II.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

I run searches on them, and come up with their websites. The Science of Deduction and a blog.

John Watson returns a couple days later, dark circles under his eyes. "Bad day?" I ask as I seat him at the bar. "Where's your… er…"

"Sherlock's on a case," John says, and then grimaces, looks up at me. "That is to say, he's, um, working."

"I read the blog," I reply, smiling. "He's a… detective?"

"Yeah. Let me guess, you like the one about the aluminium crutch, too."

I laugh. "I dunno. I'm not sure which case I like better, really. What would you like to drink?"

"A bit of sake, perhaps," John says, ordering a bottle of Kikusui. I get it for him, and he pours himself a small cup, tossing it back with a contented sigh. I turn back to the till as the doors open again, to seat a party of four and a couple.

"Here's your wallet back, by the way," I say moments later, after seating another lonely-looking bloke at the sushi bar. I hand John back his wallet, and he tucks it away with a nod. "Hope that didn't give you too much trouble."

"No, I'm used to it." John laughs harshly.

"He does that a lot, then?"

"More times than I can bear it."

"You must be a saint."

John laughs, and tosses back another cup of sake with a smacking of his lips. "Paul-san, what've you got for me today?"

"Ah, John!" Paul-san grins at John. "Sherlock not here?"

"Nope, he's got a case."

"Watson!" Another person cuts in on the conversation. It's Charles, my boss. He's a clean-cut businessman, all charisma and smiles. "So good to see you again. Sorry I wasn't there last week."

"It's all fine," John replies, shaking Charles's hand. I feel supremely confused – it's as if everyone knows John. Everyone except me, that is, because I had to Google him to figure out what he does.

Charles claps my shoulder. "I see you've met our new hostess, Cheryl," he says with a grin. I laugh nervously.

"I met her last week," John says, grinning. "But I didn't get her name. Hello." He shakes my hand, too.

It's much later, after John actually stays around long enough to pay his own bill, when I find out that Sherlock had also done Charles a favour and helped acquit him of something in Japan. It's hard to imagine my boss behind bars, but apparently it's happened. And now he's the owner of a line of Japanese restaurants.

I'm still not sure what to make of that.

It's a slow evening the next time John comes back. He takes the same seat I gave him last time, and orders nearly the same arrangement of sushi. But of course, you'll never eat the same meal twice at a sushi bar, and Paul-san makes sure John tries something new.

"Cheryl!" John greets me when I pass him with a pitcher of ice water, going around filling people's glasses. "Get me a bottle of Otoyama, please."

"In a moment," I reply, placing it on his bill on my way back into the kitchen.

John's not his usual grinning self when I bring out his alcohol, and he insists on getting a second cup and making me take the seat next to him. I raise an eyebrow. He pours me a glass.

"I can never finish these damn bottles," he explains.

"You could pour some for Paul-san; I don't think Charles will like me drinking on the job –" I begin, but John's already pushing the glass into my hands.

I sigh, and play along. "Thanks."

John nods, pouring himself a cup as well as Paul-san hands him a platter of tamago sushi. I watch him eat, feeling awkward and more than just slightly hungry. But of course it'd be bad form to eat with him. I'm hoping John can soothe the Wrath of Charles or something if he catches me drinking sake on the job.

"Damn this song," John says after a moment, and I notice how white his knuckles are against his chopsticks (he's fumbling, obviously, but at least he can pick something up with them. I've seen worse).

I listen harder. It's Katy Perry's "Wide Awake". I raise an eyebrow.

"You don't like it? I could go change it –"

"No, no, don't. I'm sure someone else in this restaurant wants to hear it. I just don't particularly like the lyrics."

"Why?"

"Because they remind me of…" John trails off, shrugs, and resumes eating. I frown.

"Of?"

"Sorry. Shouldn't have brought it up."

I frown harder. "Is it because… of Sherlock?"

He looks at me sharply. "How'd you –"

"Guessed. Based on your blog, at least. That one entry three years ago about how you'll always believe in Sherlock…" Now that I come to think of it, I remember hearing about it through the internet. I was still in America at the time. Something about a genius detective being exposed as a fraud and then committing suicide – but apparently not, after all. Sherlock Holmes is alive and well; I poured him a bloody cup of tea thank you very much.

"Yeah. That. It's still a bit… painful. You remember all of that?"

"Heard about it," I say. I'm shit at lying. "Something about him committing suicide after being exposed as a fraud…"

"Faked it."

"Yeah, I should think so." I smile a little. John drinks his sake and smacks his lips accordingly.

"The bastard didn't bother telling me about it. He just… fucked off for three years, and came back expecting everything to be the same. Stupid git."

Ah, so it's one of those 'complain about your significant other' nights. John sets down his glass and moves to refill mine, but I shake my head.

"Tell me, Cheryl," John says as he refills his own glass, "have you ever dealt with anyone that infuriating?"

I shrug. "Not like Sherlock," I reply. "No one I know has ever faked their death… or at least as far as I know they haven't."

Falling from Cloud Nine, crashing from the high…

John grimaces, and tosses back his glass. "He didn't even go about it conventionally, the idiot. He had to do it dramatically. A fall from the rooftop of St Bart's."

I snort. "Ironic."

"I know." John sets down his glass, smacks his lips again, and tucks into another set of sushi. "And somehow he survived all of that."

"How did you find out he was alive?" I ask.

"Oh, I went into a bookshop. He was in disguise as the new clerk. Couldn't even buy a book on self-help without him popping up going all 'guess what, John, I'm actually not dead!' and expecting me not to punch him."

I laugh. Or at least I try to; it comes out more like a snort-giggle. "Sorry, that's funny," I snicker, but John chuckles slightly and leans back in his seat.

"It kinda is, looking back," he agrees.

Lauren has that shit-eating grin on her face the next time I come in to work. It takes all of my concentration not to smack it off her face with a serving tray. I love the girl, but sometimes she can drive me up the walls.

"I mean, he is a bit older than you," she tells me as I wipe down the counters so they'll be nice and shiny and begging for miso soup and tempura sauce to be splattered all over them as the night progresses. "But he's pretty cute for being a bit older, and when I say a bit I mean really a lot. At least ten years, I'm sure. But he's not bad, really. He's a nice guy."

"What on earth are you on about?" I demand as I check the state of the miso soup supplies.

"John Watson, stupid!" Lauren snickers. "Good catch!"

I pause, and turn to face her. "…What?" is my intelligent reply. Sometimes even I'm not sure how I got into college.

"Please, don't play innocent with me," Lauren insists as I start checking the alcohol supplies. Good and plenty, yes, yes. Excellent. There's still half a bottle of Takara plum wine – who the hell drinks that? All I've ever seen of it is in the bowls of maraschino cherries and peeled oranges.

"Innocent? What on earth are you implying? That we're dating? You can't be serious."

She pauses. I turn to her. "You are serious," I state.

She nods. "Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone? Who's everyone?"

"Well, everyone else. That's why Sam didn't hit on you at all this past week."

I groan, and cast a glance at the busboy. He shuffles uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and looks away.

"I'm officially stupidly unobservant," I declare, turning around and marching out the door of the kitchen, only to be bombarded with Neon Trees's "Everybody Talks" and John standing at the till with a sheepish grin on his face.

Speak of the fucking devil, and fuck the radio's incessant playing of inappropriate American pop songs.