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holmesianlove · 2 days ago

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Chapter 20 - Books

On the walk back to their hotel, John seemed very quiet. Deep in thought. Sherlock didn’t want to disturb him, so he simply walked beside him in silence. The closeness he had been feeling to John over the last few days was encouraging. He could feel John’s walls falling, piece by piece. He was very sure that the looks he was getting meant something, that John was feeling the same things Sherlock was feeling in those moments. But the man was a stubborn ox, frozen to the spot in… fear, perhaps? Sherlock had spent the last year trying to read John, and certainly, given they were so close, and given his own feelings, he wasn’t confident that his judgements had been correct. Sometimes he missed things. So he couldn’t trust his judgement. He knew they had friendship. He knew it was a close, intense friendship, from the comments his brother had made, or from the comments everyone around them felt the need to make. He was aware that what they had was unique. And he knew his own heart. He knew he loved John, had done for quite a while now. He would do anything for John Watson. The man was his Achille’s heel, for certain. But that was pointless if John didn’t love him back in the same way. Or if John wasn’t open to loving a man at all. He was clearly uncomfortable. Something was blocking him from letting those feelings flow through. Sherlock could see it in every glance, in every touch. Something was terrifying John into silence, into inaction. It was infuriating that he couldn’t solve the puzzle. All he could do was gently show John that there was trust, that there was genuine care and there was merit in being open to the possibility. Whatever was going on in John’s head, was a battle he had to traverse first, himself. Sherlock decided to leave him in silence to ponder through it, uninterrupted. For now, he would walk beside his friend, and that was enough.

That was, until he spotted the bookstore. Over to the side of them at the end of the street. It was a lovely old bookstore and Sherlock couldn’t resist. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shoved him to the side, without a word.

John let out a grunt of surprise, being shocked into movement after a good fifteen minutes of complete silence. “Sherlock—?!”

“Bookstore,” he said, simply and shoved John inside the door.

John couldn’t help laughing at that. Sherlock was often a man of few words. Bossy and decisive and John appreciated it, actually. Despite a lot of people considering it rude. They did generally end up in a bookstore when they passed one by. Particularly in different towns when they visited for a case. They both loved books and could spend hours just quietly looking through without a word. Sherlock collected a book in each town they visited as an unspoken rule. This was a pre-loved bookstore, too. The best kind. That smell as you walked inside, just brimming with hope and history and coating the nostrils with possibility.

John took in a long, audible sniff, admiring the scent.

“Bibliosmia,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry?”

“That smell,” Sherlock replied. “It comes from the Greek words biblio - book - and osme - odour. Bibliosmia.” He closed his eyes to take it in as well. He could feel John’s eyes on him. “The smell is caused by the chemical breakdown of compounds in the paper, which is a sign that the book is slowly deteriorating - a combination of many volatile organic compounds which can also be influenced by environmental odours that the paper absorbs, such as smoke or coffee. Somewhat like wine, in that way.”

“You’re fantastic,” John let out, and then stuttered. “I mean… that’s… fascinating.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, turning his head to watch John in silence and then without a word, disappeared between the shelving, leaving John to stand there alone.

The bookstore had rows and rows of books all the way to the ceiling with ladders you could climb and slide around. The old wooden floors were covered in threadbare carpeting to help dull the sound of feet moving on the creaking floors.

Sherlock danced between the shelves, happily trying to find a section that might appeal to him in his current mood. He would dart between sections and glance around to find where John was along the way. They spent about thirty minutes in there just browsing and walking and enjoying the silence. The store was thankfully open late, but it was very quiet. They had the whole store to themselves at the moment which was somehow eerie but also lovely at the same time.

Sherlock had never been much of a fiction reader, but as he wandered, he found himself in front of a collection of Jane Austen books. Romance, he thought. Perhaps a romantic novella to pass the time on the train ride home? Or even as he lay in bed tonight, unable to sleep, as was likely to happen. He didn’t have his violin to fall back on while they were away. So, he read the covers of a few of them, deciding on the best fit and settled on Persuasion. A story in patience it seemed from the synopsis - appropriate for him perhaps. He had never read any of her work. But of all the stories, he felt like he could relate to that. He popped it under his arm, a little embarrassed by the prospect of John seeing it. Perhaps he could make up an excuse. A Christmas present for his mother? He would think of something.

As he wandered back around, closer to the front of the store again, he came past where John was standing, with a large book in hand. He leaned in excitedly from behind and rested his head onto John’s shoulder. “Oooh, chocolate,” he said, next to John’s neck.

John chucked quietly. And suddenly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned his weight back against Sherlock, as if his proximity was somehow desired. Perhaps that was normal behaviour, between friends, to be willing to be so close? But it was certainly new territory for the two of them, when it didn’t involve a life or death situation, at least. John seemed completely unaware of the gesture as he turned his head to acknowledge his friend’s presence and comment, but Sherlock was acutely conscious of it.

“The science of chocolate, apparently. Sounds like your kind of book,” John teased, but then, as if he’d finally realised their position, the closeness, he promptly closed the book. Sherlock made a little disappointed sigh and stepped back as John placed it back on the shelf. “I’m concerned you’ll inhale more sugar off the pages, just from the photos alone, and not be able to sleep.” He gave Sherlock a knowing look, and they both broke into laughter. The moment gone, but the joy of the visit not lost.

John quickly shushed them, the idea of making too much noise in this silent bookstore heavily ingrained in him from years of dealing with angry librarians. And then they parted again, to carry on browsing. Sherlock could still feel an echo of John’s weight pressed back against him. He pretended to look at the shelves but in honesty, his mind was on that brief closeness, the moment he had felt that shift, and could smell John’s shampoo. For a brief moment it had been heavenly. John hadn’t stiffened, or flinched when Sherlock had placed his chin on his shoulder. He hadn’t scoffed at him or asked what he was doing. He accepted it as a willing participant in it. Was John starting to come around? He wandered on, lost in thought, and when he finally returned to John another ten or so minutes later, John already had a small paper bag on his arm, but was browsing again.

“Did you buy one?” Sherlock asked, surprised. John didn’t usually partake in the buying at these places. He liked to browse, but didn’t like the clutter.

“I may have found something,” he said with a little mysterious glint in his eye.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, you will just have to wait and see,” he said simply.

“You know there was this one book,” Sherlock said. “Whenever we go into a bookstore, I always try to find it. It was a book I read, as a child that I loved. I left it behind somewhere and… I always think that one day I will magically spot it in a second hand bookstore, and we will be reunited. I never do find it, though, but I always look, and hope. It’s silly, really.” Sherlock blushed, suddenly a little embarrassed to tell John such a frivolous thing like that.

John huffed. “Yeah I left a book on the tube once. Never did finish it. One of those Grisham thrillers. Then I promptly forgot which one it was and you know when you read the dust cover and they all sort of sound the same, so you’re never sure if it’s the right book. I gave up, but boy does irritate me that I never found out the ending.”

“Frustrating."

"I know those books aren't to your tastes, but I hate suspense," John said.

Sherlock smiled and spoke gently. "It’s late, we should probably head back.”

“Not buying a book today?” John asked.

Sherlock pulled a small book from under his arm. “Oh no, I have one,” he said, flashing it in front of John's eyes and dropping it again before he could see the title. He moved to the counter, purchased it, then walked out of the store without a word.

He smiled to himself as John followed quietly behind.

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holmesianlove · 1 day ago

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Chapter 21 - Purple

Sherlock had returned to his room that night and laid in bed, reading his book. He lapped it up, cover to cover in record speed and then spent the rest of the night pondering John’s behaviour. His usual instincts told him that John was somewhat nervous around him lately. But he didn’t trust his instincts right now at all, because he knew he was personally invested in the outcome. He was most likely misreading things entirely. The book had been eye-opening. Perhaps dangerous, entertaining romantic fancies like that, though. It seemed to Sherlock that the themes in the story were about influence in decision making, how relationships between family members, and pressure to conform to expectations almost ruined the ingenue’s chance at love. It all seemed so very relevant to their situation.

Things with John were very strange at the moment. When they were good, it was lovely and relaxed: laughter, conversation, friendship. All the things Sherlock enjoyed of their time together as flatmates, as friends. They worked well together. John was the only person he had ever felt that much ease with. He didn’t have to try or to put on an act with John. He could just be. And John didn’t mind. In fact it seemed to be the same for him. They were invaluable partners - in work and in life - to each other. And yet, there was definitely an unending sense of pressure around them - from friends, family, media, clients, all destroying the little moments they shared. Sherlock could feel it - the electricity between them, sparkling with potential, ready to ignite a flame at any moment with the right conditions. And then one word, one snigger from someone and John disconnected all over again. Even here, he thought, hoped, that perhaps time away from London, from the familiar, from the watching eye of the media and his brother, John might be able to relax into their time together. It certainly seemed to be helping a little. It felt as if he was making small amounts of progress each day, to show John there was something here important enough to pay attention to.

Having separate rooms at this hotel had actually been a blessing. It had allowed him time to really get his head clear, to think of a new plan of attack. Sherlock took his time getting ready. He may not quite know the right way in, with John. But what he did know about was experiments. Hypotheses. Perhaps testing the waters might be a gentle way to gauge what was going on here. He pulled out The Shirt. He remembered one other time wearing it and he was fairly sure John had seemed entirely distracted by it: his favourite, purple, well fitted shirt. He tucked it firmly into his best, most tailored black pants and jacket. He wanted to make a good impression on the client, but more importantly he wanted to make an impression on John. If this didn’t make things clearer, nothing would.

He walked down the stairs to the breakfast room. John would already be there. Always the early riser, needing breakfast, impatient to get to work. He would be halfway through breakfast by now, ready for Sherlock to waltz in, make an entrance, sip some tea and drift out again for their cab. It was their usual routine. But when Sherlock entered the breakfast room, John wasn’t there. He looked around, a little surprised. Maybe he had already eaten? He dialled John’s phone and a slightly flustered sounding friend answered.

"Sherlock."

“John?”

“Yeah hey, on my way down, sorry. A bit late today.” He sounded a little out of sorts.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll find us a table,” Sherlock offered calmly.

“Okay, thanks.” John hung up the phone.

Sherlock grabbed himself some pancakes. He might as well eat something, he supposed. And coffee. He was going to need strong coffee today. He had settled himself in, and had just brought his first mouthful up to meet his lips when John walked in and he froze. Long enough that the pancake slid right off his fork and back to the plate, surprising him. He looked down at his plate and then back up to the doorway of the breakfast room, mouth still gaping open.

John Watson walked in with more swagger than usual. He was wearing a suit. An actual suit. His good suit, in fact. Sherlock had only seen it once, in court when they had had to testify for a case. John didn’t own a lot of very well tailored clothes, but this suit was actually very nice. A dark blue, that matched the shade of his eyes. His shirt was crisp white and he wore a striped blue tie. He even had his good shoes on. He didn’t even wear those on first dates.

What was going on? Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. John had showered, shaved and created a bit of a swishy thing with his hair. Oh god, I’m in trouble. I was supposed to be messing with him.

John saw Sherlock and gave a little half wave, and the most winning smile. If he registered Sherlock’s outfit, he didn’t show it. Not yet, at least. He walked over and sat down opposite Sherlock. “Morning,” he said brightly.

“Morning,” Sherlock said, his voice a little raspy. He realised his empty fork was still paused in mid-air and he might look like an idiot, returning his fork quickly back down. “Sleep in?”

“I… had a restless night. Thought I’d sleep a bit late, so I could get ready and feel refreshed.” John seemed to blush slightly which intrigued Sherlock.

“Well you look…” Sherlock couldn’t find a word for it. As he paused, John’s face registered the hesitation and frowned slightly, looking down at his outfit. “You don’t normally wear a suit. It’s…”

“Is it too much?,” he rushed to ask. “I just thought, if we’re going to a posh house, and you always look so…” For the first time John gestured at Sherlock’s outfit and Sherlock saw it. The blush, and the look in John's eye, the one he got the last time Sherlock wore the shirt.

“No, it’s fine. It’s… good… you look... good,” Sherlock managed to spit out.

“Okay. I have other clothes if you think it’s…”

“No.” Sherlock said it a little too forcefully and then grabbed desperately at his coffee to cover the overreaction. “You look the part.”

“Well, okay.” He smiled. “I’m starving. I’ll be back. Those pancakes look really great,” he said, before disappearing to the buffet to grab some of his own.

Sherlock closed his eyes and said a little prayer to the universe. He never prayed, but lord, if he ended up a stuttering mess today just because John suddenly decided to be fashion conscious, he would be furious at himself. He needed to stay focussed. To stay calm. It was just a suit. Just a suit. He himself was wearing a suit. Yes, but you wore yours as a sexual strategy, he reminded himself and then thumped his fist on the table in annoyance at his own retort. Why was John wearing… that?

“Everything alright?” John asked as he sat back down, looking a little concerned at Sherlock’s tense posture. He took in Sherlock’s clenched fist on the table without a word and sat down, preparing to eat.

Sherlock merely gave him a weak smile and a nod.

“So, what’s the plan of attack, then?” John asked.

“We’ll travel out to the… ah… estate, speak to the lady of the house, and… then hopefully she will… let us interview… the staff and… the rest of the family.” Sherlock’s brain felt slow, annoyingly slow. Basic thought felt impossible. This was not a good start.

John nodded and looked up at Sherlock and his eyes were… god they were more beautiful against that suit jacket. But then, Sherlock was sure John was looking back at Sherlock like he was a meal too. They ate in silence, just sharing glances with each other along the way, discussing the case every so often. Within the hour they had polished off breakfast, packed up their belongings and checked out of the hotel.

John stood on the curb outside the hotel in silence. He looked over at Sherlock, then at his luggage, then at Sherlock, a few times before he finally spoke. “I thought… perhaps with the… case…”

“What are you asking?” Sherlock spoke in irritation, trying to avoid looking at John. It was making things so much harder.

John rolled his eyes. “Well… so… we aren’t staying here… tonight?”

“No, if we need to, we will just stay on at the mansion,” Sherlock explained. "Obviously." “The mansion. I see.” John nodded quietly to himself.

“Problem?”

“Not at all.”

“If we solve it quickly enough we can simply head home tonight,” Sherlock suggested.

“Already?”

Sherlock smiled to himself and finally looked at John again. “Enjoying yourself?”

John’s eyes locked with his and then looked away. “Well… it’s been… I think… I don’t know… and maybe I’m… but… well it's only that...”

“John, you’ll find speaking in full sentences is more productive.”

John sighed. He closed his eyes.

Was he doing that so he didn’t have to look at the shirt? Sherlock smirked. Was he struggling just as much? God, Sherlock hoped so. He wanted to be back on the upper foot. He needed to be on his game for this case.

“It’s just been… a nice change of pace. It will be a shame to go home so soon.” His eyes snapped over to Sherlock’s. Although I love it at home. At Baker Street,” he rushed to add. “It’s… comfortable there. But… it’s been…” He shook his head in frustration. “Never mind.”

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on his arm. He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know what you mean.”