of town,” Benji said.
“Welcome to the District of Columbia,” Ethan said.
“So, since you two are locals, is there anything we’ve got to do while we’re here? There are so many museums, I almost don’t know where to start,” John asked.
“What have you done so far?”
“Just the National Archives. But we want to do some of the Smithsonian museums, obviously.”
“Oh, check out the International Spy Museum,” Benji said, with a sideways glance at Ethan. “Remember when we went there on our first date?”
“I remember,” Ethan said, his expression warming when he turned his gaze on Benji. “I remember you not realizing it was a date.”
“Well, you have to admit you didn’t exactly make it clear,” Benji argued good-naturedly.
“You figured it out around the third glass of wine at Jaleo,” Ethan said.
“Jaleo? We’re having dinner there tonight,” John said.
“Oh, you’ll love it,” Benji said.
“Sherlock picked it out,” John said. “He always picks the best restaurants.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Ethan said.
“So, you keep in touch with any of the other lads?” John asked Benji, and their conversation devolved into a trading of updates of people named Bongo and Gerry and their no doubt tedious lives.
Ethan sat in the armchair and offered a more genuine smile to Sherlock. “You live in London?”
“Yes.”
“Great city.”
“I imagine you know it well,” Sherlock said, “since both your shoes and your sweater are only sold at one particular Saville Row establishment.”
Ethan’s thick black eyebrows rose two millimeters.
“But then, international spies often make London their base.”
Ethan didn’t bother to deny it. Sherlock was only slightly disappointed at not being provoked into explaining the series of deductions he’d made to arrive at his conclusion.
“MI-6?” Ethan guessed quietly.
“Merely an amateur with…connections,” Sherlock said with all the modesty he could muster. “I presume you and Mr. Dunn work for one of those alphabet soup agencies.”
Ethan’s mouth thinned to a line and Sherlock waved a careless hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m the soul of discretion.”
“That’s good to hear,” Ethan said tightly.
“Everything okay?” John said, cluing into their side of the conversation.
“Everything is perfect, thank you, John. I was just about to tell Ethan the next time he and Benji find themselves in London we’ll have them around to dinner at the flat.”
“Oh, grand idea,” John said. His smile made Sherlock warmer than the tea.
“We’d love to,” Benji answered for both of them. He and John exchanged numbers, and then he stood up. “Well, Ethan and I better get going. We’re going to see the latest Edgar Wright film.”
“Edgar Wright—he the bloke that did Hot Fuzz? I loved that one,” John said enthusiastically. “Well, have fun. Great to bump into you.”
John and Benji exchanged another round of back-slapping hugs, and Ethan and Sherlock shook hands cordially. Sherlock watched them as they left, bundling up before they went outside, Ethan keeping a protective hand at the base of Benji’s spine.
“Funny running into Benji Dunn here. Good guy,” John said. “Always mad about computers. Probably making a mint.”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. “Well, shall we follow their suggestion and visit the International Spy Museum?”
“Could be good for a laugh,” John said. He smiled slyly. “On the other hand, we could go back to the hotel room and freshen up for dinner.”
Sherlock smiled picking up on the suggestive note in John’s voice. “I suppose the museum could wait until tomorrow.”
“Right, then,” John said cheerfully, pushing out of the chair.
Sherlock grabbed his husband by the hand and pulled him close. He dropped a quick kiss on John’s lips. “You have the best ideas, Dr. Watson.”
End