A/N: Hi there, and welcome to my new side-project! When I heard that Speedy's was for sale a couple of months ago, I decided it was time to honor the small café at Baker Street. And so, a new idea was born! I'm writing it as we speak, so it's a WIP for now. I already wrote the first two chapters and i'm aiming on uploading once a week! I hope you'll enjoy, and please let me know if you do!

The moment I realized… I could be friends with you

He was sitting by himself in the far corner of the café, sipping his coffee. He hadn't been here before, which was odd, because he had moved into the apartment above almost two weeks ago. He knew his new flatmate did come here now and then, but he just hadn't thought of going down to get a cup of coffee instead of drinking it in the apartment.

He made an effort to look like he was simply drinking his coffee, enjoying the quiet Speedy's had to offer around this time of day. He had thought about grabbing a newspaper as well but decided against it. Instead, he was just taking in his surroundings, looking at the people who were sitting there as well. But every now and then, he let his eyes linger on the entrance of the café. He took another sip of his coffee, realized it was his last one, put the cup back on the table and shoved it aside. When a long, slender, dark-haired figure entered the café, he sat up a little straighter and swallowed.

Because in reality, John Watson felt nervous.

"John," Sherlock greeted when he sat down opposite him. John nodded in return and glanced at the man before returning his gaze on his, now empty, coffee cup.

He began to wonder if this was such a good idea. He had been living at 221b for twelve days now and every day, started to feel like home a bit more. He even was beginning to get used to living with another human being again, or more specific, to living with Sherlock. It was easy where John hadn't expected it to be. They knew what the other needed without asking, had so many things to talk about that they frequently let their tea grow cold, and simply could enjoy each other's silent company in the evenings. John found Sherlock's experiments interesting, his deductions fascinating, and his violin playing beautiful. He had absolutely nothing to complain about.

Except that he had.

Yes, Sherlock's violin play was often beautiful, but sometimes, it wasn't. Sometimes it sounded like dying goats. There was no other way to describe it. Especially when Sherlock was frustrated or angry, he liked to abuse his violin. And even that would be okay with John, but not in the middle of the bloody night.

And yes, Sherlock's deductions were fascinating, brilliant even. Except when Sherlock deduced things about John himself. He could handle the fact that he couldn't keep it hidden when he had met a woman during groceries, or that he had to share his laptop because Sherlock kept deducing the password. But some things just were private, thank you very much.

And then, there were the experiments. Which were interesting, and most of the time, John could handle the strange smells or the smoke when yet another thing burned. But those experiments came with some very strange, even shady supplies. In two weeks, John had found maggots in the sugar jar, a bottle of something that smelled like vomit between the cleaning supplies under the sink, and a jar of rabbit turds between the pasta and the rice. And that all would be something John could live with, but when he opened the fridge yesterday, there was a severed head. Next to his dinner. A severed head.

It had been the final straw. John could handle a lot, but he was a man who needed sleep at a decent hour, who wanted to have a bit of privacy and who wanted to eat his dinner without the thought of a severed head in the fridge. He had tried to bring this up multiple times over the last couple of days, but every time Sherlock had been distracted, occupied, or in his mind-palace. Which was why he had invited Sherlock for a cup of coffee at Speedy's; so he could explain why they needed some ground rules and have the detective's full attention when he did.

John's attention snapped back to the matter at hand when a young waitress came by their table. "What can I get you?"

"Just a black coffee," Sherlock answered in his low baritone.

The girl turned to John. "Do you want a refill?"

"Yes, please."

"You do know that we own coffee ourselves as well, right?" Sherlock began with a smirk on his face when the waitress was gone. John could tell that Sherlock was in a good mood today, which was a relief. "There's no need to invite me down here while we could've had a decent cup in the comfort of our apartment." The detective continued and scanned the room. "But I do have to admit; it's a nice change of view."

"Sherlock, there are some things I would like to discuss."

"Obviously. You asked me to meet you in a public place; something you usually won't do, at a time you know would assure a crowd. You are uncomfortable bringing up the matter at hand in the intimacy of our apartment."

For a second, John was impressed by the deduction Sherlock made. He wanted to praise it but realized that this was exactly the reason why they were sitting here. He took a deep breath and continued. "I've given it some thought over the last few days, and I think we need to talk about our cohabitation."

Sherlock's smile faltered. "Oh."

John didn't fail to notice the sudden change in Sherlock's body language. The man had tensed up and closed himself off in a matter of seconds. He almost felt guilty for bringing it up, but he knew he had to say something. Inhaling deeply, John braced himself and began. "I find it hard adjusting to some of your habits. I thought I could put up with it, but it turns out I find it's more challenging than I thought. I was wondering if-"

"You want out."

John blinked in confusion. "What?"

"You don't want to live with me. There are too many of my habits that are annoying to you, and you've been letting me know; every time I do something that you don't like, you set your jaw. You've reached your limit days ago and have been meaning to talk to me about it, but you couldn't bring yourself up to it. Hence why you were agitated for most of the time these last few days." Sherlock deduced, but he didn't sound as triumphant as he usually did.

"What?" John asked in confusion. "That's not what I—"

He was interrupted by the waitress. After she put down the two cups of coffee, she asked John and Sherlock if they would like something to eat. She clearly didn't have the talent to sense what kind of conversation her customers were having, because she needed to be told twice that they didn't want to order any food.

When she finally left, John tried to continue the conversation. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I think you're drawing the wrong—"

"You don't need to make excuses, John." Sherlock paused briefly and swallowed, his eyes fixed on the cup of coffee in his hands. "You are not the first one who makes it clear that I'm not an easy man to have around; people have told me on multiple occasions. I have to say; I'm not even surprised. It always goes like this, and it was naïve of me to think that it would be different this time. So thank you, John, for these past eleven days and for having the decency to let me—"

"Stop it." John interrupted, unable to listen to Sherlock's assumptions any longer. "I don't want to move out!" he practically yelled and instantly regretted it. He didn't want to give Sherlock the impression that he was angry with him, but the whole situation was getting ridiculous. "Where did you get that idea in the first place?" John asked after a moment in a much gentler tone.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "I thought you were starting to share their opinion about me," he eventually mumbled.

John swallowed. He didn't like where this conversation was going. He could see it made Sherlock uncomfortable, and he didn't want him to be. "Who's opinion?"

"Anderson's. Donovan's. I saw you talking to them the other day; I'm sure you've heard by now."

"Heard what, exactly?"

"The nickname that the fine officers of the Met gave me, John."

John looked at the detective in confusion and tried to think what Sherlock could possibly mean. It was clearly something that hurt him, that much was obvious, but John couldn't think of a nickname he had heard when he visited at New Scotland Yard the other day.

But suddenly, he did remember. It was something sergeant Donovan had called Sherlock the first time he met her.

A freak.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're not." John exclaimed. He reached out across the table to take Sherlock's arm, ignoring the spark he felt when he did. "Let me get one thing perfectly clear. You are not a freak. I don't know who made you believe you were, but that person should get his ass kicked so hard that he shouldn't be able to walk for days. Hell, if I ever have the good fortune to meet him slash her, they would be in big trouble.

Sherlock huffed in disbelief. "You almost make it sound like you're my friend."

John couldn't do anything but to blink for several seconds before he realized that Sherlock actually didn't believe him, which was insane. Sure, Sherlock did have some quirks, but who didn't? That wasn't a reason to not have any friends, at least not for John. And even worse, he almost made it sound as if he didn't feel worthy of John's friendship, which was utterly ridiculous. Because Sherlock was by far the most brilliant person, John had met since he came back from Afghanistan.

"That's because I am, you idiot," John said fondly. But when Sherlock didn't answer, he began to wonder if he had come to the wrong conclusion. "At least I could be. If you want to," he added hesitantly.

For the first time during the conversation, Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes, and John tried to ignore the warm feeling he got when he did. "I would like that very much," Sherlock eventually said softly.

John swore he could see a blush on Sherlock's cheeks and couldn't help it but tot smile. "Good, that's good. But Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?

"No more torturing the violin at three in the morning."

"Fine."

"And try to keep the deductions about my private life to a minimum, please. I'll tell you eventually."

"I'll do my best."

"And could you keep the severed head somewhere else than next to my dinner?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

"Git," John laughed, and he was happy to see Sherlock was laughing as well.