Rainy Days : A TeenLock Fanfiction

The Hustle And Bustle Of Sherlock Holmes

Time flew by quickly for Sherlock. Before he knew it, he was a man. No longer was he a little prince holding his elder brother's hand. He was living in flat 221B in the middle of Baker Street, shared by Mrs. Hudson downstairs who ran Speedy's sandwich shoppe. She was his favorite person. He didn't mind her one bit, and she was one of the few people that didn't despise Sherlock because of his vast intellect. 

Sherlock spent his first couple days as an independent man at home, enjoying the silence and freedom and that small feeling of adulthood gnawing at the back of his chest. Alone was good. Alone protected him. But then came the days where he was restless. He couldn't just sit around all day. So out into the world he ventured.

Sherlock always had two things he wore out of doors; a navy peacoat and a dark blue scarf. They protected him from the sometimes gentle drizzle and other times harsh downpour. The streets of modern London were always booming. Artists and musicians and food carts on street corners, busses and cabs in the streets. It would be fun to someone visiting, but to someone who's lived there his whole life, it wasn't very interesting. Not many things were interesting to Sherlock, anyway.

------------

Today was different. Today, Sherlock walked into a new bookstore. It had apparently just opened. The sign above the door read "Rainy Days Bookstore". He shook his umbrella of the water droplets before stepping inside. It was snug. Big and small at the same time, with beanbags and comfy couches made for lounging and reading. It was pleasant and vacant and quiet. The air inside was toasty and smelled of new furniture and paper, leaving a familiar taste on his tongue. He could see himself spending a lot of time here, given it doesn't get too crowded.

He sat down in a quaint corner, surrounded by other bookshelves, and picked out a few that looked mildly interesting. By the time he finished the first one, an hour had passed. He snapped it shut and slipped it back onto the shelf. Then he started the next one. Another hour, another book finished. By the time the day was done, he had finished five books. His stomach felt empty. Time to head home.

He stood up and made to walk away, but his mind wandered to the last book he'd read. "The Brain", by Andrew Peterson. He was filthy rich after all, he could buy it if he wanted. It was a very intriguing book, if he did say so himself. What the hell? He picked it up and made for the register at the center of the store.

"That couldn't be right, that book's on sale..."

"I'm sorry, sir, you must be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken!"

There was another man standing in front of him. No, a boy. A man? He looked to be a few years older than Sherlock, but couldn't quite tell. He was also quite short, couldn't have been taller than 5'6". Sherlock could only see the back of him. But judging by the books in his satchel, he was a college student studying medicine. His foot was tapping, his fingers twitching at his sides (though right at that point he placed them angrily onto the counter), and he constantly checked the clock behind the counter. Signs of impatience.

"Please, it's important I get this book! Help a guy out here?"

Sherlock concluded he was late for a class. The man's schedule was poking out of his bag. He was clean cut and his clothes were ironed, perfect hygiene, orderly bag (except of course his schedule, lazily stuffed inside, also a sign of being late). The book he needed was obviously one for a class. The class he was late for. But he didn't misplace the book, his appearance was a perfect mirror of his personality, neat and orderly. He isn't the sort of man to easily misplace something. It must have been stolen from him, or destroyed. Sherlock's deducing was interrupted by the man spinning around on his heels to face him.

"Real sorry, mate, hope you're not in a hurry."

His eyes were the color of coffee, his hair a short rigid blonde, the strands so light they were nearly see through. An apologetic smile tugged at his thin pink lips. He had frown lines that were just barely noticeable. His skin was light, but not as light as Sherlock's. And he was shorter than Sherlock had imagined, his head only coming up to his chest. He had to gaze down to speak to him.

"No trouble."

The man chuckled weakly and turned back around to renegotiate. Sherlock had no idea what came over him. Something compelled him to do a kind deed, do this poor man a favor.

"I'm sorry, but for the last time, I cannot sell you this book for that low a price. The price is the price and this isn't a barter."

The man sighed and hung his head. Finally admitting defeat, he trudged out of the store and Sherlock watched him walk a few feet away to the bus stop. "I'll buy both of these, please." He dropped his book onto the counter and placed his hand on the one the man needed. The cashier blinked, then began to ring his items up. Slowly.

"For god's sake, woman."

"I'm sorry?"

"Hurry up or I won't get there in time. What would be the point of me buying this for him if I never even see him again?"

The cashier blushed and averted her eyes. Women were so damn boring. Finally she handed him his shopping bag and he hurried out the door with his purchases. The book was a monster. Lugging all that around must be utter hell.

"Oh, you're the guy from that bookstore!"

"Apparently." Sherlock reached into his bag and pulled out the textbook. The man in front of him (John Watson, from his cellphone) gaped in embarrassment. "Did you...?"

"Just take it, it wasn't a hindrance to buy. My family is rather prestigious." Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and sat down on the bench and under the shelter from the drizzle. John was already sitting from his shock. They sat in silence, listening to the cars rushing past and the distant sounds of footsteps and high heels against the concrete.

Finally, John uttered a hushed and embarrassed "thank you". Sherlock didn't respond. Another silence.

"I'm Watson. John Watson."

"I know."

"Pardon me?"

"I noticed your name when you were texting just now, not to mention it's on your school bag and in your wallet."

John's eyes popped. Then a grin stretched across his face. "Brilliant."

Sherlock again said nothing, yet couldn't help but smile softly into his upturned collar. Soon John boarded the bus, and Sherlock was alone at the bus station. He didn't leave. He sat there until nightfall, thinking and rethinking and rethinking again. And then silently, he opened his umbrella and returned to his empty flat.