Work Text:
It begins with the following text:
"appledore @ 10am. dont be late. GL"
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Sherlock leans on the wall outside the coffee shop with a scowl, fingers restlessly tapping against the screen of his phone. He's feeling tetchy and annoyed, though, that is his default mode, the whole being-annoyed-with-everything. Mycroft tells him that he was born irritated and bored with the world, a statement Sherlock loves more than anything, well, more than he loves Mycroft, at any rate. But he’s mainly disgruntled right now because of all places to meet, Lestrade has chosen this hipster-y and mostly unknown coffee shop, which is awful because Sherlock hates coffee with a burning passion; a hatred that might have to do with the memory of a burning hot cup of coffee flying past him due to his deducing a man with anger issues a couple of years back.
To be fair, at least Lestrade didn't suggest meeting at Starbucks, because 1) he’s banned and 2) they suck anyway, Starbucks sucks 3) no, he’s not going to tell you why he’s banned (they involve a lot of sugar and words like ‘stealing’, which, of course, does not describe Sherlock at all).
Looking at the time and confirming that yes, Lestrade is indeed 17 minutes late, which is unbearable, Sherlock marches into the little shop and up to the counter imperiously. He glares at the blue-eyed barista before him; and orders a cup of black coffee, feeling annoyed, sulky and well, generally like a seven year old about to throw an epic tantrum.
Surprisingly, instead of being put off, the barista flashes a wide smile at him and Sherlock is blinded (positively, this is a positive blindness, okay? no, there will be no judgemental eyerolls here, this is a thing, just believe me). So Sherlock manages a smile in return, looking slightly like the deranged maniac and sociopath he claims to be at least three times a day, and he starts to panic internally over everything and nothing at all.
The barista then says something that Sherlock can’t quite hear despite his impeccable hearing, which causes the sandy-haired man to start giggling, he honest-to-god giggles, and that charms Sherlock completely. Sherlock's just absolutely captivated and his heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of his chest, which he can’t comprehend at all, his magnificent brain just can’t understand what it is about this average-looking (wrong!) man that makes his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.
He's about to say something, to show that he’s amazing, and that they can be amazing together or something along those lines, when Lestrade stomps in and ruins things, making a spectacle of himself by tripping over a chair. Of all things, a bloody chair is what reacquaints Lestrade with the law of gravity, and Sherlock's horrified. Actually, he’s beyond horrified and no, he does not want to be in any way connected to Lestrade, because how embarrassing, god. Sherlock shifts closer to the counter to avoid being seen, and he’s sixty percent sure that his reputation remains intact and dignified, unassociated with the man currently laying sprawled on the floor. But then Lestrade, damn the man, yells Sherlock's name incredibly loudly and adds a “yes, you lanky git, with your stupid coat and curly hair, come here and help me up"; in case anyone from at least two blocks away had the audacity to misunderstand him. It is at this point that Sherlock decides he hates Lestrade, hates him so damn much.
Sherlock sneaks a look at the barista, face burning with shame and embarrassment, and he’s so glad he doesn’t miss how the barista’s face goes through a series of expressions; with an amused glint in his eyes over Lestrade's ridiculous antics, to slight concern over the well-being of his customer, and back to amusement over Sherlock's mortification and obviously poor choices in acquaintances. It makes Sherlock wish that Lestrade would fall over again, so that he can better catalogue the complex and utterly fascinating expressions the man displays at his not-friend’s idiocy.
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The barista, whose name is John Watson, whose smiles are precious and eyes shine with mischief is competent at many things, Sherlock is sure, but making a decent cup of coffee is not one of his talents. The thing is, John makes awful coffee. Awful awful coffee, which Sherlock suspects is John's way of trying to poison him; though in all honesty, Sherlock's just fascinated because it's such a bold method of murder. Completely undignified, yes, but extra points for boldness and lack of subtlety. People don't complain often about John's coffee because John's wonderful and everyone loves him (it’s terrible, Sherlock selfishly thinks it's terrible because the idea of John offering his smiles and giggles to someone Not-Sherlock makes him seethe with jealousy).
Even then, the delighted grins bestowed upon Sherlock as he finishes each drop of the monstrous drinks John prepares is enough reason for Sherlock to endure.
Love, he thinks, are for losers, but he drains the poison John gleefully makes like a man desperately in love anyway.
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“Sherlock, hi!”
John’s grinning widely at him, looking adorable in his apron and Sherlock can’t help but smile in return.
“Hello, John,” he responds, a little shyly.
“And what will be your poison today?” John jokes, and Sherlock barely manages to avoid wincing at that question.
“Um…” Sherlock looks up at the order board and frowns. “A Vienna coffee, please.”
“A Vien-- oh.”
John starts fidgeting and Sherlock watches as John looks at the floor guiltily.
“Problem, John?”
“Uh… no?”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows at the completely unconvincing reply.
“I just, um, give me a moment, yeah?”
John rushes into the back room and after three and a half minutes, he comes out looking even more miserable than before. Sherlock hates the stupid Vienna coffee. Hates it more than he does Anderson, at this point.
As John fiddles with the machine, Sherlock looks over to John’s pretty colleague, Molly. She’s shaking her head and giving Sherlock sympathetic smiles, which confuses the hell out of Sherlock, at least until he tastes the coffee and understands.
It tastes like death. Sherlock wants to elaborate and talk about how it felt like he was having a terribly unpleasant out-of-body experience and that his life flashed before his eyes; but it tastes like death is the explanation that truly describes The Vienna Coffee Experience.
John’s looking at him with worry etched all over his lovely face, so Sherlock applies the quality of endurance that he’s been cultivating in the time he’s known John. Sherlock smiles, chugs down the drink of death stoically, and holds on to the table until his knuckles turn white and he’s sure he won’t pass out. He then arrogantly thanks John for the service as he strides out of Appledore, savoring John’s surprised smile and wonder, and he mentally praises himself for making John feel that way.
Sherlock, feeling proud and motivated, walks and walks, confidently and with purpose towards the back alley.
He throws up.
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“Hey Sher-- oh my god, what happened to your hands?”
Sherlock shrugs dismissively, despite feeling like he’s been asked to solve a locked room murder mystery of some kind, because John noticed.
“Experiment.”
John scowls darkly at the red skin and evidence of burns decorating Sherlock’s hands, and mumbles incoherently to himself. It’s Christmas, Sherlock thinks. John Watson looks personally offended at Sherlock’s injury, and Sherlock’s ecstatic. John cares.
“Go sit down, and I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“Why?”
“Because that gauze you have wrapped around your burns are pathetic, and they’re hurting my eyes. Did you do that yourself?” John asks, eyeing Sherlock's hand with distaste.
“Yes. I don’t think it looks too bad.” Sherlock admits, squinting at the hastily wrapped gauze. Sure, it's sticking out weirdly at some places, but he’s had quite a bit of experience in handling the consequences of his more… explosive experiments, which he's quite proud of.
“You’re an idiot,” John mutters, “and go before I drag you over to your seat myself.”
Your seat.
“You can’t threaten your customers,” declares Sherlock haughtily, hiding his excitement and glee over John’s reactions.
John raises his eyebrows and gives Sherlock a slight smirk. Sherlock swoons internally.
“A caramel macchiato,” he orders brusquely, and makes his way to his seat.
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Sherlock’s caramel macchiato has cinnamon (?) and an alarming amount of salt (???) in it. John tends to his wounds in a doctorly and professional manner. Sherlock finds it incredibly difficult to breathe, and he blames the vile drink for the way his fingertips tingle when John leans in close to inspect his burns.
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Sherlock adores talking to John because John is magnificent. John doesn’t ramble nonsensically when Sherlock asks about his opinions, and John listens. No one ever listens to Sherlock, but John, wonderful wonderful John pays attention and keeps up with him, something people don't ever bother with.
He wants to know everything about John, but there is the innate fear in him that John will hate him if Sherlock admits and tells John how he really feels, and he just can't bear the idea of having a John Watson who will give him a look of disgust or indifference instead of his positively blinding smiles, the ones that make Sherlock feel like he's making a ten-story jump off a hospital rooftop (in a good way).
Sherlock has learnt (the hard way, unfortunately), not to expect the impossible, and expecting a John Watson to love Sherlock Holmes is exactly that.
He would be an idiot to expect more, and Sherlock may be many things, but he’s never an idiot.
(Or so he thinks.)
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Then comes the one day, one fine morning whereby after Sherlock places his order, John makes a huge disruption from their routine by refusing to give Sherlock his coffee. John absolutely refuses, even after Sherlock pointedly clears his throat and attempts to look impatient (and fails, but please do note that there was an effort made).
"You have to answer one question," John demands, trying to look either threatening or cuddly, Sherlock's not quite sure. Sherlock raises his eyebrows in response, conveying a bored "or what" to the man holding his coffee hostage.
After a brief moment of silence, John says seriously:
"Or I'll date you."
Sherlock just blinks.
And blinks.
And blinks.
It's when John's face starts to fall, and his mouth is forming the words to apologize (for what, don't apologize, Sherlock thinks hysterically), that Sherlock realizes he has to say something, but he can't because sherlock.exe is crashing impressively.
Nonetheless, he manages to stammer out a reply, something Sherlock's not even sure is said in English or understandable in the least.
"I'm not answering your question, ever."
And John, wonderful and amazing John, must understand, because John's beautifully crumpled face lights up, his eyes are crinkling and Sherlock needs to sit down because he's going to have a heart attack.
Which he doesn't realize he said out loud until John's eyes widen comically and he rushes over to grab Sherlock a chair and makes Sherlock sit. John kneels down, wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and tries to get a reading of his pulse, while his other hand brushes Sherlock's curls from his forehead gently. John fusses over Sherlock and it's an overwhelming feeling that Sherlock has no idea how to process.
Sherlock leans in closer to the touch, he breathes John in and rests his head on John's shoulders. He breathes and breathes and breathes, and then he whispers something into John's ears.
"You make terrible coffee," Sherlock admits.
John laughs softly, careful not to jostle Sherlock too much.
"I have a secret but I'll only tell you if you join me for dinner tonight."
"No."
Sherlock senses how his answer makes John's body tense, so he squeezes John's arms and feels how John relaxes again, as he waits for further elaboration.
"Lunch?" Sherlock mumbles into John's comfortable shoulders.
"Starving," John replies, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls.
As they get up, John removes his apron and he clears his throat, signalling that he's about to make an announcement.
"You lot can stop staring now," he says cheerfully to the patrons and staff of Appledore, "I'm finally going on a date with this maniac."
Sherlock hears applause and cat calls and shouts of "bloody finally", "your coffee was killing us mate", and it is then that Sherlock finally connects the pieces and goes... oh.
Oh.
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The thing is, as you may (or may not) have guessed, John doesn’t actually work at Appledore. The shop belongs to Harry, and the fateful day he saw Sherlock Holmes and fell for that ridiculous man, was the day he stepped in to help as the cashier. (Note: as the cashier, not the barista.)
John knows he can’t make coffee. Roses are red, the sky is blue, and John Watson is shit at coffee-making (and figuring out modern technology). It’s merely a fact of life, one he understands and has no desire to change. Also, he makes fantastic cups of tea, so he figures that it’s only fair for him to be rubbish at putting together a decent cup of coffee.
But in comes Sherlock, who stares at John with his glorious blue eyes and looks enchanted when John giggles like a moron. So John begs, begs his beloved, beautiful, wonderfully talented and amazing (shut up, you lovesick fool, we all get what you’re trying to do here) sister to let him work the morning shifts (aka the hour and a half in which Sherlock drops by and drinks John's crappy coffee). Most patrons of Appledore are Harry's regular customers, and Harry insists that John explain to them why he's behind the counter every morning, serving them motor oil and poisoning them in the process.
"Come on, Harry, it's not that bad."
"Show of hands, who would rather drink soap than John's attempts at coffee?"
There's an offensive amount of hands raised up, and John sulks pathetically.
"Sherlock drinks them."
"That's because Sherlock is a sad, sad man who loves this other sad, sad man I know."
John blushes.
"He doesn't love me," he mumbles, because obviously, that's the point which matters most.
Molly, who has been quiet and lovely the whole time, speaks up.
"John, we love you, but he loves you. Anyone who drinks your coffee and comes back for more? They either lack a functioning taste bud, or is desperately in love with you."
"Well, he's not asked me out yet," he replies mulishly.
Groans are heard throughout the shop, accompanied with a "god, men are idiots" and "amen to that, sister".
John pouts miserably at his audience and hides out in the back room. Molly shuffles closer to Harry.
"Who do you think will break first?"
Harry ponders over the question carefully.
"I say John.”
“Hmm. Well, I think Sherlock would ask John out first. There’s only so much of John’s coffee he can take before he… you know,” Molly sticks out her tongue and lolls her head to the side.
Harry snorts with laughter.
“That’s great. I’m going to tell John exactly that so he can get his arse in gear and ask the man out before he poisons him to death.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Why not? Hell, let’s make some money out of this.” Harry turns to her customers, all of whom are eavesdropping in an incredibly obvious manner. “Who wants in?”
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The regulars of Appledore know that the best show in town is watching Sherlock Holmes and John Watson get their shit together.
It’s frustrating, yes, but never boring.
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Eight days after The Vienna Coffee Experience is the day John breaks.
“I’m going to kill him at this rate,” John moans.
“I’m going to kill you,” Harry mutters in reply.
Molly decides to lovingly interfere.
“Are you going to ask him out, John? It’s just that… I think he’s going to ask you out really soon.”
She ignores Harry who’s mouthing “cheater” at her and goes on with great determination.
“Just hang on, John. Everything will be fine.”
John, who has decided to bury his face in a pillow from god-knows-where, offers a response that is muffled and completely incoherent.
So pathetic, Harry continues mouthing, and Molly hides a smile by pretending to clean the counter top.
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Ten days after The Vienna Coffee Experience is the day John makes An Important Decision. The decision to tell Sherlock The Truth. (It turns out to be a disaster, because Sherlock always does the unexpected. Like telling John that he’s having a heart attack and scaring the living daylights out of John.)
Well, there is also the amazing kiss he got from Sherlock that was a little unexpected, but John will never complain about that, and shut up, he’s not blushing, go away.
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“I’m really, really sorry about the Vienna coffee,” John says awkwardly.
Sherlock shudders at the memory of it.
“I promise to make it up to you,” declares the not-barista earnestly.
Sherlock has already forgiven John, was never really angry about it in the first place, but Sherlock’s an opportunist, and there’s no reason to not milk this for all that it’s worth.
But first:
“Never again, Vienna,” Sherlock says seriously.
John gives him a bemused frown for a moment, before smiling widely in relief.
“Never again, Vienna,” he replies fervently, saying it like he would say I love you.
The blinding smile Sherlock offers makes him feel like Sherlock heard what he really meant anyway.
John leans in close to Sherlock, tilts his head upwards, and ignores the way his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest when Sherlock captures John’s lips with his own.
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“What the hell does that mean?” yells Harry for the nth time.
John merely shrugs in response while Sherlock smirks infuriatingly. Harry hates these two idiots and despairs of them completely.
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Never again, Vienna: a phrase that means nothing, and a phrase that means everything.
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the end
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