The next morning John awoke to find Sherlock at the window engrossed in something outside. He wandered over and looked down at the busy London street. Below them was Emma Brown exiting a cab. She was dressed in fashionable clothes that could be described as classic and her hair and makeup were impeccable. She gracefully climbed up the stairs and they heard her opening the main door below. While John admired her Sherlock looked somewhat perplexed. John did a double take at his friend's expression.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," Sherlock answered tersely. "Just a bit early to be coming home from somewhere. What did you find out about her?" he asked. John shook his head.
"If you want to get to know her better why don't we bring over a bottle of wine and some cheese as a house warming gift?"
Sherlock stiffened.
"Why would we do that?" he asked.
"It's what people do, Sherlock," said John exasperated.
"It's not what I do," quipped his friend.
John gave up the hopeless line of conversation and went to the fridge to try to find something for breakfast. As he suspected, there was no food in the fridge - no identifiable food anyway. There were several odd containers with dubious contents which he had long ago learned not to open. He puffed his cheeks and let out a long breath.
"I'm going to Speedy's to pick up a bagel and some coffee. Do you want anything?" he asked.
"Not hungry," answered his friend dismissively. John was aware of Sherlock's painfully thin frame and often wondered at his lack of appetite, but he had long given up trying to coerce him to eat.
"Suit yourself," he said and made for the door in search of breakfast.
When John got to the cafe, he realized that he'd forgotten his laptop. He always felt self conscious without it, especially when he was seated alone. He hadn't any fodder for his blog as far as new cases were concerned and he couldn't put details of his painfully lonely holiday on it for the world to see, so he contented himself with giving his full attention to his breakfast.
"Hi John," came a rich, resonant voice from nearby. John looked up, startled to hear an unfamiliar voice. Then he saw Emma. She had changed into more casual clothes, but still presented a well-polished image.
"Hi Emma," said John, his spirits lifting. "Would you like to join me?"
"Don't mind if I do," she replied. John smiled, enchanted.
She also had a bagel with cream cheese and coffee.
"So how are you getting on in your new flat?" asked John intrigued by her distinctly American mannerisms. It was hard to put to words but you could almost always tell an American by the way they carried themselves. There was a self confidence that could sometimes seem rude, even if not intended to be.
"Oh, it's going pretty well," she said. "I'm settling in."
She sipped her coffee and took a bite of bagel which made it impossible to talk further until she finished chewing it.
"I never realized how many words are different here. I now know that 'chips' means 'french fries' and that what you call 'crisps' are 'potato chips' to us." She smiled and John smiled to match.
"I'm sure you'll get used to it quickly," he offered. Just as he was about to ask another question, Sherlock came through the door and plopped down next to John.
"Just tea for me," he said as an aside to the waitress. He looked at Emma with his piercing blue eyes but said nothing. He pressed his lips together in what was almost a thin-lipped smile.
"Sherlock! Nice of you to join us," said Emma. "I've been reading John's blog about your cases. It's fascinating. Consulting detective...it sounds dangerous and exciting." She sipped her coffee and looked up at him through her long lashes, not yet realizing that her flirting was lost on the lanky detective.
"Yes," replied Sherlock, thinking this was a sufficient reply. John pursed his lips and knitted his brow. Unsure of how to cover for his friend's awkwardness.
"Yes, never a dull moment," added John. He could see Sherlock taking in details about her and only hoped that Sherlock would not present these deductions to her in a rude fashion. Sherlock remained silent and pensive. Emma shifted in her seat as if nervous or embarrassed. Just as John was about to speak, Sherlock's phone went off.
He pressed his phone to his ear, not bothering to excuse himself.
"Really? When? Where? We'll be there," he responded to the voice on the phone which John was sure was Lastrade's, the Chief Investigator at Scotland Yard. John seldom ever finished a meal when Sherlock was around and knew he would quickly lose the three pounds he had gained just by virtue of running around and having his meals interrupted.
"I'm so sorry," he apologized to Emma. "You never know when a case is going to break!" She nodded and smiled. "That's OK," she offered, clearly surprised by the abrupt interruption.
The two men dashed out of Speedy's, a familiar site to the neighbors; the tall lanky detective dashing about on long legs with his dark curly hair blowing wildly about his face, while his much shorter companion, John Watson, with his close cropped military haircut and bearing, jogged closely behind. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were, for all intents and purposes, the celebrities of Baker Street.