John sat at a table in a quaint little coffee shop, bored out of his mind. Grabbing his cane, he stood up to leave, but changed his mind. He walked up to the man at the counter. "Are you hiring?" he asked.

"Sorry, no," sighed the man, whose name tag informed John he was named Mike.

"Oh, right then." John turned to leave the cafe. "Who would ever want to hire me?" he muttered under his breath.

"I hear their hiring over at Baker Street!" Mike called after him.

John stopped. "Baker Street?"

"Yeah," said Mike. "I know a guy who works there. Here's the address." Mike jotted it down on a piece of paper and held it out to John.

John took the paper. "I'll consider it," he said.

"One hot chocolate coming up," said Sherlock. He handed a receipt to the girl who liked Night Vale podcasts and had two dogs, not the most interesting customer today. "Molly!" he called.

"Yes, Sherlock?" She popped up beside him.

"We're backed up on orders. We've got nine coffees to make and a hot chocolate on top. I'll take the hot chocolate and four of the coffees. The other five are all the same, black, two sugars. That should be easy enough for you."

"Are you calling me- stupid?"

"What? No. It's just- get to work." Sherlock started the one of the machines up. As the coffee poured, he set to work putting in cream and milk in the appropriate cups.

"Natalie, Sharon, Madeline, and Anika, your orders are done."

He handed the girls their cups as Molly called for her four orders. "Philip, Sally, Irene, and James!"

Molly handed each one out with a smile. One of them, James, smiled back and said,"Hi."

"Hey," Molly replied sheepishly.

"So would you like to maybe-"

"Alexandra!" Sherlock called from behind Molly, and the girl came to pick up her hot chocolate at the counter.

James looked away and went to sit down. All nine patrons had been satisfied and were seated at tables and Sherlock was bored. "I'll be upstairs," he said to Molly.

John Watson walked into the weird little shop, followed by two other patrons who maneuvered past him and to the register.

The first of the two was a bit larger with brown, balding hair. In his hand was an black umbrella (John couldn't fathom why, nothing in the forecast suggested it would rain.) and he confidently approached the woman with long brown hair at the counter. "Oh hello, Myc," she said.

"Mycroft." The man had a voice that was cold and smooth, like ice.

The girl blushed slightly. "Right." She turned and yelled up the staircase behind her. "Sherlock! Your brother is here!"

A tall man with dark curly hair descended the steps. He wore black pants with a purple shirt, which seemed to be the basic uniform, except he wasn't wearing an black apron like the girl at the counter, but an odd tweed overcoat. John assumed this was Sherlock, and he was the manager.

Sherlock greeted his brother with a cold nod. "The usual I take it?"

"Yes but also another one, for my... associate," said Mycroft, indicating the man behind him.

"Ah yes," said Sherlock. "Good morning, Gavin."

"Greg. My name is Greg." The person behind Mycroft was definitely shorter than either of the brothers, and had gray hair that somehow didn't make him look old.

The men said nothing more and Sherlock turned around and began making the coffee.

John took in the shop. It was unique, with brown and white patterned walls with a yellow smiley face spray-painted on it. The tables and chairs were old-fashioned, Victorian-styled, except for a few in the back, which looked comfy and cushiony and were right next to the fireplace. On the mantle lay a skull.

He approached the counter. "Hi," he began. "My name is John Watson."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock inquired, not looking away from the coffee he was making.

"Afghanistan. How did you-"

"Molly! Can you give this coffee to George?"

"It's Greg!" came Greg's voice from a table towards the back of the shop.

"Molly, can I use your phone? I left mine upstairs." But Molly was already busy with a customer.

"Here," said John. "Use mine." He tossed the phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it and sent a text, then handed the phone back to Watson. "Thanks. You're hired, by the way."

"What?"

"You did come here for a job right?"

"You're hiring me, and you don't know the first thing about me."

"I know that you're late to a therapist's appointment."

John raised a hand and then put it down. "But other than that?"

Sherlock looked John up and down. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him-possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? {he exits and pops back in.} The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

Sherlock moved to another customer who had walked up to the second register. John stood there dumbfounded for a moment, then turned around and left.