Author's Note: I'd like to point out that juliathehumanoid on tumblr came up with the idea for this fanfic. I just brought it to life. Enjoy!
"There must be something in books,
something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house;
there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing."
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
In Westminster, London, on a road called Baker Street, set between a café and a pub, stood a local bookstore. No more than a little hole in the wall, the tiny, one-off establishment had stayed within the same family since 1887. Above the dirty glass of the window and the ratty wood of the door, an ancient sign painted with green letters read, "Watson Books". In the window, a handwritten poster-board made with black permanent marked was taped up. It displayed the details of trade, "Used & Rare, Hardbacks & Paperbacks for Trade and Sale. Prices always negotiable."
Each morning, except on Sundays, at precisely nine o'clock, a small man with an affinity for jumpers wobbled up to the shop with his cane, and he unlocked the heavy, tattered door to open the shop for business. He always sat behind the vintage register, which rested on a massive wooden desk just as ancient. Upon this throne, he sipped his cup of Earl Grey. If a customer appeared, which few ever did, he greeted the gent or lass with a smile and kind word. Most of the time though, he sat alone with his nose in a book and his thickly rimmed glasses near the pages, or he reorganized the towering stacks of volumes that surrounded him.
The front room overflowed with stories of all kinds, fairy tales, mysteries, and even romance. The man enjoyed reading very much, and to him the type of story did not matter, so being surrounded by these objects was incessantly entertaining. All the bookcases reached up to the ceiling, completely full, and even more books lined the floor in stacks. They were positioned just close enough together that a lean human could squeeze between them to browse the spines for a particular title. A fatter man would have surely struggled to fit in the small gapes.
In the back of the store, a thin staircase that led up to another room loomed beyond the register, and below it a brown door that contained a loo stood along the wall. The room above also carried an overcapacity of fictional tales and informational publications. The chamber that rested behind the other door was only a small space, with a toilet and a little sink. The pathetic place didn't even have a proper mirror.
Still, the man who loved jumpers and tea enjoyed the calming and familiar nature of his family's bookstore, after all he had been a doctor in the army, and seen quite enough excitement for this life. Calm was good for him. He couldn't even walk properly any more, he was shot and sent off on an honorable discharge. Much of anything besides his books, his tea and his jumpers would overwhelm him. Or at least, that was all he could handle according to his alcoholic, older sister, who had inherited the family bookstore, but didn't have any interest in it, and the woman who identified his problems, his loyal therapist. So the once promising young doctor served as a clerk at his sibling's misfit bookstore, and lived under firm orders from his shrink to stir clear of action.
Always at precisely noon, the worn man looked up from his books and left the shop for a few moments to grab a sandwich and two biscuits from the café next door. He always brought the small meal straight back to the store, and continued digesting words as he consumed his food.
Over the past few months, John had begun to notice a certain, new customer. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, a man with dark, unruly hair and a bright, blue scarf would stop by. He always burst through the door with an overdramatic flair and turned to face the man at the desk with his ever-changing eyes. Then, in a deep, romantic voice, much like one would imagine belonged to a knight of old, he would ask if any fresh scientific textbooks lined the shelves of the upper floor. If the ex-army doctor answered yes, the mysterious man would dart up the stairs like a cat and arrive back at the register in an instant to purchase his pick of the litter. If the clerk answered no, the lanky customer revolved around dramatically and exited the shop without saying a thing. This inexplicable stranger mesmerized the bored bookmen, and he often daydreamed of the adventures the odd bloke must enjoy.
Each evening at just half-past six, the bookstore clerk round up his things and locked up the shop. He walked to the tube station and took a train to his current place of residence, a rather pathetic place he could barely afford. The most expensive object in the room was the shotgun, which hid itself in the top, locked drawer of the cheaply assembled desk. It rested, waiting for the tired doctor to give up on life all together… or start over somewhere new.
One morning just a few moments after the man opened the shop for the day, an old friend appeared in the doorway. The man was a bit chubbier than the doctor remembered, but his aura brought a warm nostalgia to Watson. The surprised clerk questioned, "Mike, Mike Stamford? Is that really you?"
The gentleman exclaimed, "John Watson! I thought you were off somewhere getting shot at! What happened that brought you back to London?"
"I got shot," John starkly replied, lifting his cane onto the counter so Mike could see it.
The familiar face paused for a moment and asked, "So now you're working in your mum's store?"
The clerk corrected, "It's Harry's shop now… mum's been gone for six years now."
Mike hesitated again, "Oh, I'm sorry for your lose. I never heard from any of our old mates…"
The doctor explained, "No one really knew. I haven't talked to any of them in years."
Stamford sighed, "Oh, that's a shame. We were all such good pals back in school."
John tried to make Mike feel a bit better, "I'm not as fun as I used to be. I can barely get around, you know, with my damn useless leg and all." He stood and gestured to his lower body.
The other man made an effort to bring the conversation out of it's depressing depths, "So where've you been staying then?"
Well, at least he tried. John replied, "I've actually been looking for a flat share, but who'd ever want to be my flat mate?"
Stamford cooed, "That's funny… a man who recently moved in just down the street from this shop said the exact same thing to me earlier today."
John practically jumped with excitement, making a bit of a connection. Could it really be that strange man who'd starting coming into the shop regularly just a few months ago? The doctor bellowed to Mike, "Who is it?"
Stamford winked and said, "You'll see."