Hey All! My name is 'LishaLee and I am new to Sherlock fandom but NOT a novice to Sherlock! This is my take of behind-the-scenes, between-the-episodes Sherlock and John. Although there will be eventual JohnLock, I promise I will not fabricate what is not there in the actual show. I could not taint the piece of artistic expression that is the plot line in the actual story, but I want to develop it with more depth with these "supplemental pieces".
Meant to be an accompaniment to the show, not an AU. I will try my hardest to make everything as realistic, believable, and true-to-the-personality of Holmes and Watson, but there will be moments of my own fabrication (as is impossible to avoid in a fanfiction) so dont HATE ME for minor changes I have made. Express to me your disappointment, though! If I do anything horrendously wrong, I need a good slap on the wrist.
I doubt anyone will read this, however.
Begin.
Chapter One: The Beginning of an Era
She opened the tiny cafe three years ago, but business was bad at first. Terrible. It wasn't until 18 months later, nearly dead in the water and neck-deep in debt, when he first walked in and changed EVERYTHING (as he usually does, naturally).
Of course, no one really KNEW him at first. It was months later before he turned from the tall, gangly, odd-man who got the simple black tea and sat in the darkest corner of the shop with his never-ending legs folded neatly beneath him. The overstuffed arm chair overwhelmed his bony frame, even with his great coat wrapped around him.
But then the public learned that the "famous, magical, Sherlock Holmes" frequented the shop, and suddenly business was booming.
It didn't change the man, much. The staff still saw him everyday, when they opened , and then perhaps again, around close. Tamarienne Hampshire was her name, the young shop owner, and she often opened the shop at five am to his shiny black shoes and billowing coat, and closed it after them at eleven thirty pm, sometimes even shooing him away from his corner where he was lost in a myriad of thoughts. The morning staff knew him by "Mr. Holmes", or teased him once in a while with "Detective", as they handed him his cup. He nods or smiles, but since that very first day he arrived, when he said "I will have a small cup of black tea, nothing else... ever.", he never needed to speak his order again. They all spoke in whispers about him- simple, quiet man. Simple, quiet, lonely man, they would say. When the newspapers began to run stories on him, they could hardly believe them. Tamarienne shook her head at the supposed exaggerations of this mans character, and commented to Charlotte, the cashier, that instead Mr. Holmes seemed TAME, at best. (for now)
The regulars were much loved, at that tiny cafe. Not that they minded the wave of a hundred or so new patrons every time the newspaper or tabloids released a fresh story of intrigue on the man. Under the strict eye of Tamarienne, the masses would order on tip-toe, straining their necks over each others shoulders and heads in order to catch a glimpse of pale cheekbones and clasped knuckles around now-cold cup of tea, but they never bothered him. She made sure of that, worried at first that they would stampede him and his thoughts. He either didn't mind being an exhibit or didn't notice the unblinking eyes peering at him from every crevice of the shop. He never stopped coming, so they didn't either- like clockwork.
But it was the regulars- those folks who lived or worked nearby and came to know the shop as home- they were the light of the shop and her owner. She spent her mornings handing cups and plates and napkins here and there, making sure to know each by order and name. Derrik the mailman liked a fork with his muffin, Mrs. Carraway takes three biscuits- two to go and one to stay-; Georgina Potter takes her piece of stale bread for her birds, and Mr. Holmes likes his simple black tea in the same mug, in the same corner, in the same corner chair.
It was near to three months of this, when she finally had a full conversation with him. Not accustomed to his voice, she almost jumped when he spoke, handing him his tea with his usual "How are you doing this morning, Detective?"
He gave his usual nod, about to walk away, but then spun back. "I'm doing well, actually." His voice was deep, gravelly, and not unkind. "Thank you, Ms. Hampshire."
"Tamarienne." She quickly corrected. "Please, call me Tamarienne. I'm not an old lady."
"Of course... Tamarienne." He hesitated, as if tasted the letters to see if they fit on his tongue.
"Do you live around here?" She inquired, taking advantage of this moment of dialogue. Who knew when she was going to have another chance? Most of her regulars started volunteering information about themselves, after awhile, once they got comfortable. But not Mr. Holmes. Besides his nod and an occassional smile, he was a mystery. Quite ironic, being a detective.
He nods, his eyes trained on the floor, and facial muscles pursed, as if he was fighting with himself- talk to her, or retreat to his corner... He couldn't decide if leaving the conversation abruptly would be rude or not. Don't normal people give cues when they are ready to finish a dialogue? Does he just simply say 'goodbye', though he is merely walking a few feet away? "I live on Baker Street. 221B."
"Oh! Over Streeters. Pretty quiet over there- do you live alone?"
He nodded again, this time letting his eyes rise up to her face, instructing himself through the cues. Eye contact. Smile. Turn slightly away. " I've been looking for a flatmate. Passively really." One step away. Smile. Eye contact. Sip of tea. Truely he didn't really look, just spoke to someone in passing about his empty room. Didn't know who he said it to. Could have been an empty room. Still counts as looking. "I don't really care if the dpare room is let, but its dull in the house without a bit of clatter." Shrug. Turn completely away. Retreat. Look over shoulder.
Tamarienne nods and smiles, and gets back to work. He settles into the cocoon of his coat, closes his eyes, and pulls his knees up to his chest. Awkward position, but comfortable.