Chapter Text
John looked up as the small bell above the door chimed merrily, announcing the arrival of another customer. When he’d first begun working at the book shop, the bell had annoyed him. Over time he’d grown used to it, and now he saw it as a sort of cheery little friend. He’d never tell anyone that, of course, as he didn’t want to be written off as a lunatic.
A small, rotund woman had entered the store and was going through the romance novels with a single-minded intensity that scared John a little. She was dressed entirely in pale yellow and reminded John of a lemon drop. He smiled to himself, thinking he really shouldn’t be comparing customers to candy. After a very short time she brought five books to the checkout counter, giving John a glare just daring him to say anything negative about her selections. He never did, though. If he had commentary about the books people chose, it was always positive. In this case, he had absolutely nothing to say - he stayed just about as far away from the romance novels as possible. Just the covers were enough to put him off. Once he’d tried reading one because he’d always lived by the standard of ‘you ought to try everything at least once,’ but he only got a few pages in before he felt slightly ill.
Handing the woman her change with a smile, John settled back in with his book. Technically he wasn’t supposed to read while working, but he’d finished everything except the organization of the Rare Books section, and he needed a break from that. The store was quite large, but had an elegant antique look and an old, peaceful feeling about it. It had been in business for almost one hundred years, the ownership staying in the same family. Its appearance had been maintained but never updated because people seemed to enjoy the experience of choosing their books in a grand, high ceilinged building. Above the shop were a few small flats, and John lived in one of them. He wasn’t part of the family that owned the shop, but he was a trustworthy worker and they treated him kindly. He also suspected that they offered him the job and rented him the flat at least partially out of pity.
In his mid twenties he had been invalided out of the war far too early by a gunshot wound to the shoulder and subsequent infection that nearly killed him. When he’d gotten back to London, he had no idea what to do with his life. The plan had been to stay in the army until he was either old enough to retire, or killed. Being sent home was definitely not part of that plan, so while he made a new one he had to get a job to pay the rent and feed himself. Happening on the grand old bookstore with a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, he shrugged and went in to apply. He had always liked books, so he figured it couldn’t be too bad. A year later, the manager, Karen, had offered him one of the recently vacated flats above the store and he’d gladly accepted, eager to get out of the tiny flat the army provided. It was now several years after his return to London and he still didn’t have a plan. He missed the excitement and the feeling of being so very alive that the war had provided him, but his current life was nothing to complain about. As far as he could tell, he’d been very lucky since his return.
The chime of the bell snapped him out of his reverie, as a tall man in a blue scarf and a long coat strode in and headed toward the Science section - Biology specifically, John noted - as if he’d been in the store a thousand times and knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. This wasn’t uncommon with many of his regular customers, but John had never seen this man in his life. Intrigued, he watched the man repeatedly pick up a book, turn to a specific page, scowl, and return it to the shelf. After going through about fifteen books, the man turned and stalked out of the store, coat billowing dramatically behind him. John shrugged as he stood up to continue his work in the Rare Books section; all sorts of people came into the store, and he’d stopped finding their quirks in behavior strange long ago.
A few days later, the man in the coat returned. He entered the shop in the exact same way and John could have sworn the bell rang a bit more regally, as if it recognized this man was something different, something special. At any rate, he certainly carried himself as if he thought so. This time he headed towards Poetry, which was up on the second level, and John lost sight of him. Several customers lined up at once, and John kept himself busy ringing up their books and starting small conversations with him. He was good at talking to people, which was good for business and he suspected it was another reason Karen had offered him the flat upstairs. These days John practically ran the shop himself as Karen was busy with her family. It was fine by him; it gave him a sense of pride and responsibility.
When the line dwindled and the last customer went out the door, John returned to his book. He’d read it many times before; the spine was so creased it could lay flat all on its own, many pages were dog-eared, and the cover was bent in several places. John could get a new copy, but he liked this one. He’d picked up several of the newer editions, but they never felt right.
“That’s a waste of your time, you know.”
John looked up sharply, a dark scowl on his face. The tall man in the long coat who had entered the shop at least - he checked his watch - an hour ago stood at the service desk, looking disdainfully at John’s book.
“Heaven, hell, armageddon - it’s all rather pointless, don’t you think?” he continued.
John smirked. “That is the point. Have you even read it?”
“I read enough,” the stranger sniffed.
“Clearly not,” John retorted. On a sudden impulse, he held the well-loved copy out. “Do you want to borrow it? You could finish it up properly and then get back to me on whether it’s a waste of my time,” he offered, the smirk still lingering about his lips. What had made him offer up his favorite copy of one of his favorite books to a complete stranger, he had no idea.
The man studied John with an intensity that made John feel like he could see right inside him and perhaps read his thoughts. Then, he reached out, took the book, and strode swiftly out of the shop. John watched him go, feeling a bit wistful. It was very likely he’d never see that book again.
* * *
The next day, John decided to finish his work in the Rare Books section once and for all. There was still quite a long way to go and completing it in one day was perhaps a bit optimistic, but he was going to give it a shot. It was usually slow on Thursdays, and the steady drizzle made it even less likely that customers would come by, so he figured he’d be able to get a lot of work done. The shop hadn’t dealt in rare books until Karen thought it might be a good idea about a month ago. She had been in charge of acquiring them, but John was delegated the task of recording their stock and organizing it. He ended up organizing the books by genre, then alphabetical by author within each mini-genre section. It was taking rather a long time.
Absorbed in his work, he never even heard the chime of the bell announcing the arrival of only his second customer of the day. A sharp, concise tap on his shoulder startled him tremendously and he jumped up, overturning a stack of poetry books that he’d just organized. “Shit,” he muttered to himself as he tried to rescue his work to no avail. When he realized he had sworn in front of a customer, a light blush spread across his cheeks. “Er - sorry,” he said, standing up properly and straightening out his uniform. “How can I help - oh.” It was the man from yesterday, holding out his favorite copy of Good Omens. John took it with a questioning look.
“It was dull and predictable,” the man announced. “But not entirely awful,” he conceded. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I liked Crowley.”
“I suppose if I were an arrogant prat I’d say something about not judging books by their covers,” John grinned. “I’m just glad you liked it.”
The man studied him for a moment. “You really are, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
John nodded anyway. “Sure. I always like it when people like my favorite books. Especially when I get to introduce them. My name’s John,” he said, offering his hand.
The man paused for a moment, then shook John’s hand. If there was a definition of the perfect handshake, John was pretty certain that had been it. “I know,” he replied calmly. When John raised his eyebrows in surprise, he continued, “Name tag,” in a bored voice as if it was incredibly obvious.
“Oh...right,” John replied, feeling a bit foolish. He often forgot he wore a name tag. It was a small unobtrusive brass pin, easily ignored.
“I’m Sherlock,” the man continued. “A book shop is a bit dull for someone who’s been to war,” he commented, perusing the books John had just shelved. “What are you doing here?”
John frowned. “I’m definitely not wearing a name tag that tells you my previous occupations. How did you know that?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“I watched you,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly.
“Well I watched you and all I know is that you have a curious taste in books,” John retorted. “Biology and poetry?”
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “That was for a case. I was doing research. I am interested in biology to some extent, but I don’t much care for poetry. Don’t really see the point.”
John couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, me neither. So, a case? What sort of case?” he asked, sidetracked momentarily from finding out how Sherlock knew about him.
“I’m a consulting detective,” he replied shortly, picking up another book and leafing through it.
“There’s no such thing,” John laughed, thinking Sherlock was joking. However, a sidelong glare from the man put to rest any thought that he might have said it in jest. “What, really?”
“Yes, really,” he replied in an annoyed tone of voice. “What reason would I have for fabricating my work?”
“Well - never mind,” John conceded. “I believe you. So how’d you know I was in the army?” he asked, getting back to his original query.
“You’ve been shot in the left shoulder,” Sherlock replied instantly, almost as if he’d been waiting to explain. “It’s unlikely that you were involved in any gang or criminal activity. Could be the police force, but a gunshot wound would most likely transfer you to a different, not force you out of the career. So, war. You were shot and invalided back to London. You needed a job while you decided which direction to take your life, but you grew complacent and have worked here for...four, five years?”
“Five,” John replied, somewhat dumbstruck. “And I’m not ‘complacent.’ This is a good job,” he insisted. “But, yeah...you’re right about the rest. That’s...well, that’s amazing.”
Sherlock turned sharply to look at him with a piercing gray-blue stare. “What?”
“Um, what you did. Figuring all those things out about me. It was pretty brilliant,” John explained. “Why do you seem so surprised?”
“It’s - nothing. It’s just not what people usually say,” he replied shortly.
“Well what do they usually say?” John asked in a slightly perplexed tone.
“Piss off,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.
John laughed and knelt down to reorder the books he’d knocked over. “Well they’re a right lot of idiots, then.”
Sherlock gave John a curious look, which John didn’t notice as he was attempting to rescue at least an hour’s worth of work. “Do you have any other books I might not despise?” he asked at last, the corner of his mouth tugged upwards just slightly.
Happy to have an excuse not to work on the Rare Books section anymore, John promptly got up and headed back downstairs towards the checkout counter. “Yeah, sure,” he said as he walked. “Did you like Gaiman?” he asked.
“Gaiman? Oh, the author. Yes, I suppose he was bearable as far as fiction authors go,” Sherlock replied as he followed John.
John rolled his eyes. “All right then. You want something funny again, or something darker?”
“Darker,” came Sherlock’s immediate reply.
John wondered about that, but didn’t comment as he fished around in the books he had stashed in a drawer under the counter. Finally he located the book he was searching for. It wasn’t quite as worn as Good Omens was, but it was obvious it had been read time and again. He held it out and Sherlock took it, leafing through the pages as if he’d be able to determine how good it was by snatches of phrases. “American Gods,” he murmured.
“Yeah, there’s a bit of mystery to it so you’ll probably like it, what with being a ‘consulting detective’ and all,” John said with a small smile.
“I’m certain I’ll solve any mysteries it might contain immediately, but thank you for the consideration,” Sherlock replied.
John was a bit taken aback. Yes, Sherlock was fairly arrogant as far as he could tell, but the last bit was stated simply as fact. He wondered just how smart Sherlock was. “Well, I can’t promise you’ll like it. You don’t really seem like the type who enjoys fiction,” he said.
“You are correct. Perhaps you aren’t such an idiot after all,” Sherlock replied, giving John a considering look.
John bristled. “Oi! I’m not an idiot,” he said firmly.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Everyone’s an idiot.” For some reason, that made John feel a little better.
“I’ll return your book soon. Good afternoon,” Sherlock said, and swept out of the store before John could say goodbye.