This is a prompt I got from sherlock kinkmeme. I must say, this AU grows on me.
UPDATE: I found a lovely beta, the-nerdinator. I can not thank her enough :) All remaining mistakes are my own.
Chapter 1:
John didn't fancy himself much of a drinker. He was English and served in the army, so the doctor knew his way around a good buzz. However, never in a million years would he have seen bartending as a possible carrier path. That summed up his life pretty accurately, Watson mused. Not in a million years would he have thought he'd lose his parents while still in uni, his sister to alcohol or his job with just one bullet to the shoulder. And now? Now he was invalided, back in London with a laughable army pension and nobody to turn to but his alcoholic sister. If life was a box of chocolates, he wanted a bloody different box. Harry had, out of the greatness of her heart no doubt, suggested he try bartending at "Baker Street"- a very successful bar in Central London. "You sure know how to mix a stiff one!" was at best a dubious compliment coming from an alcoholic. Although a far cry from ideal, this job was John's best bet in affording his own place, which was mandatory. If the two siblings continued to cohabitate, either Harry or he himself would stop breathing before long.
Upon entering the bar, John was pleasantly surprised. He hadn't been there before, seeing as the doors of the place opened about two years ago. The army doctor had feared it to be either pretentiously modern or pretentiously old, but neither was the case. A big bar on the long side of the room was built from solid wood, but the wall behind it shone from modern indirect lighting, giving the whole place a warm glow without looking antique. It felt much like a well-used living room, a little cluttered, some old and odd pieces, but still modern in all the aspects that mattered. A small stage was set up facing away from the door, but it was still too early for any acts to be playing. Even though it was only 7pm, the bar was packed with people of all kinds of backgrounds.
John made his way over to the counter, his glance sliding over the subtly highlighted liquor bottles until it fell on the bartender. That man was a sight to behold! Tall and lean, his pale skin glowed under the indirect lighting from above, as his body-lines blurred with the bottles behind him. The tall stranger was the only bartender on duty. Apparently "Baker Street" really was in desperate need of an extra pair of hands. The man might be lanky, but he was on fire; spinning bottles - not without artistic appeal, but clearly perfected for maximum efficiency.
Currently, there was a crowd of girls gathering to get drinks, and the bartender built them in 5 seconds tops, never mixing less than two drinks or holding less than two bottles at the same time. Strangely, none of the female customers appeared to have ordered. They waited to catch the bartender's eye, and a moment later had a drink in their hands. Could they all be regulars? The man behind the work bench fixated on them, but not a single line of dialogue was spoken. His facial expression, half hidden behind an unruly mob of black curls, nearly screamed "bored".
As the girls left, not without longing glances over the counter, John could see the bartender approaching. As the doctor tucked away his phone, a long-drink glass was placed in front of him. He had not seen the bartender mix it, and the brown color could hide anything from rum to a sugary cocktail.
"Oh no, I'm sorry, just a beer for me, please," John apologized, pushing the drink back over. The bartender, dressed in a very tight purple shirt and suit trousers, gave him a small glare.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man suddenly asked, leaning over and sliding the drink right back into John's space. The doctor blinked, baffled by the question, answering more out of habit.
"Afghanistan… how did you…?"
A sly grin crossed the bartender's face as he pointedly looked John up and down, before settling his eyes on the drink between them. "You are an army veteran invalided back home after attaining a psychosomatic limp. Your brother is an alcoholic whose apartment you are currently staying at. You came here for the open bartender position. I know enough to make you exactly what you need right now, so do drink up," he spit out like the flood of words could not be detained any longer. For a man who had just mixed drinks for half an hour in absolute silence, he sure had grown talkative.
John blinked again, half ready to make a beeline for the door and walk away, but the eccentric guy had gotten too many things right. This whole situation was bloody weird, but damn if this guy could dump John's whole life story in public without an explanation.
"How could you have possibly-" the army doctor started, but once back in the land of the talking, his opponent seemed determined to interrupt him every single time.
"Your stance is clearly military, squared shoulders, high chin and straight back. The limp in your left leg is pretty severe, but you have yet to sit down or even lean on your cane. A fairly new injury and one you wish to ignore, then. Psychosomatic.
"You came straight to the bar, but instead of looking at the girls you looked at me. Gay then? Not necessarily. While you were watching me, you paid attention to my hands, not to more prominent features. It's the craft that interests you, though now you wanted to order a beer. Combined with the fact that there was an ad in yesterday's paper, you are here for the job.
"Now to your sibling. The phone in your hand is a fairly new model and gadget heavy, not something an army veteran in need of a job would buy. Present, then. The scratches say second hand, a young person's phone. And those scratches around the docking station…" the mad man paused shortly, prolonging his reveal for dramatic effect. "Never see a sober person with them, never see a drunk's without them."
The good doctor was gripping the countertop with his free hand, staring at the rambling bartender with wide eyes. He took in the smug grin, the glowing blue-gray eyes and the long pale neck. When did John fall through the rabbit hole into wonderland, where the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter had fused into one brilliantly mad being? There was simply no other reason he could think of for such a human to exist. John's heart was pounding. He felt a small line of sweat trickle down his neck. And suddenly, he felt gloriously alive.
"That was… amazing!" he stated, still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.
For a moment, the other man seemed truly perplexed. It was, in John's humble opinion, a very adorable look on him, but also utterly ridiculous. The same guy, who had just shown an amazing ability of deduction and rudeness, seemed suddenly baffled by a simple compliment.
Before John could thoroughly enjoy the perplexed expression on his opponent's face, they were disrupted by a loud cloud of noise entering through the door. The army doctor counted about 15 men, clearly soldiers on short leave, closely followed by an already loud and merry bachelorette party. Bloody hell! There was no way the bartender could handle this bag of fleas and keep up with drink orders from the other customers alone. John sent the black haired man a pitying smile, subconsciously squaring his shoulders again for the oncoming storm. Suddenly, there was a strong hand gripping his wrist. As he spun back around to the bar, the bartender was leaning half way over the work bench, eyes hard and determined.
"What's your name?" he asked, eyes darting between the bar, John, and the approaching doom.
"John Watson," the doctor answered, watching the new herd of customers head straight for the bar.
"Well, John, get behind the bar and help me!" the man demanded, signaling over next to him. Without even realizing it, John was already halfway there before the reality of the situation started settling in.
"This is madness, I don't even work here," he exclaimed, anyhow already rummaging through the piled up glasses and tools. Alright, clean bar mats, a full ice box, speed rack fully stacked with all the common liquors. Without a second thought, he changed the first lineup to vodka, gin and rum, as his teacher and he himself preferred old-school.
"You are going to," the man next to him simply stated, handing him a towel and a chip card for the cashier. John had never worked a bloody bar cashier before, but it seemed straight forward. The well was already set up, but the system seemed almost set to fail. John kept an eye on the crowed, and changed the bottles around as much as he remembered.
"I don't even know the menu!"
By now, the doctor was simply arguing to calm his nerves. He had decided to go along with this madness almost as soon as the request had been stated. As he looked up, their impending doom had nearly made it through to the bar.
"Any good at mixing strong drinks?" his new colleague asked, standing almost close enough to brush against John's side. God, this guy was tall.
"Yes, very," the answer came, without hesitation. There was a reason he came here for a bartending job, and it had much to do with him mixing drinks while in the army. When alcohol was rare, you had to make do with what was there. And he was good at thinking on his feet. Now, by the hand motion timing he had seen from the other, the house poured one and a quarter. Which was a great middle for the customer, but another thing to mind for the bartender.
"Then keep these soldiers out of my way. I will deal with the bachelorettes and their garish cocktails!" came the prompt order. Well, he knew his way around army drinks, but as John glanced on the pinned up cocktail list, his hopes fell. What were those bloody things? He would be happy to just get the pouring right without measuring cups. At least the garnish station was standard issue.
"And the rest?" he asked, motioning over to the room in general. Well, at least they still used bar spoons here. A pretty nostalgic thing, as everybody and their mother nowadays wanted everything shaken, not stirred. Bloody Bond.
"Well, Dr. John Watson. You invaded Afghanistan. This should not pose a problem."
Cheeky bastard. John had half a mind to leave him alone to fend those hordes off by himself. But while half of him was bloody annoyed, the other half was buzzing with adrenalin. God, how he had missed that!
"That wasn't me alone! And at least give me your bloody name, so I don't have to throw ice cubes at your head!"
As he looked over, the bartender gave him a slow, but bright grin. It lit up the man's whole face and made John's breath catch.
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, consulting bartender, the only one in the world!"
The soldiers were pretty easy to handle. Scotch over, one set of Vodka shots, and back to scotch. No mixes. Those guys seemed to live on scotch and foul jokes. The only slight difficulty lay in the lemon twists, but the guy who had taught him years back made sure John knew his way around some old school gems. It made him miss the army.
Next to him, Sherlock was back to being the silent mixing-guru. Limbs flaring everywhere, he filled the girls up with candy-sweet sugar cocktails as they cooed over his shirt and skin and hair. Apparently, this was what the tall man did best: deducing the likes and dislikes of a person within seconds, and then mixing something to make the customer swoon.
As the guys were busy inhaling their liquor, he took a careful sip of the drink Sherlock had prepared earlier on. It was dark and smoothing, rum rolling around on his tongue, rounded with the flavor of coconut and cranberries. This git was a bloody genius. As he looked over, Sherlock gave him a self-satisfied smirk. He was good, and damn if he didn't know it, too.
Shaking his head, John dived under the counter for some more scotch. His customers would be ordering more soon, and the open bottle was nearing its end. So far, so good. There was just one slight problem. Under the bar, the place clearly intended for scotch bottles, was empty. Well fuck. Making his way over to Sherlock, he pulled the other man aside.
"We have another problem. There is only one bottle of scotch left!" he whispered in the bartender's ear, watching in close up as the man's face fell.
"Anderson! Bloody idiot!" Sherlock bellowed, kicking an empty canister under the counter. Apparently, another bartender – Anderson - had opened up the bar today. When Sherlock came in as assistance during happy hour, the two of them had had a row and Anderson left in a huff. Now, they were nearly out of scotch with a whole group of thirsty soldiers waiting. Sherlock cursed a blue streak, but had his own orders piling up.
That left John to his own devices. He had to think of something, and fast. Surveying his arsenal, the army doctor stood up straight and went to work. Moments later, he put a line of drinks down in front of the men.
"Here you go, fellows, a round on the house. Drink up, if you can stomach a 'Three Continent Watson'." The soldiers eyed their glasses for a moment, but soon knocked back the liquor without much fuss. At least, they tried. After swallowing the first gulp, most of them had to sit down their glasses and grasp for air. For a moment, the group was shocked into dead silence, while Watson hid his grin behind an order of beer.
"Bloody hell, you know how to knock a soldier flat. Keep them coming! Who's with me?" one of them boomed finally, slapping his thigh. The group resolved in good-natured laughter, and not a single one demanded another scotch.
The drink was one of John's specialties. As a doctor, he knew which kinds of alcohol and liquid blended together got into the bloodstream the fastest. Adding a bit of a rough edge, using minimal amounts of alcohol to receive a relatively painless buzz. He really did know how to knock a soldier flat. And even if the guys didn't know, they would thank him tomorrow. John was never fond of hangover-baits.
Suddenly, there was a hand snatching away one of his ready-made 'Watsons'. The pale hand belonged to Sherlock, who was knocking back the drink faster than John could warn him. As soon as the glass was empty, the bartender swayed slightly, closing his eyes and gripping John's shirt for support. The army man grinned, holding his colleague upright. The shirt material under his fingers was unbelievably soft. He was nearly scared the whole thing would rip apart. Not that the crowd would have minded. Him included.
"Bloody… How much liquor is in there?" Sherlock coughed, eying the bottles on John's well with a small glare.
"Next to none," the new bartender whispered, winking at the other's baffled expression.
After Sherlock had verified the low alcohol expense of the drink, and whispered a devious price point into his ear, they handled the crowd surprisingly well. Now, Sherlock was without doubt a master of his craft, and John could hold his own with traditional drinks, but they would have drowned without teamwork. They fit. Somehow, between Sherlock's flaring limbs and John's occasional ignorance, they held their ground.
As the true rush hour rolled in, and the soldiers went on bar hopping, the two of them were joined by a waitress and a cook. The former was called Donovan and had some kind of history with Sherlock. Her tone was frosty at best, but she had a way with the customers. The latter was a sweet girl named Molly, who introduced herself while deboning a chicken. A whole chicken. Head an all. Both of them were a bit surprised to see John behind the bar, but not for the reason he thought they would.
"You are working with the freak? For three hours now, without an incident? Stop pulling my leg. Nobody works with the freak." Donovan sneered, after she had successfully cornered him in storage. "Do not help him. The guy will get us all fired one day."
Molly on the other hand seemed quite smitten by Sherlock, and John debated whether there was history there too, or just an unfulfilled crush. Whatever their connection, Molly was a mean cook and kept the customers both well fed and thirsty, the trademark value of good bar food.
As Donovan came back with a drink order containing the "T-Rex Hopper", John got a firsthand taste of Sherlock's special work ethic.
"I don't do Anderson's idiot drinks. And your ridiculous effort in making them popular with the customers is just as foolish," the Bartender drawled and went back to serving the happily drunk bachelorette group. As Donovan took off with a grasshopper and chips, Sherlock seemed weary.
"Today is one of those nights, eh?" John tried, passing over their own order of (decidedly less salty) chips. His colleague picked at the bowl absentmindedly.
"Could be worse… Though this seems like the kind of night for my archenemy. To annoy me is his favorite pastime. Well, after stuffing his face," Sherlock muttered, cutting lemons and orange slices in a few free minutes.
John blinked, convinced he hadn't heard the other properly over the upbeat after-work music. The other for sure was an eccentric man, not easy to get along with and ridiculously easy to annoy. But an archenemy? All the new bartender could picture was a middle aged movie villain stroking a white cat.
"People don't have archenemies," he stated, pushing out two vodka-energy's, a bloody mary and three Long Island ice teas for the group of party goes right in front of him. Bonging the purchase, he watched Sherlock stir a grateful dead, the shaker nearly blurring in his hands. While he liked his women strong minded but sweet, he loved his men tall and skilled. Not the first time since his sudden "employment", the doctor contemplated possible complications of working alongside Sherlock Holmes, consulting bartender. However, he was not a bloody teenager anymore. They could behave like adults. Well, from what John had seen so far, he would behave like a grown up, and put Sherlock on time-out if necessary.
"What do people have, then?" Sherlock finally asked, voice indicating how bored he already was with their conversation. Just as John was about to let the matter drop, a fresh group of university students made their way over to the bar. Seeing as the new customers seemed good-natured enough and had heard at least the very basic of their discussion, the army doctor decided to have a bit of fun.
"I don't know, girlfriends..?" John said, raising his voice over the still quiet music and winking at one of the girls. She giggled and raised her pina colada. Hearing Sherlock just snort like a spoiled brat, he grinned.
"Or boyfriends…?" This time his eyes rested on a young student in a screaming red blazer. As he gave the man his sea breeze, they shared a leering smile. Behind him, by the sound of it, a "gorilla punch" got a very thorough shaking.
"Not really my area," was the only verbal answer Sherlock gave as he passed him on his way to the till. However, John distinctively noticed the other's body brushing against his, even though there was more than enough space behind the counter.
"Neither of them?" John pushed with barely hidden amusement. For good measure, he raised his right eyebrow and heard a few customers snicker.
"I consider myself married to my work," the consulting bartender stated with a pitch perfect intonation of "above all this foolish emotions" arrogance. John might have let it go at this point, but Donovan pitched in with her own two cents, dropping them another large table order.
"Well, I am part of your work, and you sure as hell aren't married to me!" the waitress made clear, getting a drunken giggle from the long lasting bachelorette group. John had to bite his cheek as Sherlock looked positively horrified by the mere thought, empty shaker frozen in place above the filled cocktail glass. The black haired git could be an insufferable know-it-all, but damn if he didn't have his adorable moments too. Right now, Sherlock really looked like he required a full bucket of brain bleach. Which, considering whatever ugly history he had with waitress Donovan, might even be justified.
John, noble as he was, thought this to be too good of an opportunity to pass up on.
"Your loss! Drink up, honey!" he cooed, pressing a "Three Continent Watson" in the unsuspecting man's hand. John hid his face in mid-turn as their fingers brushed, but still felt the spark all the way down to his toes. 'Teenagers, Watson!' he thought, trying to snap out of it. This was about ten kinds of a bad idea.
At least the customers hollered, obviously entertained and ready to order. John found it quite puzzling, but their tips nearly doubled after that. So did, for some inexplicable reason, the women ordering.
No matter how long John watched Sherlock do his "deduction" bartending, he never stopped to be amazed by it. Most of the time, he couldn't even begin to grasp how he worked out what a customer wanted. He just sat back and watched the faces of strangers light up because apparently, Holmes could do no wrong. That was all well, until a couple of guys came in, landing on Sherlock's side of the bar. The black haired man took one look, and proceeded to mix them, in John's opinion, a girly cocktail. The men were skeptical at best, but took one sip anyway. John watched in fascination as they stared at each other, then Sherlock, then their drink, before resolving in good natured laughter. Now, that was just too much. How the hell had his colleague figured that one out? Sending Sherlock a puzzled look, he went back to work. A few moments later, he felt a strong hand wrapping around his middle from behind. A tall body pressed against his back, and all John could do was to set down the shaker for a moment. Christ, this guy was lethal.
"They are brown, just back from holiday, shirts and shoes indicate cruising liner. The one on the left even had a key chain with the logo sticking out of his pocket. Carnival Cruise. This liner has a particular cocktail called "kiss on the lips". Most passengers try to recreate it as soon as they get home. Very few can." a dark voice whispered in his ear, hot breath making goosebumps appear on his neck.
"Brilliant," he answered, twisting his neck to give the other an open smile.
John leaned back ever so slightly, as a group of women giggled in front of them. Suddenly aware of their "audience", he took his shaker back in hand and busied himself. The body behind John stayed a few moments longer, before Sherlock too, returned to his well.
As they were back to their respective stations, and John did decidedly not steal secret glances at the fellow bartender, another man made his way straight from the door to their bar. His face looked aggravated, and the army doctor mentally prepared himself for a trouble maker. The silver haired man seemed to be in his forties, and gave John an annoyed stare, before focusing on Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" he huffed, sounding like a scolding parent. "What have you done now? Where is Anderson?"
Sherlock seemed decidedly nonplussed. While sliding two Godiva Chocolate Martinis over to an obviously newlywed couple, he mumbled something about dinosaur drinks and general idiocy. The argument had obviously not been a new one, as the stranger interrupted Sherlock about halfway through.
"And who is this guy? Why is he tending my bar?"
John looked up sheepishly, feeling himself fall back into soldier habits. He straightened his back, folded his hands behind him and waited for the dismissal. Well, so much for working here. Sherlock got him fired before he had even started. Yet, before John could claim defeat and move around the bar, Sherlock moved beside him and laid one hand on his shoulder. It almost felt like a claiming gesture.
"He is called John and he is working here. You need an another bartender, Lestrade! And I refuse to work with anyone else. They are all idiots. John is too, but he isn't annoying." the man huffed, and the army doctor couldn't decide why this dubious praise made him blush.
Lestrade rightfully gave him a puzzled look, but in contrast to the other employees, he seemed to get over the shock of having someone work beside Sherlock quite fast. After taking one last look around the full and buzzing bar, he moved closer.
"What do you know about mixing drinks?" the owner asked, just raising one eyebrow at the hand still resting on John's shoulder. The new bartender gave a quick nod, sliding a drink he had just made across the counter.
In his defense, Lestrade didn't cough or put down the glass after he had taken the first gulp. But his watering eyes and rigid posture were more than enough for John to grin.
"Bloody hell, how much alcohol is in there?" the hard breathing man finally asked after his glass was empty. Before John could answer, he heard an amused Sherlock steal his earlier line.
"Next to none." the black-haired bartender exclaimed, leaning over John's shoulder over the counter as well. Lestrade looked from one of them to the other, his puzzled expression dropping in favor of a strong, no bullshit type of look. He was, without a doubt, a bar owner and knew his way around know-it-alls as well as trouble makers. Yet John had met his fair share of hard-asses as well, and knew how to hold his own. The two man stared at each other, Lestrade still on the fence about the whole situation and the bartender calm but firm in his stance.
"Alright, you're hired. Takes a bigger man than me to keep that one in line, anyhow. Hope you are up for it!" the silver-haired owner gave him a quick nod and after that disappeared into his office upstairs.