Pain and Coffee Beans

Chapter 5

John watched the small, frail girl across the table from him; her eyes flitting around the room as she pushed her breakfast around her plate. He knew she was waiting for Sherlock to make an appearance. She had taken an interest in watching Sherlock work since she moved in with them a week ago. She spent most of her time, when Sherlock was home, curled up on the couch; eyes trained on him, watching. For what? He wasn't sure. But he knew Sherlock was an interesting person to say the least, and if he distracted her from her miserable plight, then good. He sighed, lifting his dishes off the table, "I'm sure he'll be around in a bit," he said before walking to the sink, "He's just gone out for a bit of air I'll wager." The dishes tinkled lightly as the warm water from the tap ran over them, washing away the scraps of food, "Would you like to do something just us while you wait?" He turned to her now, a hopeful smile dancing across his lips. She nodded and wrote something in her little book. She stood and offered him the page, smiling. It read,

What would you like to do?

~

The light breeze caught her hair, spinning it in a slow waltz around her face as they walked. John had asked her if she'd like to get a coffee with her. She'd obliged; though why he'd suddenly gotten a diminished look about him she couldn't tell. They made their way toward the cafe slowly, side-by-side along the busy street; cars zooming past and a thousand different sounds floating through the air. She shivered, the stimulation made her eyes hurt.

"Are you cold?" John's voice called her back from her thoughts, "I can give you m-" She cut him off, gesturing that she was alright. He looked at her skeptically but said nothing more. The cafe wasn't far after all, and she really hadn't been cold. Just.. she wasn't sure what to call it. She had seen Sherlock make the same movements when he was wrapped warmly in his soft purple scarf and Belstaff; he sort of flicked his eyes off to the side, his head following them just enough to make his curls bounce. She recognized it immediately as him seeing too much all at once. But not enough. Sherlock was odd that way; his need to not miss a single detail often had him constantly overloaded with detail. She spent hours watching him, trying to figure out how he managed not to have a mental breakdown. Surely his head must be swimming with information. How did he organize it all? They walked in silence as she mulled over the mystery of Sherlock Holmes; she barely noticed where they were as thoughts cascaded through her mind. She scolded herself, knowing that Sherlock would be able to keep track of where they were and what every person on the street was wearing while deep in thought. Damn him.

~

Reality snapped back into place when she heard the chime of the cafe door as John opened it for her. She nodded her gratitude and stepped past him into the cafe. It was warm and smelled safe, familiar- of coffee beans. She scanned the room slowly, trying to take in every detail of the people huddled around their tables. It hurt her brain.

John chose a booth in the front of the building, overlooking the street, "Thanks for coming out with me," he said smiling.

She smiled back.

~

They sat in the cafe together for what felt like hours; talking and laughing until all the pages in her little book were filled up.

"We just got you that new one!" John laughed, "Have we been here that long?" He gazed around the room, "Would you like a biscuit?"

She nodded, scarcely aware of John leaving the table. Her gaze was drawn outside by the sounds of an ambulance siren and then held there by the many different faces on the street. Her eyes flicked from one face to the next, taking in as much detail as they had to offer. A distinct pressure formed in the back of her head, pressing against her skull with each face she searched. Each story she read from the specific lines around their mouths, each wrinkle spoke to her stories of where they had been and where they were going, it all made her mind feel impossibly full. Just as the pressure in her head was becoming too much her eyes rested on a man walking briskly along the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the oncoming line of people, his right hand resting on what she knew to be a gun. His eyes were small and intense, the lines on his face told her things she didn't understand. It was a jumble of hate and rage and hurt and regret. Which weren't strange things to see on a man's face, by any means. But something about it- She shook her head and switched to a new face. A tall man, taking long, purposeful strides. his hands tucked snugly in his Belstaff- she blinked. Yes. How had she not seen it at first? She should have recognized the brisk pace of Sherlock immediately. She cursed herself under her breath just as John sat back down and carefully placed her biscuit in front of her.

"I hope you like this," he paused, taking a bite of his own, "I realized a bit too late I'd forgotten to ask which you'd like." She smiled and raised the pastry to her mouth.

Then it was gone. And so was John. And the cafe. She looked around, blinking to adjust to her new surroundings. She recognized the angry man from before, he was walking faster now, his gun out. His lips moved angrily; she didn't have to hear him to know what he was saying. A woman in a lavender sweater pushed by him, stopping abruptly and turning back to him, her eyes trained on the weapon in his hand. She looked as if she would scream, but she didn't get the chance. The man swung his hand around and caught her in the temple with the butt of his gun. She crumpled onto the floor like paper. He raised his gun again and let fly a single bullet. She watched, in slow motion as the bullet found its mark in the back of Sherlock's head. His legs buckled underneath him as he fell, landing heavily on his face. She screamed, her hand flying to her face.

~

John was watching her, concern written across his brow. Her lip throbbed as she realized that she had hit herself in the mouth with her biscuit. "Are you alright?" he asked, handing her a napkin, "You left me for a minute there."

She nodded quickly and began looking for a clear space in her notebook, she needed to tell John what she had seen, but each page was full. Even the corners had writing on them. She threw the useless thing across the table, her heart racing. She knew she must have looked absolutely insane to John.

"What's going on?"

She tried to force words out of her throat, but they came out in a series of odd mumbled squeaks. She had been practicing whispering, but she wasn't ready for warning people of danger. Giving up, she slid hastily out of her seat and ran to the door, leaving John confused at the table.

Out on the street, she looked frantically for the man. He must have passed further now- Her feet were carrying her as fast as they could down the street scanning the faces for the one she needed. A woman in a lavender sweater stood out from the rest. Oh no. She stopped, turning just in time to see the man raise his gun. Sherlock was just ahead now, completely unaware of the danger behind him.

She felt as though all the air had been sucked from the world. Everything moved in slow motion, her heart thundered in her ears as she watched the lavender woman fall to the ground at the hand of the gunman. He turned back to Sherlock. What could she do? She couldn't reach him in time and even if she did...

Pain bubbled in her throat, burning at first, then tearing. Before she'd been able to stop herself Sherlock's name came screaming from her chest. He stopped then and turned to her just as the sound of a gunshot rang through the air.