i-o-u-a-fall:inchells:The only reason he hangs around this coffee shop is for the cute waiterHe’s th

i-o-u-a-fall:inchells:The only reason he hangs around this coffee shop is for the cute waiterHe’s there every Tuesday, Wednesday, second Thursday, and the last Friday of the month, in the table right next to the register. John wonders how early he gets there to reserve the spot, or if he’s just kissed Angelo’s arse enough to have it at the ready for him (because really, it’s not hard to get on Angelo’s good side). Regardless of how or when, he’s always there (where). He’s either reading a book or looking at discoloured petri dishes or writing furiously in a journal (what).He can live without knowing how or when. The why is what he wants to know.Why is he always there at the beginning of John’s shift? Why does he order new coffee even though he has a half-congealed cup already there, or order a new sandwich with an empty plate off to the side? Why does he always order from John and John alone? Why does he take his time ordering, asking what’s new on the menu (“Nothing to my knowledge, but it’ll tell you right there on the menu”), what he would recommend (“Same thing as yesterday, and the day before that; and you still say no”), and who the manufacturer of his apron is (“I don’t bloody know that! Now come on, I’ve got other tables to wait!”)? Why does he always watch John, smirking or tilting his head or humming to himself when he walks by as if the sway of his hips is pleasing? Is it pleasing? Why does he want it to be pleasing?He doesn’t like pickles or too much mayo; takes sugar in his coffee but not his tea; likes his milk steamed to a certain temperature; and always leaves after an hour of John waiting on him. He’s punctual, particular, and a prat, but John can never say no to him when he asks for him specifically. There’s something about him. Something John can’t seem to name.He’s glad he has the patience to deal with “that guy”, as he’s come to be known, because on the last Friday of January, five months after he began to come into Angelo’s Cafe, something shifts, and “that guy” becomes somebody, and that somebody changes John’s life with a simple, stunning question.“Afghanistan or Iraq?”John has heard him speak before in mumbles and on the occasion shouts at the telly and its stupidity, but this voice is different. This is rumbling intrigue and smugness, and John can understand why. He looks up from setting the pickleless sandwich down on the table to stare at him. “Beg your pardon?” he mumbles, a bit numbly.The man shifts, folding his long legs under the table. “You were a soldier,” he states plainly, arching a brow. “Military hair cut and walking gait. Dog tags in the pocket of your backpack behind the counter - yes, I’ve been back there, no, I wasn’t burgling you. Called ‘Cap’n’ by Billy; affectionate nickname, but a dead give-away to those who listen, which, lamentably, are a small and select few, myself included.” He skims over John quickly before returning to his eyes. “You’ve had difficulty finding a job since your return, likely honourable discharge going by your limp - psychosomatic I might add, seeing as you have no problem being on your feet for hours on end - and have accepted a job offer from an old family friend. No one but Angelo calls you ‘Johnny’ and judging by the way you’ve jutted your lower lip just now I wager you’re not fond it passing through anyone else’s lips.” He curls long fingers under his sharp cheekbone and adds, “I can’t blame you. The name is entirely juvenile for a man your age.”John had meant to be pouring him coffee, and he feels lucky that he wasn’t because surely it would be running down the table. He closes his mouth and blinks hard to break the gawk which has passed over his face. He exhales and shakes his head. “Wow,” he utters in disbelief. He opens his mouth to say something else, then breathes out another, “Wow.” ‘Something about him’, indeed.“Are you always this eloquent?” the man asks through a mouthful of sandwich.The sass brings him back from the brink of a stupor. “I’ve never had my life deduced and shoved in front of my face before, thanks for asking,” John retorts He sees the man smirk from behind his sandwich, obviously pleased with the remark. John laughs breathlessly, shakes his head, pours his coffee, and asks, “How did you do that? It’s brilliant, that is.”Glancing from his mug to the waiter he always waits for, the man frowns thinly, plump lips curling downwards, and mutters, “Is it?”John looked his way with arched brows. “Brilliant,” he repeats enthusiastically. “Amazing. It was… extraordinary. ‘course, being in here every day I work helps to get to know a guy a bit.” He rests the pot of coffee on his hips and smiles down at the man, who seems sincerely caught off-guard by the praise. “Though, I still don’t know much about you,” John sighs with an air of curiosity.As soon as the expression is there, it’s gone and replaced with the same facade of coolness that John had come to recognise. “You have a break in fifteen minutes,” he states. “I’ll tell you then, if you’ll allow me. And if you brew us a cuppa.”A smirk tugs to John’s face. His break is actually in thirty minutes, but he knows he can pull some strings if it means finally getting to talk to the man in the corner. “You want me to brew tea on my break?” he asks as if he hadn’t heard him right.”A brow raises above his brilliant blue eyes (eyes John didn’t really mind watching him from all angles of the restaurant, if he was to be completely honest). “Problem?” comes the reply, and John can’t help but grin. He’s full of it, this one. It’s more endearing than it should be.John feigns a bothered sigh and bargains, “Can’t I know your name first?”The man smirks briefly. He pulls his cup of coffee closer, gazes at it in contemplation, as if trying to predict where revealing his name would lead him. He seems to reach a decision swiftly as he looks up with his hand out and says, “Sherlock Holmes.”John takes his hand and shakes it, a smile growing on his lips. “John Watson,” he responds. “Though, you already knew that.” Not his smoothest moment, but given the man’s loyalty, he supposes charm isn’t necessary. Not that he’s trying for anything specific; no, not at all.“Quite,” Sherlock replies, taking his hand back and leaning it back on his cheek. He keeps John a moment or two more, then lets him return to the other customers; already brewing up what he’ll say in fifteen minutes’ time.John smiles as he walks away and can’t seem to stop smiling as he attends to the needs of the other patrons, knowing that he’s being watched from the corner closest to the register. How can he not smile when he knows he’ll finally understand why “that guy” waits for him, and what it is about “that guy” that had made him worth waiting on every Tuesday, Wednesday, second Thursday, and last Friday of the last five months.Because “that guy” is Sherlock Holmes, and he truly is something else. -- source link

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