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John had been working at the coffee shop now for almost half of the winter months, and soon he’d have enough money to finally afford the small flat he’d been saving up for in London central.
He hummed happily even as he listened to the shrill whine of the coffee beans being ground into a fine powder, the machine rattling like tiny gunshots ringing throughout the shop.
People milled about inside, lounging lazily on couches and chairs, cradling their respective cool and warm drinks and trying just in general to avoid the chill of the weather outside. Not that John particularly minded the winter. He’d always liked cold weather, even as a little kid. He’d miss it, when he was posted.
The thought sent a peculiar mix of emotions coursing through him. Mostly excitement and anxiety. Like a bubbling cocktail threatening to turn him into a bottle rocket. He licked the bottom of his lip and turned, nearly bumping into his colleague, Greg, because he was so distracted.
His friend caught him before he could fall and grinned. Dark eyes glinted with mirth.
“Feeling a bit distant today, John?”
“Just didn’t sleep much last night, honestly.” John replied easily, blue eyes warming with amusement as he took in Greg’s state. The man’s green apron was inside out, and his hair was tousled from running. He had been late for work, and the boss (one Sally Donovan) was probably going to have his head later on. Greg didn’t seem particularly bothered by it though, his smile lazy and warm even as he wrote down an order from a pretty woman in a dark blue dress. John wrote her name on the plastic cup, Mary, with the Y curling in his messy medical scrawl.
She smiled at him and winked before she went to take her seat, but John didn’t notice. He was too busy looking down at the thick medical textbook he had resting open behind the counter. Greg snorted as his friend studied even while spritzing a latte with caramel syrup. Honestly, the kid’s head was in the clouds.
“What you need is someone to tell you to stop. Working. ”
John snorted, raising his eyebrows in mock-doubt. The corner of his mouth turned upwards.
“But Gregory my dear, don’t I have you for such a lovely task?”
“I mean it differently than I think you’re thinking, Johnny-boy.”
His friend punched him lightly on the shoulder.
“See, using that nickname on me is the exact reason why people often think we’re in a gay relationship, three way sometimes when your Molly is around.”
Greg snorted, rolling his eyes. He put on mock-offence.
“Not even if you begged mate.”
“Who said I’d be the one begging?”
John grinned. The two friends giggled, breaking the atmosphere and returning to their posts. John continued to mix drinks for a little while longer, his mind occupied on the layout of an enzyme and how substrate reacted to it.
Greg seemed to be intent on refusing to let his point go. He set down the dirty mug he was washing, soapy water clinging to his knuckles as he tapped his fingers against the counter, bracing his arms. He pointed to the tip jar on the counter.
“I dare you to ask out the next person who gives you a tip.”
His tone was challenging, like he didn’t expect John to give in.
John looked at his friend skeptically, after a moment considering his love life as of late. He hadn’t dated anyone in nearly a year and a half. That wasn’t exactly normal for him. In fact in secondary, he’d been more than a little bit of a womanizer. “Three Continents Watson” , had managed to somehow sleep with three different exchange students from around the world, all within the span of a few months.
Lately he just hadn’t been interested, and he didn’t really know why. A part of him suspected it was the army posting looming in his future. John couldn’t think of why anyone would want to get attached, not when their partner was willingly going to get themselves shot at. Still, he shrugged, unwilling to back down from even a measly dare.
“Okay. You’re on.”
Smirking, Greg pushed the little glass jar just a bit more towards the front of the counter.
****
At first, it seemed like London decided not to be generous that day. People came and went, but the tip jar remained untouched. John might have been more upset, except he was too busy smirking at Greg. His friend was doing his best impression of a cat that had accidentally licked sour milk. He grumbled in place, scrubbing at his salt-and pepper hair. He watched John suspiciously, as if he might be intentionally rude to the customers to keep them away. However his friend was polite and calm, extraordinarily so, given the harsh glare his friend was boring into the back of his neck. John was almost through his last chapter on enzymes when a deep voice rumbled at the counter.
“One chai tea, please.”
Looking up, the teenager found himself face-to-face with a rather peculiar figure. A teenager, probably around the same age as him, stood tall and angular amongst the line-Up. He had dark, curly hair the colour of midnight, and his pale skin seemed as ethereal as it was unsettling. More strange still, his eyes were a curious colour, not quite blue and not quite green. He stood with his head cocked slightly to the side with an impatient expression, his stare as piercing as it was cold. A deep blue scarf was wound about his neck, keeping the chill out.
He was beautiful.
For just a moment, John gaped openly.
He was snapped back to reality however when the man spoke. His voice was like the rolling of thunder.
“Sherlock.”
“W-what?”
John stuttered, to which the teenager rolled his eyes impatiently. He reiterated, fingers tapping against the counter-top, long and spindly.
“Sherlock. My name. You’re supposed to write it on my drink, although I don’t see why, considering I can see it being made throughout the entire process and it’s not like I can’t tell which is mine.”
John flushed a bright red, hastily scribbling down the strange teen’s name on the mug. He set it aside for Greg to handle, manning the cash register as he muttered the charge. “That’ll be two pounds thirty.”
Without preamble the man handed over some cash. John was just putting the coins into the register when the ding of the machine nearly drowned out the customer’s voice. Sherlock’s voice was questioning, and it held in it knowledge it should not possess.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Looking up, John blinked in surprise.
“Sorry?”
“Where are you being posted? Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“...Afghanistan.” The young man swallowed, looking briefly at his hands. The mention of his military future once again sent that peculiar rush through him, a mixture of adrenaline, excitement and trepidation. How did the man know?
“...H-how did you-?”
“You have a military bearing, but it’s been recently forced onto you. You have the typical body of someone who’s only lately found themselves exercising more. As well I can see your dog tags, outlined underneath your shirt. Brand new, I’d guess from the chain. Let me guess...paying for medical school?” The teen smirked at John’s little gawp of shock, grin cat-like and amused. He watched with an open gaze as the barista collected himself, smoothing his hands down the front of his apron, his tongue running unconsciously along the lower edge of his lips.
“That… Was brilliant.” John exclaimed when he had once again found his voice. To his surprise, the teenager’s cheeks pinkened slightly in delight and surprise. Sherlock’s coldness thawed in the presence of praise, and some of the hostile glare melted from his eyes to be replaced by cautious confusion.
“That’s... not what people usually say.”
“What do they usually say?”
Sherlock’s response was quick. Sharp and to the point.
“Piss off.”
John laughed.
****
In the end, Sherlock put a single coin in the tip jar. His eyebrow arched in mysterious knowing.
“I believe you made a dare.”
John grinned, handing the man his drink.
“Meet you at five after work?”
“It’s a date.”
Greg didn’t stop smugly smiling for the rest of John’s shift. He called after John when he got off of work, cupping his hands over his lips for the whole of the cafe to hear.
“Christmas present from me, mate! Get yourself laid!”
John smiled at him and rolled his eyes, giving a two-fingered salute in parting.
He wouldn’t admit to Greg how even the thought of the mysterious teen in the leather jacket and blue scarf sent a flutter of something dangerously close to happiness humming in his blood.