A/N: This is a Sherlock AU based on a picture by navydream and an idea by pernillo on tumblr :) Hope you enjoy.

"'The History of Surfing' by Matt Warshaw." There was a beat. A definitely noticeable but still barely polite beat. "Please."

The clerk looked the guy standing in front of him up and down in a not-exactly-subtle manner whilst managing to raise a judging eyebrow. "The History of Surfing." It was almost a question. Asking people about why they wanted to read the certain books they'd asked for had gotten him fired from his last job, (apparently women are touchy about both their dress sense and their weight,) so it wasn't technically a question, just a disbelieving statement. Very disbelieving. The man in front of him couldn't look any less like a surfer if he tried. For one, he was wearing a scarf. And because he was omniscient, John knew that surfers never wore scarves. Ever. It just wasn't their thing. Also, the man wasn't blond. Or tanned. Or very muscle-y. And everyone knew that surfers were blond, tanned AND muscle-y. This customer had brown curls and cheekbones. And height. The three things he noticed were the curls, the cheekbones and the chin. Which was at eye level. Eye level for heaven's sake. Damned giants.

"Yes, John. 'The History of Surfing' by Matt Warshaw."

The shorter man's face descended into a confused frown of its own accord, and, as if he was supposed to ask, the words were out of his mouth before he knew they were in it. "How did you-"

The customer's lips stretched into a momentary miniscule smile, if it could even be called that. Maybe a smirk was a better description. "You're a Caucasian male, perhaps forty one. That would put your date of birth to around 1971. In that year the leading male names in the United Kingdom were Michael, James, David, John, Robert, Christopher and William." The man then went on to describe the correlation between Mike, Jim, Dave, Bob, Chris and Billy, and the algorithm he had used in order to work out the percentage likelihood a man from his socioeconomic background would have the nickname of each versus the regular given name of John. "And thus, I conclude. You must be John."

John blinked a couple of times, completely awestruck.

"Also, you have a nametag. The History of Surfing, please."

John, about to say something, now closed his mouth. He did this a couple of times before deciding he had no witty retort to come back with and promptly flushed with a petty mixture of rage and embarrassment. "Matt Warshaw. Right." He swiftly turned on his heel, climbed a ladder and returned, holding the book out for the man to take, but from as far away as possible. "Here."

The man took the book and opened it to the first page, balancing it in one hand. Then, licking his pointer finger and rubbing it against his thumb, he turned to the second, then the third, fourth, fifth, speedily flipping through the pages before snapping it shut and handing it back to John in one smooth movement. "That'll be all." And with that, he made towards the exit.

Bewildered, John looked down at the book, then up at the retreating figure."You." Not knowing the man's name, John pointed at the curly-haired guy. "Oi, you, Chin! ...Cheeks! ...Curls!" His eyes rolled slightly as the man kept going. "Scarf man!"

The man was halfway through the doorway before he turned with a smug grin. "Sherlock Holmes." Then he winked and left.

"...this is a bookshop, not a library..." John said feebly to himself. He shook his head with a small tut and replaced the book to its rightful place.

John scowled as he heard the bookshop's bell tinkle and the man walk in. "You again."

"Ah good, you remembered. No need for introductions. I need anything you have on the Siege of Balkh, the Mile Championship, Mount Auburn Hospital and David Garnett."

"Introductions? We are hardly introduced, Sherlock Holmes."

"You know my name, and I know yours; I think you'll find that that is an introduction. Books now."

John sighed. Definitely going to be a long day. He turned to the ladder and scuttled it along so that he could pull out two books, then disappeared into the back for a second so that he could take out several more. Returning, as slowly as he could, he held each one up for Sherlock to examine. "All of them good?"

"Yes."

Sherlock went to grab them, but stopped when John made an "Ah, ah, ah," noise, like a mother scolding her child for trying to dip their finger into the pudding. "That'll be £42.50 please."

"Fort-" Sherlock seemed almost shocked by this. "I have to pay?"

"Of course you have to pay, this is a bloody bookshop!"

"I'll only need them for 47 and a half seconds!"

"Well that's nearly a pound a second, isn't it. Definitely worth the investment." John grinned. It was his turn to feel smug. He held out his hand, making a 'pay-up' motion he'd be fired for if his boss were here."

Sherlock sighed and reached into pocket. "I'm working on an investigation with the Police that desperately needs the information."

"That's nice. £42.50, please." After many more sighs and reluctant pulling-out-wallet-ness, John was eventually able to take the man's credit card and deal the transaction. "Thank you very much for your purchase. Will you need a bag?"

"No." Sherlock took each book, read them and pushed them back at John. "A donation. All brand new, used once each. Perfect condition. Enjoy." He turned again to leave.

"Uh, no, that's not how bookshops work... you're supposed to take these once you've bought them."

"Mrs. Hudson will only donate them to a charity shop were I to bring them home. Good day, John." With that, he turned and left, once again leaving John feeling tired and bewildered. "How the hell do I explain this?" he muttered to himself, looking at the pile of books and the receipt left on top of them.

"The Navasota River."

"Seriously? Again? Do you not have google?"

"No, John, time is of the essence. The Navasota River, please."

John stared at Sherlock for a second, slightly concerned, before turning to the wall of books and taking out one. "Here. There's only one paragraph about the river in there, page 794, halfway down."

"How much?"

"For just that one? A polite tip'll do. I assume you'll do your super-reading thing and leave again, right?"

Sherlock nodded slightly and took the book, flipping to the page, reading, and handing it back. "Just where you said... John, what can you tell me about Belekoy?"

John raised an eyebrow, snorting slightly as he replaced the geographic dictionary the man had wanted. This Sherlock fellow just kept getting stranger and stranger. "Not much; it's a Filipino pastry, flavoured with vanilla and sesame. There's a recipe in..." He traced his finger down the back of the spines of a couple hundred books before stopping and pulling one out. "Here. You want to read it?"

"No."

"Oh. Right. Well then. Can I do anything else for you?"

"When was Zhenxie Qingliao born?"

John tilted his head slightly, confused. "Uh... 1088? Or was it '89... it was in that book by Andrew Ferguson..."

"Interesting. List the schools in Fort Lauderdale."

"Uh. I haven't a clue, sorry. Why the sudden Spanish inquisition?"

"You have an intriguing memory." Sherlock put a tenner on the table between them. "The tip." Then he turned with a swish of his coat and left, calling only "I'll be back" over his shoulder.

"...we close in half an hour!" John tried to call back, not really knowing if the man meant that he'd be back later today or later full stop. He decided he would stay open for another hour in case.

"Sherlock!" John couldn't help but smile when the scarf-clad man... it couldn't be called 'walked in' in this case, the man basically glided into places... entered. "It's been nearly a month, where've you been?"

"In my flat. Thinking."

"...for nearly a month?"

"Yes. I had something to think about."

"You don't say. You know, people tend to think about things when they've got things to think about. Just saying."

Sherlock let out a small, chuckle, almost a giggle, but other than that, there wasn't really any way of telling he had found what John had said much more interesting than a conversation with that one aunt that nobody really likes. Perhaps his eyes were glinting slightly more than usual. "Fairview Dome."

"Fairview Dome? Hmm..." John closed his eyes momentarily, liking that he actually had to think about where the books were when Sherlock came in. Most of the time, he had to point squealing girls to the Twilight section, or elderly ladies to the Arthur Conan Doyle aisle. He never quite understood the attraction to the whodunnit fiction. Why would you read something about murder, torture and suffering in your relaxation time when there was enough of that happening in the real world that could be read in the Times or heard on BBC News? He opened his eyes with a satisfied intake of breath and pulled the wooden contraption along to the wall. "'The climber's guide to High Sierra'. Coming right up."

"John?"

Halfway up the ladder, John turned to look over his shoulder before being physically twisted around, placed down safely on a rung and pulled into a kiss. It was safe to say his cheeks became the colour of the not-quite-bright-red-but-still-red book he was trying extremely hard not to let got of.

Releasing him, Sherlock beamed. "I won't need the book after all. I'll be back tomorrow." Then he left.

"What?" Could the man ever leave without making him feel like a hurricane had swept all of the thoughts from his brain?

There was a cough from besides him. A man in a pastel blue anorak held out a book. "...just this please."

John's eyes, if possible, widened and he fell off of the ladder, forgetting that, being a fairly large shop, there would actually be customers about. Staring intently at the floor, he limped over to the till, having presumably spraining it. "£7.99 please."

John decided he wouldn't tell Sherlock about his accident. It wasn't really anything big anyway, and he wasn't really sure if the man would really care that much because he was definitely a strange one and had possibly seen it happen anyway and that would just be too awkward and he was definitely not ranting in his own mind or anything at all.

He took a deep breath. He'd done well all day. It was getting to five. Nearly closing time. He could last another half hour.

Making sure he knew where every customer was, he found a conveniently placed chair and made himself comfortable. Well. As comfortable as you could get when you knew the man who'd kissed you the day before, a man you only knew by, lets face it, a possibly fake name and possible connections to the Police, was coming to probably kiss you some more and you didn't really not like it enough for a forty year old man with an unhealthily wide knowledge of the American singer, actor and newspaper editor, George Washington Dixon.

So basically, not comfortable at all.

In the last few hours, from turning up to work 'til now, he'd dusted the shelves and fancy pillar-like columns that decorated the large shop 3 times, swept the floors more times than they'd probably ever been swept, cleaned the frankly terrifying painting of a cloaked man in red that hung just to the right of where the ladder... incident had happened and adjusted his nametag a billion and one times.

He'd also changed his vest. Twice. He wasn't quite sure what colour suited him best.

Now he was staring out of the window. He wasn't sure if 'intently' and 'daydreamingly' could be used to describe the same action, but if so, he was doing that.

Gulping when he saw a flash of black streaked with blue stride past the window, his eyes instantly focused on the book he'd been 'reading' for the last hour.

The tinkle of the bell said that someone had entered. Footsteps approached him.

"Are you okay?"

John looked up. "...Pardon?" Of course he would know. He's obviously a ruddy genius.

"Your leg."

"Oh, it's fine. It's... don't worry about it, I used to be a doctor... and it's hardly a gunshot wound..." he trailed off, trying to decide whether he was actually detecting emotion on Sherlock's face. He hadn't known him long, but he guessed that that was long enough to know that Sherlock didn't show much on his face other than boredom. And that adorable beam.

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, retired, now a bookshop employee in a corner of London."

"...that's me, little old retired Watson. And you're Sherlock Holmes."

"The world's only consulting detective."

"'The world's only'?"

"I invented the job."

"And the Police are okay with that?"

"They have to be."

"...and what does a genius like you need in a bookshop like this?"

"You."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Oh. I think I'm entitled to a small mental breakdown."

Sherlock frowned, not really understanding what John meant. He took this to mean he should start spewing all of the relevant information that came into his head. He finished with the end, as he knew was usually deemed convenient by people other than him. "...and then, a man was found in the Navasota river, the last thing he'd eaten was a sesame vanilla pastry from a Filipino restaurant.

"...and you solved all that yourself?"

"Yes. Well. The Police helped."

"I'm sure they did," John scoffed. "You must be constantly supplied with tea and biccies.

"You'd think, wouldn't you."

"They don't employ someone to constantly refresh you?" John pulled a mock horrified face. "The selfish bastards!"

Sherlock smiled. Actually smiled. "They are, aren't they." He looked down, then went around in a small circle, seeing the whole shop for the first time. "Will you help me?"

"...I'm just a bloke working in a bookshop, Sherlock."

"No, John, you're much more than that."

John's face brightened again, something that'd become something of a regular occurrence nowadays.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yup. Totally fine. Don't mind me, just blushing like a schoolgirl."

"Hm. I was expecting more... sunsets."

"You have never been in a relationship, have you, Mr. Holmes."

"..." Sherlock stood there for a second, not breaking eye contact, but not really seeing John. "...Is this a situation in which I need to tell the truth, or lie blatantly."

"That seriously depends on what you're hiding. In the case of STDs, truth would be great. Illegitimate children, truth. That you play violin at 3am, lie. Lie like there's no tomorrow."

"I've never had a relationship before."

"Oh god, I knew you were a violinist."