A/N: Elbafo wanted a story about Sherlock and the fish and chips man, so here is a story about Sherlock and the fish and chips man.
(For anyone who doesn't get it: "Putting up shelves" is a phrase often used as a euphemism for sex. Sherlock tells Molly in The Empty Hearse that the owner of a fish and chips shop always gives him extra portions because he helped him put up some shelves. Double-meaning somewhat heavily implied. Fanfiction ensues.)
It was one of those evenings when the flat felt claustrophobically small, cramped to the point of discomfort. Sitting room a tiny inescapable box despite the wide expanse of free space afforded by its being desperately empty. The skull on the mantelpiece sat staring out over its silent domain with a leering, judgemental grin, endlessly amused by some mysterious riddle only it could hear.
Sherlock held the blank gaze of hollow eye sockets for a few brief seconds, then decided rather abruptly that he needed a walk.
Twenty minutes into his wandering of London's mid-evening streets he'd begun to sorely regret leaving the comfortable warmth of his hearth. Even through the thick wool of his coat the air seemed to have sprouted frigid teeth, and to Sherlock's great dismay a few flakes of what was unmistakeably snow had begun to drift down from the sky. Ugh, snow. Hated it. Too cold, clung to skin and hair and stubbornly made your clothes wet. Plus the... connotations. No no don't think about that. Cold and annoying, that was all.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste as a burst of wind shot icy flakes up the legs of his trousers. Right, no. Find a shop or something to stand in, this was ridiculous. Trotting about in miserable weather when central heating existed, clearly an affront to the concept of human technology. From the warmth of a building he could either wait until the worst of the flurries settled down or ring for a taxi back home. Whichever tactic presented the least exposure to unpleasant atmospheric phenomena.
Being so late, the seating area of the fish and chips shop he'd randomly ducked into stood silent and empty. No customers inconsiderate enough to try for an order ten minutes before closing. Excepting Sherlock, of course - though really he'd only come in to escape the bitter cold. Fish and chips weren't exactly his top choice of dinner items.
The man behind the counter glanced up at the sound of the jingling bells strung up on his door.
"Oh, er... sorry, sir, but we're about to close." He brandished a spatula as if this would somehow prove his point, though it mostly just made him look deranged. Sherlock shook his head and reached up to try to dislodge some of the snow still stubbornly clinging to his hair.
"I know, it's just bloody cold out there."
With a small smile the shop owner went back to whatever he'd been doing behind the counter - collecting up implements to be cleaned, judging by the clattering sound of metal on metal. Sure enough when he reappeared half a second later it was with an armful of assorted tongs and scraper-looking things tucked up against his chest.
"Ah. Well, nothing like a load of snow to remind you winter's still on, I guess. Reckon it'll stick?"
As he spoke the man had moved off in the direction of a tiled kitchen area tucked up behind the sales point. Sherlock, being fully comfortable in his identity as a nosy git, followed idly along and leant forward past the edge of the doorway to glance round at the various metal implements hanging over a row of flat-top grills. He'd never been in a chip shop's kitchen before. Fascinating.
"Of course it won't stick, it's London," he replied distractedly. A wicked-looking poker of some sort had caught his eye and he was now busy wondering just how many people had been murdered with cooking equipment within the last fifty years. Probably hundreds. He'd love to solve a case involving kitchen supplies - looked like most of them would leave strange, perhaps even entirely novel wound patterns. No one would be able to identify the weapon. Not until Sherlock swept in, of course, and confidently declared the crime to have been perpetrated with a... erm... whatever that thing was.
"Okay, um, you know you're not actually allowed back here?" the chip shop man asked in a tone of clear exasperation as he caught sight of Sherlock hovering near the doorway, intently studying a rack of various cooking implements.
"What's that?" Sherlock asked in lieu of acknowledging the implied request that he get the hell out of the man's kitchen.
His question was rewarded with an an odd, slightly confused look as the clerk glanced over at the utensil Sherlock had indicated.
"It's a lobster pick," he answered, then before Sherlock could ask he obligingly continued on down the row. "And next over's a basket skimmer, three spatulas, a ladle and a tomato knife. Could you go back to the seating area now?"
"Has anyone ever been killed with a lobster pick?" Sherlock tried to take a step forward, examine the item more closely, but the other man was apparently having none of that and took firm hold of his uninvited guest's shoulders to gently steer him backwards.
"I've no idea. Probably? But this part's the kitchen and customers don't go in the kitchen."
"I'm not a customer, I haven't bought anything," Sherlock pointed out quite reasonably as he shook the other man off to step back under his own power. For some reason this was met with a smile and a short laugh.
"Hah, yeah fair enough. You're a bit clever, then, are you?" He was smiling as he wiped his hands dry on the sparsely-stained front of his apron, then loosened the tie in the back and tugged it off over his head. Scrubbing a hand through short, reddish-brown hair he tossed the now haphazardly bundled wad of cloth somewhere out of sight under the counter.
"More than a bit," Sherlock confirmed arrogantly. Now that his attention was no longer being usurped by the endless murderous potential of kitchen utensils he found himself automatically scanning the other man's appearance for details. Sensible but fashionable clothing, suspiciously well-groomed, hands lacking the expected smattering of grease burns... oh, well. That was interesting. "Oh, so you're the owner of this establishment, not an employee. Closing up shop on your own because one of your staff skived off work? Should screen your hires for better reliability. You must have been hoping you could get out early enough to make the date you had planned but it's far too late now and you've decided not to bother. Good thing, too, you've clearly been having doubts about the man for some time."
As usual the target of Sherlock's deductive prowess froze mid-step and fixed him with that seemingly-quintessential how in hell's name did you know all that look. Sherlock couldn't help a smug smirk. No matter how many times he pulled that trick it still made him feel a bit like an omnipotent god.
A long pause stretched between them. Finally the shop owner furrowed his brows, glanced briefly elsewhere, then back up to Sherlock. He tilted his head a bit in a bewildered gesture.
"Are... are you psychic or something?"
Sherlock shot him a flat look. "No."
Another few seconds' bewildered staring and Sherlock finally drew in a breath that was more of a bored sigh. Alright, fine, he'd do the explanation bit. Just to get the idiot to stop looking at him like he was some sort of wizard.
"You're wearing nice clothes, too nice for working in a chip shop. There aren't any recent grease burns on your hands, so you don't often use the fryer, and you're at least thirty anyway so unlikely to be a lowly clerk or cook. When I first came in you tried to shoo me back out like you were in a hurry but it didn't take long for you to give up, whereupon you no longer seemed rushed to leave. So you were planning to be somewhere, trying to close on time to avoid being late, then had second thoughts and decided not to go. The clothes along with a recently trimmed beard and lack of wedding band means it was probably a date. Only first or second, though - clearly not at the point where you aren't trying to impress him yet. And you didn't immediately ring to tell him you'd cancelled which means you weren't particularly invested in the relationship."
After Sherlock had finished his target of interest laughed in a distinctly baffled manner, tucked his hands in his pockets and regarded him with disbelief. His brows soon furrowed in a look that seemed equal parts impressed and alarmed.
"You're, er... wow. Alright. Awfully sure it's a bloke, though, aren't you?"
"Yes. Because you're gay," Sherlock replied with prompt confidence. Obvious. Bereft of anything interesting to study now, he looked instead out the window to watch the sparse flurries of snow. As he'd predicted, not even close to sticking. It'd be nothing but wet slop tomorrow morning.
For some reason the man was smirking when Sherlock glanced back round at him.
"Am I? And how'd you figure that, then?" he asked, smirk shifting into a wider smile.
Sherlock shrugged. Grooming habits, perhaps, but then of course he'd not really spotted any of the usual telltale signs like a recent manicure or expensive creams. It was more just something in the man's bearing, the path his focus took when looking Sherlock's direction. A nameless sense of intuition picked up long ago during hazy nights spent sharking about too-loud nightclubs with Victor. One just knew, he supposed. Stupid as that sounded.
They regarded each other for a moment more. Finally the chip shop man turned to retrieve his overcoat from a shelf below the till. He raised an eyebrow over at Sherlock as he fished a set of keys out of the pocket with one hand.
"Er... want to get a coffee or something?"
Sherlock stared at him blankly. Wait, what? Was he being chatted up? By a chip shop owner? Whom he'd just deduced at? That made no sense whatsoever. Though... perhaps the man was just looking for a replacement for his date. Desperate enough for company to invite some unsettling stranger off the street out for an absurdly late-hour coffee.
And fair enough, Sherlock supposed it wasn't a terrible idea. The bloke wasn't entirely insufferable after all and it was still bloody cold outside. A cup of hot coffee would be fairly welcome on an evening like this.
A pause, then he shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
:::
There was a small café with late operating hours not too far from the fish and chips shop, the owner explained as he locked up his establishment's front doors, so the two of them made their way in that direction. Sherlock was content to idly study the few pedestrians they passed by, leaving the initiation of moronic small talk to his erstwhile companion.
"Name's Stephen, by the way," the man predictably spoke up after a moment of silence. "And I do own that shop."
"Of course you own it, I already said as much," Sherlock replied, vaguely irritated. What on earth was the point of confirming something he already knew? Waste of breath. Beside him Stephen raised his eyebrows and slowly nodded, plainly not quite sure how to handle speaking to someone who didn't care in the slightest if they were being rude. Sherlock huffed a resigned sigh through his nose and plucked a hand from his coat pocket to reach sidelong for a handshake. Fine, god. Supposed he could at least introduce himself.
"Sherlock Holmes," he intoned, dropping the handshake after little more than a grasp and tucking his hand back into his pocket where it wouldn't freeze.
Luckily he was still looking in Stephen's direction in time to catch him smile in that particular way - that slightly bemused, curious way. The way Sherlock recognised all-too-easily from a thousand prior introductions and had come to loathe with a passion. Before the other man could so much as open his mouth Sherlock cut over him with all the relevant answers to the inevitable chain of idiotic questions he was about to ask.
"Yes I'm aware it's an odd name, no it's not French, of course I come from an aristocratic family, and no it isn't actually a fact that all rich people give their offspring strange names that's just an illusion borne of confirmation bias. We're done with the topic now."
"Ah... oh... kay. So we are, then," Stephen replied, blinking. His gaze dropped awkwardly to the pavement for a second or so. When he glanced back up it was with a slightly forced smile and a shrug. Resolved to soldier on with the conversation despite Sherlock's flagrant disregard for manners, by the looks of things. Sherlock watched the display dispassionately. Five to ten minutes before the idiot gave up, tops.
They'd reached the promised café and briefly abandoned the disastrous attempt at polite discourse in favour of placing their orders. A table by the window was free, which was welcome as it meant Sherlock could stare outside and deduce passers-by whenever he got bored.
One would've had to be blind to miss the way Stephen's eyes darted over Sherlock's figure once they'd removed their coats. Been gambling on the assumption that he was fit, apparently. Hoping the bulk of the Belstaff wasn't meant to hide anything. Sherlock leant casually against the back of his chair, sipping gingerly at a cup of too-hot coffee, and for a silent moment just studied the man's mannerisms. What exactly was he meaning to accomplish here? Companionship, or...?
A few seconds later he raised a brow. Oh, right. So that's what this was.
Meanwhile, Stephen had started speaking again. "So, er... what do you do for a living then, Sherlock?"
"Consulting detective," Sherlock answered in a bored tone. Stephen made a valiant effort to look like he had any idea what that meant. Still seemed at least somewhat legitimately interested, though, so Sherlock gamely elaborated. "I solve the crimes no one else can make sense of. Murders, mostly. Gruesome ones. Blood splatters all up the walls, guts strewn about, that sort of thing."
The bland delivery of his statement quite nicely elicited the intended effect, wherein Stephen went a bit green and took a hasty sip of his beverage. No fan of gory violence, then. Any subsequent questions he asked about the details of Sherlock's job would therefore be out of an obligation to feign polite interest, not any actual desire to know more.
Sure enough, Stephen's next words were plainly hesitant. "Oh... that sounds... very interesting. What was the, er... last case you solved, then?"
He coughed awkwardly and seemed to be trying to hide behind his coffee cup. Sherlock was distinctly unimpressed. Honestly, why did there have to be some rule in society's absurd unwritten lawbook stating no one was allowed to simply be direct about what they wanted? Everyone so hellbent on exchanging useless pleasantries before getting anywhere near the point, what an enormous waste of time.
Sherlock, of course, felt no obligation to play by the rules. Especially not the boring, inefficient ones.
"Where do you live?" he asked simply, sipping his coffee, tone utterly disinterested.
"What?" Stephen furrowed his brows in alarm. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.
"You're hoping to have sex, right? I'm not walking in the snow any further than I have to."
Stephen made a strange, strangled noise of surprise, then cleared his throat as a distinct flush crept over his cheeks. "Wh- hang on, I never said I..."
"If I were wrong your face wouldn't have gone the shade of a tomato," Sherlock cut in before the stupid rebuttal could get started. With a slight sigh for the tragically useless song and dance of social interaction he leant forward to set his coffee on the table, then settled back again and looked out the window. "Look, I don't see the point in acting like we're interested in each others' lives when our mutual motivation is purely physical."
Stephen's bright blush had receded somewhat, and he fixed Sherlock with an odd expression. Something between hopeful and bemused. Sherlock didn't feel like analysing it and so kept his attention outside.
"Mutual?" the man asked, a slight smirk edging onto his face. Sherlock flicked his eyes away from the melting snow on the pavement and held the other's gaze in a flat stare, ignoring the implication that he should confirm in some verbal manner. No, thanks, he wasn't going to say it any more clearly than that. Just because he happened to have developed a functional preference for certain anatomical configurations didn't mean he had to go round announcing that fact to everyone who fit the description.
Finally after a silent few seconds staring, Stephen grinned. "Is ten minutes too long a walk?"
Sherlock considered - he could flag down a cab right now and be back at the flat in less than fifteen minutes. The warm, familiar... utterly empty flat. With the judgemental skull on the mantelpiece and a hundred books he'd read back-to-back a dozen times over crowding the shelves. Or he could go spend ten minutes out in the snow, then quite probably find himself entertained for a good majority of the night.
Simple enough choice.
"Lead on, then," he announced. Standing up, he deftly flipped his coat back on, picked up his coffee, and strode out the door. Stephen followed after with a disbelieving laugh.
:::
Stephen lived in a fairly decent flat not too far off from his fish and chips shop. It was tidy enough to suggest the man didn't spend much time actually living there. Work addict, probably. Spent all his time micromanaging. Sparse decorations dotted around the walls were mostly made up of a series of woefully dull watercolour landscapes.
Sherlock hung his coat up on the hanger by the door and without waiting to be invited in strode over to regard one of the paintings with a critical eye, sipping the last dregs from his paper cup of coffee. A marsh scene - reeds and lily pads. Not even any animals to give it a sense of life. How boring.
"Want some... I dunno, wine, or something?" Stephen piped up from where he'd apparently moved off towards his kitchen. Sherlock knocked back the remainder of his beverage and followed after in search of a bin.
"Not particularly fond of alcohol," he answered. Stephen shrugged and poured himself a glass anyway, which he then downed almost comically quickly. Sherlock finally found the bin and disposed of his empty coffee cup, then glanced up at Stephen's obvious awkward discomfort and rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly. Was this his first one night stand?
With confidence borne of the fact that this was a near-total stranger whom he'd never have to see again if he didn't feel so inclined, Sherlock took a few easy strides forward and grabbed the idiot's face to kiss him. Stephen made a startled noise and shoved in protest, once, but then seemed to realise that this had been the entire point of letting some lunatic into his home and instead grabbed one of Sherlock's lapels to pull him closer. The rich flavour of the wine combined oddly with lingering coffee to form a vaguely off-putting aftertaste.
Stephen drew back after a short second to drain the last of his wine, then set the glass down on the counter and shoved Sherlock haphazardly in the direction of what must have been his bedroom.
"Right, normally I wouldn't move this quick but I reckon you don't care," he explained, slightly breathless. Sherlock got the hint and slipped off his suit jacket as they walked.
"I'd be far more irritated if you insisted on doing the whole romantic bit first."
Stephen giggled, a bit high-pitched, like he couldn't quite believe what he was doing, and managed to send both of them toppling over onto his bed when he went for another snog. Ordinarily Sherlock might have been annoyed by the rough landing. Or perhaps by being shoved towards the room like a wayward dog, or the disgusting taste of wine with coffee, or any of a dozen other niggling aspects of the situation.
As it was, however, he found he wasn't too bothered. Because, for the moment, he wasn't bored. And he wasn't cold.
And... he wasn't alone.
:::
"No, look, just because you don't see the point in eating more than half a biscuit for lunch doesn't mean I've got to starve," John exclaimed irritably. Sherlock huffed a put-upon sigh and reluctantly followed his flatmate as the man set a determined march towards the nearest dining establishment.
"Be quick about it, then. We're wasting valuable time."
John ignored him in favour of striding up to the counter of the shop they'd entered to order two servings of fish and chips. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the stern glare shot his way by John made him shut up quickly. Oh, alright fine. Maybe he could manage a few bites without sabotaging his mental capacities.
The hapless teenager working the till seemed to have been born with more than a few brain cells loose and was thus incapable of processing a simple order. After a seconds' panicked staring at the screen in front of him he turned around to stick his head in the kitchen.
"Mister Callahan!" he shouted desperately. After a short, nervous silence on the teenager's part an older man suddenly appeared from the back storage area.
"It's the big green button with the pound symbol on, Jeffrey. Same as always," the man explained in an exasperated tone well before he'd even seen the screen. Regardless of his pre-emptive answer he still strode over to click the right buttons, evidently not trusting his employee to do it himself.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had in a rare moment of somewhat-normal human interaction actually recognised someone's face. Mostly because he distinctly remembered that face flushed bright pink and gasping. With John occupied re-stating his order for the hopelessly confused clerk the shop owner looked up, caught sight of Sherlock, and a staring match promptly ensued. One which quickly transformed into a silent exchange of meaningful facial expressions.
Stephen's surprise and faint smirk clearly stated something like, Oh, bloody hell, it's you. Fancy another go, then?
Sherlock flicked his head slightly to the side, a tiny half-shrug; Maybe. You'd have to make it worth my while, though.
Before the odd little non-conversation could go much further John finished paying, the teenager managed to figure out the fiendish point-of-sale system, and the staring match was quickly cut off as both men's attention redirected towards their respective persons of interest.
Turned out John had ordered a sit-in meal as opposed to takeaway, which of course Sherlock was severely miffed about. For god's sake they had places to be. Did John not care in the slightest about getting to the Met before the idiots bungled up their next case? Apparently that point was moot, however, as John quickly pointed out that they technically hadn't even started investigating anything yet. Hrmph, technically. Who cared about technicalities? The point was there was a case waiting and they weren't there to claim it.
"Great to see a familiar face, eh? Extra portions on the house," a voice cut in. Sherlock blinked down at a basket of fish bits which seemed to have suddenly materialised before him and glanced up to meet a knowing smile and a wink. He couldn't quite help an answering smirk and vague look of unimpressed bemusement. Really? Extra bits of fried fish, that's your come-on?
Stephen just grinned, shrugged, and headed casually back to his business in the kitchen.
"Come back any time you like!" he called over his shoulder, flipping Sherlock a friendly little wave. Clearly, unambiguously flirting. Sherlock rolled his eyes and resolved to ignore it. Maybe he'd come back. If he felt like it. And was bored enough. In a week or so.
Across from him John had managed to catch the exchange this time, and turned a curious look to Sherlock once they were alone again.
"What's the story there, then? Cleared up another murder charge?"
Sherlock smirked and popped a chip in his mouth.
"Just... helped him put up some shelves."