A/N: OK, chapter two-and the part were the title comes into play. Enjoy! :)

Strange, John reflected, seemed almost too mild a word for the situation.

"You," he exclaimed.

"You," she sighed.

She was wearing a pale rose-colored jumper and jeans, which made her look a lot less mysterious and intimidating than when she was attired in that jaunty black caped ensemble which he had often seen in the back of Mycroft's kidnapping car.

"You're…you're on free time," he observed, not sure how to conduct the conversation.

Her lips quirked upwards in her typical smile, which he found at once condescending and…attractive. So what? He was attracted to her. He knew it. She knew it. Mycroft probably knew it, which was slightly—OK, more than slightly—disturbing.

"I told you I get lots," she replied, in a tone that managed to be bland and alluring all at once.

"Yes. Yes you did." He glanced at her luxurious brown hair, which was tumbling over her shoulders. It was dry. "You've been waiting for the rain to stop?"

"Observant, Dr. Watson. You've been taking notes from Sherlock."

He was pretty sure that she was being sarcastic. "I do share a flat with him."

The smile again. "Oh, we know. Here to buy that pesky milk?"

He sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day. "How could you possibly know about that?"

She waved her phone coyly at him. "How do you think? We have excellent surveillance on 221B."

John nodded. "And its refrigerator. Yes, Mycroft doesn't miss a thing, of course. Except maybe the fact that his assistant doesn't have an umbrella? He's practically the umbrella-man, I've never seen him without his…why don't you have one?"

For the first time, she looked a bit miffed instead of amused. "I'm on my off hours, just like you said. He doesn't run every bit of my life."

John recognized the expression, since he'd seen it on his own face often enough. "A little row with your Holmes?"

"And you've had a little one with yours," she retorted. "I don't think I have to explain to you the little ways they can be…trying, Dr. Watson."

"It's John."

"I know."

"And it's not actually Anthea."

"No."

"I wish I could be all dark and enigmatic like you, and say it wasn't actually John, but it is."

She cracked a smile—almost a real one. "Who would pick John for an alias, anyway? It's hardly original."

He laughed. "No, it isn't. Not at all."

They seemed a bit natural for a moment, but he realized he'd raised his hopes too soon. She seemed to have regretted her admittance of being piqued at Mycroft, and had once more retracted into her patronizing, amused, and (John admitted to himself) very pretty shell. "I'm on my way. Now be a good man and call me a cab. I'll need to borrow your umbrella for a moment, too, if it's not too much trouble."

"Sure," he said, and then stopped. He set his chin forward a bit, as he used to do he gave an order to subordinate in the Army. "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not calling a taxi for you. That is, unless you let me buy you a coffee. Here's the thing—I know that I'm that nice guy, the gentleman, and everything, and so I apologize if this is rude. But that doesn't change that I'm doing it. We're getting a coffee together or you can dam—you can go and call the cab yourself. That's all."

For the first time in their acquaintance, Anthea looked at him with surprise—and something almost like interest. "Well…OK," she conceded, as though for once she couldn't think of a good comeback.

Keep it together, John. You've just forced her into drinking a coffee with you. It's not even the second cousin of a date.

They made their way over to one of the little tables that gave the shop its versatile reputation, and set down to glance at the humble menu.

He watched Anthea's nose tilt at the choices.

"This isn't really your idea of coffee, is it?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"We don't have to get any if you don't want, we can just—talk."

"Talk?" The eyebrows were up again.

God, she's pretty. "Talking. Yes. It's what people do, sometimes."

"When they probably shouldn't, right?" She smiled a little, and her eyes—which, John noticed anew, were brown—twinkled. "So what shall we talk about, Dr.—I mean, John?"

"How about names?"

"What about names?"

He couldn't tell if she was being coy or defensive. Possibly both.

"Well, if Anthea isn't your real name, what is? First, I mean. And I don't want to know it so I can 'investigate' you in the same way your boss runs invasive surveillance on the world and their refrigerators. I just—I'd just like to know."

"The refrigerator part really bothered you, didn't it?" she teased, playing around the question. At last she looked pensive. "It is my real name, actually. Just not my first. Middle name."

"OK. That makes sense."

"What's yours?" she asked.

"Um…Hamish."

She laughed. "I know."

"Then why ask?"

"I wanted to hear you say it."

"God, you're something," he said, shaking his head. "It's…yeah. A good old Scottish name, I guess."

"It's my grandfather's name," she told him, comfortingly.

"Is that a good thing?" he asked, a bit hopefully.

Her eyes twinkled again. "No."

She was making his head spin, but John decided that he didn't mind. "Well then, what about first's? You've got to tell me. I can't imagine I need top security clearance with Mycroft to know it."

"Maybe not with Mycroft, but definitely with me." She relented after a moment. "It's just—it's…boring." She tugged at the fuzzy pink sleeve of her jumper.

"My name's John. When someone's identity is unknown, they call him a John Doe." John shrugged. "Yours can't be any more anonymous than mine."
She chewed her lip for a moment, and then murmured. "Mary. It's Mary."

"Mary Anthea," he said. "That's pretty. Really, it is."

"John Hamish," she returned. "That's—I don't know if I'd call it pretty."

"I wouldn't want you to," he informed her. Had the rain lightened up, or did the day feel less grey?

She stood up. "Do I still need to drink a dreadful coffee, or will you call a cab for me despite that?"

"I will if you like," he agreed, "But I think the sun's come out." Sure enough, golden beams were peeping through the dingy shop window.

Her hair swung over her shoulders as she glanced playfully back at him, pocketing her phone. "Maybe I want you to call the taxi for me anyway. Doesn't that seem like a man's job, Hamish?"

He raised his hands, knowing he was beaten. "Hamish? Oh, don't start—"

A smile—a truly real one, this time, as bright as sunbeams—crossed her features. "Oh, I've already started."

A/N: By the way, I like the names John and Mary :) Hope you enjoyed this fic! Read and Review! (I can't say it enough!)

P.S. I MIGHT continue this, if you like! :)