So I'm starting a Sherlock fanfiction, and it's probably going to be OOC but oh well, I really wanted to see one of these here and there wasn't one so I made it. Enjoy - even though it's probably gonna suck.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the perfection that is Sherlock or else I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for my own show now would I? (You know what I probably would nvm) (But I still don't own it).
Sherlock and the Girl
Sherlock opened the door to the café after unwillingly agreeing to meet Lestrade. Why in the world would he want to meet in a more public place when New Scotland Yard was just a short cab ride away? Sherlock sighed and figured it must be because of Mycroft. His brother could be so troublesome - he needed to stop keeping tabs on him, Sherlock could take care of himself. There hadn't been a case in weeks and therefore he hadn't left his flat. This must be his way of getting him out of 221B - prompting him with the possibility of an interesting case.
Well, it certainly was working.
Besides, it was boring, and all the cases that had come to him had been simple. How could they not see the answers when they're right there? God, people were idiots.
He ignored the counter and walked to a rounded table nestled into the corner of the building, figuring that it was secluded enough. He sat down and waited, expecting Lestrade to come shortly.
That was what he said when a barista walked over to him to ask if he wanted anything, declining her offer while silently deducing. The way she holds herself said "military". Has a (at least partially) psychosomatic limp - there was a cane resting in the crook of her arm and limped sublty while walking but while standing seemed to have forgotten about it. Light brown hair and tan skin (but not below the wrist) say spent much time outside but obviously in uniform so deployed up until recently. Was a doctor, judging by the callouses on her hands - so army doctor.
She had a slight look of suspicion in her eyes as she listened to him say he wasn't hungry.
Sherlock put his elbows on the table and settled his hands into his signature steeple position. Waiting for Lestrade was boring. Looking around, he silently deduced things about people.
He's here with his girlfriend, cheating on his wife while she takes care of his two kids.
Old lady is a teacher, upset about her low payment although comes here for overpriced tea and biscuits - family works here.
The little boy is sad about his parents divorce but it's his birthday so-
Clink!
Sherlock stared at the plate and cup set in front of him, then at the barista who set it down in front of him. "I don't have the money to pay for this. Besides, I don't feel the need to have it."
The girl smirked. "It's on the house. Don't worry about it. Eat."
The biscuits didn't look very appealing, but he took the cup of coffee set out in front of him instead. "What's in this?"
"Just a coffee, two sugars. You seem like a two sugars kinda guy."
Her phone rang, and she pulled her phone out of her back pocket. Scowling at the screen, she set it face-down on the table, pulled up the chair and sat next across from Sherlock. "I didn't say you could sit here."
She shrugs. "I didn't ask." She turned to yell at the back of the store and a small smirk formed it's way onto his lips. "Molly! I'm on my lunch break!"
Sherlock sips the coffee, curious as to why this girl was sitting with him. However he stopped short as he tasted something odd. "What else is in here?"
She blinked at him, then replied. "So, you noticed. Not surprised. Just some cinnamon, saffron, and cardamom. Added them cause you look like you haven't eaten in days. Don't say that it's none of my business because I have to make sure everyone is well-fed." She added that last part after Sherlock had opened his mouth (to ask why she was sitting there). He assumed she got that a lot.
"Well, considering you're a retired army doctor I would assume you would want everyone to be healthy considering the amount of death you have most likely seen. With your therapist being right about your at least partly psychosomatic limp, getting paid minimum wage here instead of working at a hospital or clinic like you hoped was better than nothing. Trying to support yourself using this money when your brother walked out on his wife, not accepting money from him for that reason, also possibly because he's also poor, also possibly because you don't like his drinking. Just, one question, Afghanistan on Iraq? It was one of the two you were employed in."
She stared, wide-eyed at Sherlock, eyes and expression unreadable. "That was…" she trailed off, and Sherlock closed his eyes and sipped the coffee, waiting for the inevitable-
"…extraordinary."
The dark-haired man choked a bit in surprise and looked up at the barista. He huffed out a short laugh. "You really think so?"
"Yes, that was, extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."
"Not usually what people say."
"What do people usually say?"
"Piss off."
The girl chuckled at that, then settled down. "How did you do that?"
"I observed. The way you hold yourself says military. Calluses on the certain parts of your hands - doctor. You have a tan but the tan line is below your wrist, so either Afghanistan or Iraq. Recently deployed judging by your limp - you stand like you forget about it."
"And the therapist?"
"Oh, please, you have a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist."
"And then there's my brother."
"Yes, the first obvious sign was - as you've already seen-"
"The engraving on my phone."
"Yes. Harry. Now the phone is new, model came out only six months ago. This is a young man's gadget. Could be cousin but you would most likely not keep contact with them if too far away in the family tree, so, brother. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says wife, not girlfriend. If she walked out on him, he would've kept it - sentiment. Yet he wanted to get rid of it, so he left her. Has been kept in the same pockets as keys and coins judging by the scratch markings."
"And the drinking?"
"Shot in the dark, but good guess. There are scratches around the charging cable, never see a sober's phone with them, never see a drunk's without."
The girl smiled and looked at the table before looking up at Sherlock again. "Extraordinary. Truly extraordinary."
The taller male smirked. "Did I get anything wrong?"
She shrugged. "I was deployed in Afghanistan, and am a doctor. True that I want to work in a clinic rather than here - although there are the interesting people that come from time to time. Harry and I don't get along that well, never did. Harry does drink, and recently left Clara. They're getting the divorce settled out."
Sherlock smiled, with the knowledge of being right. The girl saw the look and smiled as well, a glint in her eyes.
"Harry is short for Harriet."
The smug look wiped itself from Sherlock's face and he angrily slammed his fist on the table. "Sister! There's always something!" She laughed at his anger, throwing her head back and making people look at them oddly.
"And what's going on here?" A voice said from next to the table. In his involvement with the strange girl, Sherlock failed to notice Lestrade walk into the café.
"Nothing of your interest." Sherlock stood up and gained an impassive look, although his eyes still held the faintest hint of mirth. The girl frowned at this action and picked up the plate of biscuits he had yet to touch.
"You haven't eaten in days, I can tell. Eat something."
Sherlock frowned. "Digestion makes me work slower. I prefer not to eat."
"Eat or I'm going to force you to."
Lestrade watched this all with a small smile as Sherlock managed his biggest glare at the petite woman, who stood her ground, until she glanced at the clock and sighed. "My break is over. If this plate is full when I see you leave I will find you and make you eat."
"You can't do that, can she, Inspector?" Sherlock turned to Lestrade, trying to prove he was right. All he did was shake his head and turn to the brunette.
"As the Detective Inspector, I give you permission to do it. He barely eats."
Sherlock looked betrayed at the claim while the girl just smirked at him and walked away.
"That's not true! I ate all last week."
"Yeah, I doubt it."
Sherlock huffed and lifted his hands under his nose, fingers steepled again. "So did you come here to give me a case or not? And you could've just texted me, you didn't have to have to do this because of Mycroft."
"Actually, I did this on my own accord. Mycroft had no influence this time. But yes, I do have a case, seemed open and shut, just the evidence doesn't add up."
"Well, take me to the sight then. Again, there was no reason to bring me out here."
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his temples, proceeding to walk out the door. Sherlock went to follow, and was halfway out the door when there was a tap on his shoulder. "Excuse me, I think you forgot this?"
He turned to see the girl who he was talking to earlier holding out a white foam box, undoubtedly holding the untouched pastries, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face. He frowned but took the box, making her shoulders relax a bit and the smile turning sincere. They both turned to walk their separate ways before Sherlock turned back around.
"You're an army doctor."
The girl turned around. "And?"
"You've seen a lot of death."
"Enough for a lifetime."
He smiled. "Want to see some more?"
She smiled right back. "Oh God, yes."
She followed him out, throwing her work apron over an abandoned chair.
"I never got your name."
"It's polite to say your name first, you know."
A slight smile. A hand held out. "Sherlock Holmes."
A slight smile. A firm grip. "Joan Watson."