Chapter Text
John slept uneasily that night, dreaming up all sorts of terrible things that might have happened to Sherlock. Had he been kidnapped? Or was he injured, waiting somewhere for help that wasn’t going to come? Perhaps he had gone into hiding. John’s imagination ran wild as he tossed and turned, tangling himself in his sheets. Finally his phone read 6:00 AM and he decided that was an acceptable hour to give up on sleeping and get out of bed. Going into work early was preferable to driving himself mad with worry and frustration.
As he made tea, he did a bit of soul-searching. From an impartial standpoint, it made no logical sense for him to be as concerned about Sherlock as he was. Yes, Sherlock had been to the shop several times, but John had regular customers like Mr. O’Brien whom he saw far more frequently. If they went missing, would he be as concerned? True, he’d worry a bit and keep an eye out for them, but he had to admit that he wouldn’t be as anxious about them as he currently was about Sherlock.
John’s involvement was largely emotional, then. He laughed shortly to himself. He didn’t even know if they were properly friends, and here he was losing sleep over the detective. John was friendly, but the only real friend he had was Mike Stamford and he’d only recently reconnected with him. That left John with two possible conclusions: either he really was lonely enough to attempt to be friends with a new customer, or he was attracted to Sherlock.
Running a hand agitatedly through his hair, he sighed. If he was honest with himself, it was probably a bit of both. And if he was even more honest, it was pretty pathetic.
John spent the rest of his time getting ready for the day attempting not to dwell on his revelation and failed miserably. When he went down to the book store, he sank into one of the soft armchairs scattered throughout the store, resting his head on the back and closing his eyes. He breathed int he smell of old and new books; there was nothing quite like it and it had always held a sense of peace for John. He sat in silence, realizing after a while that whatever had happened to Sherlock, it was completely out of his hands so he needed to stop worrying. All he could do was get on with his job and perhaps keep an eye out for the detective. With a new resolve, he hauled himself out of the plush chair and went to the counter, sitting down at the computer. He had recorded the rare books by hand, but they still needed to be entered into the store’s database. John’s typing method was not exactly the most efficient, so this was shaping up to be a fairly daunting task.
An hour ticked quickly by and John groaned, pushing himself away from the computer and stretching. He hadn’t made very much progress and it was already time to open. Swiping the key off the counter as he walked, he unlocked the door and flipped the sign to ‘Open.’ Settling back in his chair, he organized his notes and began his laborious task once again.
When he heard knocking, he glanced over at the front door thinking perhaps he hadn’t unlocked it properly. However, no one was there so he listened carefully for the next knock and was was surprised to hear it coming form the alley door. John only ever used that door to take out the garbage and recycling, so why was there someone knocking at it?
Putting his hand on the tarnished brass knob, John turned it slowly and opened the door cautiously. He was nearly knocked over as a figure pushed its way into the store. John immediately slipped into a fighting stance, ready to defend himself from his attacker. He was justifiably confused when the figure immediately began speaking to him rather than assaulting him.
“Oh, John, it was brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, wild green-grey eyes shining.
Jon let out a sigh and dropped his fists to his side. “Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you playing at?”
Sherlock paused his excited pacing and shot John a withering look. “Obvious. I’m telling you about my latest case.”
“But,” John spluttered, “you were missing! That detective - Lestrade - he came in here looking for you yesterday. You’ve -”
“Lestrade came here?” he asked curiously.
“Yes he came here. You’ve told him you’re alive, right?” John asked, ever practical.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I have. I’m not an idiot.”
“Oh, right, because smart people just disappear without warning and cause everyone to worry,” John shot back sarcastically, finding he was a strange mixture of angry and relieved.
Sherlock gave John a look that John couldn’t read, then replied cooly, “I had to go undercover in order to catch a serial killer, John. I couldn’t risk anyone ruining my cover, so obviously I could tell no one.”
“And what if you had been killed?” John demanded. “Your family and friends might’ve never figured out what happened to you.”
“Oh I highly doubt that. You’ve met Mycroft. Anyway, I didn’t die and Lestrade should be apprehending the murderer about now, so I would say it all worked out rather nicely,” Sherlock stated, looking very pleased with himself.
John glared at him, then turned sharply on his heel and went back to the computer. He heard Sherlock following him, but didn’t turn to acknowledge him.
“You’re upset,” Sherlock stated as he strode to the front of the counter to face John. “Why?”
“Well, because you need to think about how your actions affect people who care about you,” John said shortly.
“You consider yourself my friend, then,” Sherlock replied. It wasn’t a question.
John glanced up at Sherlock, then trained his gaze back on his computer screen. “I...well, I’d like to be, yeah,” he replied hesitantly.
“People don’t want to be friends with me,” Sherlock responded flatly.
“I do,” John said stubbornly. “You’re the most interesting, brilliant person I’ve ever met, and your visits are the highlight of my day,” he admitted.
“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, and silence stretched between them for a moment. Sherlock looked away and John took the opportunity to study Sherlock. The arrogant confidence was diminished, mixed with a bit of confusion and perhaps hope. “Do you want to hear about my case?” he asked carefully.
Despite his best efforts, a wide smile spread across John’s face. “Yeah, I do.”
Without further ado, Sherlock launched into a vivid explanation of his adventures, complete wild hand gestures and nonstop pacing. John listened with rapt attention, as though he could live vicariously through Sherlock and escape his monotonous life for a bit. Every so often he couldn’t help but interject with comments of “Amazing!” or “Fantastic!”
“Oh, and you were correct,” Sherlock said after his tale was complete.
John frowned in confusion, having lost Sherlock’s train of thought. To be fair, that wasn’t very hard to do. “I was correct about what?” he asked.
“The book you lent me. I didn’t much care for it. Some stretches were dreadfully boring, and I didn’t like the tales about that rabbit prince character.”
“El-ahrairah,” John supplied immediately, then wished he hadn’t when Sherlock smirked.
“Yes, him. I did learn a few things, though, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
“Oh?” John asked with a hint of a smile. “And what’s that?”
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in response. “Oh, perhaps you’ll find out someday.”
John stared at Sherlock curiously, wondering if this was the detective’s version of flirting. John felt a rush of excitement at the prospect that Sherlock was, perhaps, attracted to him too. “Well, I did warn you that you wouldn’t like it, so you can’t blame me for any fits of boredom you may have suffered from,” he teased.
“Yes, well, thankfully the case livened up enough to save me from death by boredom at the hands of rabbits,” Sherlock quipped. Just then, his phone beeped and he quickly scanned the text. “Speaking of the case, Lestrade caught the suspect. Seems he has an accomplice as well, though his whereabouts are unknown. He pocketed the phone and looked back at John. “Would you like to play a game?”
John raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Er, what? Don’t you have to go help catch the accomplice?” he asked in surprise.
Sherlock laughed. “I don’t do everything for them, you know. I’m sure they can handle that bit on their own. They’ll offer the suspect a deal, and he’ll give up the accomplice’s location. Now, do you want to play a game or not?”
“Well, I suppose I could. I mean,” he held up his list, “I’ve got these books to put in the computer, but that can wait until later,” he grinned. “So what sort of game? I doubt I’ll have much of a chance against you, but I’m up for it.”
“You appear to be decent at deducing which books I’d like - well, at least ones that won’t bore me. I’ll tell you the title of a book, and you tell me why I liked it. In some cases, there is only a portion or an aspect of the book that I appreciated. Care to try?”
John laughed in disbelief. “Sounds nearly impossible, but sure, I’ll give it a go. But you have to tell me whether it’s the whole book you liked, or just a part, okay?”
“That makes it far too easy, but all right,” Sherlock agreed. “The first one will be an easy one. A Separate Peace by John Knowles. There was only one part that I appreciated.”
John thought seriously about it for a while. Thankfully, he had read the book in secondary school and could recall a fair amount of it. He was surprised Sherlock mentioned this book, as it was largely about the friendship between two boys at school, and Sherlock had said that was not really his area. Hesitantly, he ventured, “You liked the irony that even though Finny was the liveliest of the group, it was life - the bone marrow - that killed him.” After a moment of silence, John asked, suddenly nervous, “Did I get it right?”
Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Yes, actually. How did you figure it out?”
Shrugging and smiling sheepishly, John replied, “Well, I had to write a paper on the book once, and it sort of stuck with me I suppose. And you seem to like the weirder stuff in books, so I made a guess.”
“It’s not the ‘weird stuff,’ John, it’s -” But his phone beeped again and he paused mid-sentence to read the message. “Ah. Interesting. Do you have any books on African-American poetry?” he asked.
“Oh, um. Let me check,” John said as he began typing at the computer. “Is that Lestrade again?”
“Of course not. This is for a private client,” Sherlock stated as if that were all the explanation John would ever need.
“Okay then,” he said slowly, stretching out the words as he scanned through a list on the screen. “Looks like we do. It’s on a top shelf, though, so I’ll have to get it for you.”
“Really?” Sherlock asked, an amused expression on his face. “You’re not exactly tall. I’m sure I could reach it just fine on my own.”
“Yes, I realize I’m not the size of a giraffe,” John shot back, “but it’s store policy. One time a lady sued us because she fell off one of the stepladders. She didn’t win, but to avoid any more lawsuits employees have to be the ones to use the stepladders now.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said as he followed John to the Poetry section. “I assure you I am not going to sue you. I have no need to sue anyone,” he protested.
“Sorry,” John said as he moved the stepladder and began to climb. “Store policy. Nothing I can do about it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ah, here it is,” he said, pulling a dark red book off the shelf. He turned around to face Sherlock, leaning slightly on the ladder for support. “Anthem of Home: A Collection of African-American Poetry,” he read. “Will that work?”
“Hm. Let me see it,” Sherlock replied, holding out his hand.
John leaned down slightly to hand the book to Sherlock, but slipped and skidded down a rung. With a jolt of panic, he grabbed a rung behind him just as his other arm landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt two arms under his own attempting to stop the fall, then suddenly his lips were pressed to Sherlock’s in an accidental kiss. John was still for a split second, then hurriedly detached himself as he slid the rest of the way down the ladder into a standing position. Sherlock was still there, arms on either side of John, shock and curiosity painted on his face. He recovered quickly and stepped back to allow John to move away from the ladder.
John could feel his face turning scarlet as he stammered out an apology. “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I just - I lost my footing and slipped and I’m really, really sorry,” he said, holding out the book and avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. John was still in a state of shock; that sort of thing only happened in movies. Not real life, and especially not to him. Sherlock was never going to come back here again and John’s life was going to go back to being dull and ordinary.
Sherlock accepted the book, still staring at John. “Right. It’s fine. I have to go,” he said, then hurriedly left the shop, the bell above the door sounding more to John like the toll of a church bell at a funeral than a friendly chime.
Wandering back to the counter, he played the scene over again in his mind. He was such an idiot. Although it had been an accident, it seemed he had ruined the first friendship he had made in months. He stared dully at his work, not feeling much like doing anything. The bell chimed again, and John looked up to see Sherlock. He blinked, thinking perhaps his fevered, hopeful imagination had conjured up a specter of the man.
“John. It occurs to me that as a book store employee, you could be useful to me on this case. Would you like to come?” Sherlock asked, as if nothing at all had happened a few minutes before.
The responsible side of John was telling him that no, he couldn’t possibly leave the shop in the middle of the day to go off doing who knows what. The rest of John told the responsible side to shut it. “God yes,” John replied, and he grabbed his keys to lock up the shop, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’ on his way out.
***
Late afternoon found John and Sherlock sitting in a cafe. John had the beginnings of a black eye, and Sherlock’s shirt was torn. Both wore smiles and completely ignored the tea rapidly cooling in front of them.
“That was brilliant,” John giggled. “If all poetry clubs are like that, I’ll never miss another meeting,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“Suppose I’ll have to purchase that book we brought, then,” Sherlock grinned. He had torn many pages out of it and flung them in the face of their attacker as a screen. They hadn’t seen it again after Sherlock had chucked it at the crazed man’s head.
“I daresay you will,” John replied as he took a sip of his cool tea. His smile faded a bit as he remembered he had closed up shop in the middle of the day. “You know, I might get fired for this.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Sherlock said lazily as he shifted closer to John. “You could always come be my assistant.”
“Right, yeah, I’ll just lose my job, get kicked out of my flat, and follow you around London doing god knows what,” John laughed.
“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra room in my flat. Lovely landlady, too,” Sherlock said as he moved even closer, expression suddenly serious.
John licked his lips, eyes darting from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips and back again. “Um, yeah? Well that might be all right, then,” he replied quietly.
“Good,” Sherlock answered, then closed the distance between them with a kiss. His lips were warm against John’s, and John leaned into it, enjoying the sensation immensely. Then Sherlock pulled away a little, and it was over much too soon. It must have shown in John’s face, because Sherlock smirked. “Would you like to tour my flat, see if the spare bedroom would be a good fit for you?” he asked, a little too innocently.
John grinned in reply, grabbed his hand, and pulled him out the door.