I know exactly what I want and who I want to be;

[workaphilic]

Who: Sherlock Holmes & Arthur Pendragon
What: Two literary legends having a chat, no big deal.
When: Afternoon of the 30th.
Where: Some cafe in town.
Rating: PG?? PG-13 FOR TWO DOUCHEBAGS IN A CAFE??

This cafe is the least offensive of all the ones on this block. Too bright, but spacious enough to accommodate a lunch rush without getting cramped. There are tables outside, by the window, intended for brief chats like this one.

He's not hungry. (Already ate, bacon sandwich from down the street.) Coffee, black, two sugars.

Not really his forte, directionless socialisation, but he's been meaning to have a chat with Arthur Pendragon for some time. (Older resident, beneficiary (victim?) of one of the castle's revivals. Very interesting, very worthwhile.) Might as well take the opportunity as it presents itself.

John had mentioned him once or twice (or more). Coma patient, a few months ago. Something, something. Wasn't really paying attention except for the name. (Sorry, John.) But inexplicable head injuries: one of the castle's favourite tools. Could be anything, or nothing.

In other words, not the worst turn the afternoon could have taken.

He sips and makes a face; too sweet. "I was under the impression two was a very clear unit of measure." He sets it to the side. Rueful half-complaint, attempt at commiseration. Small talk is simple when he wants it to be. "But apparently not."

Comments

[excalibured]

He snorts.

"If you wished for precision, you might have asked for the cubes and simply done it yourself."

He's heard of Sherlock, only once in passing from John. It was an apology, a roommate who had held him up, whilst Arthur had waited to see if had any negative effects from the head injury. The holes in his memory were unsettling, but he couldn't deny the possibility of the castle's involvement. As far as he was aware, the goosebump that has since disappeared, was the only thing that had been the matter with him.

The mention wasn't enough to pique his interest. What John did on his own time was of no concern to Arthur, as long as none of his hobbies included picking up magic tricks. And since he seemed wary of the thing, or disbelieving, he couldn't tell, it looked unlikely.

Still, Arthur's had to avoid social interaction enough for the most part that, sitting in a café with someone he knew nothing about, had become appealing. And John's unintentional vouch for him, had garnered his actual agreement.

He picks at the thing he'd ordered out of random, morbid curiousity, and resits the urge to wrinkle his nose. Chili Fries, he makes a mental note, is not something he'll order again.

[workaphilic]

"I might have, yes." He frowns, mock thoughtful. "Should think that would defeat the purpose of the exercise, though."

It doesn't matter, he'll drink it anyway. The caffeine alone is worthwhile, and it wouldn't be the first time he drank coffee that had been made incorrectly. (Oh, Molly.)

He leans back in his chair, watches, observes, evaluates. Could just as easily be mistaken for benign interest in Arthur's struggle with his own meal. (The smell is, in his defense, more than distasteful.) "May just try another cafe next time. Don't usually get my coffee out here, some trial and error is going to be unavoidable."

[excalibured]

"And what exercise was that, exactly?" If you were expecting people here to behave intelligently and be able to do their job correctly, you were always going to be sorely disappointed Sherlock.

He's used to attention, to being scrutinized for something, so if he even notices it at this point any longer, it's something that doesn't visibily bother him. It's as frequent as breathing, and so he simply picks further at his food and nods.

"There are certainly better within the area."

[workaphilic]

"This." He makes a circular gesture with his cup. "The experience. Price is just as much for the service as it is for the coffee. Going through the motions. Whether or not they're the correct motions, apparently."

There is, at least, one area of casual conversation he excels at. (Complaining.)

[excalibured]

"...I'm likely not the first to tell you that you're in fact, quite strange." No one puts this much thought into getting a cup of coffee and exactly what they're paying for by doing so. Seriously.

It's an area of conversation that they share. "Perhaps, next time it would be best to get it to go, and take a walk instead."

[workaphilic]

He smiles, vaguely. Not the first time he's been called that, no, but it is one of the milder adjectives people have used. (For what? Because he thinks? Speaks volumes more about the rest of the populace than it does about him.)

He takes a long sip of his drink and squints through the window into the cafe. "Quality won't change whether I'm walking or sitting. Next time it might be best to simply bring my own."