So, after the last one-shot, I felt like we needed something lighthearted.
Or a little bit less depressing, anyway.
So here's this chapter. :)
Thanks to Sherlockanity for the prompt.
"I am not wearing this."
"It will be more convincing if you do."
"Then you be the waiter."
"I can't."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're the social one."
John raised a finger to accompany his impending argument, but sighed and let it fall back down to his side.
"Dammit," he grumbled. "Fine."
He brushed off the childish smirk on Sherlock's face as he ripped the outfit on the hanger from the detective's outstretched hand.
"But I won't wear the bowtie."
"You will if you want my staff to buy this whole façade," a Mister Chef Michel said as he snuffed his cigarette out in his ashtray. "And, Mister Holmes, if you're going to play dishwasher, I'll need you to wear the apron."
"I don't need it," Sherlock insisted. "I'm perfectly content wearing my dress shirt."
"Doctor Watson wears the vest and bowtie, you wear the apron. That's what it's going to take." Michel snorted. "And a hairnet."
John chortled himself.
"Tell me about it. Those damn curls clog the drain all the time."
"Please John," Sherlock tightened his lips. "That is quite enough."
"I second that," Michel said. "Now you two: get dressed. Your shifts begin at six."
"As does the slow and agonising death of my dignity," John griped. "A bloody bowtie. And green, nonetheless."
"And what is the matter with green?" Michel asked, narrowing his eyes.
"My partner is simply concerned that the bowtie will verify the common assumption that he is a homosexual." Sherlock crossed his arms. "He is quite fond of perpetuating stereotypes."
John put a hand on his hip.
"You know..."
Michel interjected.
"You both have ten minutes. You might be running an undercover operation, but I'm running a business."
As he walked out of the room, Sherlock added under his breath:
"A subpar eating establishment."
John rolled his eyes and pushed past his flatmate.
"Just get dressed."
"Ladies and gentlemen, before you resume your work, I would like you to know that we have two new additions to our staff; do not be thrown off guard. This is our new dishwasher, David Holbach, and our waiter, Ray Sterling." Michel sniffed. "Now that that's out of the way: get moving! We have customers to please!"
And the chef walked off to his office.
"Well, John, I suppose you ought to take your place outside the kitchen," Sherlock said whilst nudging his rather irate companion.
"I still don't understand why I had to be the one to wear this ridiculous outfit," John muttered.
"They all have to, Sterling," the hostess snapped at the doctor, purposefully running into him to convey her obvious contempt.
"And what kind of a name is 'Ray Sterling'?" John continued, simply passing the woman a harsh glare.
"A ridiculous one," Sherlock admitted. "But you were given the option to choose an alias for yourself. You passed up that opportunity."
"Speaking of which," John crossed his arms, "'David Holbach'? How subtle, Sherlock. Really."
The detective shrugged.
"I admire Baron d'Holbach's atheistic philosophy."
"Holbach! Sterling! Get to work!" Michel shouted from across the kitchen, startling the other cooks.
Exchanging an exasperated look, Sherlock and John parted ways, the doctor taking his place in the dining area and the detective taking his place in the dining area and the detective taking his beside the sink.
The game was on; sort of.
John looked about the dining room, sweat coating his brow as he realised what a discombobulated mess this whole operation was.
Going undercover in a restaurant to catch a murderer? Neither he nor Sherlock were very experienced in the art of customer service; they would certainly stick out like sore thumbs. And besides, they were just assuming there was a murderer. The case involved missing persons. For all they knew, some poor bastards were being held at gunpoint in an abandoned warehouse somewhere. But Sherlock was insistent that these were murders; all of the victims loved dining at this restaurant.
John suddenly tensed at the sight of the same hostess who had antagonised him before approaching him with an alarming amount of frustration radiating off her person.
"Sterling," she whispered at him.
Well, stretching the definition of 'whisper' a little bit.
"Look, you're new, so slacking is understandable. But here if you stand around with your jaw hanging open like that all evening, you'll be dropped faster than you can count to three."
"High stakes job, then?" John said with a rush of air.
The hostess let out an exhausted breath.
"You wouldn't even believe." She bit her lip. "Sorry about my churlish behaviour earlier, Sterling. I'm just really-"
"Stressed?" John assumed.
She laughed.
"That's a delicate way of putting it. Working for Michel is as stressful as it is frustrating. He's a smart man, I know, but his standards are far too high. And he hardly spends much time socialising with the lot of us. The only words he's ever directed towards me have been shouted."
"Not even a friendly 'you're hired'?" John joked.
"Please; I was here long before he even came close to becoming head chef. Can you believe the man's only twenty four?"
"Seriously? How did he become head?"
"Chef Gardener, the former head, loved him. It surprised all of us, considering that Michel was only the butcher. But I guess he had some more culinary experience than we'd assumed." She shook her head. "That man pretty much leaves us to our own devices while he locks himself away in his office."
"Not very social, then," John remarked. "Or kind. I gathered that."
"It's funny; you and Holbach are the first hires he's made personally," the hostess said.
With a shrug, she brushed off her black dress.
"Anyway, we should get to work." She pointed at a table not too far off from them. "Take care of those two. It's hard to get a reservation here due to our reputation as having "excellent customer service", so they'll be expecting just that."
Before the hostess turned on her heel to tend to the next party that had come in at the head of the restaurant, John called to her:
"I didn't catch your name."
The hostess turned to look over her shoulder and smiled.
"Eliza. Eliza Mannard."
And she returned to her position at the front door.
Plastering on a smile, John clasped his hands behind his back and approached the table Eliza had pointed him to. And with a deep breath…
"Good evening to you both," he said to the couple. "How are you?"
"Two waters and your finest bottle of wine," the patron ordered for himself and his female companion.
John tightened his lips, still holding onto his smile, and nodded.
"Right away."
Someone was apparently too busy trying to get into his date's pants to act like a polite human being. But, being the "lowly waiter", John ran back to the kitchen and fetched the desired beverages and ran back out to the table.
"There," he said, placing the wine bottle and water glasses on the table.
The male diner gave him a dirty look after seeing what had been laid down in front of him.
"And we're supposed to drink the wine using what exactly?"
John saw his flatmate waving him over through the kitchen doors.
"Use your imagination," he said passively before jogging back to the kitchen.
Before he could question the absence of his companion, said companion grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the side behind a rack of various pots and pans, well-concealed from the staff.
"What is it?" John asked the detective. "Found something?"
"Whilst examining the cutlery, yes. I noticed a small trace of flesh on one of the butcher's knives."
John raised an eyebrow.
"So? We're in a kitchen."
"And skin. Human skin."
"Sherlock, are you sure?"
"Quite so. Additionally, the knife was hastily rinsed off under the faucet; I could tell from the water droplets on its handle."
"So you're telling me that you think the murderer is using this restaurant's kitchen knives to kill his victims? And that he's one of the staff members?" John said this all rather matter-of-factly, but frowned at the sudden realisation of the morbidity of what he had said. "Jesus Christ, the murderer is one of the staff!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes, John, very good. Such a truth does not need to be projected for all to hear."
"Sorry," John said. "But what do we do?"
"You continue acting," Sherlock told his friend. "I'll continue dishwashing until I can take a good look in the freezer."
"And why would you want to do that?"
Sherlock hardened his gaze.
"Storage."
"My God." John peered around the corner of the pot rack, eyeing at each chef running around. "Who do you suppose is the culprit?"
"That's what I'm intent on discovering."
John furrowed his brow and slowly faced his partner again.
"This might be a ridiculous thought, but I just had an interesting conversation with the hostess, Eliza, about Michel. The man apparently keeps to himself and was a butcher here for a while before becoming head chef."
"Interesting," Sherlock said. "Excellent work, John. That is vital information."
John blushed from the praise.
"Yeah, but we don't even know if he has a motive."
"That all comes later," Sherlock told him. "For now, I must focus on gaining access to that freezer."
"Sterling!" a male voice rattled in John's ear.
The doctor closed his eyes and sighed.
"What?"
Another waiter looked behind the rack to see both John and Sherlock's huddle.
"Really you two? Right now?"
John turned red and stood up straight.
"No! We weren't... we aren't-"
"I don't care," the waiter held up a hand. "Whatever you're into is fine by me. But you've got an angry customer who's been waiting for your service for about ten minutes now."
"He can't wait another five?" John asked.
"You can finish your little wank-fest after hours. This man is paying good money; or he will as long as he's fed."
"Couldn't you just... take care of him for me?"
The waiter put his hands on his hips.
"I'm rather busy myself."
"Fine," John groaned.
As soon as the waiter left, the doctor leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear.
"If you get into trouble, you know what to do."
With Sherlock's nod of understanding, John returned to the dining area, once again putting on a fake (and this time apologetic) smile.
"So sorry for the delay," he said to the same man. "We're a bit, um-"
"I don't really care," the patron growled.
John saw the man's date out of the corner of his eye; she was impatiently drumming her acrylic nails on the tablecloth.
"Okay. I'm assuming you're ready to order?" he asked both of the diners.
"The Rotisserie Chicken for me and a tossed green salad for her," the man ordered.
"I don't want that," his date argued.
She tapped John's shoulder, prompting the doctor to face her direction.
"Get me the Fettuccine Alfredo. Extra parmesan."
"That'll destroy your figure," the man snapped.
"I'll destroy you if you don't shut the hell up!"
John stood awkwardly as he dreaded the impending domestic.
He wondered if servers regularly put up with this sort of thing.
"What are you still doing here?" the male customer hissed at the doctor. "I thought we ordered."
"Rotisserie Chicken and Fettuccine Alfredo. Right," John said.
"Garden salad."
"I believe the lady requested Fettuccine," John insisted.
"I most certainly did," the woman agreed. "Ignore my boyfriend; he's an arse."
"Who's paying for this whole bloody meal!" the boyfriend said.
"And what? That means you're entitled to treat me like an underling? I don't think so."
"If you have such a big problem with dinner, Missy, we can leave right now."
"Please," John begged under his breath.
"The restaurant or each other?"
"I'll let you both think on that while your food is being prepared," John said.
"Excuse me?" the couple seemed to ask in unison.
"Sarcasm is one more service I offer," the doctor smiled.
And he turned on his heel to return to the kitchen. He had only been a waiter for twenty minutes and he was already fed up with every patron here.
Pun intended.
For another hour, John ran about the restaurant, becoming a bit more comfortable with the job of taking orders but still hating the amicability he had to force. Every table seemed to have no regard for his humanity, speaking to him as if he were more of a dog than one of their species. Nevertheless, he kept handing orders to the kitchen and taking more from other customers. The work became so automatic he almost forgot that he was undercover. As far as he and his nametag were concerned, his name was Ray Sterling. And he was a waiter.
God, Sherlock needed to hurry up.
The same couple from earlier summoned him.
"You!" the man shouted, snapping his fingers.
At the end of his tether, John answered the call quite tersely.
"Aren't you a black hole of need?" he said with yet another smile as he came over to the table, lacing the comeback with as much of a friendly tone as he could.
"Cheque," the man commanded, ignoring the bitterness.
"I think the phrase is 'cheque please', but close enough I suppose."
"What are you saying?"
The man's girlfriend, Missy, crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.
"Ernest, don't act like the tough guy we both know you aren't," she said with an eye-roll.
"Missy, I swear to God..."
"What? Are you going to hit me or something?"
Ernest fisted his hands into the tablecloth.
"I just might if you don't hold your bloody tongue."
Like a child might, Missy stuck out her tongue and pinched it with her right index finger and thumb.
John snorted.
"You think this is funny, mate?" Ernest snarled, throwing an angry look at the doctor.
"Honestly? I think it's ridiculous. You two are practically a caricature of bad relationships."
"Piss off!"
Eliza the hostess, who had managed to blend in with everyone else at the restaurant, hesitantly stepped towards John and the couple, anticipating the conflict ahead.
"Gladly," John said. "I'll come back with your cheque."
"Good thing, too. And you can forget about the ten percent tip you need to live!" Ernest added.
John leaned down so that his nose was mere inches from the man's and put on the deadliest expression he could manage.
"Keep in mind that I'm an ex-army doctor who is perfectly capable of breaking every bone in the human body while naming them. I'd show some respect."
"Is that a threat?" Ernest chuckled nervously.
"A friendly reminder. Mate." John stood up straight and smiled once more. "Like I already said: I'll return with your cheque."
As John left the couple behind him to gape, he was yanked aside by Eliza.
"What the hell was that all about?" she asked him. "Did you actually threaten him?"
"He needed to be put in his place," John sniffed.
"You need to be put in your place!" Eliza hissed. "I hate to sound mean, but your job as a waiter is to serve customers with a cordial attitude, no matter the type of person they may be. I get it; he was being an arsehole. But that doesn't mean you threaten to... what was it?"
"Break every bone in his body."
"Yeah, that! What the hell is the matter with you, Ray?"
"That isn't my name," John muttered.
"What?" Eliza looked at him in disbelief.
Suddenly, there was an incredibly loud crash from the kitchen.
"VATICAN CAMEOS!" Sherlock's voice boomed throughout the restaurant.
John sped into the kitchen like a rocket.
Sherlock was engaged in intensive hand-to-hand combat with Chef Michel, armed with a frying pan as his shield as Michel swung a butcher knife at him.
"Sherlock!" John cried, shoving scared staff members aside.
Grabbing a meat thermometer off the counter, the doctor came up behind Michel and stabbed the instrument through his shoulder, pleased at the shout of pain it elicited from the cook. John threw the man aside and put a protective hand on his flatmate's chest.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John frantically asked his friend.
Expecting some sort of response to his question, John was thrown off-guard by Sherlock screaming a warning at him.
"John!"
The doctor turned around to find Michel's hand grabbing his neck and slamming him down on the counter, immediately knocking the wind out of him.
"Bloody hell," John rasped.
With a grunt, the doctor balled his hand into a fist and swung it at the murderous chef, alarmed when the attack was easily deflected, Michel's hand moving from his neck to the wrist, suspending his fist. Sherlock tried to aid the army doctor, but was quickly shoved aside by Michel. John, seeing an opening, went to resume his fighting stance, balling his left hand yet again, but Michel quickly whipped around and pinned him down again, taking great care to restrain the doctor's hand.
"I don't think so," the cook said.
After dramatically raising the butcher knife in his hand, Michel brought the blade down on John's outstretched fingers.
And people started screaming.
"John!" Sherlock yelled.
Poor John was in too much pain to let a single sound come from his vocal cords. He couldn't bring himself to look over at his hand, nor could he make a move to defend himself from Michel's next attack. All he could do was lie, paralysed, against the counter. He barely registered the fact that Michel was aiming the knife blade over his head.
Thankfully Sherlock, perfectly timed, had grabbed the frying pan he'd earlier thrown aside and struck Michel over the back of the head before the man even had a chance to take John's life.
The chef went down in a heap, his knife clattering beside him.
And that was that.
John swallowed a hard lump in his throat, suppressing nausea, as he slid onto the floor, shakily resting himself on his haunches when he landed.
"Let me see," he heard Sherlock command him.
Trembling, John showed his companion his injured hand, and Sherlock went pale.
All four of John's fingers on his left hand were gone; cleanly chopped off. The two men knew the missing phalanges were still on the counter behind them; onlookers definitely knew too. Some patrons had run in to watch the fight, and at least two of them were on the floor, having fainted. A few people had run out of the kitchen to vomit somewhere. Mostly, people just stared, horrified, at the sight of John's severed fingers on the kitchen counter, blood seeping into spilt piles of chopped lettuce.
One could say the sight was darkly hilarious.
Eliza slowly approached John and Sherlock, still trying to wrap her head around this absolute insanity, her hand clasped over her mouth.
"I..." she started, not sure where to start. "...do you... should I grab some... some ice?"
Sherlock looked up at her and nodded quickly before tearing a piece of his apron off and wrapping it around John's bleeding hand.
"Somebody dial an ambulance," Sherlock shouted at the group of bystanders.
John bit his lip as he focused on controlling his breathing and distracting himself from the pain.
"Jes-s-s-us," the doctor stuttered.
"Reattachment is entirely possible," Sherlock looked at him, putting an upward inflection on 'possible' as if the statement were a question. He was looking for verification.
"Hmhm," John nodded. "Yeah. Baggie for fingers." He swallowed again. "And put on ice."
Eliza shuffled back over with a bowl of ice and set it on the floor as she crouched down beside the two men.
"Will he be alright?" she asked, giving the doctor a pitying look.
"Plastic bags. Now," Sherlock told her.
Again, Eliza ran across the kitchen to fetch the needed item, this time leaving Sherlock to phone Lestrade. As the hostess returned with bags, she caught the final stages of Sherlock's conversation with the detective inspector on the other end.
When he hung up, she handed him the plastic bags.
"Here," she said.
"Keep him upright," Sherlock told her. "Make sure he stays conscious."
Quickly, the detective worked to gather John's fingers and place them in individual sandwich bags, his years of work with corpses and cadavers advantageously hardening his stomach for such an activity.
"Who was that you were talking to? On the phone?" Eliza asked him as she propped John up against the counter. "Someone... Lestrade, was it?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, yes. What of him?"
Eliza looked at him confusedly.
"Detective Inspector?"
"Yes. We've established that."
Eliza looked down at the floor, processing this information.
"You're no dishwasher, are you? And he obviously isn't any sort of waiter," Eliza gestured to the detective and John. "So who are you, exactly?"
"Does that matter?" Sherlock grumbled as he plopped the now sealed bags in the bowl of ice.
"To me it does. I would like to know who the hell you two are so this makes sense to me."
With an annoyed sigh, Sherlock resumed his position as John's primary caretaker and prepared himself for a long introduction.
"I am consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my loyal companion and blogger, Doctor John Watson." He held his friend up by the shoulders. "We've been undercover."
Eliza was flabbergasted.
"And do close your jaw; the sight of your tongue isn't desirable at the present moment," Sherlock snapped at her.
"But... why? I mean... undercover?" Eliza questioned him.
"Read Doctor Watson's blog. I'm sure you'll find the entry within a month or so." Sherlock, with the help of the hostess, lifted John onto his feet, preparing himself to support the doctor's weight. "Now if you would kindly clear a path to the door and grab that bowl, I need to escort my friend to the approaching ambulance."
"I hate this," John said, picking at the gauze immobilising his recently operated upon fingers. "I absolutely hate this."
Sherlock flipped through another page in his book and raised an eyebrow, not tearing his attention from the novel.
"As do I, John. But a successful reattachment of every four of your severed fingers is something to be celebrated."
"Last night was just a mess," John sighed. "Bloody ridiculous."
"As your expansive list of grievances with the work of the service industry has made quite clear." Sherlock snorted. "You obviously aren't a born waiter."
"That one couple, though. Jesus," John laughed. "Never in my life has my inner serial killer been more inspired. And that's coming from someone who's lived with you and has had more than one encounter with Jim Moriarty."
Sherlock smirked.
"I suppose now you can understand my utter contempt for most of the human race."
"Oh stop. You care enough that you solve crimes for a living."
Sherlock hummed in response.
"Excuse me?" came a woman's voice from the open door, accompanied by a knock.
Eliza walked in bearing a large box of chocolates and a smile.
"Sorry to burst in like this; I'll only be a minute." She set the chocolates on John's bedside table and crossed her arms.
"Eliza?" John questioned, a bit surprised by the visit.
"Hi, Doctor Watson." Noting the man's look of confusion, Eliza looked over to Sherlock who was still buried in his book. "He told me who you are."
John nodded.
"Ah. I see."
"He didn't tell me why you two were undercover, though. But I imagine it had something to do with the human body parts they found in the freezer." Eliza's knees weakened at the recollection. "The restaurant is being shut down until further notice. So I'm out of a job."
"Christ I'm sorry," John said guiltily.
"Nah, it's alright. I've been looking into maybe grabbing a spot at Angelo's for a while, anyway."
John beamed.
"That would be fantastic if you would. Sherlock and I go there all the time."
"I'll have to tell Angelo I know you, then," Eliza laughed. "Maybe boost my chances at getting the job." She let her arms fall to her side with a sigh. "Well, I suppose I ought to ah... you know."
"Right, right. Of course," John assured her. "This whole situation has been a bit overwhelming for all of us."
"Yeah. But I'll... I'll be looking at your blog. You know, until you update."
John looked down at his bandaged hand.
"That... that might be a while."
"I'll wait," Eliza shrugged. "Anyway, it was nice seeing you Doctor Watson."
"Please; most people just use my first name."
Eliza nodded.
"Right... John."
With one last wave, she left the room.
"I believe I'm in need of caffeine," Sherlock yawned not too long after. "Would you like some as well?"
"A nap is what I need. Feel free to stay or go; whatever you want to do," John waved him off.
"Right," Sherlock said, setting his book aside and walking out of the room.
As the detective made his way to the cafeteria, he (quite literally) bumped into Eliza.
"Sorry!" the woman apologised. "My fault." She looked up and smiled. "Oh. Mister Holmes. Funny seeing you here," she joked.
Sherlock cocked his head.
"Hardly coincidental..."
"Never mind," Eliza shook her head.
As she started off toward the elevator, she stopped.
"Mister Holmes?"
Sherlock groaned internally.
"Yes?"
"Are you and Doctor... John, I mean... an, um... an item?"
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, are you both... in a relationship? Romantic, I mean. I mean, of course it's fine if you are; I don't mind that sort of thing. I'm just-"
"No, we're not." Sherlock looked almost offended by the question.
"Oh, okay. Good." Eliza blushed. "I mean, fine. Very well. Fine, fine. That's... fine."
"I will notify him that you've left him your number in the chocolate box," Sherlock told the woman before turning to walk down to the cafeteria by way of he stairs.
As he strode down the hall, he knew in his head that the first thing he needed to do before John woke was to dispose of Eliza Mannard's phone number.
The last thing he needed was another pesky girlfriend infiltrating his and John's lives.
Well, mostly his.