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Joan pretty much hates the espresso from the coffee cart in the lobby, but it’s 4:00am and she just wrapped up an emergency thoracotomy for a vicious stab wound to the chest, so at this point, pretty much any hot beverage will do. She knew when her phone went off in the dark of her cozy apartment and she heard her resident’s shaky voice, it meant getting out of bed and making her way back to the hospital like the good attending surgeon she was supposed to be. Asha had never performed a median sternotomy before, and cutting and cracking open a chest less than a month into her ER rotation was a bit much to ask. Thankfully, once they began exploring the patient’s thoracic cavity, repairing the wounded tissue within was routine enough, and with the knotting of the final stitches, Joan breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was time for an infusion of caffeine. She had until 6:00am when she would meet Asha and her intern Tracy on the acute care floor for patient status updates.
“Quad Americano, no room,” she states tersely as she rifles through her wallet for cash. It’s not typically her drink of choice but function is ruling over form today. She briefly looks up and smiles at the barista when receiving her change and drops it into the tip jar. Engrossed in her emails (somehow she’s received 15 since she last checked), she grabs her drink and makes her way toward the elevator. She shoots off an enthusiastic one-sentence reply congratulating Emily on her pregnancy and stashes her phone in the pocket of her lab coat. She gulps her Americano, then makes a puzzled face as she rises to floor 11.
How is this actually good?
----
When Joan’s shift concludes the next evening, she winds up at the coffee cart again to treat herself. She’s still as tired as ever but now that her face isn’t buried in her phone, it’s easy for her to surmise that the cart has recently come under new ownership. She notices rows of apothecary jars full of tea leaves. The jasmine pearls remind her of her mother’s collection growing up. She spies several other tea varieties and makes a mental note to visit this place more often. It’s quite an upgrade compared to what she was used to; the old owner served up bagged Lipton and it was awful. Joan had tried dosing it with sugar and half and half, but the product was simply irredeemable.
Right now, though, the barista is filling orders for espresso, not tea, and his back is turned to the jars as he hunches over a heaping scoop of grounds, leveling them off before tamping then down and shoving them into the beaten-up machine to brew the shots. His frenetic movements have an almost hypnotic effect on her and before she knows it, he’s fulfilled the four orders ahead of her and she’s up.
She opts for something a little indulgent. “12-ounce London fog, please.” “Name?” He scribbles down some illegible shorthand on the paper cup with great speed and completes her transaction even quicker, not even glancing at the numbers on the register. She dumps her change in the tip jar again, which, she now notices, is a white ceramic bust with its parietal bone removed. She smirks at this nod to the archaic pseudoscience of phrenology.
She hopes to herself that this new cart will last.
----
Tonight’s patient was flown in by helicopter from Staten Island once the local staff decided that the required vascular surgery was above and beyond what they could safely perform. Joan was already scrubbed, gloved and gowned by the time the 55 year-old male was wheeled into the OR. By then, blood flow to his left forearm and hand were alarmingly low, and she had to work fast if both were to be salvaged. Arteries were beginning to collapse, and she knew it was critical to locate and remove the embolism while somehow finding a way to maintain blood flow to his extremities in the meantime. Vascular sutures required meticulous attention to detail, and a knot too tight or stitching too loose could lead to further blood loss, which the patient could not afford. Joan could sense her vision come into sharp focus as the adrenaline in her system prepared her for the hours of painstaking surgery to come.
She wastes no time in taking her scalpel to the medial line along the left forearm, all the way to the armpit. “Three units of O negative blood and 20 CCs heparin," she barks to the anesthesiologist.
Six hours pass until she emerges from the OR, briefs the patient’s family and updates his chart for the ICU staff on the floor covering graveyard shift. She would check-in again during rounds, but for now, it was time to go home. In a bit of a stupor, she manages to change out of her scrubs, hug on her winter coat and head towards the elevator.
But as she makes her way past the coffee cart, she suddenly registers the fact that she is terribly hungry. She hasn’t eaten in over 10 hours. The lobby is empty and Joan finds the silence and dimmed fluorescent lighting oddly soothing. The barista has a thick, leather-bound book open in front of him—he is about halfway through—and the type looks impossibly small. Looking down at her watch, she is surprised that he is still open. In truth, he is just waiting for the espresso machine to finish its cleaning cycle and for the steam wands to be completely descaled in his custom concoction of water and citric acid.
He seems surprised to see a patron, for he counts on the wee hours of quiet to catch up on his latest obscure academic obsession, today’s being the political economics of illicit drug and alcohol smuggling in 15th-century Haiti.
“Hi. Um, I know it looks like you’re about to close up, but do you happen to have any food left from today?” She’s a little embarrassed but at this point even a yogurt will do. “Kind of hypoglycemic here.”
He pauses for a bit, turning a page before replying. “Hm… Yes…” He starts rummaging around below the counter. She thinks she hears a mini fridge being opened before he pops back up to turn on the stainless steel warming oven. Then he’s disappeared again, crouching. “Have you always wanted to be a surgeon?” she hears from below.
She immediately looks down to where the left breast pocket of her lab coat would have been—that’s normally where her ID badge hangs—but realizes she’s in plainclothes. She crosses her arms. “What makes you think I’m a surgeon?”
“Your badge. You were wearing it the first time we met.” He re-emerges with a juice box and a small container of fruit salad. “Quad Americano, no room,” he rattles off in what she supposes is his imitation of her American accent.
“Right…” She cocks her head to the side.
“But I daresay that even without such identification, I would have deduced your occupation easily enough. Everything about you positively screams ‘surgeon,’ does it not?” He places a sandwich in the oven and slams the door shut.
Her skepticism grows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your posture and self-assured demeanor signal a profession of leadership; money seems to be no object to you given your wanton disregard of it; your hands are meticulously manicured, but your nails unpainted; and you smell faintly of the specific kind of antiseptic paste used to treat particularly gangrenous wounds. The fact that this is your second visit to this coffee stand at odd hours suggests that you are a doctor on call, most likely an attending physician, supervising residents. Yes, you are a surgeon, and a good one at that.”
“You know, the last guy who worked here just gave me my coffee,” she deadpans.
“The occupation of barista is not my first profession, nor shall it be my last,” he replies quickly and cryptically. She simply narrows her eyes. “That will be $10.78, please.” She shells out $15 and the change goes straight into the porcelain head.
“You’ve got a nice…” she looks down at it and doesn’t quite know what to call it.
“Angus. His name’s Angus.”
She doesn’t know how to respond, so doesn’t.
Her meal is neatly packaged into a brown paper sack. He has creased the edges to form a handle.
“Thanks,” she says with some hesitation, perplexed by this odd interaction. “See you.” He gives her an awkward wave of the hand before returning to his book, absorbed by it once more.
What in the world is a 40-something year old British guy doing serving coffee at a hospital in the Bronx?
As she pulls out of the hospital garage and takes a bite, the toasted sandwich burns the roof of her mouth, but she doesn’t much mind.
----
Tonight Joan is in the mood for green tea, and Sherlock can tell she’s rather subdued as she approaches. As he rings her up she offers, “It’s been kind of slow today.” A handful of change clinks to the base of Angus’s head.
“You sound disappointed!” he rejoins as he pours hot water from the espresso machine spigot and sets the small teapot on the counter to cool to the proper brewing temperature.
“I like to feel useful, is all,” she admits. She checks the beeper at her hip. Still nothing.
“You prefer a challenge, working at a fast pace.” He’s rifling around below the counter again.
“My friends called me an adrenaline junkie.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling him this. “When I was a resident I always asked for the most extreme cases. When critical decisions need to be made, I find that things take on a certain… clarity.”
“It’s like solving a puzzle,” he adds. In go the tea leaves.
She examines him closely. “Have you practiced medicine?” His laugh in response is sudden and jarring, almost bitter. He pours her tea and brings it to the pick-up counter.
“No, Dr. Watson, my ‘patients’ are not nearly as fortunate as yours.” He must have memorized her name from her badge because she still hasn’t introduced herself. Before she can ask what he means, another customer has arrived and his attention becomes thus diverted. She remembers she’s on call tonight and dutifully heads toward the doctors’ lounge.
Nestled atop her to-go cup is a metal tin. He must have made a mistake; she didn’t order anything but the tea.
When she pops the lid off, she realizes it’s beeswax for her hands.
Well this is a first.
----
“It wasn’t an accident, you know. The gunshot wound you treated yesterday.” He bangs out used grounds and scoops in some new ones.
She does a double-take. She thinks of every HIPAA training she's ever taken, and the person in front of her who has just confessed to violating it. “Excuse me?” Joan retorts as she puts her wallet back into her pocket and crumples the receipt.
“Before the anesthesia took full effect, the patient repeatedly insisted that she incurred the penetrating trauma ‘by accident.’” Two steady streams of espresso fill the shot glasses. “She was lying.”
"How did you know that?" She’s careful to keep her voice is low and her words measured. No one but residents and staff were granted access to the observation room above the OR.
"Please, like it wasn't child's play to breach your subpar security detail—this is a teaching hospital for crying out loud!"
She blinks rapidly to make sure she’s hearing him correctly. “Why were you— You know you’re not supposed to—”
"So you don't want the gunman brought to justice?"
"Of course I do. But I don’t see h—"
"She was being disingenuous. Victims of domestic violence often defend their abusers to the point of delusion."
"I’m familiar with the cycle of abuse," she rejoins sharply. She's seen and treated enough domestic violence victims to last a lifetime. She points to herself. “Mandated reporter?” He hands her the cappuccino.
“That notwithstanding, you may have neglected to notice that given the angle at which the bullet pierced her abdomen—”
“What’s your name?" She knows it’s rude to interrupt but he is really starting to tick her off.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock,” she repeats automatically. “I don't know who the hell you think you are or why you thought it would be a good idea to violate patient privacy laws—”
“There’s a—”
Her hand goes up to stop him. “Get licensed, become an employee here, then maybe we can talk. Until then, this conversation is closed.” His highly animated objections continue.
“If I catch you trespassing again, I will report you.” She gives him her most threatening glare. He doesn't agree to comply, just changes tack.
"You are quite good, just as I’d thought. You made deft work of patching up her small intestine." His smug expression irks her.
"Stay out of my OR."
----
She avoids the coffee cart for two straight weeks, out of principle. It's not like he has a monopoly on espresso. She also drops an anonymous tip to hospital security regarding unwelcome visitors in the OR observation room, and since then no incidents of intrusion have been reported.
The first thing she says when she approaches the register is, "I'm not talking to you about my patients." He pouts.
Her anger has subsided a little. “Why were you watching my surgery anyway? Most people don’t watch unless they have to."
"I am not most people." She rolls her eyes. He starts making a drink.
"Hey, you know, I didn't even order yet."
"I am aware!"
"Well?" The espresso machine whirs. "You didn't answer my question." She's not sure whether to be suspicious of or complimented by his spying on her. For now she's much more the former than the latter.
He sighs sharply before turning to address her. "I told you before that this current situation," he gestures around him, "is, I hope, a temporary one. I have also alluded to the fact that prior to all of this I enjoyed what some might call quite an illustrious career in criminal investigation." His tone is bright. She folds her arms across her chest, not entirely convinced.
"You doubt me. No matter." The steam wand hisses into the milk. He holds the pitcher in one hand while dumping out used grounds with the other. "Suffice it to say, my career as a detective has taken a rather inconvenient detour. For the time being, I have been temporarily... sidelined." His expression turns sour. He's obviously being euphemistic but questioning him about the details will have to wait for another time.
"I was watching your surgery because, well, I'd missed it—being ‘useful,’ as you put it. As a surgeon you treat the victims of violent crime and even, on occasion, the criminals themselves. You have access to some of the most complicated wounds known to man, and subsequently, the complicated stories that accompany them, on a daily basis." He stares at her pointedly. "I quite envy you in that respect." With a skillful pour he hands her the drink.
“So you miss the action. Yeah, well it's not all that glamorous, believe me." She sips the drink and it's all at once spicy, bitter and scalding hot.
"It is what they call a 'dirty chai.'" She nods. "One the house," he adds. A peace offering. She may have blocked him from accessing the surgical observation room henceforth, but at least she didn't tattle.
She's still processing the fact that he used to be a detective. And now he's a barista.
"It's not bad," she comments as she walks away.
----
Sherlock dutifully honors Joan's request to no longer impersonate a medical resident as a means of diversion, and their unspoken truce leads to an odd, symbiotic friendship. Even when customer volume is high, he always manages to acknowledge Joan in some small way, be it through eccentric latte art (dragons, starscapes, and a failed attempt at a quagga) or a complimentary package of her favorite upscale snacks that he begins stocking just for her.
When business is slow he loves to prattle on and on about past cases he's solved, and she humors him. His stories are far too detailed to be fabricated. In turn, she shares some stories of her own by lending him copies of medical journals she's been published in, the chronicled surgical procedures scrubbed of any of the patients' identifying markers. He returns them to her full of multicolored sticky notes crammed with scribbled annotations. Her patients fascinate him, and he offers his services to proof any of her future articles should she so desire.
That's why it catches her off guard when on her way home she stops by the coffee cart and he's no longer there. Instead, a young woman wearing an oversized green army jacket is the one brewing and steaming and ringing people up. Joan can't help but feel disappointed. When she inquires of Sherlock's whereabouts, she receives a noncommittal, ambiguous reply followed by, "He told me about you. Joan."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
A shrug, her drink, and nothing else.
----
For a while, it bugs her that he didn't bother to say goodbye or even leave his contact information. She assumes that he has gone back to solving crimes for the NYPD. So in a way, it's not terribly surprising that he left in a hurry; being a barista clearly was never his endgame. Anyway, she's not too worried. He knows where to find her. She isn't going anywhere and even if she did, he'd be able to track her down easily enough, being a detective and all that.
When she is subpoenaed to testify in court regarding a string of violent armed robberies (three of the victims her team successfully stabilized and one they didn’t), she imagines that maybe by some stroke of luck they will cross paths. She's already imagined what she'll say, some dry quip about how his newfound barista skills must be making him terribly popular at the precinct. Alas, their paths cross not, but at least the burglar is served a hefty sentence without hope of parole.
----
Kitty, the new barista, has a similar style to Sherlock’s; Joan can tell by observing her measured movements that he apprenticed her. However, after the first month or so, Kitty begins to experiment and develop her own signature drinks and baked goods. Joan grows to enjoy dark chocolate mochas with hints of spicy green chilies and raspberry Italian sodas spiked with vodka, garnished with muddled spearmint leaves (the off-the-menu Dr. Watson special). It takes some time, but Kitty eventually warms to Dr. Watson, the masterful trauma surgeon that Sherlock so highly praised. Joan is the only customer whose drinks are served in squat ceramic mugs and pint glasses, and is the de facto taste-tester for any and all new baked goods (profiteroles with earl grey-infused cream, mini pumpkin trifle cups, honey-glazed scones cut in non-traditional shapes). When it comes time to celebrate Clay’s first birthday, Joan assures Emily she knows a caterer, and Kitty’s food is an unequivocal hit.
----
Joan is in the middle of slicing off a sizable portion of a patient's necrotizing flesh when someone beside her lets out an appreciative hum.
"Beautiful."
That voice... She does a double-take at the scrub tech handing her a wad of iodine-soaked gauze with which to pack the wound.
"Sherlock?"
The eyes behind the surgical googles are unmistakable. She grins despite herself before quickly reassuming a neutral expression.
"You really are quite good."
She raises an eyebrow.
He pauses before adding, "I—I, um, wanted to surprise you."
She applies firm pressure with the gauze as he hands over further materials to dress the wound. The patient's vitals are holding steady.
"Well then."