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The shop stands on a well-traveled corner in Soho, London, looking innocent and masking nothing.
Quite often, the neighborhood’s residents and regular passers-by will note the vintage 1933 Bentley at the curb, polished to a gleam, and sporting sticker bullet holes along one flank. No one pays attention.
In fact, the fact that no one pays attention, at all, to the shop would be of no consequence at all, given the fact that NO ONE pays attention to it.
Unless one happened to be the very observant person of Sherlock Holmes. Who noticed.
…
Sherlock conceded that whatever obscured the building’s purpose did the job well, even if Sherlock himself couldn’t quite identify it. Ancient, it seemed. Unusual, certainly. And it certainly defied any known scientific explanation.
Thus, Occam’s Razor required him to consider that the shop might be concealed through means other than scientific.
How fun.
He required concerted effort to notice that the shop concealed its true purpose at all. Sherlock spent days observing it from several vantage points, and he watched as customers went in, and almost always left empty-handed. He chuckled over a pair of thugs clearly there to stir up trouble, or to perhaps make a play for the lucrative location. They’d left, clearly put in their place somehow, and the shop still stood. Peacefully, even. Still a comfortable, shabby-looking bookshop.
The shop represented a mystery, and Sherlock never could resist a mystery.
Still, he might have considered just observing the location for significantly longer--it was such fun to observe something new!--were it not for the fact that he appeared to be bleeding out from his latest altercation, practically on the doorstep of the bookshop.
Really, he hadn’t anticipated the knife hidden in the suspect’s belt, or, frankly, the suspect’s willingness to use it.
Always something , Sherlock fumed, before realizing that he could no longer feel his toes. Not good. Not good at all.
“In a spot of trouble there, are we?” Sherlock glanced up to see a long lean form of indeterminate gender, dressed in black, red hair waving over shoulders. “Right.” The being drew his hand up from his waist and snapped its fingers. “There we are.”
Immediately, Sherlock could feel his toes, and felt the blood that wet his shirt dissipate. He looked down to find that his wound was gone, and his outfit pristine.
“Thank you?” he said to the being, the question in his tone making the being smirk.
“Best not thank me. Oh, no, do! I can spin that. Come on, up you get,” the being said, leaning forward so that Sherlock could see gold slitted eyes behind the dark glasses it wore even in the dark of the alley next to the bookshop. It held out a hand, and Sherlock took it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet.
“You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” the being observed. “Come on. The angel will want a word.”
“Angel?” Sherlock pursed his lips. “That was not one of the options I’d considered.”
The low chuckle didn’t surprise him. “You can tell him that, if you’d like.”
Sherlock followed the being into the shop, to be met by a lovely, pleasant man with a mane of white blond hair, whom he immediately suspected of being up to no good. No one, in Sherlock’s opinion, could be that, well, good.
“Angel, your observer found himself in a bit of trouble,” the being in black said. “I’ve brought him along for a cuppa.”
“Well, then,” the--angel?--said briskly, “into the backroom, then. I’ll just put the kettle on.”
Sherlock found himself hustled into the back of the bookshop and deposited on a deceptively comfortable sofa by the being in black, who then took a seat on the low table in front of it and conjured up a glass of red wine.
At least, it looked that way. Sherlock couldn’t tell where the wine had come from, and he’d been watching.
“Is he really an angel?” Sherlock asked.
The being shrugged. “As much as I am a demon.” The wine glass was set down. “Crowley,” the demon said, holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake.
“Demon,” Sherlock repeated, taking it briefly and then letting go. “Right. Oh, I’m Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”
The demon took another sip of his wine. “Oh, I know,” they said. “Been keeping an eye on your work. Well done on the Barberry case. Got another dozen souls for Hell with that one, and I didn’t have to lift a finger.”
“And he saved three times that for Heaven, dear, don’t forget,” the angel said as he brought in a tea set and set it next to Crowley on the table. “Quite admirable.” He poured a cup and held it out to Sherlock. “Sugar? Cream?”
“None, please and thank you,” Sherlock said. “And you are?”
“Aziraphale,” the angel said, sitting back with his tea.
“Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Sherlock murmured. “Fascinating.”
“And you’re well-read,” Aziraphale said, pleased. He gestured to Crowley. “This is the Serpent of Eden.”
Sherlock gave a brief thought to the slitted eyes, and nodded. “Of course he is.”
“You believe us then, first sight, no demonstrations necessary?” Crowley said, amused.
“I have no reason not to,” Sherlock said. “I was bleeding out, and now I’m not. I have been observing this shop for weeks, and I know that it is secure, protected by means with which I am unfamiliar. As I am familiar with all the current mundane means of security, that leaves the not mundane. Therefore, occam’s razor: this must be the truth. Frankly, angel and demon make more sense than what I’d been considering before.”
“Which was?” Aziraphale asked mildly.
“Front for a magical district of some kind,” Sherlock admitted. “I’ve yet to find one, and I had high hopes.”
Crowley chuckled. “That entrance is a bit further away from here, and I think you’d enjoy the exercise of finding it, so I’ll not tell you just where. But I will--” Crowley drew up and snapped again -- “let you see it, anyway.”
“Really, Crowley?” Aziraphale tutted.
“Angel, it’s not as if he won’t find it eventually,” Crowley reasoned. “And we pre-date their ridiculous statute anyway.”
“I suppose that’s true,” the angel allowed.
They engaged in pleasant conversation for a time, before Aziraphale stood.
“This has been lovely, but I assume you have places to be,” he said, taking up the tray. “You’re welcome to come back at any time. Browse the books--though you’re not allowed to buy or borrow them, I’m afraid--or have a cuppa.” He carried the tray out, but popped his head back in. “You seem a bit lonely. You should check into getting a flatmate.”
“Flatmate? Why would I want a flatmate?” Sherlock scoffed before getting to his feet. “People get in the way. I don’t need friends.”
Crowley walked Sherlock to the front door. “Of course not. You do you,” Crowley said solemnly. “Go forth and do many wicked things.”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he approached them. “Honestly. Mind how you go, Sherlock.”
“Right.” Sherlock gave them both one last, searching look. “I will, then.” He turned up his collar as he walked away.
…
John Watson no longer believed in God.
The nightmares of Afghanistan taunted him, leaving him to languish in his tiny bedsit in a haze of apathy and grief.
Was this his life now? Unable to walk, unable to use his hands, unable to even get out of his bed?
So much for being a surgeon.
His regular therapist suggested he keep a blog, so he started one. His physical therapist suggested he go for walks to help ease his movement, so he made himself leave the bedsit at least once per day to go somewhere.
Anywhere.
Nowhere.
One morning, his feet took him in the direction of Soho.
John wandered with no clear purpose, until he saw an aging bookshop, its name, “A.Z. Fell & Co.,” over the door in faded print.
“You look as worn as I feel,” he muttered to himself. “Got any life in you, yet?”
He shrugged, thinking about maybe buying a blank journal if they had one. His handwriting had suffered with the injury. Practice couldn’t hurt, he supposed, and stepped up to the door to read the hours sign.
It was convoluted, and it made John laugh out loud as he tried the door, having in fact made it to the shop in one of its miraculously open hours. The bell tingled as he struggled in with his cane, alerting a jovial-looking gent with white-blond hair to John’s presence.
“Oh, hello,” the man said. “Looking for something in particular?”
“Oh, well,” John said, looking around. “Thought I might have a look around. Maybe get something blank to write in?”
“Oh, you’re a writer!” The gent--presumably the shopkeep--bustled around from behind his counter. “I’m afraid I don’t have much for actual sale, you understand. I can’t bear to part with my books. But a blank journal? I think I might have something that would suit.”
“Are you the A.Z. Fell named over the door?” John inquired.
“Yes, actually.” The man held out a hand for John, who took it in a light shake. “Aziraphale.”
“John Watson.” John looked around a bit. “Are these first editions?”
“Mostly,” Aziraphale said. “In pristine condition, too.”
“Lovely,” John said, wandering in Aziraphale’s wake, looking at shelves that contained some truly amazing books. A first edition Grey’s Anatomy caught John’s eye. “I’d love that, but it would be out of my range anyway.”
“You’re a medical man, then?” Aziraphale asked, stopping by a dust-free display that contained a few current pulp novels, a few blank notebooks, and a few bookmarks. John guessed that this was the only spot that had items for actual sale.
“Doctor,” John said briefly. “Well, surgeon. Well, I was. Now I’m not.”
Knowing blue eyes peered over the top of square-lensed reading glasses. “Once a doctor, always a doctor, my good fellow. You haven’t lost your brain yet, have you?”
John opened his mouth, closed it, and thought about it.
“I guess not,” he admitted, then tapped his cane on the floor. “Bit hard to do the job as hindered as I am, though.”
Aziraphale picked up a leather bound blank journal, and John swore he saw it glow for a second before the man handed it to John. “Nothing that has been done will prevent you from your life’s work, John Watson.”
Warmth suffused John, easing the ache in his shoulder, the tremor in his hands, and the phantom pain in his leg. Suddenly, things seemed a bit better, a bit brighter. Nonplussed, John looked at the handsome journal in his hand. “I can’t possibly afford this,” he murmured.
“It’s a gift,” Aziraphale said, escorting John to the front door. “It’s a lovely day, you know; you should take yourself for a walk in Russell Square Park.”
“Russell Square? It’s a bit of a walk,” John protested, allowing himself to be escorted to the door. “I couldn’t possibly accept this.”
“Of course you can, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll be helping me. Why, I am up to 462 days without a book sold! I’d hate to break the streak. Oh, and please take this old Oyster card I had hanging around. I’ll never use it. Russell Square Park, mind.”
John found himself on the sidewalk outside the shop, a new journal and Oyster card tucked in one hand, and his cane in the other. “Well.” He looked up at the sunshine. “Why not?”
…
Harry Potter looked down to see that he was bleeding through his t-shirt. Again.
Shite.
The wounds from the beating Vernon had given him were splitting. He could feel it, even as he could do nothing about it. His wand was in his trunk, along with everything he owned, presumably back on Privet Drive. Even living under the man’s “tender” care since he was a toddler hadn’t prepared him for the rage his uncle had displayed at his warning from the Ministry about underage magic and the loss of his big deal. Harry had passed out from the beating, and woke up when Vernon tossed him from the car in a poor neighborhood in the City.
No wand. No money. Abandoned in a slum.
And bleeding again.
“Need a hand, kid?” Harry looked up to see a slim, dark figure in dark glasses, hair shining red under the streetlight.
“Who wears dark glasses at night?” Harry blurted out, then blushed, embarrassed.
The person laughed, and held out a hand tipped with black fingernails. “Me. I’m Crowley. I’m a demon, but I’m a very bad one. My partner, Aziraphale, is an angel, and he has a bookshop nearby. Let’s get you there, eh? We’ll fix you up and get you some cocoa or something.”
“Is it magic?” Harry asked, still looking at the hand.
“Of a sort,” Crowley allowed. “It’s a touch more complicated than that. But we can help you, I promise.” Crowley sort of glowed when he said it, and Harry felt warmth from his head to his toes.
His magic seemed to like him.
“Fine, thanks,” Harry said, and took Crowley’s hand.
…
Sirius Black looked like a loveable stray. He knew, because he’d practiced the look in private many times since he’d broken out of Azkaban. When he’d discovered that Harry was NOT in fact at Petunia’s home on Privet Drive, he’d panicked.
Thoughts of catching Peter Pettigrew drove him to escape Azkaban, but the discovery that his godson had been raised by Petunia in his absence drove him to find Harry.
The woman hated magic, and her husband was worse.
The discussion he’d picked up around the Leaky Cauldron told him that Harry had been missing since the previous summer, when Vernon Dursley had turned Harry out of the house and burned his school things, including his wand. Dursley, the great turd, had been prosecuted in the Muggle, er, mundane world, and was currently serving a term in prison for child neglect, abuse, and endangerment. He was able to tell prosecutors where he’d tossed Harry out of the car, but there’d been no whiff of him since.
Sirius quirked a doggy grin at the thought. No whiff.
Well, there was a grim on the case now, and he had a truly superior sniffer.
The trail was truly old, now, and it had rained innumerable times since Harry had been lost, but Sirius put his nose to the task in the stinky alley Harry had been dropped in. With the judicious use of magic to heighten the traces of scent that were there, Sirius was able to pick it up, and he started tracking it.
For blocks, Sirius paced in his Grim form, noticing as he got into Soho that the scent had fresher overtones in places. An ice cream shop. A grocery store.
A bookshop.
A bookshop with wards the likes of which Sirius had never seen, not even in his days as an accomplished Auror.
Interesting.
Hopeful, now, Sirius nosed his way up to the front door and sat at it, tail wagging, hoping for someone to come along and open it. He didn’t wait long, as a blond man in an aged waistcoat opened it.
“Oh, good Lord,” he said. “You best come in, Sirius Black.”
Startled, Sirius did just that, getting a few paces inside the bookshop before morphing into the skinny, filthy, shell of a man he’d become in Azkaban. He turned as the blond locked the front door and asked, “How did you know my name?”
“I know a great deal, Lord Black,” the man said archly. “I am Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”
Shite.
Hastily, Sirius bowed, “It’s an honor, Guardian.”
“Hmph.” Aziraphale nodded back. “I’m glad to see you finally came to your senses and made your way here to find your godson, rather than seeking the revenge that put you in that dreadful prison.”
“They said he was missing,” Sirius said. “Is he alright? The minute I heard I came to find him.”
“So you did,” Aziraphale said. “And young Harry is fine. He lives here with me and the Serpent of Eden. We’ve been teaching him everything he needs to know.” He looked Sirius over. “I suppose you better come up and get cleaned up before you meet Harry.”
...
James Bond never believed in God. He believed in his country and in the power of the Glock he held tucked in a shoulder holster.
The placement of a vintage racing Bentley just where he needed access to wheels seemed a bit miraculous, though. “Q, do you see this?” he asked. “That’s a bloody machine. I want one.”
“Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT steal that car,” Q said, quickly and harshly.
“Bit firm on that, are you,” James said, running a hand along the Bentley’s fender. “She’s a beauty.”
“And well known in our circles,” Q said again, firmly. “Get away from the car and DO NOT engage with its owner.”
“Better listen to your handler, there, mate,” a dangerous-looking man slipped out of the shadows. “That’s my Bentley you’re fondling there. Girl, didn’t I tell you not to pick up strange men?”
The Bentley roared to life under James’ hands, startling him for a moment before he smirked. “She likes me.”
Despite the man’s dark glasses, James could sense the rolling of his eyes underneath. “She only has eyes for the dangerous ones, anyway. Need a lift?”
“Back to MI6, if you don’t mind?” James tried a cocky smile, which was met with a matching one.
“Get in.”
“Bond, DO NOT GET IN THAT CAR!” Q screamed in his ear as James settled himself in the passenger seat, then added a string of colorfully invented curses. James grinned.
“Almost sounds like he’s been practicing,” the man in black said as he got behind the wheel, and the Bentley jumped away from the curb, taking James though London at 90 miles per hour, squeezing through places it shouldn’t have gone, missing people who should have been smashed to bits, and careening through intersections without leaving chaos in its wake.
James hung on for the ride, and enjoyed every minute of it.
As they pulled up in front of MI6, James, more than a little hot and bothered by the ride, gave the figure a smoldering look. “Care to meet up later?”
“My partner wouldn’t like it, so no,” the man said. “Out you get. Nice meeting you, James.”
James got out and watched the car go, tuning back into Q in his ear as the man was saying, “And how did he know your name was James?”
“Good question,” James said.
…
Aziraphale and Crowley collapsed on to the bookshop flat’s bed, unneeded sweat covering their human corporations as they relaxed into each other, the afterglow of their lovemaking literally bringing enough light to the darkness for Crowley to see the rest of the cluttered space.
“Never get tired of that,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck.
“Hmmm,” Aziraphale agreed, too fucked-out to use actual words.
All was quiet. Harry and Sirius had gone to bed hours ago. This little pocket of peace was all theirs, and they intended to enjoy it.