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The first time Sherlock came into Speedy's, the sky was pouring. It was the rain, in fact, that brought him into the cafe in the first place; his leather jacket had turned out to be much less waterproof than he had expecting and left him utterly soaking, with his teeshirt embarrassingly clingy. Flicking water logged curls out of his eyes (and praying that his eyeliner wasn't trickling down his face), he was oblivious to the boy behind the counter until a gentle cough interrupted his quiet fretting.
'Can I help you with anything?'
'Yes, can I-'
Sherlock looked up. Blue eyes, soft and warm and sparkling with life, regarded him with silent amusement. Strokes of flyaway blonde hair and sun-kissed skin surrounded then, accompanied by a lazy lopsided smile.
Oh. Oh no.
'...order something, perhaps?'
'Oh, yeah. Black coffee, please?'
Ink marks on his hands. He must be studying heavily. So, he's doing difficult subjects. A lot must ride on his results.
'You really do like black everything, don't you? Sugar?'
He nearly laughed, first at the comment, then at the irony of his hysteria. 'Uh, yes, just the one. And I... I don't always wear...'
Oh! It must be the sciences. He's an aspiring doctor. The deductions swirled around and around in his head, so fast he felt himself sway.
'No, wait. I see. That tattoo there...' the blond boy leant over the counter, reaching out to gesture to a splash of yellow that trickled down beneath Sherlock's jacket and onto his list. 'That tattoo there's yellow. Is it a bee?'
Suddenly, Sherlock felt a lot less badass than he had thought he was. Who had bees tattooed on their arms? Or perhaps, to be more specific, what self respecting person who was neither a) a middle aged woman, or b) so intoxicated that he hadn't been able to tell the difference between a bee and a viper when he was sat in the tattooist's chair, had bees tattooed on their arms? He felt his cheeks burn with an awful heat.
'Yeah...'
'That's actually really cute. Not that cute is really what you're looking for, I'm sure.'
He shrugged, fixing his eyes on the cracked wooden surface of the counter.
'And really manly too, of course.'
Shrug.
'Well, I, oh sh-sugar. I don't suppose you'd mind finding somewhere to sit whilst I serve this lot? I'll call you when I've made your coffee.'
'Yes. Yes, okay.' Sherlock tried to smile. At least, that's what he thought his face was doing as he shuffled away.
Funny. He hadn't even noticed how busy it has gotten. Clusters of students leant over sheets upon sheets of paper, their eyes running over the words feverishly to the point they surely couldn't understand a single letter. Cups of coffee and plates of half eaten cake slathered in sugary icing were left abandoned as French verbs and algebraic formulas filled their place. Exhausted office workers, dressed in a uniform of dripping black suits and stifling white shirts, typed viciously on their laptops with one hand whilst pouring coffee into their mouths like petrol into a gas guzzler with another. It was hard to tell what was steaming more, their drinks or their computers.
And usually, Sherlock would close his eyes. He'd shut everything off; he'd go to a far away place where he'd replace the constant noise with his violin, the colours with bubbling chemicals, the eye watering stench of coffee and sweat with the somehow healthier scent of lingering cigarette smoke. But not today. Today was different.
There was one tiny seat in the back. A lonely seat, shoved in the very corner. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to fit in the gap; his legs were far too long without his chunky Doc Martin's on. It did have an excellent view of the counter, though. So he squeezed in, so that he could see when his drink was ready, of course.
God, Mycroft would have a field day. Hell, if it was Mycroft in his place, he would have a field day. He didn't know what it was. It was, it was, no. No matter how much he stammered, or delved into his mind palace, nothing could explain why he was acting like such an idiot. He brought his hands up to his face to rub away the pink, though all he'd probably done was smear his eye makeup. Life would be so much easier if he didn't paint his face all the time.
'Uh, curly hair? Black coffee, one sugar?'
Shit. He heaved himself up, staring down as his battered boots as he shuffled over to retrieve his drink. Sliding the exact change over the counter, he swiped up the cup with a mumbled 'thanks', before racing back to his seat.
He was going to have to stop making such a fool of himself. He never did anything like this; Sherlock Holmes was fearless, ruthless, and to quote so many school reports, 'not a people person'. Sherlock Holmes did not give a single shit. Running a chipped black nail over the styrofoam, he tried to concentrate on the smooth indents he was making in the plastic.
He plays rugby, Sherlock. He plays rugby and goes out with the lads on a Saturday night and he bloody dates girls. He dates those boring 'does this dress make me look fat oh well doesn't matter I have crippling self esteem issues anyway' girls- wait. Is that a bee?
Just there. Just beneath his nail marks, drawn terribly crudely in black Sharpie, was a wonky bee. Underneath, in sloppy handwriting, it read: 'didn't no ur name so I drew this, bee boy.'
Bee boy. He liked that.
The second time Sherlock came into Speedy's, at the same time as get first, it was almost empty. His steely determination to talk to the barista hadn't faltered once during his walk down to the little coffee shop, but standing by the door, watching the blond head that was craned over a biology text book, he felt it begin to crumble.
Come on, 'Lock. Pull yourself together. It's just a boy.
The walk up to the counter was the longest journey off his life.
'Black coffee, please?'
The boy leapt up, letting the book hurl off his lap and land on the tiled floor with a slap. 'Hey, it's bee boy!' he grinned, whipping up a styrofoam cup from a nearby cupboard.
'Hi.' Sherlock tried out the smallest of waves.
'It was one sugar, wasn't it?'
'Yeah.'
Had he really remembered that? He leant on the counter, leaning on his hand the way only those pathetically loved up teenage girls in chick flicks do. The barista twirled around in his coffee stained apron, which was tied around his waist with military perfection, continuing to chatter on as he pulled a heavy looking pot of sugar down onto the work surface.
'So, I was thinking. You look about my age.'
'Hm.'
'I was wondering, well. You don't go to my school, because I'd recognise you if I did. No offence, but you don't exactly blend in.'
None taken.
'No, I- I go to this stupid private school outside of London.'
'Ooh, a private school boy! What're you studying? If you're in sixth form, that is.'
Sherlock swallowed, watching the sugar tear itself apart as it was stirred.
'Science and stuff. I'm in year twelve.'
The not-quite-stranger's face lit up.
'Hey! I'm doing 'science and stuff' too in year thirteen.'
'You want to be a doctor, don't you?'
Oh no. There it was.
You're an absolute idiot, Sherlock Holmes.
'How did you know?'
He found himself shrugging again. 'Uh, lucky guess.'
'Well, lucky guesser,' the teenager smiled, plonking one steaming and readily inked cup in front of his nose. 'Here's your coffee.'
Sherlock slid the required coins over the stained wood, muttering 'thanks' once again, before retreating to tuck himself away in the same corner as before. There it was. Another wonderful drawing (though not quite so wonderful to anyone else, he presumed, which was sad), scrawled above the scribbled words 'I can't draw'. A little punk boy, with curly hair maybe, holding up a lopsided test tube that looked like a, well it didn't look like a test tube.
Were the bees still on his arm? Or were they fluttering in his stomach now?
The third time Sherlock came into Speedy's, at the same time once again, he hadn't had to say his order. They'd talked about his nail varnish, and the spider like hand drawn on his cup and looked like a twisted daisy.
The fourth time Sherlock came into Speedy's, it was the same time. Same time, same place, same barista. His new friend of sorts had babbled on about exams and studying. When he'd written out chemical formulas on his cup, Sherlock had wanted to go over and calm him down, but he he hadn't known how.
The fifth time Sherlock came into Speedy's, he'd been served by some bubbly girl with a pony tail. She'd been nice, but a little too flirty, and the coffee was disgusting.
The sixth time Sherlock came into Speedy's, the boy was back with stitches. He'd rambled on about rugby matches, and how he'd have to walk on crutches for weeks, and /how on Earth/ was he going to play in the final when he couldn't do anything without these fucking- he meant flipping- sticks?
The drawing was off the battered barista on a stretcher. Sherlock didn't know if this was supposed to be funny or not.
The seventh time Sherlock came into Speedy's, his coffee was already made.
'Coffee, black, one sugar?'
Sherlock grinned, plopping his few select coins into the barista's hand.
'You know, it's weird.'
'What's weird?' he coughed, proud that he could actually ask him a question now. 'We've been talking for nearly a week now. I like to think we know each other. But, well. We don't know each other's name. As adorable as 'bee boy' is, I can't keep calling it you it forever. And what am I to you? The boy with the stupid crutches?'
Like he'd ever just be that. He shrugged.
'So. I'm John.'
'Hi, John.' The words tasted like pure sugar as they rolled off his tongue. 'I'm Sherlock.'
'What-lock?'
'Sherlock. It's my name.'
'That's an unusual name.'
'I know. It's a family thing.'
'Not a bad name, though. It's much more interesting than John. Or Molly. Or Harry. Or the names of anyone else I know.'
Sherlock tickled all over.
'John isn't a boring name. There are lots of interesting Johns.'
Including you.
'Yeah, no there aren't. And before you go off listing famous Johns, let me just... I wanted to tell you my name so you have something to call me by when you, well, when you call me. About the date I'm asking you out on right this very second.'
'You wrote your number on the cup?' Sherlock picked up the styrofoam and turned it around and around with the tips of his fingers, confining the number to memory.
'Lucky guess?'
'Hang on,' he looked up now, his eyebrows raised. 'Did you say date? Did you ask me out on a date?'
'Well, yeah. Unless you only date blokes- or girls, of course, with tattoos. Because to be honest, Sherlock, I'd get your face tattooed right over all of my back if it meant I could go on a date with you.'
Sherlock saw it now. He did laugh this time, first at the comment, then at the irony of his hysteria, then at the sheer joy that John had conjured up within him.
'I'd love to go on a date with you, John. But please tell me you haven't got my face tattooed on your back.'