"I can't concentrate with the racket you're causing in here, Sherlock!" At that moment, a cloud of blue smoke roiled from the pot boiling on the stove. John gagged as the smell hit his nostrils. "Oh. Oh God, Sherlock. What the hell is that?"
I rolled my eyes at him and tapped the space bar on the laptop, pausing the heavy metal music pouring from the speakers. The silence was almost deafening.
"Since when do you listen to anything but classical music?"
"It's for a case. Obviously. This album was on repeat at the crime scene. There may be a connection between the lyrics and the murder. I had to replicate the volume to fully immerse myself in all the evidence."
"And the goo on the stove?" John gestured to the offending appliance.
"Unimportant. Not the murder weapon." I shrugged and typed a few quick notes into the spreadsheet open on my computer.
"How do you know for sure? You haven't even examined whatever the hell it is you've boiled... and ruined our best saucepan, by the way."
"Simple, really. The fumes would have rendered us both unconscious if that mixture had been used in the murder of Mr Evans. Lucky for us, I suppose, although now I need a new hypothesis." I began to run through the details of the crime scene, waiting for something to stand out.
"A new... you mean... Sherlock! You could have killed us! What is wrong with you?" John clenched his fists at his sides, fuming.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic, John." I sighed.
He stared at me, his mouth pressed into a hard line. "Just... clean this up, will you? I have to take another shower. I'm not going on a date smelling like Blue Surprise."
Date..."This is your second date in four days. The nervous shuffle in your feet indicates that this is a second date with the same woman. What was her name... Mel?"
"I'm not discussing this with you!" Before I could inquire further, John ended the conversation by heading towards the bathroom. I shrugged and turned back to my experiment.
When John reappeared a few minutes later, it was his cologne that first alerted me to his presence. I took a deep breath and let the woodsy aroma play over my senses. The fragrance was expensive – well, expensive for John's wallet, anyway – and I knew from previous romantic engagements that he reserved this particular bottle for very special occasions. Usually withheld for third dates or if the woman was quite out of his league.
"She must be very special, this Mel. You're sparing no expense on her and you haven't even left the flat." I looked up from the slide I'd been studying and my breath caught in my throat. I was always unprepared for the reaction my body had when catching glimpses of Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in all of his towel-clad glory. My brain was conditioned well enough that I was generally able to suppress any attraction towards my flatmate during our everyday discourse; however, a seemingly more primal part always took over when significant layers of clothing were removed. Tricky things, hormones. They never seem to obey.
John said something, I wasn't sure what exactly, as I was preoccupied watching the shadows from the faded light filtering in the kitchen window shift over his taught skin, still pink from the overly warm shower. I was plotting the distance between freckles when John's voice broke through my reverie.
"Sherlock."
The annoyance in his forming of my name caught my attention and I shifted my eyes to meet his gaze. His cheeks held a darker hue of rose and I pondered this. The concentration of coloring could be the result of his face seeing more water contact than the rest of his body, but that would be highly unlikely. Perhaps a blush, then. Yes, this was plausible since he had caught me staring at him. John cleared his throat and as my attention focused back on my surroundings, I saw that he was glaring at me.
"Stop deducing me, you twit."
"I wasn't deducing, I was…"
John interrupted me, "You were deducing me. You did that thing…with your face."
I gaped at him. "The thing with my face? I don't do a thing with my face. That's a very lazy way to speak. It's this exact lack of creativity and ability to bring color to a description that makes your blogs so very dull to read."
He laughed. "You're doing it right now!"
"Perhaps you should regale me with some information about this woman you're seeing tonight. Is Mel short for Melanie? Melissa? Melody? Melinda? Distract me."
"Told you. We're not talking about this. Every time I meet someone, you pry and pry and pry until you snap apart the whole thing." I frowned and he continued. "Mel is… Mel. Look, I'm just not ready to talk about it, okay?" He blushed deeper before turning and leaving the room.
"Fine," I shouted after him. "I'll just sit here and postulate about this potential shrew, since you'll give me no information to go on!"
"Get off it, Sherlock!" John's shout was muffled through the wall.
John reentered a few minutes later and I took in his outfit. Button-down shirt, freshly ironed, no tie, khaki trousers and loafers; dressed well enough for a nice restaurant, comfortable enough for extended sitting. Dinner and a film, then.
"Have a nice time at the cinema."
"Yeah, sure. I won't even bother with how you figured that out. Don't wait up, Mum." John shot me a sarcastic smile before leaving the flat.
An hour for dinner and two hours for the cinema left plenty of time for snooping. I hurried to the window and watched John enter a cab and drive away. I waited a moment for the car to reach the end of the road and turn away. Ah, the game is on!
I took the stairs to John's room two at a time and surveyed my surroundings to find a place to start my search. There had to be something, anything, to give me some insight into Mel. I opened the drawer to his nightstand and withdrew a small stack of well-red magazines. I flipped through these out of interest to what makes John tick. I made notes and filed some relevant and quite surprising information away into my Mind Palace before replacing the contents and sliding the drawer back into place.
I got down on all fours and peeked beneath John's bed but found nothing but dust bunnies and three socks. I sat back on my heels and looked for my next target. Wardrobe, dresser, or… Ah! Hamper! Springing to my feet, I crossed the room in two long strides. John's dirty laundry stared up at me. Perhaps there would be a bit of evidence forgotten in a pocket or two. Jumpers and undershirts and a particularly intriguing pair of bright red pants were all tossed over my shoulder and onto the dusty wood floor. Finally, I reached a pair of trousers. I reached into first one pocket and then another but was only rewarded with pocket lint. I discarded this pair to the pile behind me. I fished out a pair of jeans and heard the tell-tale crinkle of paper before I even put my hand in the pocket. I retrieved the receipt and smoothed out the wrinkles.
"Thanks a Latte from Mocha Madness Coffee Shop and Confectionery," I read aloud to the empty room. I scanned the rest of the receipt. Between the coffee and pastries, John had spent nearly fifteen pounds. My eyes came to rest on a handwritten note at the bottom of the paper: 'Text me sometime, cutie. xxMel' and beneath that was a phone number scrawled in the same writing. I slipped the receipt into my pocket and returned John's laundry to the basket. I scanned the room to make sure everything was back in its place. The last thing I wanted was for John to know I was on the case.
Back in the kitchen, I placed Mel's note beneath the microscope. The slightly rounded slope of the letters indicated female, but the varied pressure and inconsistent spacing suggested male but surely indicative of the haste in which the note was scrawled. The time elapsed from receiving the receipt and the commencement of their courtship indicated that John had spent nearly a week contemplating contacting her before acting on it, however, the pocket from which I retrieved that paper belonged to jeans worn just days before. So, he was holding onto the note for sentimental purposes. There must be something special about her to change John's habits regarding cologne application and the abruptness of the second date.
I considered the note for a few minutes longer. I felt compelled to find the faults of John's companions so as to cushion the nearly inevitable fall when they would leave him. He was the kindest, most honest person I knew and I hated to see his heart break. Surely it was better to know the relationships were doomed before becoming too invested in them. Secure in my assumptions of knowing John better than anyone else, I would find the fault in Mel. I would save John Watson's heart.
The note was still face up on the table when John returned home from his date. An hour previous, I had resumed my research into Mr Evans' demise and forgotten to return the slip to John's laundry.
"Told you not to wait up," he quipped as he entered the kitchen. He came to an abrupt stop and I watched as his eyes darted to the receipt. "No. Sherlock, no. Please don't do this. I asked you to leave it alone."
He sank down into a chair. "You're going to ruin this one, aren't you? Every time, Sherlock! Every time I find someone, you pick it apart and find some flaw and you blow it completely out of proportion! So, let me have it. What major revelation have you made while I was gone?"
John kept his eyes glued to the receipt, refusing to make eye contact with me. His face was sullen, not angry as I had expected. He bit at his top lip and his hands nervously smoothed wrinkles from the thighs of his trousers. I knit my eyebrows together, perplexed by his actions. I had been prepared for anger or at the least, annoyance. John looked… sad, worried, and a bit heartbroken. What had gone wrong? I hadn't revealed anything yet. I leaned back in my chair and brought my fingers to a steeple beneath my chin.
"I have deduced very little about Mel thus far. Though, I have gained quite a bit of insight into how much and how quickly you seem to like her. I'm just worried that you're throwing yourself at her. You might get hurt. You are no help to me on cases when you are grieving for a relationship gone sour. I intend to go out for a coffee tomorrow…"
John's head snapped up and he implored me, first with his eyes, and then with his words. "Please, Sherlock. I'm begging you here. Let it go. Stop investigating Mel. If you care about me at all, as my friend, stay far away from that coffee shop." He searched my face, fervently. "Promise me."
"Yes," I replied. Of course I was still going to that shop, but I concealed my intent, doing my best to keep my features blank. He nodded, satisfied with my response.
"Right. I'm going to bed." He collected the paper and slid it into his pocket. I watched him retreat from the kitchen before I made for my own room. I planned to wait until John had left for work the following morning before beginning the legwork portion of my investigation into The Mysterious Mel.
The next morning, I woke well before John. Normally, I would don a dressing gown and play my violin in the study, but I wanted to avoid any interaction with John just in case his paranoia would cause him to see my true plans for the day. When John finally awoke, I tracked his movement throughout the flat using the sounds of his drowsy steps on the wooden floors. He had slept in, so he skipped the shower, moving straight on to a cup of tea and some toast. When at last I heard him clod down the stairs to the street, I sprang from my bed.
I showered, shaved and dressed in some casual street clothes, deciding to leave my beloved suits in the wardrobe. I was going undercover, after all. I examined my outfit in the full length mirror: jeans, trainers, a blue v-neck shirt and a brown cardigan. I nodded at my reflection. As I left the flat, I reached for my long, flowing coat out of habit. I stopped and put it back on the rack. The coat would draw too much attention, especially as the morning was warm enough for just my cardigan.
A short cab ride later brought me to a quaint little street in Soho. I paid the cabbie and surveyed my surroundings. A bookshop, a pub, and a couple of restaurants lined the way. I quickly spotted Mocha Madness and made my way across the street. Bells on the door jingled as I pushed my way inside.
I stopped dead in my tracks. My senses were suddenly overwhelmed. Roasted coffee beans mingled with the decadently sweet aroma of baking apple strudels. Visually, I was stunned by the breathtaking beauty of the baristas. The all-male crew sported matching black t-shirts with a stylized M/M logo matching the decal on the door. Their shirts seemed to be painted onto their well-toned torsos and the dark color served only to highlight their tanned skin. One of the men stepped from behind the counter to deliver a steaming cup of coffee to a waiting patron. My breath caught in my chest as my eyes worked him over, noting how his jeans clung to all the right places.
I finally regained enough control over my faculties to swallow the lump in my throat and make my way to an empty seat near the window. I worked to steady my breathing. That really came out of nowhere, I thought to myself. I partitioned my physical desires away and focused instead on my goal. I took in details of the little shop, carefully avoiding the wait staff. The walls were a sunny shade of yellow and the wooden counter at the back was painted a burnt orange and behind that, a two meter long blackboard with descriptions and prices was suspended above the espresso machines. The cash register was adorned with a smattering of stickers of all shapes and sizes, all of which were rainbows.
"Ah!" I muttered aloud to myself as the pieces clicked into place. A gay coffee shop, of course. That explained the… pleasing… uniforms on the staff. I tried to fit Mel into this puzzle. Was there a Ladies' Night with female servers? She had obviously waited on John while he was here. Why had John stopped at this particular coffee shop? I spun a few theories around before dismissing each one. I was completely oblivious to the man standing next to my table until he cleared his throat.
"Sir? What would you like to order?" his voice rung out, sugar to my ears. I met his gaze and he awarded me with a flash of dazzling white teeth. His shaggy, mahogany hair was meticulously styled and he wore a braided leather bracelet on his wrist. Damn, there went my ability to breathe again. Get it under control, Sherlock!
"Uh, um, coffee. Black," I managed to stutter.
"Anything else? Croissant? Pastry?" I shook my head. "Okay, hon. My name's Mel if you need anything else, okay? Just give a shout."
Mel turned and sauntered back to the bar. Mel. Mel. Could be a coincidence. Had to be a coincidence. John isn't gay. Bisexual, maybe? I ran through a list of John's most recent girlfriends for any other androgynous names: Rachel, Lydia, Tessa, Michelle… No, all other names were almost certainly female.
Mel returned with my coffee and placed it on the table in front of me.
"Say, Mel, this might be a shot in the dark… but do you know a John Watson? About this tall," I mimed John's height with my hand. "Wears a lot of jumpers?"
Mel's eyes lit up and he grinned ear to ear. "You're Sherlock, aren't you?"
"Yes…"
"Ah-ha! John sent me a text last night saying you would probably show up here! You're a sneaky thing, you! And after you promised him you would stay away…" Mel clicked his tongue and frowned at me. "He tried to get me to call in today, but I told him that if you were half as smart as he made you out to be… Well, you'd figure out what kind of shop he was frequenting with or without me here."
I stared at my coffee, completely flabbergasted. Mel chuckled and patted my arm.
"That cup's on the house. I'll leave you to your Mind Palace."
I heard giggling from the direction of the bar and with my peripheral vision, I witnessed the whole of the staff whispering and looking in my direction. My phone chimed from the front pocket of my jeans.
'Shit! We'll talk about this as soon as I get home. –JW'
'Yes. –SH'
I abandoned the untouched coffee and returned to Baker Street.