Ficfor Lyrical_Sky: New Beginnings
Dec. 19th, 2012 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: New Beginnings
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyrical_sky
Author: Saharra Shadow
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warnings: Au
Summary: John returns home, but finds that even his surprise inheritance of a bookstore isn’t the calm peace he thought he needed. Oddly enough, that’s fine with him.
His nose itched, a crawling tingling feeling that had him reaching for his kerchief. Dust. And musty old books. The farthest from working in a surgery that he could get. John stared at his hands. They were steady and strong. He could still treat people. His shoulder was mostly healed and his cane helped him get around. He’d found a few places willing to hire him, but every time it came down to actually walking inside to work, he’d found himself gripping his cane till his hand ached before turning and walking away.
He’d needed a change, so when his Aunt’s solicitor had called and told him that Harry had passed on the primary inheritance, he’d taken it and let her have the secondary one. That was the reason he stood in the door-way of a musty shop, using his kerchief like a shield against the dust while his nose itched with the need to sneeze. He liked books, but he liked them more when they and the room they inhabited weren’t covered in dust. Not that it could be helped. Aunt Amelia had passed away six months ago. Harry hadn’t wanted the old store with its aged books and comfy, tattered furniture once she’d learned that it could not be sold and that the estate, which came with it, wouldn’t be released until after the heir had satisfied a few clauses in the will, one of which called for sobriety. As his Aunt had phrased it, “You can drink, my dears. Just don’t stay drunk. It took my Philbert, and I won’t be aiding it with taking anyone else.” Two years. He had to run the little store and manage his monthly allowance for two years before he’d be allowed access to the main estate.
John sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. It’d grown since he’d been invalidated home and he hadn’t had it trimmed. It was just one more change. Gripping his cane, he limped inside. First things first. The dust had to go.
~*~
Two weeks. It’d taken him two weeks of grumbling and groaning to work his way from the front section of the shop to this little corner nook. He’d corrected the inventory, oiled the old, wooden shelves, and organized the books in a proper fashion according to author within their genre.
This section though was an anomaly. The shelves reached the ceiling and turned a crooked corner into a shielded nook that felt almost cozy. He glanced at the letter from his Aunt. She’d warned her heir-to-be about this section, told them to leave it be aside from some necessary dusting and sweeping and making tea for a Mr. Holmes. Looking around the room, John shook his head at the stacks of books resting haphazardly on the floor and the antique desk covered in books that were open to this page or that. Bits of paper peeked out of some of the closed books. It was chaos. These were antiques. Dusting and sweeping weren’t going to be enough to deal with this mess.
He closed the books laying open and started stacking them according to the first letter of the author’s last name. Any bits of paper he found, he pulled from the book and set aside in a pile next to one of the ringed stains on the desk, which was probably from a tea cup. They appeared to be notes written in a shorthand that had him curious, but not curious enough to stop and decipher them. At least not now, but once he’d finished….
Hours passed as he lost himself in the books and the mindless void of cleaning. Cleaning. That’s all he did now. He’d been a surgeon, a doctor, and now…. He paused and stared at the book he’d been about to put on the shelf. Now he was apparently the owner of a bookshop that included an occult and mythology section. He laughed softly and created a space on the shelf for it.
“What have you done to my research?”
John dropped the book and reached for his gun as he turned to face the intruder. His hand closed on empty space as he remembered the gun was under the counter by the cash register.
“Well?”
John stared for a moment and stood up straight, his shoulders back as he met the other man’s stare, his weight on his good leg. Tall and lithe with dark, curly, brown hair and eyes that were currently eyeing him like a bug in a display case. The complete opposite of John’s own slightly short height and light brown hair. Not that the whole yin-yang effect mattered since he was currently standing in John’s store despite the fact the doors had been locked and said store was not open for business. “What do you mean what have I done? Who are you? This—this is my store.”
“Sherlock Holmes. And that is my desk and my research. Do you know how long it will take me to undo the mess you’ve created?”
John stared as the man breezed past him while unwinding his scarf. He reached up and removed some of the books John had just finished shelving. If he remembered correctly, they’d been the ones with the most notes in them. “What—”
“Never mind. My tea?”
“Tea? What tea?”
“The tea that Amelia instructed you, her heir, to make and leave on my desk every night at precisely 6 p.m. You’ve been remiss for the past thirteen days, John. I lost time making it that could be better spent on preventing a murder ritual due to start again in 23 days. Also, my book. You dropped it.”
John glared at the man who had slipped his coat over the back of the too-modern office chair that stood behind the desk. Holmes. His Aunt’s letter had mentioned a Mr. Holmes. She’d twittered about the consulting detective who’d taken up the back corner of her shop. He even paid her a fee for the use of her books. John had expected someone older and a bit more grizzled. Not someone barely older than him who demanded tea and the book… that now rested in his hand since he’d apparently bent down and picked it up without really thinking about it.
“How the hell do you know who I am?” John placed the book down next to the pile of notes he’d organized. Sherlock leaned on the desk, his face cradled on his steepled hands… and John found himself caught as the rich voice wound around him listing off detail after detail about his life, his work, his psychosomatic limp, his inheritance. Sherlock painted a picture of him born of facts and details John hadn’t thought mattered to anyone but him. And then Sherlock stopped.
“Am I right?” he asked.
“That…. Fascinating. How did you do that?” John stared at him, palms flat on the desk as he leaned closer. His cane was hooked over the top of the desk, forgotten as he watched this man, this stranger before him. Sherlock knew the structure of him, but that begged the question…. Did anyone know the ins and outs of Sherlock Holmes? Considering the man’s nearly hidden surprise to John’s reaction, he didn’t think so. John could work with that.
“Observation and deduction.”
“Huh, well. A murder you said? And you’re going to solve it before it happens?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, John grabbed his cane and headed out of the gap between the shelves that formed the nook. “I suppose we’ll be wanting tea then.”
“We?”
John smiled briefly. He didn’t need to look back to confirm the incredulity that would be written on this Sherlock’s face. “Well, they’re my books and this is my store. It’s only right that if a murder’s going to be solved, I help in the solving.” He walked off, his limp barely slowing him down. He’d been wanting something different, something new. And it looked like for a cup of tea he could have it, and maybe the person that went with the chaos John was sure would follow.
“And Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“The solicitor didn’t overlook Harry. She turned it down because sobriety was a requirement and she didn’t want to deal with it.”
“One thing. There’s always that one thing.”
Recipient:
lyrical_skyAuthor: Saharra Shadow
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warnings: Au
Summary: John returns home, but finds that even his surprise inheritance of a bookstore isn’t the calm peace he thought he needed. Oddly enough, that’s fine with him.
His nose itched, a crawling tingling feeling that had him reaching for his kerchief. Dust. And musty old books. The farthest from working in a surgery that he could get. John stared at his hands. They were steady and strong. He could still treat people. His shoulder was mostly healed and his cane helped him get around. He’d found a few places willing to hire him, but every time it came down to actually walking inside to work, he’d found himself gripping his cane till his hand ached before turning and walking away.
He’d needed a change, so when his Aunt’s solicitor had called and told him that Harry had passed on the primary inheritance, he’d taken it and let her have the secondary one. That was the reason he stood in the door-way of a musty shop, using his kerchief like a shield against the dust while his nose itched with the need to sneeze. He liked books, but he liked them more when they and the room they inhabited weren’t covered in dust. Not that it could be helped. Aunt Amelia had passed away six months ago. Harry hadn’t wanted the old store with its aged books and comfy, tattered furniture once she’d learned that it could not be sold and that the estate, which came with it, wouldn’t be released until after the heir had satisfied a few clauses in the will, one of which called for sobriety. As his Aunt had phrased it, “You can drink, my dears. Just don’t stay drunk. It took my Philbert, and I won’t be aiding it with taking anyone else.” Two years. He had to run the little store and manage his monthly allowance for two years before he’d be allowed access to the main estate.
John sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. It’d grown since he’d been invalidated home and he hadn’t had it trimmed. It was just one more change. Gripping his cane, he limped inside. First things first. The dust had to go.
~*~
Two weeks. It’d taken him two weeks of grumbling and groaning to work his way from the front section of the shop to this little corner nook. He’d corrected the inventory, oiled the old, wooden shelves, and organized the books in a proper fashion according to author within their genre.
This section though was an anomaly. The shelves reached the ceiling and turned a crooked corner into a shielded nook that felt almost cozy. He glanced at the letter from his Aunt. She’d warned her heir-to-be about this section, told them to leave it be aside from some necessary dusting and sweeping and making tea for a Mr. Holmes. Looking around the room, John shook his head at the stacks of books resting haphazardly on the floor and the antique desk covered in books that were open to this page or that. Bits of paper peeked out of some of the closed books. It was chaos. These were antiques. Dusting and sweeping weren’t going to be enough to deal with this mess.
He closed the books laying open and started stacking them according to the first letter of the author’s last name. Any bits of paper he found, he pulled from the book and set aside in a pile next to one of the ringed stains on the desk, which was probably from a tea cup. They appeared to be notes written in a shorthand that had him curious, but not curious enough to stop and decipher them. At least not now, but once he’d finished….
Hours passed as he lost himself in the books and the mindless void of cleaning. Cleaning. That’s all he did now. He’d been a surgeon, a doctor, and now…. He paused and stared at the book he’d been about to put on the shelf. Now he was apparently the owner of a bookshop that included an occult and mythology section. He laughed softly and created a space on the shelf for it.
“What have you done to my research?”
John dropped the book and reached for his gun as he turned to face the intruder. His hand closed on empty space as he remembered the gun was under the counter by the cash register.
“Well?”
John stared for a moment and stood up straight, his shoulders back as he met the other man’s stare, his weight on his good leg. Tall and lithe with dark, curly, brown hair and eyes that were currently eyeing him like a bug in a display case. The complete opposite of John’s own slightly short height and light brown hair. Not that the whole yin-yang effect mattered since he was currently standing in John’s store despite the fact the doors had been locked and said store was not open for business. “What do you mean what have I done? Who are you? This—this is my store.”
“Sherlock Holmes. And that is my desk and my research. Do you know how long it will take me to undo the mess you’ve created?”
John stared as the man breezed past him while unwinding his scarf. He reached up and removed some of the books John had just finished shelving. If he remembered correctly, they’d been the ones with the most notes in them. “What—”
“Never mind. My tea?”
“Tea? What tea?”
“The tea that Amelia instructed you, her heir, to make and leave on my desk every night at precisely 6 p.m. You’ve been remiss for the past thirteen days, John. I lost time making it that could be better spent on preventing a murder ritual due to start again in 23 days. Also, my book. You dropped it.”
John glared at the man who had slipped his coat over the back of the too-modern office chair that stood behind the desk. Holmes. His Aunt’s letter had mentioned a Mr. Holmes. She’d twittered about the consulting detective who’d taken up the back corner of her shop. He even paid her a fee for the use of her books. John had expected someone older and a bit more grizzled. Not someone barely older than him who demanded tea and the book… that now rested in his hand since he’d apparently bent down and picked it up without really thinking about it.
“How the hell do you know who I am?” John placed the book down next to the pile of notes he’d organized. Sherlock leaned on the desk, his face cradled on his steepled hands… and John found himself caught as the rich voice wound around him listing off detail after detail about his life, his work, his psychosomatic limp, his inheritance. Sherlock painted a picture of him born of facts and details John hadn’t thought mattered to anyone but him. And then Sherlock stopped.
“Am I right?” he asked.
“That…. Fascinating. How did you do that?” John stared at him, palms flat on the desk as he leaned closer. His cane was hooked over the top of the desk, forgotten as he watched this man, this stranger before him. Sherlock knew the structure of him, but that begged the question…. Did anyone know the ins and outs of Sherlock Holmes? Considering the man’s nearly hidden surprise to John’s reaction, he didn’t think so. John could work with that.
“Observation and deduction.”
“Huh, well. A murder you said? And you’re going to solve it before it happens?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, John grabbed his cane and headed out of the gap between the shelves that formed the nook. “I suppose we’ll be wanting tea then.”
“We?”
John smiled briefly. He didn’t need to look back to confirm the incredulity that would be written on this Sherlock’s face. “Well, they’re my books and this is my store. It’s only right that if a murder’s going to be solved, I help in the solving.” He walked off, his limp barely slowing him down. He’d been wanting something different, something new. And it looked like for a cup of tea he could have it, and maybe the person that went with the chaos John was sure would follow.
“And Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“The solicitor didn’t overlook Harry. She turned it down because sobriety was a requirement and she didn’t want to deal with it.”
“One thing. There’s always that one thing.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-20 01:14 pm (UTC)Wishing you and yours a very happy holiday season. ♥
no subject
Date: 2013-03-18 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-20 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-18 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-31 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-18 09:30 pm (UTC)