IV.
"I hear Harry got to you yesterday," John tells me when he visits the next day, and for a moment I'm a bit too busy trying to block out "Bom Bom" by Sam and the Womp to pay attention. It makes me think of a circus, for some reason.
"Harry?" I ask.
"My sister."
"Oh, her." The scary blonde. I don't tell him that, though. One does not insult one's customer's siblings.
The music changes to "How We Do" by Rita Ora, and I groan a little as I take John's drink orders (thankfully, it's a cup of tea). No, I don't want to party and bullshit, thanks.
And neither does John, it seems, when I come out with the tea. He takes it with a grin. "I'm sorry for my sister, if she intimidated you or anything."
"Oh. Well. It's fine."
He laughs, drinks his tea. "She didn't tell me what she told you, just said she had a chat. What did she tell you?"
I'm about to answer, but the door opens and several customers come in. Two couples and a family. Glee.
I seat them as quickly as possible, because the phone rings the instant I get back to the till, and I groan as I pick up and take down a takeaway order. This time, I make sure to place it as soon as I hang up.
Another call as soon as I print the kitchen order. My hands are stained with ink from the pens. "This is the Shizuka in London, how may I help you?"
"I'd like a reservation for a party of twelve at seven o'clock," says the person on the other end.
I take down the reservation with a sigh, finishing just as my co-worker Selina arrives with a stack of bills.
"I'll take care of these," she tells me. "Go talk to your boyfriend."
"He's not my –" I sigh, reaching for the bills, but she holds them just out of reach and gestures to John. I have this sudden urge to smack her with my notebook, but that would do minimal damage and would only make me look more like an immature brat. So I square my shoulders and march over to John.
"Can I get you anything?"
John looks up at me. "More tea would be nice," he says. Bless the British and their constant need for tea.
He takes his tea with a grin when I bring it out to him, and gestures for me to sit down. "Seriously though, what did my sister tell you?" He looks slightly concerned, as if Harry threatened me with her chopsticks or something.
"Nothing much," I reply.
"You didn't sound happy at finding out she's related to me."
"Okay, so she threatened me. But that's probably because she was drunk and –"
John's expression darkens. "She was drinking?"
"Beer."
John groans. "I'm going to have a chat with her," he mutters, in a way that suggests that the chatting was going to be less civilised conversation and more shouted accusations. I wince a little.
"You don't have to – I mean, everyone for some reason thinks we're dating, so she just… reacted… to that."
"Dating?" John looks just as bemused as me. "But we're not."
"I know that." I laugh. "But apparently Sherlock and my co-workers don't."
John snorts. "Well, that explains things," he says as he finishes his handroll.
"I don't see how it makes sense at all," I mutter. "You're far older than me, for one."
"Well, they do tend to say age is just a number, but…" John trails off. "You are quite nice, but not exactly my type."
"I should hope not." I laugh, almost in relief. "I mean, you really aren't bad for… whatever your age is. But yeah. I guess when you have someone like Sherlock Holmes in your life there's not much room for anyone else, and I'm not going to be stupid enough to try and make room."
"I think I should be offended by that," John chuckles, and I facepalm.
"That wasn't meant to be! Sorry!"
"It's fine." John smiles, and I can't help but notice that his eyes are very pretty when he does it.
"What I'm saying is that… well, judging by how you tore off after Sherlock that first time we met as well as the stuff on your blog… I think Sherlock means a lot to you. As a friend, maybe, but even just friends don't chuck their wallets at random servers to pay the bill so they can run off after their dinner partner."
John rolls his eyes. "You try dealing with Sherlock's spontaneity."
"I'd probably go mad." I admit.
Of course, with the universe being the way it is (Anti-Cheryl and all), Sherlock Holmes would choose this moment to barge into the restaurant and demand in no uncertain terms that John come along with him to Harrow; there's been a triple homicide and he's pretty sure it's the hairstylist who killed them all –
"Sherlock!" snaps John, rising to his feet. "There are people eating here!"
I snicker. John hands me his wallet again with an apologetic look, and takes off after Sherlock without a pause. I stand there for a minute or two, before looking back at Paul-san, who hands me John's menu.
"Those two," says the sushi chef. "Inseparable, aren't they?"
"Yeah," I say, looking back at their retreating forms. "They are."
John picks up his wallet later, after they've arrested the hairstylist. He nods a silent thank-you to me, steals a couple of mints from the jar, and heads out into the night. Under the orangey glow of streetlamps I can see him talking to Sherlock before the two of them set out again, hand-in-hand.
I grin.
"So, together?" I ask the next time he comes in.
John blinks at me, like someone awakening from a long sleep. Or perhaps just a music stupor; "Spectrum" by Florence and the Machine is playing in the background, after all.
"Sorry, what?" he asks.
"You and Sherlock. Together?"
He chuckles sheepishly. "I just posted about it," he rebukes. "Do you have nothing better to do with your life, or…?"
I shrug. "Bored college student with an internet connection," I state, as if that's a legitimate answer to his question. John rolls his eyes.
"You need a day job."
"My day job is studying my arse off."
"You said you were bored." John chuckles. "Spend too much time with Sherlock Holmes, and you will learn to fear that word."
I giggle. "Congratulations, all the same."
John rolls his eyes. "Not sure if that's worth congratulating."
"Yes it is. You're in a relationship with a rude madman who is also conveniently your entire world."
"All right, fine." John shakes his head. "You're impossible."
I think he's the impossible one, actually. Or maybe that's just me not knowing a thing about what actually goes on between him and Sherlock outside what he posts on his blog. There's so much hidden between them, though. I'm not sure if I even want to look.
"How'd you come around to my conclusion, though?" I ask.
"I thought about it," John replies vaguely. "Came to realise that I didn't want a repeat of what happened during those three years if I could help it. Being away from him, thinking that I'll never see him again… that sort of thing, you know? That night when Mycroft paid my bill Sherlock and I had attempted to discuss those three years, and it… didn't go well."
"I thought as much. You drank a lot that night."
John grimaces. "I paid for that very nicely the next morning," he mutters drily, and I laugh. Schadenfreude is a beautiful thing.
"What about that night you told me about Sherlock's... er, fall?" I ask. "Was it just Katy Perry, or…?"
"No, that was just Katy Perry." John rolls his eyes. "But it did get me to think about it, hence the row, hence…" he shrugs, and sips his tea. "I think I should thank you for this."
"I didn't pour your tea this time," I say, ever the intelligent student.
"No, for listening. And being a friend."
"Oh." I smile. "You're welcome."
In a way, I do rather fancy John Watson. But it isn't John Watson as John Watson, but rather John Watson as a symbol for what he stands for. Bravery, loyalty, saintly patience. He's a normal, decent bloke in love with a madman. I'd be lucky to find someone to put up with my own brand of insanity.
I don't tell him that, of course. I've got my own Watson to find.
"Twopence for your thoughts?" John asks. I blink.
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about what to wear for your wedding to Sherlock."
He snorts and shakes his head. "And I was this close to inviting you over to our flat for dinner."
I laugh. "I think I deserve to keep some thoughts to myself for once," I reply, and he nods in a 'fine, point conceded' way.
"Bring me a bottle of Hatsukuru, won't you?"
Some things never change.