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tour-de-pants · 6 months

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Guys, I did a thing...

Just a quick alt meet RPF of Watson and Holmes... You know I ship it, don't @ me! Let me know if I should do more :) -Pants

If he’d been paying any attention, Watson would’ve noticed the aggravated stare from the woman one table over. He’d been tapping a slim wooden stir stick against his mug for five minutes that must’ve felt to her like fifty. He wasn’t the sort to annoy strangers, or anyone, intentionally. Usually he didn’t even mind someone else running late to a meeting. But if Lestrade didn’t turn up soon he might just lose his mind.

Training diets were a hell he put himself through willingly, and after fifteen years, the strain was fairly easy to take. Without much of a sweet tooth to speak of, he had it better than many—especially poor Anderson, who harbored a desire for pain au chocolat to rival his want for a mountain win. Not a lot got to Watson anymore, but the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans in this place… damn if he wasn’t about to crack and down a massive hazelnut concoction worth half a day’s calories.

“‘Ugh, honestly,”’ the woman one table over grunted, drawing Watson’s attention away from the door. He frowned as she met his eyes with a look of disgust. A lifetime in London wouldn’t be enough to understand these people.

“‘Hey John, sorry ‘bout that. Perils of mass transport, you know how it goes.” ’Lestrade slid into the seat across the table, the bizarrely small size of which Watson was noticing for the first time. They really didn’t want folks to hang about, he guessed.

“‘It’s alright, Coach,”’ Watson answered, gulping his unexpectedly still hot tea.

“‘Aw, don’t you do that, mate. Makes me feel like an old man in charge of a bunch of teenagers.”’

“‘I know.” ’Watson smiled. Lestrade was a good guy—and a good coach. Maybe he was jumping the gun with this whole retirement thing. “‘So what are we doing here? Besides testing my resolve against the Kenyan roast of the day?”’

“‘Need to let you in on something before the Prologue, being team captain and all. I wish I could tell the whole group, but it’s a bit sensitive.”’ The clasping and unclasping of Lestrade’s fingers told Watson this wouldn’t be a time for jokes, regardless of what he was about to hear. Something distinctly non-chamomile turned in his stomach.

“‘What’s up? Is someone injured?”’ He leaned forward the few inches it took to bring their heads close. “‘Worse?”’

“‘Oh, no, no. Nothing like that, thank God. No, it’s…you’re getting…it’s a new teammate.”’

Watson leaned back in his chair. Of course it was a new teammate; it’d have to be, what with Sholto out. After that crash last year, the doctors said he would never mount a bike again. He’d managed to stay out of the media once he’d stabilized and been transferred to a rehabilitation facility. It’d been a big hit for the team in terms of the Tour and fears for their own safety out there. Few teams in recent years had been as cohesive as Speedy’s; the idea of bringing in someone new was hard enough, but—

“‘This close to the Prologue, though? Why can’t the other guys know? And why didn’t you just ring me about it?”’

“‘John, it’s…”’

Watson waited, stir stick tapping against his saucer now. He heard the woman next to him mutter a curse as she scooped up her laptop and walked off. Some people were just grumpy, he supposed.

“‘John, it’s Sherlock Holmes.”’

It was Watson’s turn to curse under his breath. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who rode the Tour ten years ago? Sherlock Holmes who left the race and the cycling world in a cloud of cocaine use allegations and rumors about a tryst gone bad with his own teammate? Sherlock Holmes whom no one had heard from since?

“‘Sorry Greg.”’ Watson blinked hard in an attempt to make sense of the news. “‘I thought you said Sherlock Holmes.”’

“‘You can’t tell anyone, mate. And sorry for laying it on you like this. There are more things beyond my control than I’d like, but I can assure you he’ll be riding clean and is physically fit for the job. Listen, I hate surprises as much as the next guy, but my hands are really tied with this one. I’m letting you know now because I anticipate I’ll need your help.”’

Watson ran a hand through his hair, short and light despite it only being late June. He still couldn’t figure out why he’d had to come out all this way to hear about this, but Lestrade always had reasons for what he did and he was usually right.

“‘Ok. Yeah, alright. Thanks for the heads up. Whatever you need, I’ll back you.”’

“‘Great.”’ A relieved smile flashed across Lestrade’s face as he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and stood to leave. “‘Now get yourself out of here before temptation wins the day.”’

“‘As if it ever could.”’ Watson nodded and returned the smile, waiting for the door to close behind Lestrade before moving to add his cup and saucer to the mounting pile of dirty china above the trash bin behind him.

“‘Ceramic,”’ intoned a deep voice behind him.

“‘Pardon?”’ Watson asked, furrowing his brow but not turning.

“‘The dining ware isn’t china. It’s ceramic.”’

Watson stepped toward the bin, tossing in his stir stick and paper napkin before precariously balancing his ceramic cup and saucer on the returns shelf.

“‘Are you my conscience?” ’he asked, laughing lightly as his own joke and holding up pleading hands in front of his mug until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be the one to send the whole lot tumbling to the floor.

“‘Unlikely. Though I suppose we’ll see how the early stages go.”’

Early stages? Watson turned slowly, eyebrows rising and jaw dropping as recognition dawned. Holy hell, you’re—

“‘Sherlock Holmes, yes. Kind of you to remember me, though perhaps the memory you’re recalling is not in itself so kind.”’

“‘What are you doing here?”’ Watson looked around suspiciously, feeling as though he ought to be paranoid though he didn’t know what he might be trying to spot.

“‘Seeing as how it is a coffee shop, one might suppose I stopped in to purchase coffee. And as much as I do hate to be predictable, in this particular case, that supposition would be the correct one.”’

“‘Well yeah, ok, but I mean why are you here, in this coffee shop? Now?”’

“‘I take it an odd experience has befallen you in the past hour—no, half hour—and you haven’t yet processed whatever it is. News of some kind, I should imagine. However, blocking the bins with your jaw wagging like a goldfish, while apparently a natural choice for you, is in fact not typically the most productive one.”’

“‘Oh, sh—sorry, I’m very sorry,”’ Watson said to the miniature queue of patrons waiting to deposit their china.

“‘Ceramic,”’ Holmes noted impatiently. “‘Sit down at that set of chairs there. The place is emptying, I should return with my order in three minutes.”’ He cast a glance at the register. “‘Four, it’s the cashier’s first day.”’

Watson didn’t see him walk away, nor did he feel himself cross back to the small dining area and settle into a surprisingly uncomfortable armchair. It was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had been missing from the public eye, from the entire world as far as he knew, for nearly a decade. Now within minutes of being told the man had spontaneously resurrected to join Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey, here he was in the flesh. Watson looked around the cafe. He didn’t believe in magic or kismet or any of those mystical type things. After forty years of life, he was sure he’d know by now if there were weird crystal-swinging forces at play. But what were the odds?

“Three thousand seven hundred and eighteen.” The tap of a paper cup on the low table by his elbow punctuated Holmes’s statement. “‘Of course that’s not the actual percentage chance of us encountering each other here and now, simply the approximate number of coffee shops available assuming we were both entering one at the same time.”’

“‘That’s one massive coincidence.”’ Watson eyed Holmes in the chair beside him, sipping slowly at his own paper cup’s contents.

“‘The universe is rarely so lazy, or so Big Brother says.”’

“‘Big Brother?”’ Watson was now only ninety percent certain he wasn’t in a movie. Or a simulation. Or whatever the thing was you were supposedly inside of.

“‘My big brother, Mycroft. Though if he had it his way, the capital letters would be spot on. The chances of us meeting here are slim indeed, but there’s something more…why is it you—oh. I see.”’

“‘You see?”’

“‘You’ve only just found out that we’re more than distant former colleagues of a sort. Quite the coincidence after all, then.”’ Holmes took another long sip of his drink. “‘Do make a start on that before it goes cold,”’ he instructed, pointing at Watson’s cup. “‘Wasting it would be a crime.”’

Heat radiated through Watson’s palm as he wrapped his hand around the cup. The scent of fresh coffee reached him halfway to his mouth, allowing him a moment to brace himself. He never was able to drink it black, but this was hardly the time to cause offense. He could almost hear Holmes smirking from a foot away. He can’t really read minds, I must have some rude look on my face. Wouldn’t have to if he’d only asked before he went ahead and ordered for me. Haven’t even properly introduced ourselves yet.

“‘You’ll have to trust me sometime. Might as well start with my impeccable taste in coffee.”’

“‘Right, yeah. Thanks. Cheers.”’ Watson took a careful sip. Then another. Whatever this was dancing across his tongue was like no coffee he’d ever tasted. He tipped his head back a moment, unsure whether he wanted to consume it all instantly or draw it out as long as it would last.

“‘You’re not being shipped to a desert island, it’s only the Tour de France. You can have another one of these in hand in a matter of weeks.”’

“‘This is the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life. This…what even is this?”’ He strained to see the board over his shoulder. “‘That Tanzania blend thing?”’

Holmes scoffed. “‘As if a blend of the day could produce such a depth of flavor. No, John—may I call you John?”’

Watson nodded. Day was already weird, why not.

“‘No, John, this is not a blend. Look at the wall behind the baristas, over to the left.”’

“‘I didn’t even see that before,” ’Watson said, squinting at a large apparatus.

“‘You do see, but you do not observe. That,”’ Holmes gestured with the cup in his hand, “‘produces this. Kyoto Slow, by name.”’

“‘How does all that even work?”’

“‘Perhaps if we both make it home from Paris,”’ Holmes said, sighing into another sip, “‘I’ll walk you through it.”’

------------- //irl author's note: Kyoto Slow is an awesome Mystrade fic, highly recommend. read on AO3.

#fan works #john watson #johnlock #johnlock fanfiction #pro cycling au #sherlock bbc #sherlock holmes #sherlock x john #tour de france au #slipstream #fanfiction remix

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