John trudged through the perpetual London drizzle, ignoring the trickles of water that had managed to run under his coat and down his back in icy trails. He hugged his falling-to-pieces rucksack closer to his chest in an attempt to shield his books. The feel of paper tickling his chin reminded him of his impending military career. He was to leave in three months for basic training and a wave of dread washed over him.
"Hey!" he yelled, waving his arms at a passing taxi, for once not caring about the cost involved, it was that cold. The taxi kept driving and he ran down an alley to escape being drenched in water. He looked around, realizing he had no idea where he was.
"Sod it." he muttered, sitting down on the curb and putting his face in his hands. After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, he looked around at the dimly lit street. That was when he noticed the flickering sign of a teacup.
The café looked shabby, but it was better than the drizzle-turned-torrent he was currently standing in. He crossed over to the facebrick building with large but grubby windows and turned the handle on the door, which bore the peeling letters "221B".
He stepped inside and was enveloped by the warmth emitted by the old radiator attached to the wall. The inside of the cafe was a mishmash of overstuffed, chinze armchairs, straight-backed, ancient structures that he supposed were once called chairs and multiple mismatched, slightly lopsided tables. The customers were as mismatched as the décor, with a grey haired man scowling over a coffee in the corner and a plain woman attempting to wrestle her screaming child back into his pushchair. There was a bar with a glass case containing every kind of teacake imaginable towards the back of the cafe, barstools with their seats ripped open and stuffing exposed lining the bar's edge
Behind the bar set a petite old woman reading an Agatha Christie crime novel. John dropped his rucksack and she jumped.
"Oh, dear you startled me!" She exclaimed, smiling. Though she seemed at least seventy, her smile and the way she carried herself seemed to make the crow's feet and laughter lines in her face disappear. She hurried around the bar and held out a wrinkled hand.
"I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear. And you are?"
"John. Watson." He said, smiling.
"You poor thing, you look soaking wet!" She exclaimed. "What can I get you?"
"Um, do you have a menu?" John queried.
"Oh no, Sherlock just does what you ask for." Mrs. Hudson laughed.
"Well in that case, I'll have a bla-"
That was when the person who couldn't possibly be anyone else but Sherlock walked out of the kitchen.
He carried himself with the grace of a dancer who never made it but couldn't break old habits. A mop of unwieldy, dark brown hair framed his slightly extraterrestrial facial features. Above his defined cheekbones were eyes that raked from John's sodden shoes to his sandy hair. Those eyes sent a shiver down John's spine. They never seemed to be the same colour, yet remained cold and piercing.
Sherlock spoke, shaking John from his stupor.
"Excuse me?" John asked.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated in an exasperated tone.
John froze in shock.
"Wh-what?"
Sherlock sighed as though john was a petulant child that refused to cooperate.
"You're a medical student but you're low on funds. You applied for the military as it is the only way you will be able to train as a doctor. Your parents are apprehensive about you leaving as your... Brother? Has left and they don't want to lose another son but want you to become a doctor. And so I ask again. Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John was torn between rage and awe.
"That was... Brilliant." He breathed. "How did you get all that?"
Sherlock's cold gaze melted slightly. "So I got it all right? It was easy. There is a medical textbook and military brochure protruding from your bag. Your clothes, though well kept, are worn and there is an instep to your shoes that only comes from preferring to walk instead of waste money on taxis. You bag is covered with multiple phrases such as "Harry likes girls" all written in the same penmanship but they are faded, indicating that "Harry" is no longer around. You're brochure is not hidden which must mean your parents know about your military career. It was simple really."
John was stunned. "That was amazing. The only thing you got wrong is that Harry is my sister."
"Oh?" Sherlock frowned, "a stupid mistake."
"It was still incredible."
Sherlock's eyes softened to blue instead of hard steel. There was an infinitesimal tilt to the corners of his mouth.
"Yes, thank you, Sherlock. John, you wanted a?" laughed Mrs. Hudson. John blushed, embarrassed that he had forgotten her standing there.
"Black coffee, two sugars please." He mumbled in reply, and fled to a squashy, patchwork chair at the front of the café.
In the time Sherlock made his coffee, John pretended to be reading another military brochure, but really he was watching Sherlock. The pail, tapering fingers expertly measured out coffee into a tall cup without spilling a drop on his pristine, white dress shirt. He started to move toward John, who quickly dropped his gaze to the page before him.
As Sherlock was setting down his cup, John mumbled, "Afghanistan."
Sherlock seemed to slow momentarily, before retreating to the kitchenette behind the bar.
It wasn't surprising that Sherlock's coffee was the best he'd ever had.
He steeled himself for the cold outside before paying Mrs. Hudson, who looked at Sherlock and wicked at John suggestively.
"I'm not-" he began to say.
"Oh it's alright, dear. The next shop down is owned by married ones!" she giggled.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson" John mumbled, and practically ran from the mismatched chairs and frozen eyes that had begun to thaw.