Sherlock- Cafe JWW

Warning- contains post reichenbach spoilers/angst

A John Watson's War Fic


He didn't realize it was Valentine's day until he got to the coffee shop.

Being in the shop was an event led up to by pure chance and dumb luck, or more specifically, dumb bad luck. The motel's coffee machine had been out of order, and so had his stove (what could he expect at that price? This marked the last time he cheaped out on a room), leaving him without either of his two sources of caffene.

So, being a rational man, he'd gone out to get coffee. He'd never been in this little shop before, but he could deduce that the streamers and strings of pink and silver hearts strung low across the ceiling were a new addition. That paired with the high number of couples making googly-eyes at each other across the little round tables and the dead giveaway 'Happy Valentine's Day!" sign hung across the wall behind the counter informed him of the date.

Damn.

He limped up to the counter to a bright young brunette on the other side. She grinned brightly at him and he couldn't return the gesture if he'd tried. She had one of those obnoxious light-up pins in the shape of a heart on her green work apron. She also had a red, pink and clear, heavy beaded bracelet that was obviously brand new. So she was in a relationship and quite happy with it. Long term, from the quality of the bracelet.

He gave her his order and paid with a few crumpled bills. He moved to the other end of the counter and waited.

Another man was waiting for his own order. Tall and muscular with mussed hair caught somewhere between blonde and brown, he rocked slightly from the balls of his feet to his heels, his hands buried in the pockets of his loose jeans. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, sending a feeble trickle of smoke upward from its end. His eyes were distant, almost bored at first glance, but John noticed that he was purposely avoiding looking at any of the bright decorations. Just like John was doing. Huh.

The man looked over lazily and John looked away quickly, realizing he had been staring. One problem with his deduction skills was that it took him much longer to look at something than it used to take Sher-

Stop it. Not today. Don't think about him today.

John purposely kept his eyes forward, knowing that the tall man was looking at him. John's order appeared on the counter and he reached for it. His hand was shaking and he had to wait for it to steady itself before he could pick up the cup.

"You, too, huh?"

John jumped slightly. He turned to the stranger, who was looking at him with the same lazy expression, but his eyebrows were raised slightly.

"S… sorry?" John managed.

The man's mouth twitched into a half-smile around his cigarette. "I lost mine not a year ago. Put a bullet through his brain, the selfish bastard." His eyes held an amused, nostalgic fondness at the harsh words.  "How long's it been for you?"

Watson stared at him. "Maybe half a year." He answered finally. "How-"

The other man chuckled. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" He retrieved his own order. "I've got nothing for the next few hours, and misery does enjoy company. How's about we swap stories?" He observed the wide-eyed look on the army doctor's face and smiled in amusement. "Relax, it's not a date."

John shifted on his good leg, resting his coffee on the top of his cane. Hell, it couldn't hurt to humor the stranger. He nodded.

The other smiled, starting towards a table by the window. John followed.

"The name's Seb, by the way," The man offered as he sat, reclining in the wooden chair as he kicked it back on its two hind legs.

"Seb?" John took the seat opposite, staying straight in his chair. Good posture had been drilled into him in his military service, and also his leg hurt less when he sat up straight.

"That's what people call me. Actually, they used to call me Moran. But then I guess he started calling me Seb and I got used to it." He shrugged. There was a bit of a strain in the way Seb had said 'he', like it pained him.

John knew what that was like, and didn't push the name.

"Were you two… together?" John asked.

This prompted a laugh. "Maybe, hell, hard to tell. He was so obsessed with his work and all that, but he had his moments. Kept me on my toes, never really knew what he wanted. Still don't, really. What about you and yours?"

John shook his head. "No. I'm not… well, I don't swing that way, and I'm not entirely sure he swung at all. We were friends. He once told me I was his only friend. Wouldn't doubt it."

"Sounds like a character."

"Not more than yours."

The two laughed, and John analyzed Seb. He wore dogtags around his neck beneath a heavy green army jacket but above a white wifebeater. His jeans hung loosely over black combat boots. His face bore several scars, as well as the bits of his visible arm. He handled his cup of coffee with lax precision, and his hands were unmarred, as though they had been well-protected. Army sniper. A fellow soldier. John felt a slight kinship towards the stranger, though only slight. There was still something, something in the way his lazy eyes prowled across the store like a confident tiger scouting for possible prey, that John didn't trust. But hey, he did have trust issues. He wrote it off as paranoia.

Seb Moran… where had he heard that name before?

"What's the craziest thing he ever did?" Seb asked, removing his cigarette from his lips just long enough to take a swig of coffee. John knew that smoking indoors was against the store rules and quite possibly illegal, but no-one had bothered to tell the man to put his out, and John wasn't going to be the first, though it irked him.

John himself chuckled into his coffee. "Do you want the time he shot up the wall out of boredom or the time he rode the tube with a bloody harpoon?"

Seb nodded with an amused smile. "So he was one 'a those types, then?"

"What types?" John's voice remained conversational but his inner guard bristled as it did whenever someone started to insult Sher- him.

"The boredom types," Seb took a deep breath in of his cigarette, and the smoke trickled out of his mouth with his next words. "Mine was. Hell, God help whoever found him bored, which, more often than not, was me."

John relaxed slightly. "Yeah. Boredom, the greatest enemy of great minds."

"That's just what mine used to say," Seb nodded distantly. "Granted, he added a great number of choice swears and threats into that phrase, but the same backbone, at least."

"What about yours? What was he like?" John asked conversationally.

Moran's eyes went distant for a moment, the lazy smile drooping from his face and his cigarette bowing as a result. "He was a manipulative asshole, really and truly. He had all these little plans and ideas in his head, and he just loved when they played out right. Everyone was a pawn in the chess game of his world, even me. Well, He once called me a bishop, but still, same point. He'd hole up for weeks and pout if one detail didn't go to plan, and when that happened it was an Olympic effort just to get him to eat or move. A lot of the time I felt I was more of a housekeeper or a nurse than a partner. But then again he changed so often, I never knew how to feel. One day I'd be on top of the world, the center of his praise and affection. The next- he'd be trying to throttle me out of pure boredom or annoyance at a detail not to plan."

John felt shivers go up his spine, and a few goose-pimples appeared on his arm. His story… it felt familiar. Too familiar. Not only did parts remind him all too much of Sh- him- but the rest brought his mind to another, infinitely more sinister conclusion.

"He sounds…" John struggled to remain composed, a feat that was not overlooked by the other man, who was eyeing John curiously with narrowed eyes. "Well, he sounds a lot like mine." Watson chuckled tensely and Seb's eyebrows furrowed at him, and John tried to blame his imagination on the beginnings of recognition in his look. "What did you say his name was, again?"

Seb was staring at John. The predator-like look John had noticed earlier was more pronounced now, and he no longer looked aloof but like a bird of prey deciding whether or not to go in for the kill. His lips opened around his cigarette, beginning to form a name.

"Ji-"

There was a shout from outside and both men turned to look. Someone had overturned a flat of apples in front of a small market, and the vendor was shouting after the culprit, who John just saw vanish into the crowd with a flicker of black coat-tails and a flash of dark curls.

Suddenly John was pushing through the door and sprinting across the street towards the vision, leaving both Seb and his cane behind in the café.

Feet pounding at the pavement, John didn't care who he pushed over or who he ran into as he made his desperate chase at the snatch of curls ahead of him. His target was moving faster than him, but only slightly. John hit a patch of sidewalk clear of pedestrians and reduced the distance considerably.

"Sh- Sherlock!" He cried at the vision and it veered left suddenly, into an alleyway. John pushed through another group of shoppers and swung into the alley-

There was nothing there. The alley was a dead end, with hardly a dumpster to its name and a fire escape that didn't appear to have been pulled down. A homeless man huddled against the sooty brick wall and John pounced on him, pulling him up by his coat-collar.

"Where did he go?!" John shouted at him. "Please, tell me, where did he g-" He cut off, noticing the coat he was clutching. Black. Long. The button hole on the collar was lined with red stitching. He'd recognize it anywhere.

"Where did you get this?" John demanded tersely, examining the face of the homeless man. More like homeless kid now that he examined him. His face was round and short, his red hair cut short and a bit of stubble around his chin. The boy's ears stuck out on either side of his face, and his small nose bore the scars of being broken and healing wrong early in life. Sherlock may have been a master at disguises as he once told Watson in a fit of ego, but even he couldn't mold his features this dramatically. The boy didn't look much older than seventeen.

"Found it, sir," The boy answered nervously. "Dumpster behind Barts. A bit big but got's room ta' grow into."

John didn't release the boy. "A man just ran into this alley. Where did he go?"

"There weren't a man down 'ere, sir." Said the boy with an honest look of confusion on his face. "I would'a seen 'im, wouldn't I?"

John searched the boy's face but found nothing. He released the kid and the boy fell back onto his pile of rags. John turned 360, searching for something, anything, but found nothing.

Adrenaline still burning through his veins, he made his way back to the café. Seb was long gone. John grabbed his cane and his coffee and limped back to his hotel. Halfway to his destination he hailed a cab, directing it instead to 221B Baker Street. There was something that had been nagging at him, something he had to check.

The assassin files that Mycroft had given him were on the desk. John made a beeline for them, ignoring the dust that had settled about the place and all the things that would bring painful memories. He flipped through each file, pausing at the second to last. As he read it his heart dropped into a sick dread.

It was the case file for Sebastian Moran, an army sniper who had been dismissed for dishonorable conduct from the war. He'd later spent his time poaching tigers before being hired as an assassin.

The picture supplied in the file was from a security camera. Black and white and slightly grainy, but still able for John to make it out. It showed the man John had just swapped stories with exiting a flat with none other than Jim Moriarty himself.

John spent the next half-hour hyperventilating on the floor of 221B at what had just happened.



A dark, tall figure made his way through the night streets of London. He reeked like a trash heap, and his coat smelled of homeless adolescent. He supposed he should be grateful for the teen for covering for him, but the fact that he'd had to lie motionless beneath the kid's belongings while John stood hardly a foot away was causing some sort of emotion to nag at his mind. He tried to push it away.

There was a new piece of graffiti on the wall of Saint Bart's. The side of the building the detective had plummeted off of had been a favorite spot for bold artists, and it was covered in gang-tags and the proclamations of believers. A new note, written in plain red paint and elegant handwriting, was sprawled over a yellow "I believe" number.

Keep your pet away from mine and I will do the same

The detective examined it in passing, not pausing or stopping to look. That would arouse suspicion from anyone observing the street, as there doubtless was. He walked two blocks down and passed a request wrapped in a fifty pound note to a homeless woman. By the morning the message would be covered by new graffiti, as if it had never existed.