He hasn't been to a café in years, courtesy of that chip off the Holmes block. If he ever needs a hit, it's easier to slap on a few nicotine patches than to down a cup of charred beans. No need to wait by the counter for some guy to smear his snot-crusted fingers against his drink. No, Sherlock doesn't need free meningitis with the holiday specials.
It used to be that if he did need that extra caffeine – whether to substitute for lack of a case or to renew hope that he'll receive a case – he could just pour himself a cup from the batch on the counter. Sure, there'd be some outraged why-don't-you-brew-your-own-damn-coffee fit to follow, but John's nagging has long since become white noise to his ears.
As it is, the coffee maker Sherlock bought for his new apartment continues to sit in its box on top the kitchen table. Forget the critics harping on his flawed knowledge of the solar system, lording it over him like proof of their own self-worth. In the same vein, coffee-making ranks just as high on his list of priorities. So simply put, not at all.
Why don't you just read the damn instructions for once? John's never been subtle with his exasperation, and neither has Sherlock, of his envy of those 'average intellects'. "It's because everyone are idiots," he shouted back at John. It's what he believes, and rightly so, but it's just not the right answer to John's particular question. Because John wasn't talking about making coffee.
It's because Sherlock's created a safety net of self-reliance and an absurd sense of independence. And he's made damn sure that it's been woven around and around so tightly that he'd never get out. It's like he's reprogrammed himself not to accept anyone's instructions except his own.
So he envies that average intellect that can somehow decipher the monkey scrawl on those manuals and make something from it. Seeing as he's zero-thirds omni-anything, he can't afford to clutter his mind with novel things like making coffee; it's as simple as that. Life is just one giant Occam's razor after all.
"What will you be having sir?" The scratchy voice, likely a symptom of inhabiting the shittiest climate region known to man, interrupts his train of thought. It takes a second for him to register that he's at the front of the line. Eliminating his surroundings is a tactic he employs to better streamline his thoughts.
"Your smallest cup of coffee," he announces, not bothering to piss off the people behind him by overanalyzing the menu. Blame it on the multitude of choices these days: espressos, lattes, cappuccinos, and a list of secondaries for the health-conscious, the self-conscious.
"Room for cream and sugar?" she asks, as she totals his purchase.
A customary question but one Sherlock's never been asked, possibly the only constant in his life that carried over from before John's time. Ms. Hudson's been old ever since he could remember, but she's always managed to remember the important things: black, two sugars. Only months ago, John had been carrying that legacy.
"Black, two sugars," Sherlock parrots, then adds after little thought, "…please." Without a living reminder, it's easy to forget that politeness is more than just a societal trope.
"That'll be £1.65 please."
Sherlock leafs through his wallet, breezing past the outermost flaps, before finally lifting a card from a hidden inner pocket. Judging by the stares he's getting and the hesitation with which she swipes his card, he expects that she probably believes he's some worthless trollop, bouncing from shop to shop with an armload of maxed out cards.
Assumptions are never the full truth, the reason why Sherlock shies away from them. He may be carrying wallet of mostly maxed out balances, but in no way is that a measurement of his worth. It's presumptuous because he's sitting on the knowledge, but if she'd simply observed instead of assumed, it's actually quite transparent.
His payment history may be shit but he's sitting on quite the hefty fortune. There's also his new job, which pays impressively well, selling intelligence to the highest bidder. It's amazing what one can accomplish without their moral compass.
"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day," She's ten times more smiley now than a moment ago. It's uncanny how one quick flash of green is enough to drag peoples' judgments across the spectrum.
Sherlock's particular spectrum of wealth – he doesn't like to brag, at least not about material matters – remains too large to manage on his own. He's had it under wraps for a while now but as it turns out, the status quo is a hard thing to keep when the man managing his financials thinks he's dead. Actually, everyone thinks he's dead.
Just another reason for not frequenting coffee shops, he supposes. The last thing he needs is some farcical headline about the ghost of the famous Sherlock Holmes going around haunting local coffee shops.
He takes a seat by the window, two tables away from the door. It lends a full view of the whole street, allowing him to monitor the stream of people entering the shop. Perfect for getting a feel on his 10 o'clock.
It's more of a physical evaluation this time, because there's no way in hell Sherlock Holmes forgets to size up his appointments beforehand. He's been on the lookout for a while now, searching the papers and the web for accountants, bookkeepers, financial advisors, whatever politically correct label is on the market for someone who'll do his taxes and pay his bills. Someone to make sure his brother doesn't conspire with the government to steal his entire fortune (he took precautions in stashing them in different places, but he doesn't trust Mycroft not to be moderately clever sometimes). To top it all off, he also has a lot of explaining not to do, like how he's siphoning out the funds of a dead man (under the guise of various aliases of course). Essentially, he needs someone trustworthy but also willing. Honest, but also unscrupulous. Frankly, it's a rare and awkward blend of traits.
By some miracle, he's found the only man who isn't billing by the hour, which is particular stupid considering the charges that can be trumped up with meaningless chatter these days. A second, and more conclusive clue-in is the part that denotes advanced payment for jobs done, indicating a particular urgency for the payments. It doesn't take a mind of his caliber to deduce that the man's full-time job is just a cover for a part-time vice. In other words, it's the perfect segue for Sherlock's rather unorthodox requests.
But clearly that's not going to be the only unorthodox thing to happen today.
In just minutes of people-watching, Sherlock catches a glimpse of a man lugging a briefcase sidling up to the café. His surroundings diminish, and he's suddenly overcome with an unnatural degree of focus, like he's just been handed a new case. This man and his well-groomed, graying hair, and the uncomfortable way with which he holds himself as he walks – never mind his gait, if Sherlock could hear through these glass panels, he'd be able to tell just from the sound of his steps.
No. No way. No flipping way he overlooks this. As far as miscalculations go, this is one monumental fuckup. No, he's probably just passing the shop, heading down the street to fetch the papers or something. That must be it, the only explanation of all the f—
The man treads through the door, sliding past the resistance of glass panel door. Sherlock feels a shock, greater than the sting of the cold, like wheels turning inside of him.
"Mr. Lochs, is it?" He finds Sherlock immediately, not a surprise considering who else in this day and age sits at a two-seater table without company. Nevertheless, he's entertained by a certain paranoia that the man will leap up at any minute, point his fingers at him, and shout 'damn you, Sherlock Holmes'. "My apologies, the ride over took longer than I thought."
At a closer look – when the initial shock has faded – Sherlock notices a few changes. There's the hint of a growing mustache and a rather scraggly chin. A rounder face, kinder eyes. One's appearance speaks volumes, especially for Sherlock. Gone are the atypical traits that make him, him. That which gave him the privilege of touring Sherlock's mind palace.
What did he expect exactly? You can't change someone internally and expect everything to still remain the same. He takes the hand offered to him and gives a limp, almost guarded shake.
"Would you mind reminding me of your name?" Sherlock asks, not for that kind of confirmation – he hasn't forgotten the name on the ad – but to confirm that the universe has just dumped a giant turd on him.
"Oh, how silly of me. I'm James Morstan. Pleasure to meet you."
This is where the short-comings of self-reliance kick in. If not for his arrogance in believing he had everything figured out, if he'd bothered to look up a picture of James on the web, they wouldn't even be here. John Watson is not the person he expected to have coffee with today. Or ever.
What's he doing here anyways, being Sherlock's 10 o'clock? This isn't his neighborhood, Sherlock checked. And this isn't his daytime job because he checked that too. Stay calm, stay rational. Backtrack. So the game's changed, but his previous assumptions haven't. Vices, vices, vices. Which one are you?
He blames the following outburst on John – James is a ridiculous name – because John starts rambling through the procedurals, disrupting his thought-flow. Sherlock struggles to concentrate, fighting off those inner distractions leaking from some orifice of his body. Not his heart; he's told he doesn't have one.
"Spend much time at the OTB lately?" He just can't fucking help himself, can he? It's been a while since he's come down from his last case-high. And it helps that John looks just as lost as he did during their first meeting. He frowns, tilts his head a bit, and maybe forgets how to re-hinge his jaw.
"What—I don't—okay, how?"
Sherlock lets slip a half-smile. It is just like their first time, John with his bored, tired eyes, gradually becoming more inquisitive by the minute. It's how Sherlock knew they'd work, as flatmates.
"Recognized you from places," he lies, not divulging his thought process as he usually does. He doesn't want to raise any memories in John, not after all the trouble they've been through. "So, how much time do you usually spend there?" he asks, masking his motives in a light, casual tone.
"Depends on the day I guess," John sighs, smoothing the corners of his briefcase. "Sometimes it's just a few rounds and sometimes…well, there are just those bad days, you know."
Bad days for Sherlock are when he has to run to the store to replenish his nicotine stash, when he hungers for those I'm-not-your-housekeeper-biscuits Ms. Hudson used to make, when he misses getting rung by Lestrade or even Mycroft about the latest obscure case. Bad days are not betting slips and gambling debts.
"Yes…well, we all have our days," he replies.
John flashes him a smile of understanding, completely misguided of course. "Sometimes, I wonder when it'll all end. If it will."
Sherlock has no answer; he's no crackpot fortuneteller. But he does know where it started. It started when he gave John Watson brain damage.
"Y'know," he says, just as John starts pulling forms out of his briefcase. "Would you mind if I stepped out for a few minutes? I need to make a call."
"Yeah…yeah, of course. Go ahead. I'll wait for you."
There's a time and place for everything; Sherlock needed those words when he was hiding in the shadows, observing John at his own funeral. Nothing would have changed of course. His guilt can never be so easily assuaged. It would have meant nothing except that it would have been right, the right words in the right place at the right time. In the current context, it does more damage than good. Sherlock raises the collar of his trenchcoat and exits the shop, taking a good, long breath as soon as he's outside.
The name change was a nice touch. On both their parts. A new name for a new start, and he probably figured John Morstan was as good as any. Sherlock can't exactly fault him, not when his current alias – Homer Elks Lochs – is just as atrocious. But at least he can justify it with logic. That is, after all, the most important thing.
It was impossible though, not to gravitate towards the pieces of his previous life. Sometimes he'd find himself revisiting the wreckage, taking the train to the place where he used to exist, and where he ceased to. It was irrational and stupid, especially since he had to continually keep out of dodge from everyone he knew, or more importantly, everyone who knew him. He might be dead but there's no doubt in his mind that Mycroft continues to shoulder that disdain for sentiment, and clinging onto the vestiges of a previous life certainly sounds like one of those sentiment things.
But having already dived off the logic train, it follows that Sherlock begins keeping tabs on John and his therapy sessions that restarted after his supposed death. He'd paid off the janitor on Tuesday nights so he could sneak into the archives and photocopy the notes in John's file. It was mostly useless, boring shit, nothing Sherlock didn't already know. But it provided a degree of comfort, and more importantly, it was tangible proof that he had a life once, as Sherlock Holmes, resident of 221B Baker Street.
Except one day, he graces upon these letters, PTSD, marked in glaring caps across the top of the page, and Sherlock remembers hoping that it was another misdiagnosis. Because he was just one man. And what man in his right mind could be so traumatized by the death of one man after experiencing far greater horrors in places like war-torn Afghanistan.
Not a surprise, that his therapist would share the same concern, but it was John's responses really, that concerned Sherlock.
"He didn't die in battle. He just left us a casket. Left me and Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and that damned brother of his the whole responsibility of cleaning up after him. I'm tired, so tired of defending him when he didn't even die a hero. He just killed himself."
"In our very first session, you said, 'He was only trying to protect us. Protect the people he loved.' Why change your mind now?"
"Because it's Sherlock-fucking-Holmes! Because I expected him to have some clever escape plan that he didn't tell me. Figured he might be hiding out somewhere like the cowardly bastard that he was. Because I expect him not to still be dead after all this time."
Expect, as in present tense. Sherlock's not sure whether the notes are verbatim or if there was a slip of the pen.
"If he loved anyone – if he's even capable of loving anyone, he'd know to ask first. But no, not Sherlock Holmes. Not Sherlock Holmes who knows everything about anything about anyone. It's not heroism; it's arrogance. The arrogance of someone obsessed with doing the right thing."
"But he called you. Maybe he didn't ask, but in his final moments he called you to warn you. What does that mean then?"
"You can't overanalyze the man. Just look at me, tripping over myself over this half-assed love of his."
That's as far as he got before he heard footsteps down the hall and had to make a quick break for the vents. The next time Sherlock shows up at the archives, there's a new janitor, and a numbered padlock on the door. But he'd already seen enough to draw his own conclusions. One giant Occam's Razor right? The simplest answer therefore, must be removing himself from John's life.
A fresh start wasn't an easy thing for either of them. Not when you consider the lengths Sherlock went to make it all possible. Surgically induced brain damage, he still remembers the brochure he designed, the days of checking the clinic's patient lists for John's name. High-risk, experimental surgery for memory modification. Like a complete reset, a perfect rebirth. The risk factor wasn't lost on him, but considering how his hands were tied, it was all he could turn to in the end. Sherlock may have had all this brilliance but none of it mattered in these crucial moments.
It wasn't hard to arrange, the surgery. It just required some tapping into resources, getting a referral, and then drafting up that dinky brochure to send to John's new address. Then he paid off the surgeon for the procedure, an exorbitant amount to also parrot the brochure, lie by lie. John used to always remind him that there are some things money can't buy. It's probably true, Sherlock figures, but he also figures that there are very little of those "some things".
Still, there was no way to ensure that John would go through with it. Everything boiled down to Sherlock's experiences, to simple deductions strung together from their personal history. John Watson was a risk taker, largely outside of what's socially acceptable. He and John, they both look for how things could be, not what they are, or the gaping chasm in between.
"Hey," The voice reminds him of where he is, shivering in the cold because he needs to recalibrate his thought process, and not in front of John Watson. "Sorry to bother you, but it's been almost twenty minutes. Just wanted to make sure you were okay." Sherlock takes note of the worried look on his face. It's sincere without being angry. He doesn't remember John ever beingjust concerned, even at his funeral.
Maybe he really has changed.
"Yes, right. I'd just forgotten the t—"
"You're John Watson, aren't you?" A man stops to peer at the two of them on the sidewalk. Sherlock looks away, raising his collar as far up as possible and tipping down the fringe of his hat. It's too late though, because the man's already developed that familiar glint in his eyes. "Your friend…he looks like…oh my god."
Fuck. He's moved. John's moved. And both of them far, far away from 221B, and somehow, they end up finding each other through an ad in the papers, which Sherlock's somehowoverlooked, and now this complete wanker has somehow recognized the two of them, hundreds of miles away from home. He says home, because he doesn't believe in relativity.
"Jesus, not again," John curses, genuinely surprising Sherlock for the first time that day. "Look, I have absolutely no idea why everyone keep insisting that I'm this John Watson or whatever, and I'll be sure to tell him you're his biggest fan if I ever meet him, but the fact of the matter is that my name is James H. Morstan. So just…piss off okay?" his voice escalates to a half-shout towards the end. At least some things never change.
The man looks visibly confused, his mouth doing this awkward opening and closing dance. He gives the two of them one last glance-over before walking away, muttering something like "tosser" under his breath.
"Sorry about that," John apologizes, holding the door for both of them. "Apparently, someone else has my same face. Maybe my long lost twin or something," he jokes.
For Sherlock, it's almost a wake-up call. Like what the fuck is he still doing there? This isn't James Morstan, this is John Watson. Brain-damaged, memory modified John Watson, who has no idea about perfectly okay, still-alive Sherlock Holmes. He didn't just remove Sherlock from the equation; he threw away the entire slate. Sherlock may have given away a small fortune so they could both move on, but John gave away his entire life for it.
"James," Sherlock's voice shakes a little trying to get a feel for the name. His feet remain affixed to the ground outside the door. "I believe I need to take a rain check."
It's mix between confusion and disbelief that washes over John's face, edging into his voice as he speaks. "Oh…right, okay. Is…is everything alright?"
It would have been, if he'd just bolted the minute he saw John's face. But fact is, there's no way to flush the selfish bastard out of his system. The part of him that'll always crave his previous life, where he feigns ignorance of John's existence and John still hates him a little on the side. Solving cases together, padding John's wallet, Sherlock's own curiosity – between the two of them, they could have ruled the world.
"No," Sherlock replies. "But it will be."
"Well then, um, I'll wait for your call," John shifts slightly to the side to let people through, arm still pinned against the door handle. "You know, to reschedule."
"Yes, to reschedule."
Sherlock has no intention of rescheduling, or ever calling him and he thinks even James knows that too. Maybe not why per se, but that's the whole problem with assumptions; they're only half-truths. And once again, Sherlock's stranded on that rooftop, the only one holding both sides of the coin, looking down at John and trying to do the right thing. This time, he doesn't even have John's name to hold onto.
"Well, I've got to get my briefcase so…" John hesitates, maybe expects Sherlock to follow him back to their seat. But Sherlock's not some worthless trollop that makes the same mistake twice so John settles for a handshake. And Sherlock follows through with it, as swiftly and guarded as earlier. Just a last hurrah, he notes, before they finally move on with their lives.
It's always been the brilliance that sets him apart. It lets him handle all sorts of cases, solve seemingly impossible crimes, and save him (and others) from the most unlikely of situations. But this, this reaches further than his limits, stretches beyond his mind palace and the citadel and its gates. This second farewell, it –
Sherlock leaves first. He needs to find another 10 o'clock. He also needs a smoke.
Because John's right, always is. Here lies the arrogance of a man obsessed with doing the right thing.