Encased in a cheap button-down shirt, masked by an even cheaper vest, a man stood beside a table at Speedy's Café in downtown London. His hair was curly, his face long, and eyes the color of storm clouds. He clasped his hands behind his back, allowing his long fingers to dance. The notebook in his pocket remained unused. Sitting at the table were a couple, the man spherical and woman thin, but sagging.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I will be serving you tonight. Would you like anything to drink?" The man grunted.
"Beer please." The waiter grimaced. Screwing up his face, he said.
"Really not a very good idea. Your wife is already considering a divorce, is now a good time to aggravate your genetic alcoholism? Might I suggest unsweetened tea?"
"Wha-" The man looked from his wife to Sherlock, his chins jiggling.
"Of course you could go for the coke light as well, but I find that carbonation often serves to increase stomach size." The sharp grey eyes darted around, slicing through the man's composure. "Of course, in your case it really doesn't make a difference. Another tip—let women order first, dates tend to go much better. Have we agreed on the tea? Excellent." Turning on his heels to face the woman, he said, "And you, madam?"
The man crumpled the napkin in his lap and threw it on the table. "As if we were staying after this. Where's the manager? Come on, Yvonne." The man squeezed out from the booth. The woman did not budge.
"I want to stay George. Speedy's is my favorite and it's our anniversary." To Sherlock, she said, "I'd like the tea as well." Sherlock bowed. Leaving George half in and half out of the booth, frozen, he continued on his round.
A teenage girl and her boyfriend were sitting near the front windows. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock approached them. He had been avoiding them for an hour in the hopes that they would leave.
"What is it you want?"
"Well, we were thinking of ordering food at some point today." The girl said, curling her hair around a finger. Sherlock glanced from her to the boy.
"How nice. You're treating him. Much nicer than any girl I've ever known. Tip—cough up and buy flowers for her next Valentine's Day."
"Wait, I'm not paying." The girl knitted her eyebrows at Sherlock, then the boy, whose skin was radiating enough to cook pancakes. Sherlock frowned, feigning confusion.
"Well he's certainly not. Oh, how embarrassing. No sign of a wallet in any of his pockets, an armband from an amusement park—expensive things, aren't they?—and look at him now, red as a tomato, probably about to explain himself." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Shameful."
"Hey, who do you think you are, man?" Sherlock shrugged, and walked away.
As he left, John Watson ran up to the table, where the date was spiraling out of control.
"Now, hang on a sec, everybody calm down. If he doesn't have the money dump him, but could you please do it outside? Thank you. Yes, thank you very much." Walking up beside Sherlock, the eyes of half the restaurant on them, John glanced around and, turning his back to the crowd, said.
"Do you have to do that?" Sherlock shrugged.
"I was merely saving her some inconvenience." Raising a finger, John said.
"Just remember, Speedy's is the one paying our rent right now. If we lose another job, God knows what we'll do. Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Sherlock walked away, humming. Carrying two glasses of iced tea, he swung by Yvonne and George's table, his spirits untouched by the smolder under George's mono-brow.
"And as for me I'd like a salad with dressing on the side." Leaning over John's shoulder, Sherlock said.
"Watching your weight I see. New boyfriend or just overly aware of your recent weight gain?" John elbowed him, but the damage was complete. The girl ran out, sobbing.
"Look, are you trying to put this place out of business? Can't you just keep to yourself."
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm bored."
"Well, go be bored somewhere where you're not going to offend any customers."
"Hey, what's going on?" A broad, hunchbacked man came out from the back kitchen.
"Oh, hi Mr. Chatergee, we were just, um, waiting. That is waiting tables, of course." John flourished a towel.
"Why was that girl crying?" Mr. Chatergee frowned.
"Well, she just got a text that her gerbil died, and she's very upset you see."
"Are you lying to me, Mr. Watson?" Chatergee narrowed his eyes. John laughed.
"No, no, of course not. Why-why would you think I was lying to you? It's utterly absurd, I mean, yeah."
"Watch yourself, Watson."
"Yeah, right. I mean, of course. I'll just go, er, wait more tables!" John trotted away, glancing around, hoping Sherlock had not yet found his way into more trouble. He was no where to be seen. "Right. Tables."
Arriving at the kitchen counter to pick up his orders John frowned. Table thirteen had a salad. Looking over at the table, he spied a woman, her buttocks taking up well over half the booth sipping on a milkshake. He frowned at the salad. Something did not seem right. He bent down and looked into the kitchen.
"Excuse me, are you sure that this is the right order? Excuse me?"
"What? Yeah, its alright." The reply came through a clatter of dishware.
"Thank you." John looked down, still not certain. He picked up the plate and walked to table thirteen.
"Umm…Is this your order? I'm not sure." The woman looked up at him, then at the salad.
"What are you implying?"
"Umm-"
"I don't need a diet. It's because of men like you that the world is the way it is. Young girls starve themselves because of you. It's insulting and barbaric." She stood up, and with the full force of her flesh, began to whack him with her purse. The salad clattered to the floor. Eyes turned.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"You'd better be sorry, scum. It's not my fault I'm so fat. It's genetic. Genetic, do you hear? Who are you to judge? You bastard." Watson had his arms up, and, cowering the best he could, fell into a table, knocking down a vase and flipping a soup plate onto a businessman's Westwood suit.
"I'm sorry, I am so incredibly sorry." Mr. Chatergee burst forward, as if appearing out of thin air.
"Watson, I knew it. I knew it was you. You and your creepy friend are fired."
Mr. Chatergee pushed the woman aside with some difficulty, grabbed John's collar, and dragged him outside, dumping him on the stair. Sherlock was standing on the steps, hands in the pocket of a long coat he had put on over his shirt. The apron and vest were on the concrete, gathering dirt.
"How did you know already?" John pulled his vest and apron off, throwing them at the door.
"Once I perceived the woman's reaction to my diet plan for her, I decided it was best to give up whilst I was ahead." Sherlock began to walk toward the door of 221 B Baker Street. John trotted after him.
"You-it was you?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"Do you try to get us fired, Sherlock? I mean, waiting tables, how can you mess up waiting tables?" Sherlock looked at him.
"Don't make people into waiters, John." He entered the apartment. John shook his head and followed.