Note: There are Japanese restaurants that play popular music in an attempt to be cool and trendy (the one I work for does that, so yes this is a blatant self-insert trololo), and as we all know, American pop culture is just so damn invasive that it… goes everywhere. (For the record, "Wide Awake" is on the top 40 charts in the UK)
Fictional restaurant is fictional. Woops.

III.

The bill is enormous this time. John just keeps on piling on the alcohol. I think Sherlock's done something extremely stupid back at their flat or something; why else would John be drinking himself into a coma?

Yeah, apparently the two are not only partners in crime (or solving it), but also flatmates. I wouldn't have been surprised if they were also gay lovers, but John would probably not appreciate my lack-of surprise.

After all, Hideki-san had tried to ask about 'your nice boyfriend Sherlock' and had gotten a fervent 'he's not my bloody boyfriend' for an answer. Personally I think he's in denial.

"I think I should get the bill," John says after he finishes his umpteenth bottle of Asahi beer. I get the filled-out sushi menu from Hideki-san and walk away to put them onto John's tab, pausing only to seat a family of five that come in while I'm halfway through. But by the end, John's racked up a tab of about two hundred pounds, and I highly doubt he has that sort of money floating around on him.

(Considering he bloody tossed me his wallet to pay the bill the first time he came…)

The phone rings at that moment. I pick up. "This is the Shizuka in London, how may I help you?"

"Ah, yes. I'm calling to inform you that I will be paying the bill for John Watson tonight."

I pause to frown at the phone. "How…"

"His bill is running at about a hundred and eighty-four pounds, not including the service charge," the voice on the other end drawls. My first guess would be Sherlock, but I doubt Sherlock would do anything like this. "You will charge it to me instead of him; I will send you the details in a moment. Are we clear?"

I gulp. "Er. Yes." The voice is fucking creepy.

I write down mystery man's card details and input that instead of John's. It's only then that I realise that the bloke actually has to be present to sign the damn thing. I frown. Well, this is inconvenient.

The phone rings again. "Consider the bill signed," the man says. "Print my name on the signature line. Add an additional £2 as a tip. Are we clear?"

"All right," I sigh. "What's your name, then?"

"Mycroft Holmes," says the mystery man, and only when I've written his name down does he hang up, like he's hacked into Charles's camera systems or something.

Judging by his last name, he's related to Sherlock. Creepiness must run in the family.

When John looks over the bill that I hand him, he groans and rubs his temples. "Meddling git," he mutters, and I frown in confusion.

"Who?" I ask, and John laughs harshly.

"Mycroft, that's who."

"He's related to Sherlock, isn't he?"

"Big brother, in all senses of the word." John rolls his eyes.

"How did he even know you had a huge restaurant bill?"

"Search me." John shrugs, and clambers to his feet. He dons his jacket. "If this is Sherlock's way of apologising, I'm not sure what to think of it." He smiles strainedly at me as he zips up said jacket. "I better be off. See you later."

And as I watch him leave, I get the distinct sense that I am going to get used to the feeling of confusion very, very quickly.

All right, so not all of the music played in this place is American. But hey, when Charles insists on being hip and trendy and catering to the younger generation by playing top 40 songs, there's bound to be some puddle-jumping here.

He even imported me from the States. (But that's an exaggeration, really. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.)

The annoyingly dulcet tones of Taylor Swift are serenading us today as the door swings open and this stocky blonde woman comes marching in, that determined glint in her eyes suggesting that she's going to get plastered and she's going to like it.

Except, you know, this is a sushi bar, not an actual bar. So she must want to eat something better than your usual pub fare.

"How many in your party?" I ask, smiling cheerily at her, and she glowers at me.

"One for the sushi bar. You're Cheryl, aren't you?"

I blink. "…Is there a directory for American students studying abroad, or…?"

"No, I just heard about you from someone I know." The woman crosses her arms. I laugh weakly, before directing her to a seat at the bar. Scary woman is scary. I'm guessing there's nothing positive in what she heard.

She orders, obviously, a draft mug of Sapporo. It's a rather busy night, though, so I don't have the time to stand still and appreciate her drinking abilities. I'm seating people left and right and taking takeaway orders over the phone, and it's all generally very confusing and frustrating – in fact, by the time I have any time to stop and drink my tea in the kitchen, I've got a headache.

And the next customer doesn't alleviate that, either.

The door opens with a tinkling of the bells once more, and in comes a woman with curly brown hair and eyes focused on the mobile in front of her, and I stride out with my annoyingly chirpy "Irasshaimase!" and "how many in your party?"

"I'm Anthea," the woman says. "I called in for a takeaway order about ten minutes ago."

I blink and look at all the orders we've placed, and then at her. There is no Anthea.

And then I look down and see her order still written in my notebook. Shit.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," I mumble, feeling my face redden until I'm sure I'm glowing like the blue lights in the restaurant. "I was just getting around to placing your order."

She looks up from her mobile. "You can't be serious," she snaps. I want to melt into the ground.

"I am really sorry; I'll do that right now…" I glare at the screen, punching in the order as quickly as I dared (and with barely a month on the job under my belt, that's disappointingly very slow). She taps her feet impatiently, types away at her mobile as if she's venting her anger out on it instead of me.

Small mercies, thank god for them.

"Your total will be twenty-one pounds," I say after a moment, and she hands over her card rather coldly. I could die of embarrassment. I mean, I know very technically it's not my fault because there were so many other things, but…

But Charles is going to kill me if I get an unhappy customer on my shift. I can almost taste the Cheryl-sashimi. He could even call it the 'American Nightmare' sashimi. Plenty of people will be ordering that on July fourth, provided I keep fresh for that long.

Anthea hands me back the signed receipt, and strides over to the waiting area and proceeds to ignore me for the duration. I stare at her, uncomfortably shuffling from foot to foot, but moments later the doors open again and more people come through and god my feet hurt please make it stop.

This universe hates me. It's official. Today – and every other day of the year – is Hate Cheryl Day.

The blonde woman finishes after Anthea gets her takeaway, and as I fetch her the bill she stops me and glares at me.

"You know Johnny, don't you?" she asks.

I blink. "Johnny?"

"My baby brother. The one with the mad flatmate."

Oh. "John Watson?"

"Yes."

"You… look younger than him, though."

She handwaves that. Either she's an overprotective younger sister or they're roughly the same age and it's almost negligible. "Johnny has been through some bad times in his life. He's seen enough of heartbreak. I was stupid and wasn't there to help him through most of them, but maybe this one I will avert."

Which one? I tilt my head quizzically. That oh-so-lovingly-familiar feeling of confusion is creeping up on me. It's a white fog of 'what the hell am I even doing here' and god I need an aspirin.

I hate not knowing everything. I guess when Sherlock Holmes and company sneak into your life you don't get much choice about that.

John's sister is glaring at me again. "If you break Johnny's heart, I will hurt you," she says bluntly, and I don't even realise I've taken a step back until I look down and see she's a bit farther from me than originally. Yes, I'm very observant.

"I… I'm not dating him."

She raises an eyebrow. "His flatmate thinks you are."

"His flatmate is also, as you admit, barking mad and overpossessive of John. I think I know the wrong tree when I see one."

"Consider it a warning, then." She signs the receipt with a flourish. "Don't you dare consider toying with his emotions. I won't have an American college upstart messing with my baby brother."

"Uh…" is my intelligent reply. "Yeah. Um. All right. I wasn't… well… interested in him. Anyway. Yeah."

She strides out the restaurant a moment later. And much to my inner American's chagrin, she didn't even leave a tip.