"There is only one way to read, which is to browse in libraries and bookshops, picking up books that attract you, reading only those, dropping them when they bore you, skipping the parts that drag-and never, never reading anything because you feel you ought, or because it is part of a trend or a movement. Remember that the book which bores you when you are twenty or thirty will open doors for you when you are forty or fifty-and vise versa. Don't read a book out of its right time for you. "

― Doris Lessing

Sherlock Holmes was a detective, a good detective, a fantastic detective, and John Watson; John Watson worked in a bookstore. Sherlock still had no idea how it was that the blonde had managed to catch his attention the way he did, but it happened. The detective enjoyed going to John's small bookstore, something he enjoyed before he had somehow fallen in love with him, every Wednesday he was able, the day after if it was required. He never bought anything, just browsed. Then he sat down for a few hours to read whatever he had randomly picked up. And then noticed the man who owned the place, with his blue eyes and short, soft blonde hair. He hated to admit it, but he was smitten, and he had never spoken to the man. It didn't matter though. It went on like this, as normal, until he decided one day that he was going to say at least something. He couldn't find anything interesting that day anyways, might as well ask. So, he went up to John Watson, whose name he only knew because it was written inside the collar of his shirt and worn on a tag, and spoke. "What book would you recommend for the common madman?" Oh, that sounded ridiculous.

The shorter man blinked up at him, charming, unfairly blue eyes searching his face, Sherlock doing the same. Only he felt like he was teetering a little, drowning in an empty space with absolutely nothing to hang onto while he gauged for his reaction. But then John gave him a confused grin, flashing sharp canines.

"Depends on what said madman is into."

Be still my heart. He had a sense of humor. Sherlock bit back a smile. "Anything. Just something that doesn't drive said madman to insanity at the very least." He hummed with a smile, eyeing the man for a moment, observing and drawing data.

"A-huh…" John nodded slowly, flicking out a pink tongue across his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Well this shouldn't drive anyone to insanity, or at least I don't think so anyways," He began, setting down the paper backs he filing through, and rounded a corner to grab a copy of 'Flowers for Algernon' "But it's a good read none the less." He gestured for Sherlock to take it, which he did, not missing the opportunity to make a few small observations.

Sherlock looked over it, turning it over in his hands a few times, before saying, "This should do, thank you." He hesitated, wondering if he should press the small talk further. "What's it about then?"

He saw the shorter of the two bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. He was actually thinking. Sherlock then had the smallest hope that maybe, just maybe, that John wasn't just another person he would see right through and continue on with. Maybe he was different and possibly exciting. Someone that would be genuinely interested in Sherlock. He suppressed an excited grin.

"Well it's a science fiction based around 1940s, I'm fairly sure anyways, and it's meant to be something like a social experiment you could say." John began, clearly mulling things over carefully as he continued. "It's about a mentally impaired man named Charlie Gorden, who's been railed on by the general public, like one would expect, and undergoes an impossible surgery with equally impossible and modern technology. With the upside of his intelligence, motor skills, and any other ski that requires brain work to have been upped a ton, there are of course faults in all of this.

"The whole story seems to reflect on the frankly embarrassing way the public goes about, I think. Apparently the writer made this story in his prime as he went along, observing and seeing how things worked. It's quite clever really-"

As the blonde continued to ramble on, something Sherlock was easily put off by when anyone else did the same, could only stand there pointedly, gripping the book stilly.

Then he stopped, flushing slightly when he did, which Sherlock found oddly endearing, and cleared his throat.

"So yeah, it's... Neat."

Sherlock had been taking in each word as he said it with much interest where he most likely would have shown almost none had it been anyone else. He looked back the the book, his brow furrowed slightly. "Interesting..." He murmured, scanning the book. He turned it some, examining the spine. "Seems as if the book doesn't have as many fans as it sounds like it should."

"Really? How can you tell?"

"The spine of the book, as well as the pages. There isn't very much wear. And there are no breaks in the dust, meaning no one has checked it out in awhile." Sherlock explained this all absently.

"Wow."

The detective's eyes flicked up in disbelief, only briefly. "That was simple. Something more difficult would be her affair." He said, motioning towards a woman reading on the other side of the store.

John glanced over at her, then back to Sherlock."Explain." He suggested.

"Look at her middle finger, left hand, there's a slight indentation and tan line, meaning she has stopped wearing a ring she normally wears, presumably a wedding ring. She's dressed up, hardly reading, and sitting in an open area, as one would when hoping for someone to notice them, somewhere like a window. But why a bookstore? A bookstore isn't where someone would go to meet people. No, she's waiting for someone. You can also tell this from the fact that she keeps looking towards the door, and the way her left leg is crossed over the other, not vice versa. Now how to verify it's an affair. This is easy. Look at the man over there, he does have a ring on, and he's watching her. Easy to assume he's her husband. Judging this from the fact that they both have the same cat hair around their pant ankles." Sherlock explained. "She's waiting for someone, and he's waiting to see what she's up to." His eyes flickered to John for a reaction, almost shyly, part of him didn't want to see how he would react to that.

"That... Was amazing." But then there was that.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in slight confusion. "You really think so?" He asked after awhile, unsure what else to say.

"Of course." He said it with utmost certainty. "Yes, that was quite extraordinary."

With each word of praise, Sherlock felt his face twist into a deeper expression of confusion, before setting into sharp relief at his jaw. He chuckled, shaking his head a little. "That's not what people normally say..."

"Well what do people normally say?"

Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."

He saw him smile. A genuine smile. He wasn't making fun of Sherlock. He thought his deductions were something beyond impressive, and it showed. The detective had searched his face for any signs of falsehood or something of the sort. There weren't. None at all in fact.