This is a collection of alphabetical ficlets which may or may not make it past "A". :D
Americans by InSilva
Disclaimer: don't own any character in here that you may recognise
The café was just down from Portland Place, tucked down a side-street set slightly back from the shopping hubbub of Oxford Street. It wasn't the most upmarket of establishments but it was redeemed by the fact that it was within an acceptable radius of both John's practice and the Langham, where, as a favour to the concierge, Marcel, he'd just cleared up the matter of the missing armadillo.
"Ah, but zank you! You are a genius! With ze broom cupboard and ze marbles…who would 'ave thought? Only you, monsieur!"
Marcel's words ringing in his ears, he walked the hundred steps or so to the café, ignoring John's voice in his head pointing out that he should have been consulted as to the definition of "acceptable". Then, when the voice continued to grumble, he gave a dramatic inward sigh and pointed out to the voice that it served a most generous all-day breakfast which was one of John's favourites so it could do everyone a favour and just shut up.
The café wasn't busy and he found a table easily, signalling Ida behind the counter who obliged and brought a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits.
"Here you go, dearie," she said, beaming. "So nice to see you again. Give my regards to Martha, won't you?"
He flashed her a careless smile of thanks-acknowledgment-dismissal, his attention already on the home-made chocolate cookies. Dunking one into the tea, he bit into soft-chewy-sweet and scanned the other patrons.
Three labourers (one of them sickening for the measles) and a couple of postmen (father and son). An unhappily married sales rep engrossed in a flirtatious business discussion with a pharmacist who had dyed her hair and regretted it. Boring, boring, boring. But the man sitting at the table against the opposite wall...
Attributes and inferences flashed through his head. Well-dressed, clean-shaven, neat manicure - not a manual worker - married… Ida brought the man a fresh cup of coffee and the man's smile was warm and reached his eyes. Charismatic, confident, successful…lawyer? Barrister? Advertising?
"Thank you."
American. East Coast accent. Empathic. People person. Politician? He sat unconsciously straighter as he watched the man's casual but calculated glance to the door, to the window, to the labourers, to the sales rep… Observant. Cataloguing. Deducing? What was he? Lawman? Spy?
His thoughts were interrupted by the look of absolute joy that flooded the man's face. It took him a moment to realise that the joy was expressed only in the way the man's eyes shone brighter and the slight crook of his lips.
(Joy. When had he ever been so certain of identifying that emotion?)
The pharmacist who was facing the door was simply staring, slack-jawed. Off her reaction, the sales rep had twisted round in his seat and was busy scowling at the new arrival.
A glance at the man who had walked in - designer suit, silk shirt, hint of a tattoo on his left hand – Bohemian? - graceful, casual, confident…model? Actor? – and he could see the way the man took in everyone and everything and still only had eyes for the American as he took his seat opposite.
Friendsloversbrothers?
Ida approached their table and there was light conversation – this man sounded American too - before she disappeared back to the counter giggling girlishly and returned with a pink milkshake and some of the chocolate cookies. His lips pursed slightly. His understanding was that Ida kept those for special customers.
The blond with the tattoo broke off from his biscuit long enough to pull a business card from his inner pocket. It danced through his fingers and into the other's hands and it disappeared from sight at once.
Magicians? Comfortable with cards… Professional gamblers?
There was a wisp of something there as if he'd almost caught it and then it had gone. He looked again at the unquantifiable pair. He found their refusal to be classified simultaneously annoying and intriguing. They were leaning forwards in their seats, talking in low voices, demonstrating an uncommon comfortable intimacy that shut out the rest of the world.
Friendsbrotherslovers?
Well, that seemed unlikely to be resolved at this distance. In the meantime, there was the question of occupation for both of them which was aggravating in the extreme. He could see the look on Mycroft's face."Slipping, brother mine?" He renewed his efforts. Well-manicured hands so not blue-collar workers and yet none of the professional traits seemed to fit. They weren't accountants, they weren't doctors, they weren't… What did they have in common apart from expensive tailoring?
Confidence. Lots of it. They were confident men. Confidence men. His brow cleared. Hyper-awareness and checking the exits and manual dexterity. It fell into place. Right now, they weren't doing anything illegal but he filed away the thought and made a note to listen to any intelligence about a target worthy of the interest of two successful American con men.
He watched as they got up and left, still engaged in that silent, private conversation and then beckoned Ida over.
"Those gentlemen who just left, Ida…"
"Rusty and Danny? They're friends of my sister's boy, Roman," Ida said fondly.
He only knew one Roman in London. It had to be worth a shot. "Roman Nagel?"
"That's right, dearie. He brought them in to meet me last summer. Rusty really enjoyed the cookies."
Understandable.
"They're staying at the Langham," she volunteered.
"Are they now? Thank you, Ida."
The last three words were automatic. He was already lost in thought.
Armadillo. Broom cupboard. Marbles. Distraction. Misdirection. In which case, what was the real target…?
Then the door opened and John appeared.
His lips curved upwards and his eyes shone.
A/N: Danny and Rusty belong to the Ocean's 11 universe. Virtual cookies to anyone who identified them - please state the flavour you'd like. ;)