Chapter Text
“Morning, John,” Molly says, smiling at him from behind the counter. She’s in the process of pouring a rosetta onto a cappuccino; a loose strand of hair escapes her ponytail and tickles her nose, and she sneezes softly.
“Morning, Molly,” he says, and opening the gate, lets himself in beside her, leaning over her shoulder to unhook his apron from the wall. He’s unable to stop the snort that escapes him when he catches sight of the coffee. “That’s a dick.”
“What? Oh.” Molly stares forlornly at the botched design, which does, as it turns out, bear a rather striking resemblance to a penis. “I’ll probably have to chuck it now.”
“No, don’t.” John catches Molly’s wrist before she pours the cappuccino down the drain, a spectacular idea occurring to him, “Let’s give it to our regular.”
Molly narrows her eyes at him. “Which one?”
John smirks right back, and slides a matching saucer under the dick-topped coffee, “Which do you think?”
Molly turns her back to him, though not before John catches sight of her smile, and of the flush rising high on her cheeks. “He only has americano, and he only ever takes it black, at that. Well,” she concedes, sprinkling cocoa powder over the foam-penis now, “Black with at least two sugars.”
“Hm,” John says, considering. “Maybe today’ll be the day things change.”
It’s funny he should’ve said that, because just then the café door tinkles lightly and their regular steps in, only this time there’s something markedly different about him: he’s accompanied by someone else.
This is significant because a) their regular has always, always come alone since his very first americano at their café four months, two weeks and three days ago and because b) both John and Molly are rather invested in their regular’s romantic life. (For different reasons entirely, or so John would argue at any given opportunity.)
Their regular – curly hair, piercing eyes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass – approaches the counter and runs a cursory eye over the list of available options on their drinks list. He’s done this every single morning, and has invariably settled on americano every day for the past a hundred and forty, to the effect that Molly’s already grabbed a cup and has her finger on the espresso button when his words – “Cappuccino for me, please,” – register.
John pauses where he’s pretending to wipe down the counter and exchanges a glance with a slightly flustered Molly.
“S-sorry?” she says, hand hovering uncertainly over the penis cappuccino. “Did you say you wanted –”
“Yes, and he’ll have a latte,” the regular says in his deep baritone (Molly swoons a bit) and, having already deposited the correct amount of change on the counter, turns and motions for his companion to follow him towards his usual corner.
John watches as the regular folds himself gracefully into the quilted armchair, leans back against the garish, cat-patterned cushion as his companion – sandy grey hair, windbreaker, an exhaustion that seeps from his every pore – plops down in the chair opposite. From inside his jacket the man fishes out a thin file, which he and the regular immediately bend their heads over. John wonders if it’s secret, confidential MI-6 business (that would explain their regular’s usual secretive nature, as well as the fact that Sandy Hair actually has a pair of black Ray-Bans perched on top of his head), or if that’s just his imagination going into overdrive.
“Do we, what do we do,” Molly hisses, glaring down at the foamy penis on the cappuccino like it’s offended her on a personal level. “Should I just make a new one –”
“Quickly, please, we’re in a hurry!” their regular chooses that moment to call across the shop. His shout startles the only other patron in the shop, an elderly lady sitting by the window, who’s been trying for the past hour to figure out the day’s crossword without her reading-glasses. (John wonders if it’s worth telling her they’re perched on her head, and that the reason she hasn’t yet realized the letters don’t fit is because the paper’s the wrong way up.)
“Just get it to him,” John mutters, opening the gate and pushing Molly lightly into the café proper, “I’ll do the latte.”
He’s just about done with the rosetta on the latte when a pointed exclamation of “Disgusting!” followed by the telltale clang of a cup being set rather forcefully into its saucer from behind has him glancing round. Their regular, his MI-6 friend and Molly are frozen in a tableau at the corner table: Molly, a mixture of horror and apprehension on her face; their regular, one of mild annoyance; and Sandy Hair, one of exasperation and embarrassment.
“Molly?” John abandons the latte, making his way out from behind the counter, because Molly’s wringing her apron tie and looks near tears. Right. John steels his face into his fakest, politest smile and turns to their regular, whose attractive qualities certainly appeared to be dwindling at the moment. “Everything alright, sir?”
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” the possible MI-6 operative groans, sliding a hand down the side of his face in abject despair, “Let this go for once, will you. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re a little short on time.”
“Do you want my help or not, Lestrade?” their regular – Sherlock – snaps, before turning his piercing gaze on John. He nudges the cappuccino with a pointed finger across the table (no ring, John’s unhelpful brain gleefully points out). “The coffee’s unbearably bitter. I asked for a cappuccino, not death by espresso.”
John frowns down at the drink, a slight break in the foamy dick indicating where Sherlock had taken a sip (just the one) before condemning it. Then, before his professional and better judgement can stop him, he raises the cup to his lips and takes a cautious sip, and then another. He’s expecting, perhaps, too much espresso and not enough milk, but to his surprise the coffee tastes exactly as it’s supposed to, with just the right hint of cocoa powder.
He lowers the cup to find both Sherlock and Sandy Hair – Lestrade? – gaping at him. John clears his throat, nestling the drink back into its saucer. “Sir, this is how we make cappuccino here. Perhaps if you tried adding sugar?”
He reaches over to the adjacent table, secures two packets and proffers them to Sherlock, who takes them and then proceeds to just stare at his still sugar-less drink. It takes John a moment to realize the reason for his clients’ silence is most likely because he’d just gone and bloody drank about a third of his coffee. Bad form by anyone’s book, really. He’s just glad Mike’s not in today. (As a rule, Mike Stamford acts more like their friend and colleague than the café’s owner and manager, but when Mike gets ticked off, as he does on occasion, it’s not pretty.)
“Ah – I’m sorry,” John mutters, coughing to hide his embarrassment as he reaches to retrieve the cup. “I’ll just get you another one, shall I?”
He’s about to make for the counter when the hand on his wrist stops him. He turns; Sherlock’s staring at where his fingers are pressed lightly, imperceptibly (to anyone else except John – he didn’t go to medical school for nothing) against John’s pulse-point like he has no idea how they got there. John swallows, hoping his traitorous heart isn’t tripping against his ribcage as quickly as he can feel it is.
Sherlock raises those pale, almost translucent eyes to his, lets them flicker down to John’s mouth, and John wonders what he’s thinking, wonders what those lips would feel like against his own. “No need, John. I – this – it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” John says, and how had Sherlock known his name? he thinks, as he sets the cup gingerly back down onto the table’s scratched wooden surface, “I shouldn’t have – it’s really no trouble at all if I just –”
“It’s fine, really.” Sherlock finally releases his hold on John’s wrist, flashes him a small, if tight-lipped, smile. He gestures to Lestrade, who’s now looking more amused than anything, watching their exchange with folded arms and a knowing smirk. “As he said, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Right, okay. Enjoy,” John says, making his way back to the counter, and hoping the heat rising in his face and on the back of his neck isn’t too apparent. He’s over thirty-five and barely scraping by on an army pension, for fuck’s sakes; he can’t afford to moon over coffee-addicted but sugar-loving patrons with rich baritone voices and cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
Molly opens her mouth as soon as he’s behind the counter, looking like she can’t decide whether to thank or tease him.
“Ugh,” John groans, dipping a finger into the jam jar next to the sconces on display in a neat, pyramidal fashion on the countertop and licking it off. (Jam, as he’s found on numerous occasions, is great for stress relief.) “Don’t start, Mol. Just bring him the latte, will you?”
Once she’s done that (and been given a much more welcoming reception by Lestrade) John busies himself by pretending to measure out more coffee beans for the grinder, angling the machine so he can freely observe and eavesdrop at leisure on the potentially MI-6 confidential conversation taking place not ten feet away from him.
Molly shoots him a weird look on her way back, but John tilts his head conspiratorially towards the corner table, and with a roll of her eyes Molly returns to the counter and leaves him to it.
“… Pyeterson’s body or, well, what was left of it anyway,” Lestrade is saying in a hushed voice to Sherlock that nonetheless carries if one strained (and John was certainly straining). John startles so much at the confirmation of his hunch he almost drops the bag of coffee beans.
“That’s an incredibly novice assumption to make,” Sherlock says, not raising his voice, exactly, but also clearly not fussed about keeping it down. “This is someone fastidious, talented. They’ll have been careful about keeping their mess – shall we say – contained. You’re looking at the work of a copycat killer. Obviously.”
From his vantage point behind the grinder, John watches as Sherlock rips open a sugar packet and dumps the whole thing unceremoniously in. Lestrade’s brow is furrowed as he circles something on the file and spins it round so Sherlock can see it. “How do you explain that then?”
Sherlock barely spares the circled fact a glance before snorting so derisively John half-expects Lestrade to concede the point, if only to avoid hearing such contempt directed at him ever again. Evidently Lestrade is a stronger man than John has previously given him credit for, however, because he holds his ground, merely raises his eyebrows and waits as Sherlock tears open the second sugar packet, stirs its contents in, before finally deigning to give Lestrade a straight answer. (For two people who insist they’re in a hurry, they certainly have a lot of time to spare for Sherlock’s theatrics. John wonders if, when Lestrade made that in a hurry announcement, he’d factored the dramatic flourishing into account.)
“Surely Scotland Yard haven’t deteriorated so far that they haven’t taught you alibis can be manufactured,” Sherlock says archly. (The cops, John’s mind grounds him, rather mournfully, back to reality. Nothing half as exciting as covert MI-6 ops.) He watches, still behind the coffee machine, as Sherlock plucks Lestrade’s pen from his hand and scratches something on the page in front of them. “Michaels has a long history of a gambling addiction and an equally long history of being an upstanding, reputable business man. It wouldn’t have been a hardship for Pyeterson to coerce him into helping with the cover-up.”
“I –” There’s a pause during which John ducks his head and studiously starts counting coffee beans for the first time since the eavesdropping began, Sherlock clicks and unclicks the pen, and Lestrade frowns down at his case file like it’s something the cat dragged in.
“Are you sure?” is what Lestrade finally settles on, glancing at Sherlock like he’s hoping to be contradicted. “Pyeterson could have done this without outside help, you know.”
The glare Sherlock levels at Lestrade could have withered roses in full bloom. As it is (and without any nearby plants he can nip in their buds, most likely), Sherlock settles for taking a long sip from his sugar-drenched cappuccino instead of deigning Lestrade’s words with a verbal response.
Even if John hadn’t been guilty of lurking behind a coffee grinder, and of avidly following the conversation from said vantage spot, the change in Sherlock’s expression would have been impossible to miss. The scowl on his face vanishes as he stares, stunned, at his coffee.
“John? John!” Sherlock calls now, startling John so badly he does drop his coffee beans, this time. They scatter over the polished tabletop and the floor, and only a select few make their way into the actual machine. John crouches to gather the fallen beans, face burning; he wonders if the grinder will swallow him whole, if he prays hard enough. Across the room, Sherlock frowns slightly, lips pulling into a downward moue, “You are John, yes?”
John closes his eyes, resigning himself to his fate. He pushes himself to his feet, and does his best to look presentable, standing there with apron askew, his hair a lost cause, and coffee beans falling from his person at intervals to pitter-patter their way down his body and onto the tiled floor.
“Yes,” he says, making it almost a question. He clears his throat, shifts awkwardly on his feet. A stray coffee beans skitters from his apron pocket to the floor. “Anything I can help you with?”
“This,” Sherlock says, pointing rather extravagantly at the now-empty cappuccino sat on the table, “This is the best cappuccino I’ve ever had.”
Lestrade snorts. It’s the only cappuccino you’ve ever had. Also, Cute John made it, of course you’d like it. (He keeps these thoughts to himself, though. He rather thinks he’ll let Sherlock navigate this particular case by himself.)
“Oh.” John blinks; he hadn’t expected that. From the clang of plates hitting the sink too quickly, and from the hastily stifled gasp behind him, John gathers that neither had Molly. “Our pleasure, really, sir.”
“No, no, it was mine,” says Sherlock, tracing a finger idly around the rim of the cup as he glances up at John. Then, an idea occurring suddenly to him, he reaches into his jacket pocket and fishes out a tenner, which he brandishes at John. “Can I get another one to-go?”
“Of – of course,” John says, taking the note. He gestures at Molly, who – bless her – has taken things in stride and is already measuring out the milk. “Here, lemme just,” he says, reaching back to rifle in their cash register for the correct amount of change.
He pauses at the sound of chairs being scraped back abruptly; a glance up shows both Sherlock and Lestrade on their feet, each hurriedly throwing on their jackets (well, windbreaker for Lestrade and a dramatic, billowing bat-cape for Sherlock).
“Sorry, must dash,” Sherlock says, sounding not in the least bit apologetic as he all but runs to the doors, Lestrade on his heels.
“But –” John calls after him, exchanging bewildered glances with Molly, “Your change!”
Sherlock’s out the door by this point, but he makes a complicated hand-gesture that Lestrade helpfully translates, sticking his head back in the door of the shop – “He said screw the change. Good day!” – before haring down the road after Sherlock’s coattails.
“Well,” Molly says, clearly shaken in the wake of the two men’s absence, half-made cappuccino held in hand, as another stray coffee bean clatters from the top of John’s head to the floor, “Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested he add that much sugar to his coffee. It’s clearly messed with his head.”
John grins, making his way to Sherlock’s recently-vacated table. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find, but there, propped against the empty cup, is a business card on which is printed in elegant, flowing script: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, 221B Baker Street.
Something warm unfurls in John’s stomach as he pockets the card, feeling for the first time since his shoulder took an Afghan bullet that maybe, just maybe, there's more to life than surviving.