For @conchepcion. Enjoy, lovely!
"Oh my God!" squeaked Rebecca, grabbing the copy from Molly's hands, flicking through the yellowed pages, "Oh my gosh, a first edition, it even has -- oh -- that first copy smell! You've got to tell me where you got this---"
Molly found herself tugged along, rather than leading the effervescent head of the book club down the narrow street towards the small, indifferent looking bookstore.
The shop bell tinkled above them, Rebecca's mouth swinging open, eyes swivelling to take in the disorganisation. She dived immediately into an aisle, squeaks and gasps coming at a rapid pace, books being snapped shut and opened. Molly stood awkwardly for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels.
She hadn't quite expected Rebecca to be this excited when she'd mentioned finding the place, considering 'Holmes Books' was more of a to-read pile that had got vastly out of control than a retail shop.
Something in the distance skittered over the wooden floor. A great screeching yowl came from Rebecca, who appeared, stumbling, from the aisle, numerous books squeezed to her chest.
"What the hell was that?" she asked, gasping, taking in gulps of air.
"He calls it the shop dog," Molly said quietly, swallowing a grin. Toby was mostly harmless, a great lolloping Red Setter, but among all the books and thoughtless arranging, he did often give customers, what ones were allowed through the door, a terrible fright.
"I think this place could do with a tidy," Rebecca said, suddenly prim. It was why Molly's mother liked her. She carried a skittish, bright veneer, but behind it was a stickler for time and a believer in plans. Molly always found herself the opposite. Nearing the pine table in the centre of the shop, Molly narrowed her eyes.
Rebecca grabbed the yellow Post-It first, snatching it off the hardback it was stuck to.
"12?" she asked.
"Nothing," Molly replied, avoiding Rebecca's eye by scanning the pages. The font was readable, not the tiny font she detested, and a light enough weight in one hand that she could read it wherever, making coffee, breakfast. Unable to escape the written word.
When Rebecca wasn't looking, she checked the front page. Underneath the title, something scrawled in pencil, easy to rub out. (Not that she ever did, not she'd ever thought of doing so.)
£3. Take it to the next meeting, you're better than bloody Kinsella.
Molly hid a smile, snapping shut the book, tucking it behind her back. She followed Rebecca to the desk, which sat before an entryway covered by a curtain. It was still, undisturbed, as Rebecca called out for service.
"Hi!" Rebecca called louder. "I want to buy some of your books, hello?"
"Then buy them!" called back the caustic tongue of the owner. Molly bit back a laugh, Rebecca gaping at the reply.
"Excuse me? I am a customer! You're supposed to serve me," she said, drawing out her last few words, reminding Molly of too many weekends helping her mother around Tesco.
"Good afternoon, nice day isn't it, thank you for visiting," came the voice, the curtain still not moving, no presence made. There was a pause. "Are you still there?"
"Yes!" snapped Rebecca, though she immediately huffed, shaking her head, snapping open her purse. She slammed down a £50 note. "So much for 'friendly atmosphere', Molly."
"I never said---"
The shop bell tinkled, contrasting sharply with the violent door slam.
Molly shrugged, glancing up to find Toby appearing from the back of the shop, from behind a tall wall of books, tail wagging and knocking over a fair few dictionaries in his wake. He passed his snout over her palm, searching for strokes, before sliding underneath the curtain towards his master.
She listened for the familiar affection, the muttered joshing and joking, the slam of Toby's tail against the wooden floor. Toby barked sharply.
"Thanks for the book," she said, perching on the desk, re-opening it. "Nice opening sentence. You've yet to recommend a thriller. You like those, don't you?"
He snorted. "I like mysteries. Real life ones. Thrillers are for people who can't think. One day someone will come up with the ultimate holiday read: a lonely neurotic woman searching for meaning in her life, thinking it all boils down to the two men in her life, and in the meanwhile, she has to stop a nuclear apocalypse from happening in 24 hours."
Molly snorted, giggles coming. "You've read that stuff before."
"I just know people, that's all. I know what they read."
"You should, you own a bookstore."
"Hm."
There was a silence, companionable, Molly finding herself easily lost in the easiness of it, her mind drifting to the Post-Its. She hadn't told him, would never dream of telling him, but she kept them all. He probably assumed she threw them away. After all, they were just numbers, for when he wasn't there when she arrived, or too busy to talk to her face-to-face. She kept them anyway. His little scrawls, the numbers. 2, 60. 12. It had just been three instances since she’d bought her first book from him, Jane Eyre (the only book he hadn’t recommended) that she hadn’t seen him when the shop bell tingled.
They were precious as life to her.
When first he'd flicked back that curtain and tilted his head at her, curious to know who exactly it was coming in searching for stuff she never actually liked ("what sort of torture is that," sighed he. "Book club," laughed back she), Molly had not thought him particularly handsome, or with beauty. He had cheekbones too high, a look too intense, gangly arms and legs, and dark curly hair more belonging to Mr Rochester than an eccentric, lonely bookshop owner.
Then, as they talked, every fortnight, every day before her dreaded book club. He made her forget the obligation, forced into by her own procrastination, skipping bi-weekly session after bi-weekly session, dodging the inevitable with grimaces about work ("and how many dead bodies makes a back-up, darling?" asked with sharp disapproval), or sympathetic apologies because of concrete, uncancellable plans already made with Meena. And with every Post-It note, she'd begun to smile at his scrawls rather than raise an eyebrow.
The first time his face appeared in her dreams, she called it a weird one-off.
The second time, when she was simply walking down a street holding his hand until he turned to her, about to speak, and she woke up, she knew the truth.
Still. Difficult to tell the bloke you bought your books from you were in love with him.
Such a cliche as well. Stuff only wrote about in books, destined to sit on the shelves in Waterstones, alongside quirky, tongue-in-cheek promotional displays about the world coming to an end. (Quick, a celebrity's the President, read 1984 while it's still ironic!)
With a brief goodbye, she set down the money and approached the door.
"Molly?" She turned towards the sound, expecting the curtain. Seeing those two intense blue eyes, she yelped, hands flying to her mouth. The book came tumbling from her hands, landing on the floor.
Sherlock stood in the entryway in a shirt and tartan dressing gown, blinked.
"Sorry."
"It's fine."
Spoken at the same time, fumbling for words, and he cracked a smile. Toby's paws pattered against the floor, whining as he settled at his owner's feet. Sherlock brushed his fingers over the dog's head, scratching him behind the ears.
"I suppose the Post-Its were a long shot anyway." He spoke more to himself than her, but it still felt aimed at her, as if he'd shot an arrow into the air, too scared to hit the target. In case it landed?
"Long shot," Molly echoed, rolling the words around on her tongue.
"All these books -- they talk of romantic gestures like they're easy but I don't think it's narratively attractive to actually show the logistics of planning such things."
Romantic. He'd used that word. Romantic. Alongside the word 'gestures'. The context was the key, she supposed. She'd have skipped over those words in any other conversation, another part of his vocabulary, but 'like they're easy'.
"Sherlock..."
"Mm?"
"Is this... is this the part where you kiss me?" His head shot up. For the first time, she saw him flushed. The tips of his ears, the high of his cheeks. Molly gave a soft laugh, giving a simple shrug. "Doesn't matter. I'd just -- I would really like this to be that part."
Toby barked, offended, as a set of encyclopaedias and dictionaries thudded, skittered across the floor, knocked over as Sherlock pushed past them, towards her.
"This, Molly Hooper," he gathered her face in his hands, his lips inches from hers, inching closer and closer, as her smile widened, "is very much that part."
In the setting afternoon sun, Molly felt her bookseller smile against her lips as she kissed him, her fingers sliding against his hair and his hands sliding underneath her blouse, over her belly, the small of her back.
Damn being original.
