Chapter Text
You can’t control the hand of fate and you can not control what it deals you. Heck, you can hardly control what people around you do, let alone what life in general tends to toss in your face. Some people really just need to learn that they can’t change everything and they can’t stop what is already done from happening. The sooner you accept that something is the way it is and it’s never going to change, the better off the sanity of the world and the clarity of the mind will be.
Sherlock would be the first to say that it was irrelevant, completely pointless, to muse about something that is set in stone. Why waste the energy when there are better tasks to put your mind to than to flounder over the trivial and the unchangeable? If you could divert your attention to a better suited task that actually had a purpose, why moan and groan about your dilemma that is about as likely to differ from it’s path as the world’s fattest man going on a diet? I hope that example is self-explanatory but for all of you who are not as quick as the rest of us... it's not likely.
There was good reason for Sherlock to be behind this thought concept. Really, if he wasn’t, then he would be stuck as a depressed mound of human flesh since birth, now wouldn’t he? Sherlock Holmes was born mute. Completely unable to produce a sound. A birth defect in his vocal cords severed several tendons and made him orally unable to communicate. So for early years, when most parents were used to having the memories of their child’s first words, Sherlock’s were stuck with the memory of his first explosion and his first word in sign language. Not the best sort of memories as a parent to have but Sherlock had always taken the not-speaking thing well.
So well, in fact, that he had adapted to become quite brilliant, not that he wasn’t inherently that anyway. He observed and saw what others didn’t because he didn’t need to blurt out the first thoughts that came to his head. He could see the tiny specks of the customers shoes that told him how long they had been walking and thus, what sort of transport they must have taken to get to this small cafe. Sherlock could see the callouses on the doctor’s fingers that told his profession and just what he must be doing for a living. It was clear by the limp that he was a war veteran, injured in battle, thus the cane and the stiff posture. Sun tan but not above the wrists, so it was painfully obvious it wasn’t anything recreational. Injured in battle, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq....
But of course, Sherlock didn’t say anything about this. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t.
There were quite a few places that would hire Sherlock, even if he couldn’t talk. It wasn’t that uncommon for him to communicate with looks, expressions or shrugs, and writing down what he needed to say was easy as well. Currently though, he was being ‘punished’. His brother Mycroft had said he needed to get an actual job, do something for once in his life, and had unceremoniously dumped him where he was now, a little coffee shop off Laurenston Gardens. He temporarily ran, both to learn money management that he apparently lacked the required grace in, and people skills. The first was really easy enough if you get past the point of how horribly boring it was... but if Mycroft ever expected Sherlock to become a people person, he must be praying for a miracle and Mycroft was not a praying man.
How long had he been here now? Two months? People would glance at Sherlock as they walked in the door, give him funny looks when he would simply nod and fulfil the order. The regulars who were used to him by now would actually smile like they knew him and dip their head before sitting down with their coffee and reading a newspaper. They didn’t know him, no one here actually knew him. Normal people needed to speak with others to actually know who they were. Everyone but Sherlock, of course, who could give you your life details with just a glance.
It really must have been Mycroft’s ironic sense of humor that had made him choose a coffee shop of all places for the twenty-five year old to work. Sherlock, for all his best qualities and amazing attributes, couldn’t make coffee. Before two weeks of blundering up orders and scowling at everyone who walked through the front door, he had been nearly incapable of making a simple order. Time after time, mistakes were made. He actually had gone so far as to ask Mycroft nicely to put him somewhere else. Anywhere else. Apparently, his brother was not sympathetic to Sherlock’s plite.
He had it down now, though, which was a relief both to him and the regulars that no longer had to deal with the frustrated barista behind the counter. Most had been patient enough with him while he was learning, which to be fair was actually surprising. Sherlock pushed the small kindness off to the fact that he was suffering in silence, literally, and to all these simple minded humans, sympathy was an emotion that would be applied to a mute man. He didn’t need their sympathy and he didn’t ask for it... so why did they look at him like a kicked puppy and keep coming back?
The doctor across the counter now was neither a regular, nor had Sherlock ever seen him before. Faces were easy to remember and with just a glance, the curly haired brunette could say with certainty that this man had never been in here during his two months of employment.
The doctor ordered a cafe mocha, a lemon muffin, and smiled at him slightly before he glanced down at his phone. From the expression, he was waiting for a call. Sherlock didn’t ask.
With the order filled quickly, Sherlock watched as the man took his seat at a corner booth, sipping his coffee and eating the muffin, all the while waiting for a call that didn’t come. An hour later, the man stood up, tossed a pound in the tip jar, gave Sherlock another smile that didn’t touch his eyes, and walked out.
The rest of the day was normal.
-----
Fingers drummed against the marble counter as he glanced around at the shop, bored out of his mind to be quite frank. There wasn’t anything to do here when no one was ordering. Nothing but to stare at the people, pray to god they gain more interesting lives, and figure out whether the man in the corner was on his third wife of fourth. The woman in the left was a writer, from Texas visiting her grandmother during the holidays which would explain the cat hair and the slight claw marks on her arms. Grandmothers and cats seemed to go hand in hand. The pair of teenagers were currently skipping school, the girl of the two played the trumpet and the boy enjoyed smoking behind the bleachers even though his parent’s thought he was a Sunday school, bible reading, good boy. It was the little things like this that Sherlock would call his lifeline to sanity. Horrible, this place. It was driving him past the point of sanity, really it was, and he wanted out. Anywhere, just not here.
Mycroft had phoned last night. Yes, phoned. It was like the brother was enjoying taking a jab at Sherlock’s pride because they both knew how pointless phoning Sherlock would be when he could never talk back. Perhaps it was a power trip, Mycroft enjoying the fact that he would be able to speak and Sherlock couldn’t argue about it. Either way, it was point in fact, typical snarky behavior, very average Mycroft. He had reported that the owner of the shop would be gone for another five months and if Sherlock could manage to produce a generally successful shop by the point he returns, Mycroft would leave him be from now on. The promise of his brother no longer interfering in Sherlock’s affairs was tempting enough that Sherlock would hold out. A life time free of him was worth five months here, he had convinced himself.
It wasn’t that running this infernal place was his only job. No, he did other things when the shop closed at nine. In fact, the man hardly slept at all at night, instead doing what he actually wanted to do. The flat above the shop was littered with experiments, showed signs of being blown up and pieces back together, and was about as tidy as a teenage boy's bedroom. Still, Sherlock would rather be up there, testing the chemical acidity of a isotopic steel bronze mixture than staring blankly at the faces of people who were about to drown their systems in caffeine.
A shuffling sound came from his left, making Sherlock’s head turn towards the part of the counter where customers ordered and for a moment, he just blinked. The doctor again, this time with a newspaper in hand. He wasn’t even looking at Sherlock as he ordered the same thing as yesterday, one cafe mocha and a lemon muffin. It wasn’t that this doctor had stood out all that particularly from the rest of the human drabble of boring existence yesterday, it’s just Sherlock’s memory pulling up the information again. What did surprise Sherlock just for a millisecond is the fact that he hadn’t deleted the information earlier. It was useless, really. This man wasn’t a regular and it wouldn’t save Sherlock any time to remember what he ordered... so why had he?
Blue gray eyes met Sherlock’s just for a second as he slid the cup across the marble counter and set the plate with the muffin next to the cup. The doctor proceeded to smile again, much like the one yesterday he had given Sherlock, and took up the same table as before.
The man ate for thirty minutes, finished his paper, and left.
The rest of the day was normal.
----
John. The man’s name was John. It actually wasn’t that difficult to learn this and he would have known sooner had he run the coffee shop like he was supposed to. During busy days in normal shops, people would leave their names and the employees would call it out when their order was ready. Sherlock, obviously, couldn’t do that. Mute as he was, when the shop was crowded, he just went in order that the people came. Some still said their names and he did scratch it on the side of the to-go cups so as not to get confused, but for the most part, he just went with what he was capable of doing and ignored the rest.
The doctor, John, had come in today a little earlier than usual, catching the middle of the lunchtime rush. He, like most, must have been accustomed to giving a name so a simple “John” was stated as Sherlock took the order and money changed hands. Telling the price of the coffee was actually the worst part of his day. It required him to write the number down on a piece of paper, move it across the counter for them to see, and pretty much putting up a neon sign that reads ‘I can’t talk, be sorry for me’. Sadly, no matter how much he hated it, the monkeys in London were capable of figuring out after a while that he couldn’t talk and sad glances were always part of the equation as soon as they did.
He had yet to see one from John even as he slid the now to-go cup and the muffin across the counter and watched the man walk out the door.
The rest of the day, just like the rest, was so tediously normal.
-----
“You fucked up my order. Seriously, what kind of idiot can’t tell the difference between a mochaccino and a cappuccino? Now you won’t fix it? What sort of fucked up place is this?”
If this man yelled any louder, his eyes would pop a blood vessel. Hopefully it would be painful and would make him shut up. Idiot, Sherlock? Did this incompetent inept unrefined ass just call him an idiot? What was he to say to that? What could he say to that? Oh right, he couldn’t. The joys of not being able to talk.
Sherlock was more than certain he had gotten the order exactly correct to the specifications this monkey of a man had spoken. A cappuccino with extra milk served in a to-go cup and and a piece of chocolate cake. He had delivered exactly that, to the T, and now... this was happening.
People stood around, staring at Sherlock and the man who was having a hard time it seemed not bursting a gasket. Apparently his wife had just broken things off with him, thus the absent lack of a wedding ring even though the skin color showed it had been there only a week or so ago. Take it out on the coffee shop worker seemed to be the best source of this man’s anger and God, Sherlock hated this job. Hated the man who was spitting fire across the counter at him. What he wouldn’t do to just speak up and tell this man a thing or tw-
“You didn’t order a mochaccino.”
The voice was came from behind the man in line and to Sherlock’s surprise and confusion, John stepped forward. Just from the last three days, the pattern would have suggested that John would come in the afternoon. Why was he here this early in the morning? It was only after that little fact registered that he saw the attire the man was wearing. Formal... a meeting of some kind. Which would mean this was before work and he was getting some coffee before he arrived. It wasn’t a suit and tie so perhaps not boardroom formal but still important by the way the man’s shoes were shined.
This all registered in the second it took for John to step up to the counter, actually... coming to Sherlock’s defense.
“You ordered a cappucino and that’s what you got so either order again or leave. Your voice isn’t so beautiful that the people across the street want to hear it.”
Sherlock would have snickered had he been able to make any noise. Instead a small hint of a faint smile traced his face at the appearance of the now flustered, embarrassed, and peeved man. Humorous how his face looked even more red now than before. Perhaps it was shame.
“Fuck off,” was the only retort the man gave, hardly a valiant comeback, before swiping the cup off the counter and storming from the cafe in a huff of stomping feet and muttering under breath. It would be childish to stick out his tongue but the smirk was very clearly etched into Sherlock’s face as he watched the stranger go. There was one less idiot in the shop now.
His eyes traveled to John now as the doctor turned around and looked at Sherlock with a ‘what can you do’ sort of expression. It really was good of the man to stick up for him and Sherlock was appreciative. It showed a bit of someone’s character when they were willing to speak up to something like that. Had he thought about it before, Sherlock would have actually predicted it of John. As a doctor, he would have compassion for people and as a soldier, he would be willing to stand up.
“Good riddance.” Sherlock heard John mumble before the man’s blue eyes met Sherlock’s and the smile appeared. “I’ll take my usual, Cafe Mocha and a lemon muffin. “ It was all the doctor said and Sherlock turned quickly, making the order faster than he had ever actually done before just so that the man who gave him a hand could have it all the sooner. As, however, he was finishing it off, he thought for a moment, and did something he never would have thought to do before today to anyone. In the chocolate syrup that normally was drizzled over the drink, making swirls in the coffee, he wrote out words. It was legible, though he had never done it before, so perhaps not pretty, but it was the thought that counted, correct?
The drink was slid over the counter in it’s plastic cup along with the muffin and the doctor turned to sit in his normal spot, not yet glancing at the drink. Sherlock’s eyes followed the man even as he sat down and finally looked at the cup. The smile on John’s face actually made it worth the effort, though why Sherlock should care, he wasn’t sure. What John would be seeing at that moment was just a simple thank you floating in the middle of the cup.
Once again, when the doctor looked up at him, Sherlock held that gaze for about a minute and gave a small smile, dipping his head. John didn’t even know Sherlock’s name and he had defended him. That was something to at least give a small nod to.
Thirty minutes later, John stood up, gathered his things, and left. Not, however, before scribbling on a small white piece of paper, folding it, and sticking it in the tip jar.
You’re welcome.
----
John came in every day the next week at different times, always ordering the same thing, always with the newspaper, and always sitting at the same table. Sherlock had gotten used to looking up at random moments and seeing the doctor waiting to place his order with a smile on his face. It had become almost natural... which was odd. For some strange reason, Sherlock didn’t consider John to be like all the other people who walked in, and not just because he had taken to his defense. John was interesting and Sherlock spent most of the time just looking at him and trying to pick apart the man just by watching. He couldn’t guess everything, even if he wanted too.
So on day 10 after first meeting John, Sherlock decided to do something out of his comfort zone. He left a note, underneath the man’s cup as he slid it across the counter and watched again as John found it.
My name is Sherlock Holmes
With the hindrance of not being able to communicate verbally, writing the note had been the only other option Sherlock had come up with to speak with the doctor. However, when John didn’t move from his chair, the small smile on Sherlock’s lips had faded away and he had returned to work, not again looking the doctor or where he sat. A lifeline had been cast and apparently discarded. Time to forget he ever had taken the steps to throw it out.
He didn’t even turn around when the scrape of John’s chair moved across the hardwood floor and the man left. Forget it ever happened. It wasn’t that he was out to make friends anyway. He only had four and a half months left here and then he would start up what he actually wanted to do. The consulting work he already did in his spare time for the Yard... well it would be so much simpler if he could just call himself a consulting detective and be done with it. Work on cases and actually do something interesting rather than sit here and pour drinks mindlessly.
It was about the time he was closing up that Sherlock noticed the white piece of paper in the tip jar that he was sure had not been there this morning. Positive, in fact. Frowning liberally, he fished it out and spotted his own note on the front of it. John had tossed his note back into the tip jar? At first there was a scowl and then confusion. Why not just toss it into the trash? Long fingers flipped the paper over and instantly froze.
In a choppy writing, words were written across the back of the paper and the small smile returned to Sherlock’s face.
Nice to meet you, Sherlock. You make excellent coffee... you don't really look like the type, but you do.
----
It started like that, each day Sherlock slipping a note under John’s coffee as he came in and each time John left, the note would be returned into the tip jar. It was actually much like a conversation though it lasted far longer than any normal one would. He found he would enjoy the banter and the actually... act of talking to someone. It was different but it made him look forward to the next day. Stupid yes, that little fact. He almost hated himself for being so very eager to see the man in the morning to continue their conversation.
The notes became lengthier each day, taking up at times fully written sheets of notebook paper. Sherlock would become distracted from the customers in the process of writing out his response. He was enjoying the conversation, really he was, and that was not what he was used to experiencing.
John was not like anyone he had actually talked to before and not just because he was willing to talk to a mute man through notes. Sherlock found himself surprised at many different times by John’s responses to things and how he saw the world. Little things that John told him that most would not have really cared about, Sherlock stored away in his mind... because he was beginning to consider John as a friend... and that was what friends did, wasn’t it? He never had a friend before, never wanted one, never needed one. Now... it was something new, foreign, and Sherlock just hoped not to make a fool of himself.
-----
There was one day that John didn’t come in at all. Sherlock had waited for him, muffin set aside in the glass display case for when he arrived, but he never showed. It was almost like a shock to his system, the fact that one man not entering the shop would have affected him to this extent. It was at this point that Sherlock realized how completely idiotic all of this had been... and just how foolish he was. John Watson had become, in the time of about a month and a half, a crutch, and Sherlock did not wish to be handicapped by him.
He already had one thing to hold him back, he did not wish to have two.
So the next day, he didn’t give John a note when the doctor came in. He didn’t smile at the man as he ordered like a friend would. He did things strictly by his normal attitude to everyone. Get the order filled and wait till they leave so that he could go upstairs and work on his experiments. Cut off the source of the problem at it’s roots and the rest would just die away.
John stayed in that corner table for three hours looking confused.
-----
One week went by after that, followed by two. Each day was worse than the last and you could tell the amount of sleep Sherlock was getting simply by looking at him. The expression in his eyes was muted, his normal attire was a bit less well-kept, and the way he looked at someone was more often than not filled with distaste. Burn marks could be seen on his hands during day five and six before fading at the end of week one and it would be easy to assume that it was an experiment gone wrong.
John still came in every day and Sherlock ignored him like he did everyone else, simply giving him his order and moving on to the next person in line. John was just a customer now and Sherlock would be out of here in four months. The brunette reminded himself often that this job was simply to get Mycroft out of his life, to be free of a pestering man forever, and that was what made him go to work every day instead of just telling his brother to shove off.
Why, however, John kept coming here, Sherlock couldn’t know. Most people would have been offended or upset to be cut off like the head of a snake. Why did John not feel the same? He didn’t stop to think on that, wouldn’t let himself go back to analyzing the oddity that was the doctor because it would be like returning to the drink again after being sober for all this time. So no, he wouldn’t let himself think of the curiosity that was John Watson. It would be stupid too.
-----
“Did I do something wrong, Sherlock?”
He was actually shocked to hear the words, to be honest. Hands brushed against his as John reached for the coffee he was sliding across the counter and the words drew Sherlock to actually meet John’s eyes rather than stare somewhere else. They looked tired, more so than he had been a few weeks ago when Sherlock was still paying attention. It took him only a minute to pinpoint the details, the fact that John’s hair hadn’t actually be combed in at least two days. The lines under his face were a sign of lack of sleep for about the same amount of time. Hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday. Probably tried to sleep but couldn’t the first night, didn’t even attempt to sleep the second.
In short, John looked like he was falling apart at the seams.
Why, though, was what confused Sherlock. What reason did John have to be so out of sorts? He hadn’t been in the shop for the last three days anyway which would be why Sherlock wouldn’t have had a chance to observe this earlier. A frown actually made it’s way up to Sherlock’s face despite his normal ability to keep stoic. Right... John would have assumed it was his fault that all of this was happening. The doctor would have thought he made some mistake, knowing his character, and blamed himself the cold way Sherlock had been acting lately. Part of him debated whether it would be best if he just let John think that. If the doctor thought he had done something wrong and Sherlock was ignoring him because of that, eventually he would get discouraged and leave, right?
Or it would make him stay to figure out what he did wrong. Sherlock couldn’t quite know with John.
Finally, after a minute of debating, Sherlock shook his head no and motioned for John to move out of the line. He had his drink and his food, there were other people to serve.John did, taking the cup, drinking it within five minutes, and walking out of the store with the muffin.
-----
Why did this one person out of everyone on this earth have to be persistent? For God’s sakes, it was like John would never get the point. Maybe that was why Sherlock found himself drawn into seeing him. Because he was different, because John didn’t give up no matter how many times he was ignored.
It actually got worse... or better... whichever way you might look at it.
John still came in every day. After Sherlock had denied it was his fault, it seemed like something sparked in the man, made a difference to change his behavior. It hadn’t been Sherlock’s intention... but it had happened all the same.
John began to leave notes again. Every day when he walked in and every time he walked out, a note would be slipped into the tip jar. Sherlock didn’t read them, just took them out and shoved them in the basket under the counter so he wouldn’t have to look at them. He didn’t need a friend, didn't need someone to talk to. He didn’t have friends. That was just the way it was. Yet they came, constantly and there was no end in site. Each day, two slips of paper in the jar.
He proceeded to ignore them for a month.
-----
Curiosity happened to be Sherlock’s one major downfall. If there was a single emotion that would be the death of him, it was the overwhelming urge to know everything at nearly every cost. One month he hadn’t even opened up the notes, hadn’t let himself wonder what was inside, but truly, how long do you think that would last with the world’s most curious man behind the counter? It was surprising he hadn’t broken down and taken a look a long time ago just to find out what John could possibly be saying in 62 different notes all compiled in a month. What could the man be writing about that kept him at if for so long?
The moment he started being curious was probably the moment he was doomed to look. That very night when the entire shop was quiet and dark, Sherlock found himself rummaging under the counter for the papers, scowling even as he brought them out.
The more recent ones were dated on the back of the folded paper it seemed... John must have realized that Sherlock wasn’t reading them and he probably had seen the man stuff them under the counter more than once. The first ones, however, weren’t dated and it took a minute for him to sort out those that were and those that weren’t. In the end, with those that weren’t, he just had to guess what order they came in.
You said I didn’t do anything wrong, so I am assuming something else is the matter. I am always opening to hearing it, Sherlock, if you want to talk.
Really, any time, I am open to listening.
I liked writing you, I thought you knew that... but it’s worth repeating.
I am sorry I didn’t come in that one day... my sister’s re-married and I had to attend. It’s mandatory. Did I ever tell you about Harry? My sister is not... well she isn’t the most committed person and she and her wife didn’t so so well while I was away. I had to be there to support them making an effort to try again.
You’re not actually reading these, are you? If you are, maybe writing back would be nice or just a look in my general direction to know you are.
Yah... you’re not reading them. That’s okay, I can still write you just so you know I haven’t given up. Maybe you will read these someday.
So I got a promotion today. Didn’t expect it at all. Really really surprised actually when Sarah told me. It means I can move out of the small place I have and take an actual flat which is great. Might need a flatmate in the end to afford it but now I can at least do my half and get by.
You didn’t sleep last night did you?
I bet you aren’t eating either. Seriously, Sherlock, as a doctor, you should take my advice. You are not living healthily.
Your coffee was amazing today... and you look like you might have gotten a few hours of sleep. Good for you.
I haven’t given up that you will talk back to me someday. Seriously, I am always open to it, Sherlock.
I consider you a friend, you know. Hell, I am closer to you just through your notes than to really everyone else. Call that pathetic but it’s the truth.
Can’t find myself a flatmate... guess I am stuck in the old place till I do.
My shoulder is hurting today. I managed to be an idiot and overexert it. Any suggestions to help?
You look annoyed more than usual today. I wonder what happened.
Still look annoyed... is this becoming a trend because it doesn’t do any wonders for your face.
Whatever it was, you look better today. Back to your normal stoic self.
Hey, a while back when you first stopped talking to me you burned your hand. What did you to do it anyway? Blow something up?
God, I am tired and your coffee is good. Can I just state that you don’t actually look like you should know how to make coffee this good? It’s a blessing. Do you make the muffin’s as well? I can’t see you doing that in your kitchen upstairs but hey, looks can be deceiving. Who am I to judge.
You have told me before that you hate this life... I still don’t get why you do it.
You should quit. You don’t look happy here.
Here’s an idea. Get out of here and come be that flatmate I need. It would be nice.
You could do that detective work you always told me about and I wouldn’t interrupt you at all. Might even help you if you needed me.
A consulting detective... I still can’t believe that’s an actual thing. Even if you will be the only one in the world, someone must have thought of it before
Your work sounds fun.
I was serious you know... about the flatmate thing.
There were more notes, all of them scattered, varied, some of importance and some not but he stopped really seeing them. He just looked at the notes and the confused look on his face settled. All of that time he had spent ignoring John... it hadn’t mattered? How loyal can someone be that this long of being ignored had kept them loyal and talking.
It was stunning and... Sherlock was appreciative.
To have John actually care enough about him was just... how could you put that emotion into words when you know you actually might care for someone as a person? Yes, as a friend, but to Sherlock, there didn’t seem like a middle step. It was just he either cared for you so little he didn’t enjoy your existence, or you mattered to him... and John had in that moment begun to matter.
At this point, ignoring the man would be impossible... so he gave up trying once and for all.
---
When John came in the next morning and slipped the note into the tip jar, Sherlock met his eyes and actually smiled at him... which seemed to stun the doctor. Funny how surprised looks on his face... making the lines around John’s cheeks show. It almost made the brunette laugh if he was capable of it and even then, you could see the way he wordlessly noiselessly reacted.
With the same order this time, however, Sherlock slipped a note under the cup pointedly as John watched and the doctor didn’t even wait to sit down before reading it.
Thank you
Same note he had written in the syrup of the man’s coffee all that time ago and now it made John look up and grin. The grin was quite nice on the man’s face as well as the surprise and it pulled at laugh lines that seemed to have been there for ages.
“You read them.”
Sherlock nodded once before giving an amused raise of his eyebrow and swiping the paper from John’s hand, scribbling a note of response back before returning it to the doctor.
You were persistent and I became curious. Remind me never to get you focused on something. You would be a horrifyingly stubborn man to drive off of his course even if it was an idiotic endeavor.
-----
They talked more frequently now, passing notes at each other over coffee each morning and more times than not, John would come in during the afternoons as well, pull a chair up to the counter. He would talk and Sherlock would listen, intrigued and curious because John would put up with the one way conversation, the smirks and the flippant annoyed glances when he said something highly irrational.
They managed to get into debates about the oddest of things, Sherlock writing down his response quickly just because a simple expression could not explain why he didn’t know that the earth revolved around the sun. Obviously it wasn’t important to his work but John just found it amusing.
Slowly but surely... Sherlock began to move past caring for John and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. There had never been someone in his life which he had actually cared for, let alone felt more heavily than that. Lestrade was about the equivalent to the father Sherlock never had, at least... Lestrade was the conventional father Sherlock never had, and Mycroft... well Mycroft was blood and nothing more.
John however... well John was creeping his way slowly into the part of Sherlock’s heart that had been locked away completely for a very long time. All his life really. Stowed under lock and key and only managed to be picked by the notes in the tip jar.
What to do about it was the hard part. He wasn’t sure, for one, that John even felt the same way back. The man went out on dates with women after all... he wouldn’t be homosexual. Dates that, admittedly, never lasted more than a few days... but still dates. He wasn’t openly not homosexual either... bi perhaps.
There had actually been a time when John had asked Sherlock if he had a girlfriend and it had ended up in an awkward sort of admittance that it was all ‘okay’ and John glancing away rapidly, turning red to the ear.
Bi then.
Still didn’t indicate that John felt any sort of emotional attachment to him. With that little bit of the puzzle left unsolved, Sherlock kept himself quiet for some time, three months to be exact.
-----
John would be expected in a minute if he was on schedule and Sherlock glanced at the clock impatiently. Fingers drummed against the counter and he opened his eyes to look at the note folded under the counter. What was inside it, however, he wasn’t sure if he could hand over. Sometime last night in a confusion of overly tired analytical thinking, the logical part of his brain must have malfunction and stated that hey, maybe you should tell the guy how you feel. So he had written it out and then flopped onto the couch, falling asleep instantly. Now though, with the sane part of his brain working again, he was doubting himself. Of course he was doubting himself, this plan was foolish. If John felt nothing in return, this entire plan would ruin everything.
But the less logical and more open part of his brain that had begun to work since John had come around pointed out that if everything blew up in his face now, it was bound to have done so later. Putting away the emotions and prolonging them wasn’t a good idea because either he would feel it now or feel it later when he did get it off his chest... if he ever did that is. If John didn’t reciprocate the feelings now after all of this time, then he was unlikely to ever repay them. Simple as that.
The note, however... probably not the best way to tell him. No, it was highly stupid and too full of nonsensical emotions said in a tired haze from three nights lack of sleep to be any good to Sherlock. Nix the note.
It dawned on him as the cafe door’s bell rang that maybe the best way to say this was to do it the same way he first started to speak to John. The way it started and the way it would possibly end.
The doctor stepped forward with a grin and a cheerful “Morning Sherlock” as the brunette already turned to get him the usual. The problem, however, was making his hands move to do what the plan was. It’s not that hard, Sherlock. You have done far more elaborate things with your fingers. You can play the violin, you have examined corpses, can you not just write three words with syrup in the coffee?
With shaky hands, the words were spelled out and the muffin was grasped, setting the drink on the small serving plate and sliding it over the counter. John didn’t even look at the drink as he took it and moved over to his normal table.
In fact... he didn’t even look at the drink as he picked it up and drank it slowly. No, no... no. Not acceptable. The doctor’s eyes were searching for a note when Sherlock moved around the counter and very pointedly walked straight up to the table, pulling the cup and saucer from the man’s grasp and storming back to the bar.
If he was going to do this, damn it, John was going to see it. So he re-poured the drink angrily, setting to work to make it even as he could feel the doctor’s eyes on his back. It was going to be obvious what he was doing now and but John would look at the damn drink if it killed him. With the writing made in the hot cup, Sherlock stormed back with a huff and moved to set the drink on the table again.
Sadly... well he was a bit too angry to do it right. The drink hit the table at the edge a bit to hard, toppling the drink and all it’s contents on the flour while John just sat and watched, eyes moving between it and Sherlock.
Sherlock on the other hand, just stared at the coffee spread out in a puddle along the ground, edging at the bottom of the chair. He stared at it for quite some time, just watching it there as the side of his shoes got coffee surround them.
One... two... three... four... five.
Hands finally came up in a show of exasperation and he turned towards John who was looking confused and amused at him. Their eyes met and Sherlock was about to dismiss this entire thing, pretend he had just not been satisfied with the coffee, when something stronger tugged at him. He didn’t want to give up on this... third time's the charm after all.
There really are some words in sign language, some set’s of phrases that everyone will know. If you do them slowly enough, one at a time, then they are kind of obvious. John however was clever. Maybe not Sherlock clever but he was smart enough.
So when Sherlock signed eight little letters, one at a time, John got the drift.
I love you.
It was surprise first on the doctor’s face much akin to back when Sherlock once again began to return his notes... but this time, immediately following the surprise was not a smile but a warm soft look as the doctor stood up.
“Took you long enough.”
And then they were kissing, John’s hand trapping the side of Sherlock’s face and himself bending down a bit to even out the odd height difference. Those around them... well they were quite, all talking stopped for a moment. Maybe it was just in Sherlock’s head that they were silent but as he tried to categorize exactly what was happening, he wasn’t really focused on what’s around him. Just the fact that the doctor managed to keep warm lips pressed against his own despite the awkward angle and the clumsy way Sherlock’s hands went to rest on his hips.
The idea of kissing was new to Sherlock, admittedly, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Neither was the look in John’s eyes as the doctor pulled back... and that smile on the man’s face would be worthy of an award.
“You know... that flatmate offer still stands. ”