Chapter Text
It was a cold morning teetering on the edge of winter. The frost coated the still-green grass in a thin, delicate crust. People bustled about, bundled up in coats and scarves to get some early Christmas shopping done. All the coffee shops smelled of pumpkin spice and peppermint. And Ned loved it.
There was little the Piemaker disliked about the winter. The cold allowed him to bundle himself in a veritable fortress of layers (making the chances of accidental touching much smaller), people seemed so much kinder with their rosy cheeks and holiday wishes, and most importantly, his pies taste better in the winter. Or so the customers said. The truth as he knew it was quite different. Because of Ned’s gift, the fruit he served was always as fresh as if it were newly picked, even when nothing grows.
That morning was promising. A small breakfast crowd had accumulated from the Hole’s small but loyal fanbase and stray customers drawn in by the cold and the alluring smell of freshly baked fruit. Olive had her hands full with the taking of orders and the pleasing of customers. Charlotte, determined to make herself useful in any way possible, was juggling pie-slicing, coffee-serving and small-talk-making with the skill of a professional circus performer. Emerson was sorting through the obituaries, searching out possible murders over his morning cup of coffee and Ned was sitting across from him, taking a much-deserved breather after churning out enough pie to feed a small army.
“Anything interesting?” Ned asked between bites of a bacon and egg sandwich.
Emerson frowned a little deeper in response.
“Y’know. The way things have been going, I’m not sure I’ll even need a murder this month.” Ned leaned a little closer, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “I think we might finally break even!”
“Don’t be getting your hopes up. I swear, we have this exact conversation every two months.” Emerson grumbled, mostly for his own benefit than Ned’s. As much as he hated to admit it, a good portion of his business relied on the Piemaker’s unique abilities. While he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he wanted The Pie Hole to continue to fail, he also couldn’t truthfully say that he was ready for it to succeed. “And chew with your mouth closed.”
“Sorry.” Ned attempted to say without opening his mouth.
It was then that a man burst into the cozy warmth of the pie hole, bringing the cold in with him like a specter. The collective heads of the entire room turned to catch a glimpse of the stranger. And he was indeed strange. He stood a little over six foot, which wouldn’t have been terribly unusual if it weren’t for the slim cut of his suit and the sharp angles of his face, all of which made his presence feel like a well-sharpened knife. He walked to an empty booth -which just so happened to be right behind Ned and Emerson- with a fluidity that made the simple action feel choreographed.
Olive materialized beside the booth in an instant. “Hi! Welcome to the Pie Hole. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. New to the area?”
“Coffee.” The man answered gruffly as he slipped his phone out of his pocket.
“Not a morning person, eh?” Olive chuckled, not fazed in the slightest. “I’m the same way. If anyone talks to me before my morning cup, well, there’s no telling what might happen to them.”
The man gave him a look, which conveyed that he was in fact considering what might happen to Olive, should she continue.
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Make that two.” He added just as Olive turned away.
Emerson squinted at his paper. “Hmm… Here’s a good one. Suspected suicide.”
“What makes you suspect otherwise?” Ned asked from behind a napkin. He didn’t like digging up suspected suicides. They were much too complicated for the piemaker’s tastes. His job was hard enough without having to explain to the families that their dearly departed didn’t, in fact, depart of their own will. Then half the time they turn out to be actual suicides, which are downright depressing to talk to.
“He apparently did the ‘doing himself in’ deal with a hunting rifle.” Emerson grumbled.
“Yeah, doesn’t seem very likely.” Ned took a gulp of his coffee and began to slip out of the booth. “I better relieve Chuck before she faints from exhaustion.”
“Here you are, sir. Can I get you anything else to start your day off right?” Olive chirped cheerfully. She took pride in being able to wrench a decent tip out of even the stingiest scrooge.
“No thanks, pie doesn’t suit my tastes.” The customer answered briefly in a crisp British accent, his attention focused entirely on his phone.
“You… know this is The Pie Hole, right?”
Still, he had no intention to look up. “Yes, I can read.”
“And you walked in to The Pie Hole, knowing it serves pie, with no intention to eat pie. Are we on the same page?” Stinginess, Olive could tolerate. Mostly. But outright rudeness was another matter entirely and her temper was shorter than she was.
He snapped the retractable keyboard of his phone back into place and looked Olive straight in the eye. “Not quite. While I didn’t intend to gorge myself on sweets, I was planning on speaking with a Ned Nesbit, son of Norman Nesbit. Could you be so kind as to fetch him for me?”
Emerson blinked in confusion at the goings on in the booth next to them. Ned froze in his half standing position at the edge of his seat.
“You’re mistaken, then. I know a Ned, but I’m pretty sure his last name’s piemaker. The door is-“
Before Olive could banish him entirely, Ned swung out of his booth to face the stranger.
“Olive, it’s alright. I can handle this.” He mumbled to the waitress, waiting for her to leave before directly addressing the customer. “How do you know of my father?”
“You’re last name’s Nesbitt?” Emerson piped in from the sidelines. “Well that solves the mystery of the ages.”
“I can’t claim to know him personally, but I’ve been told by a fairly reliable source that he had an affair with my mother roughly nine months before I was born.” Sherlock replied with a surprising amount of suavity, given the subject. “The name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I do hope you turn out better than my other brother.”