Baker Street looked like a decent enough restaurant, though truth be told, John was far from picky when he was peckish. It was that or the Thai place sitting kitty corner from it, and while John had no objections to Thai food in general, he wasn't really in the mood for it when there was an alternative within ten feet. He glanced at the operating hours for the business, checked his watch, and decided that he wouldn't be turned out on his ear with an hour left until closing. Perfect.

Bells jingled on the inside of the door as he entered, leaning heavily on his cane and waiting to be seated. A pretty young woman with a nervous smile greeted him, self-consciously tucking her bangs behind her ear, and seated him at a nice little table where he'd have a view of the rest of the restaurant.

It was actually a lot classier on the inside that he would have expected, clean and homey-feeling with elegant lines and just the right level of lighting for comfort without inspiring drowsiness. There was music playing as well, something low and unobtrusive, and though John didn't know the words, he found himself tapping his fingers to the beat against the tabletop as he flipped through the menu.

"Do you need a minute, then?" The waitress asked, pen poised above her pad. "Or I could give you some suggestions, if you like."

John's gaze flicked to her name tag and he smiled, thumbing another page aside. "Ah, thank you, Molly. I'll just have whatever's on special, thanks."

"Oh, that's good." Her smile bloomed, pleasure pinkening her cheeks. "The lime chicken, I mean. It's my favorite."

It was more than a bit slow, so John wasn't worried about waiting ages for his food. When the waitress headed off, he let his eyes drift, noting that there was only one other gentleman in the restaurant within his range of sight, and he didn't look all that pleased with the contents of his plate. His mouth was puckered, brows drawn down as he pushed his food about with his fork, foot jiggling exaggeratedly below the table. Fussy eater, John imagined, which was really a shame; unless the food was still moving about or smelled rotten, he couldn't think of a good reason to turn his nose up at it.

Some people, though.

Molly came back with his tea, and he smiled gratefully at her when the man lifted his head, expression absolutely petulant. "Waitress! Come here! This is absolutely abominable; I can't be expected to eat this. Send it back!"

Molly's hands faltered on the teacup, and without thinking, John reached over to steady her. Not wanting to embarrass her, however, he passed the motion off as simply accepting his teacup, bringing it to his lips with a murmured, "Best go take care of that bloke, then."

"Right," Molly sighed, expression pinched. "It's just... he always does this..."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering why someone who was so clearly dissatisfied with the food kept returning to the restaurant, but decided not to voice his question. No one around who would answer it, anyway; Molly was busy speaking to the customer in hushed tones, and his face was flushing with every word, impatiently pushing the dish at her. John could catch something about not going to be very pleased but she was quickly spoken over the top of, and finally gave in, grabbing the plate and hurrying off to the kitchens.

The man quieted down and John took another sip of his tea, slightly annoyed, but not enough to actually get up and say something about it. If the man was placated when his meal was replaced, fine. People were absolute arses everywhere, and he imagined that restaurants got the worst end of most people's personalities as it was. However, if he kept harassing that nice girl, John would have to walk over there and give him a piece of his mind. Being hungry and cranky was one thing, but being rude to someone who was just trying to do her job was hardly good manners.

It turned out that he didn't really have to worry, however. He nearly dropped his tea when the door to the kitchens banged open, bouncing off the wall with enough force to nearly take out the tall, infuriated man who came barreling out of it. Plate gripped in his hand, he held the plate high above his head and stalked through the tables, mouth pressed into a firm line as he made a beeline for the discontent customer. Judging by the flush on his face and the state of his apron (there were likely at least four difference kinds of sauces smeared on it) John assumed this was the chef. He also assumed that he was not happy.

Though that didn't take a genius. The air practically crackled around him as he slammed the plate down on the table, pointing at it with one slender finger. "Eat it. Eat every single bite. Immediately."

"I certainly will not!" Slapping an open palm against the table, the man exclaimed, "It's not fit to feed my dog!"

Sipping his tea, John watched with growing amusement as the chef curled his hand into a fist, his index finger still extended pointedly toward the plate. "It's a far sight too good for someone like you, but you've ordered it and now you're going to eat it, Anderson. We both know there's nothing more inviting waiting for you at home than frozen meat patties and canned soup, though that's your fault, isn't it? How's Sally?"

There was certainly history here. It was a little bit like watching a soap opera play out, John thought; fascinated, he observed Anderson's face flush, lip curling back in something like a snarl. His eyes flicked to the chef, taking in the rigid lines of his shoulders, the wicked curve of his mouth that implied the light of battle had been sparked in him. Well, damn; he'd had no idea he would get a meal and a show.

He barely noticed when Molly set a salad at his right elbow, but that was all right, because she barely noticed either. Her eyes were wide and her gaze entirely on the pair of bickering men, as were John's, though she showed as significant degree more of apprehension than he did.

"Oh, leave her out of this! You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Don't I?" The challenge in his voice nearly made it hum, and John couldn't help but grin. "That shirt you're wearing is a size too small. Not yours, then, is it? Judging by the state of your hair you haven't been for a shower, which might make sense if you just popped out of your house, but at this time of night? No, paired with the shirt, it's obvious you haven't been home and you left somewhere in a hurry. There's a smudge of lipstick at the base of your left ear - yes, just there, you've only smeared it, really - and it's the exact shade that Sally Donovan wears. Hasn't changed it in years, more's the pity, it doesn't do much for her mouth, does it? And you aren't wearing your ring, which means you're on the outs again with your wife. So, out last night, with Sally, left in a hurry, fighting with the wife, so you're eating out to avoid making yourself dinner at home, and you're in a piss poor mood for it, so you're going to whinge about your dinner rather than confront your own issues. Standard. Obvious."

Throughout his entire explanation, the chef had punctuating his statements with helpful indicators to the parts of the conversation he was referencing, which made things a lot easier for John. He speared a few greens, chewing on them idly while he followed the flow of logic and found himself increasingly amused. He shouldn't have been, really, because it sounded like that Anderson fellow had more than his fair share of chaos and trouble in his life, but then, it also sounded like it was more than a bit his fault. John couldn't really help bearing witness to the confrontation, being the only other patron of the restaurant, and actually, if the fellow hadn't sent his dish back, none of that would have happened.

Didn't look like it was going to resolve well, though. Rising, nearly upending the table as he went, Anderson barked, "You're a freak! I'm not going to eat, and I'm certainly not going to pay for that substandard food!"

John couldn't help it; the man was so obviously embarrassed, but he was acting like an overgrown child, so he laughed. He meant to hide it in a napkin, he really did, and by the time both men had snapped their gazes to him, he was innocently wiping his mouth. He could tell he wasn't fooling anyone, though; Anderson was looking at him with barely-contained fury, and the chef with appraising eyes.

"Sorry," John supplied, hunching his shoulders and attending to his salad again.

Anderson made a strange noise, something guttural, and stalked out of the restaurant. The door slammed behind him, and an elderly woman poked her out of the kitchen, tutting. "Oh, Sherlock. You can't keep chasing people away."

"Anderson is not people," he said scornfully, lifting the plate in one smooth motion and balancing it on nimble fingers. "And I didn't chase him away. He ran. I simply requested that he eat his meal."

"Not much of a request." John commented to his salad, lips quirked up at the corners.

He probably ought to have kept his mouth shut. The chef rounded on him, looking down his nose with a calculating, keen expression that made John want to squirm a bit in his seat. Briefly, he imagined having the meal dumped on his head, but no, that wouldn't make sense - the man was obviously proud of his cooking, so he wouldn't waste it - but that didn't mean he wouldn't let into John the same way he'd dealt with Anderson.

Vaguely uncomfortably, he wondered what the other man would see.

After a few beats of silence, Sherlock bent slightly at the waist and placed the plate in front of John, lifting his fork to rearrange the food back into an artful presentation. Nothing had been touched, or at least it didn't look like it, though John was still a little bemused to have it placed in front of him.

"I ordered the lime chicken." He said helpfully, raising his eyebrows up at the dark-haired man. This close, he could see that his hair, white naturally curly and probably very smart when he put some effort into it, was clinging to his temples with sweat and frizzed out at the ends. Not exactly an excellent look for him, but he imagined slaving over ovens and stoves all day would do that to a fellow. "Though this looks nice too."

"Taste that." Though his tone of voice was commanding, it didn't immediately raise John's hackles. Seemed more like the man wanted to prove something to himself, anyway, so he simply shrugged, slicing a piece of the chicken breast and bringing it to his mouth.

He chewed, no doubt taking longer than the chef would have liked, and though it was a little disconcerting to have the man staring at him the entire time he did, it was also a bit flattering to think that his opinion bore so much serious consideration. The food was - well he didn't know what it was, but it was delicious. Chicken, no doubt, but it was like no chicken he'd ever tasted before; rich and flavorful, with a blend of spices he couldn't even begin to name, but not overpowering in the least. The meat itself was soft and juicy, a perfect texture that he feared might ruin him for all other chicken, ever.

He swallowed, managed a brilliant, and then went back to work on the meal before him.

Sherlock pulled the chair out opposite John, lowering himself to it with a satisfied air, and folded his hands beneath his chin. "Why did you laugh earlier?"

Rather than answer, John shoved another forkful of chicken in his mouth, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head with pleasure. So damn good.

After a few more beats of silence, Sherlock added, "It was very impolite." He sounded delighted.

"Well, what you did was amazing." John figured he had nothing to lose by being honest, and carrying a conversation was bound to be less awkward than sitting there and having the chef watch him eat.

"Amazing?" He queried, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows.

"Yeah, how you... just figured all that out." John waved a piece of chicken at him, and then seemed to think better of it, redirecting it to his mouth. "Brilliant. I've never seen anything like it."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. However, he simply hummed.

It might have been embarrassing how quickly he was working through his food, if John bothered to be embarrassed about that kind of thing. Honestly, though, he'd been eating out ever since he was released from the hospital, and this was the best thing that had been placed in front of him for a long time. A far sight better than his own cooking, anyway.

"That bloke was absolutely nuts, by the way." Taking another drink of his tea, he added, "This is delicious. Best thing I've ever had."

"Obviously; it's the first time you've eaten anything I prepared." No matter how haughty the tone, however, John could tell that the man was pleased. Probably unused to compliments, too, given the way his eyes were warming under the praise. "Though people tend to be less forgiving of the food when confronted with my..."

"Attitude?" John asked, smiling. "Didn't give the guy any more than he deserved. This was delicious, by the way."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and flicking through it for the appropriate amount to pay. It then occurred to him that he had no idea what this cost.

"Er, how much was this, anyhow?"

Sherlock placed his hands flat against the table, completely ignoring his question. "Would you like a job, Mr. Watson?"

Eyes widening, John asked, "How did you-"

"Because we have an opening for a dishwasher. I assume you can wash dishes?" The imperious arch of his eyebrow would have been offensive, if John had been given enough time to be properly offended. "The work is regular and the pay decent, with meals included in the allowance. There's also a flat just above if you need lodgings close to work, which I would imagine you would, considering the leg."

Unbidden, his leg twinged, and John reached below the table to massage it, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. "I-"

Sherlock smiled, so suddenly and completely that it dominated his expression and changed the entire aspect of his face. "You can start on Monday, move in sooner if you like. I'm the other tenant to the flat, so no need to worry about that. Rent is reasonable, so no need to worry about that, and I've covered this month in full as it is. So I'll see you Monday, then?"

Feeling more than a bit like the wind had been knocked out of him, he managed, "Okay, wait, hang on, what exactly is all this?"

Sighing gustily, Sherlock rose, hands flat against the table. "You need a job. You also need a place to live, and I would go through the steps of telling you how I came to that conclusion but I have a dessert in for Mrs. Hudson and I don't want it to go bad. I have room in my flat for one more person and I'm in need of a dishwasher - the last one ran out on me, very irritating - and you aren't put off by me in the least thus far."

"Right." A little shell-shocked, John placed his wallet on the table. "So based on all that, we're moving in together and you're giving me a job, and... that's all fine?"

"Of course it is." Sherlock smiled again, clearing the table with a brisk efficiency.

"But I don't even know your name," John protested. "And I haven't given you mine."

"You didn't need to, as I saw it on your identification." Turning, apparently intending to sweep back into the kitchen, Sherlock added, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the chef for Baker Street and I live in 221B, the flat just above this restaurant. I'll see you Monday."

With that, he swept away, leaving John staring after him with a slightly dazed expression.