Title: So, Does the Universe Just Hate Me, Or–
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Original Female Character
Genre: Humour, Friendship
Ratings/Warnings: PG-15 (light M) for Cheryl's dirty mouth.
Summary: The next person to tell me the universe planned for me to become John Watson's sassy gay friend gets a serving tray to the head. (Johnlock, platonic John/OC)
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. And any resemblance to the Cheryl of pika-la-cynique's Sakura Sushi is purely coincidental (even if it could totally work in the Girls Next Door-verse, since BBC!Holmes and Watson do kinda exist there).
Notes: Cheryl's experiences are heavily influenced by my own workplace. Don't worry, I actually love my job.

So, Does the Universe Just Hate Me, Or –

I.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit damn I'm fucking late and he's going to kill me!"

My roommate sends me an odd look. "Chill," she offers. I glare at her.

"You try working at a fancy Japanese restaurant and having to go in at four-thirty for dinner shift. I haven't even eaten yet –"

"Get me some spicy tuna rolls," my roommate drawls. I nearly fling my poly-econ book at her.

"Fuck you," I reply.

"When and where?" she asks, winking saucily. I roll my eyes.

I scramble out the door, black loafers nearly slipping off my feet. They're slightly heeled, and since I have the grace and flexibility of a pregnant hippopotamus I find myself stumbling in those as well as I trip my way down the stairs out to the bike racks near my dorms. Shit-fuck-damn Charles is going to have me for dinner. He's going to slice me into tiny little Cheryl-pieces and serve me up as sashimi.

"There you are!" is the first thing I hear when I stumble into the restaurant and clock in at the till, my bike slammed and locked into the bike racks outside with their wheels still spinning. "Charles isn't here yet," my co-worker Lauren adds, voice low and conspiratorial.

"Sorry, sorry, I was busy with homework," I say as my hasty half-arsed excuse as I stride back towards the locker room to put away my purse. "And I didn't even get the chance to eat."

"You can order something later, I guess," Lauren offers helpfully. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for your support."

She laughs, and we start setting up for dinner shift.

"Irasshaimase!" I chirp in my sing-song, 'this is not Cheryl Fang but rather her more sociable twin' voice. The taller of the two men stalks in with a stormy expression and I will down the urge to roll my eyes. Great. Another one of those customers.

"Two for the sushi bar with a view towards the door, now," snaps Grumpy, as if he's got chopsticks up his arse.

"All right," I say automatically, grabbing my pen and the sushi menu and leading him and the shorter man over to the sushi bar. "Will this be fine?"

"I said I needed a view of the door! What are you, an idiot or deaf or –"

"Play nice, Sherlock," growls the other man, sending me an apologetic look. "Why don't you let me do the social navigating?"

Please, I beg mentally.

The shorter man is talking again. "These seats will be just fine, thank you," he says with a smile, and I can't help but smile back as I record their seat numbers and hand the menu to the chef.

"I said, John, we need to see the street –"

"You don't eat anyway; you can turn your chair around and watch the street that way."

The man named Sherlock pouts. The man named John rolls his eyes. I laugh awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot.

"Could I… er… get you two anything?" I ask. "Something to drink?" After all, Lauren is busy tending to that elderly couple at the corner table, and Ryan is serving some complicated-looking sushi roll to the people at table thirty-three. I smile cheerily at John and Sherlock, pen poised on the next empty page of my small notebook.

"Two waters will be fine, thanks," John says, and I nod, leaving to get their drinks.

I don't trust myself with serving trays. At all. I'm constantly spilling the sauces and soups on them, and I can't balance the damn thing on my hand to save my life. Ryan and Lauren must have been circus jugglers or something in a past life. I was probably a beached whale.

As a matter of fact it takes all my concentration not to overly slosh the glasses of water as I set down the two cups. John smiles and says his thanks, and I return to the till with a sigh of relief.

The door opens again with a tinkling of bells at that very moment. I think the universe hates me.

Sherlock and John stay for a ridiculously long time.

"Another cup of tea for Sherlock," John tells me when I pass by with table seven's bill, and I nod and smile and promptly swerve in the opposite direction for more tea. When I return with the tea, Sherlock is staring at the door as if he could break it through sheer force of concentration, and when I hand the tea over to John he sets it down behind his dinner partner with a sigh.

"Does he always do that?" I ask.

"Stare at the door and not eat anything? Pretty much," John says, rolling his eyes. He smiles at Paul-san, the sushi chef, as he hands over a plate of nigiri sushi. "Thanks, Paul."

"No problem! Chef's special coming right up for you and Sherlock Holmes!"

I blink. Paul-san knew them? I send the old chef a quizzical look. Sherlock looks at me abruptly, and I take a step back. God, the man is alarming.

"I helped your sushi chef out of a tight spot a couple months back. False accusation of drug possession. It was his brother."

"Oh," I say. "Um. Tea's behind you."

Sherlock grunts and takes his teacup. "Too much green tea powder," he sniffs.

"Okay." Thanks, your Majesty. We can't all be geishas here.

Sherlock looks at me from over the rim of his teacup. "College student with a smoker roommate," he said.

I blink. "You know Mel."

"No, I deduced it by the lighter in your pocket."

"That could be mine –"

"It is, but you yourself don't smoke."

"And how did you –"

"Sherlock," John warns.

"No sign of nicotine stains on your fingers or your teeth. Obvious."

"Do you, like, people-watch for a living or something?" I ask, backing away to let Lauren deliver a tray full of vegetable tempura.

"Pretty close to it," John replies. "He's kinda supposed to be working right now. That's why he's not eating."

"Oh." I think I'm saying that a lot today. I quickly head to the till, intent on ignoring Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

It doesn't really matter, because suddenly Sherlock leaps up and dashes out of the restaurant, and John groans and clambers to his feet, every inch of him screaming in resignation. He strides over to me, handing me his wallet.

I blink.

"Just… pay the bill with whatever's in there. I'll be back to pick it up." He smiles at me, and I'm not sure whether he just trusts random waitresses at Japanese restaurants or there's not a lot to steal in that wallet of his.

"Have a wonderful evening," I say, as if on autopilot. John nods, and then he's rushing away out the door in pursuit of his insane dinner partner.