Parapraxis, or The Unconsciously Expressed Wish Behind the Perfect Coffee

In retrospect, it wasn't surprising that Ratiocination had become something of a port in the storm for John. It was the perfect place to get away from the insanity and chaos of university and be reminded of the fact that yes, life did exist outside of the classroom and the lab and that there was the occasional person out there in the world that did not exist solely to try his patience.

The jingle from the bells over the door was practically a balm to him and the sight of Sherlock yelling at some poor sot already started to help him feel less stressed.

"No, I will not resteam you beverage. It was prepared at the optimal temperature, requesting it be resteamed to the temperature of one hundred degrees would only ensure the milk would be scalded beyond all recognition and informs me that you lack both common sense and functioning taste buds."

While John usually enjoyed watching a customer fluster and squirm under Sherlock's lashing tongue today he was distracted by the two young men, late teens perhaps, loitering oddly in the back of the store. Unlike Ratiocination's typical clientele, they were dishevelled and dirty. The taller one showed obvious signs of withdrawal, while his companion kept making furtive moves, reaching for something in his pocket but never pulling it out. To say their actions were making John nervous would have been an understatement.

Sherlock's dressing down of the original customer ended, the woman sweeping out of the store sans both her requested coffee and most of her dignity, just as the two men acted. The addict yelled, "Give us your money!" while his companion began brandishing the large knife he'd unearthed from under his coat.

"Do it! Empty the till!" he yelled as he waved it around. "We haven't all day!"

The reaction they received from Sherlock was not one they'd expected. He began to laugh.

"Open it! Now!" the first one shouted, pulling his own knife out and advancing on Sherlock with it.

John acted without thinking. He slipped his rucksack off his shoulder, hefted it so that he held it by the side instead of the strap and swung it. The bag, with the weight of several textbooks behind it, caught the first of the robbers on the arm right below the elbow with a notable crunch and he fell to the ground, screaming in pain.

Dropping his bag, John pivoted. He bent slightly, planning on taking out the other man in a rugby tackle when Sherlock shouted, "No! You're disrupting my plan! The police-" but as Sherlock spoke, John's attention was pulled away from the last robber and the distraction proved to be his undoing. His adversary feinted right, then darted left, leaving John slightly off his mark when they collided. Instead of hitting him properly, leading with his shoulder and taking the man down, suddenly John found himself with a blinding pain in his side.

Sherlock stepped in then, knocking the robber upside the head with one of the large coffee carafes. "John! No!"

There was a knife sticking out of him. John stared at it. "Missed all the major organs, I'd wager" he said, numbly. "That was lucky. An inch over and," his legs suddenly weak, they began to buckle, but Sherlock was there, guiding him gently down as a policeman came rushing out from the back room, radioing for help.

"An ambulance is on its way." John was lying on the floor of the coffee shop and Sherlock bent over him as he continued, "I am so sorry, my calculations did not include your involvement. Data suggested that they would be in need of new funds tonight and an extrapolation of their pattern indicated my establishment would be their next target and arranged thusly with the police, but I had not considered all the variables, especially their ridiculously slow response time. John? Can you hear me, John?"

John knew he was going into shock. Shallow breathing. Nausea rising. Cold. So cold. Sherlock's hand was warm on his face. "Hrmm," was all he managed in response.

"I would never have endangered you. Never you. You know that, don't you, John? I should have taken your propensity for visiting near the end of day into consideration, not to mention your heroic nature. I was stupid. So very stupid. Your sojourns to my establishment are the highpoint of my day and I would have never... John? John?"

Failing his fight to stay awake, John's eyes slipped shut of their own volition and he knew no more until he regained consciousness the next day in hospital with a steaming latte awaiting him on the small table next to the bed.