"A breakfast stop? Really Arthur?"

  I smiled back at the girl walking behind me. Her blonde hair came just past her shoulders in a short, messy braid she combed up herself. She had on her trusty navy blue Yankee hat turned backwards on her head, and ratty clothes she calls 'casual', but I think it's lazy. I guess that's the American way, but I don't get it, being a British gentleman. 

"Yes really, you need energy to perform your best!" I retorted, turning around to face her on the cracked sidewalk. Another thing about Americans; they think that breakfast is an optional thing. The same with British tea, which Clare wouldn't even touch.

"Well Sherlock doesn't drink tea all the time like some people I know," she smirked, drawing out the sentence as she came to a stop next to me. A soft breeze blew, causing her to shiver. Despite having lived here for three months now, she still couldn't get used to the chilling winds and the dreary clouds that constantly hung above our heads. I suppose it gave the outskirts of London a dark feeling, but I had come to ignore it.

"Let's keep moving," Clare muttered to no one in particular as she shrugged a hoodie over her cap. I just shrugged and kept walking, letting out a chuckle as she hopped over the sidewalk cracks that littered the concrete around the town.

  I laughed again as she nearly tripped over her feet avoiding the crevasses. "What are you doing?" I grinned, holding her hand to keep her out of trouble. I've learned the hard way that it's better to have a grip on her than to leave her to her own devices.

"Not stepping on the sidewalk cracks," she shrugged, tugging her hand out of mine. "After all, I don't need any more bad luck in my life right now."

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure how to. Her mother had died of birthing issues after her little sister Canada was born right before she moved here. It was just a thing that we didn't talk about, for her sake.

Realizing she had darkened the mood, Clare added, "But I still think that you would make a pretty good Sherlock if you just drank less tea." I gave her an eye roll as we came upon the shop. It was an old building of cracked brick made too long ago for any of us to remember. A faded sign depicting a tea cup creaked as the wind rocked it back and forth, which was about the only thing that distinguishes it from the rest of the worn street.

"This place looks as bad as your tea, Sherlock," Clare said, sending a smirk my way, "And that's saying a lot."

I just rolled my eyes and opened the wooden door, which gave a delightful ring from the bell on top, alerting the cashier of our presence.

As I ushered the blonde in I whispered, "Well I'm not Sherlock, I'm King Arthur." Clare gave a laugh and approached the counter where the delicious smells of pastries were coming from.

"In your dreams!" She replied, looking over her shoulder with a twinkle in her emerald green eyes.

"Now if you're going to make me stop, can we at least get a drink?"

"Sure." I replied and walked up to the counter. The cashier was probably in his late twenties, with a buzz cut of dark hair, an apron, and a 'Coffee' tattoo on his wrist. Why anyone would do that, I didn't know. Without the tattoo and the pink apron, he would've made a fine gentleman. But when he finally looked up at us and asked us our orders, I nearly fainted from the amount of smoke he gave off.

After a few awkward seconds trying not to gag, I replied, "Two British teas, please."

I nearly gasped from relief when he walked away, bringing the powerful smell with him. As I glanced around, I realized that they had replaced the antique wooden chairs and tables. In their place were new black iron seats adorned with round silver cushions, and table spreads of the same hue. Clare and I sat at her favorite seat, the one farthest from the counter, over by the large window that lined the left wall next to the door.

When we sat down, Clare frowned, picking at the table cloth. "I can't believe they got rid of all their antiques!"

Not sure whether that was a good or bad thing, I answered, "But it looks so much better now! Isn't it great?" I gave a little hop on my cushion to prove my point.

Clare just bit her lip. "I wish some things wouldn't change..." She said, turning towards the window so her blonde hair lit up from the dim light outside. Her eyes almost seemed to sparkle whenever she said strange things like that. Why, I may never know, but I did know it made her look rather lovely.

I just blushed and glanced away, glad whenever the waitress brought our teas to the table. I cupped my hands around the ceramic glass, grateful that it saved me from having to continue the conversation. I tipped it up to my mouth and the liquid seemed to warm me up from the inside out, a soft feeling filling me up.

Clare just glanced at her cup as if it was poison. "Look Arthur..." She started trailing off, and glancing away from me nervously. I stared at her, confused as she continued.

"I'm leaving."

I nearly spewed my tea. "What?" I demanded standing up across the table, sending my chair skittering a few feet back. "You just got here and now you're leaving? What the bloody heck kind of sick joke is this?"

Clare's eyes went glassy as she answered me. "My dad, he..." She stopped, gathering her breath, "He left. Gone. Disowned. Whatever you want to call it. The point is, my stupid brother Alex is taking care of us now, and he has a job in New York. So I'm leaving, and I might not be coming back!" By the end of it, she was in tears, her cheeks red streaked.

I bit my lip and looked away. I had never been good at saying goodbye. So I just sat there and whispered, "So what now?"

She stopped crying for a moment and answered, "I leave. Goodbye Arthur." I watched my reflection helplessly in the rippling tea as her footsteps receded, and the door gave a sad ring as she walked away.

When I looked back up, all I saw was an empty, trashed street staring back at me. I bit my lip as a single tear streamed down my face dripping onto the table. A voice in the back of my mind whispered that gentlemen don't cry. But I ignored the whispers, letting them flow freely down my face in the middle of an empty coffee shop.

It wasn't until nine years later would I see her again.