Work Text:
Title: Nice and Accurate Deductions
Author: 
htebazytook
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: <—
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Crowley/Aziraphale
Time Frame: Circa now. (i.e. post-Apocalypse and after The Reichenbach Fall)
Author's Notes: An inevitable Good Omens/Sherlock crossover.
Summary: Sherlock drags John to a certain bookshop in Soho.
"Well it's quite a dapper hat, you have to admit."
"No I don't, and no, it isn't." Crowley leans across the table in the busy café, peers at Aziraphale's paper. The Blogger Detective: how he faked his own death! it proclaims in desperate block letters. "Say, you didn't have anything to do with that, did you? Your side, rather."
Aziraphale doesn't look up. "I wouldn't tell you if we did, now would I? I don't tell you everything, my dear."
" 'Course you do." Crowley's smug. Aziraphale is unmoved.
"I see," Aziraphale says, turns a page delicately. "And you'd know that how, exactly?"
"I'm serious, angel. What do you make of this? Seriously. If it wasn't your side and it wasn't my side, then we may have a problem on our hands."
Aziraphale sighs, puts the newspaper down. "Yes, I know. But he has got a bit of a reputation for being clever, you know."
"I dunno," Crowley says, finds himself staring at the newspaper, at where Aziraphale's careful hands are laid calmly over it on the table. "Seems a bit too clever, if you ask me."
"Oh come now, there have been plenty of perfectly brilliant humans over the years."
"Yeah yeah." Crowley glances around the café. He rather doubts any of its smartphone enabled inhabitants fit into the perfectly brilliant category. The vast majority of humans were poisoned by technology, these days, instead of striving to create it. He was probably supposed to count that as a victory. "I still don't buy it, though."
*
Aziraphale is minding his own business, engrossed in tea and Milton when the shop bell rings rather violently.
He sighs, marking his place with a careless gesture. "Really, my dear, we did say two o'clock, didn't—oh, my." He looks up in time to see a dark figure swoop past the counter like the Batman, who Aziraphale knows about because Crowley always dresses up as him for Halloween. (Aziraphale wonders why Crowley bothers dressing up as anything at all, considering.) The mysterious figure is followed by another, less harried figure that smiles at Aziraphale and says, "Morning," before following the first.
Aziraphale blinks, moves cautiously around the counter and through the bookshelves, led by a trail of muttering:
" . . . why he would have trekked all the way to Soho just to buy a book, it's not exactly the sort of area Mr Mitchell would want to be seen in so that means he must've had a good reason for it, or sent his wife after all, but no no no she didn't have access to the files, unless . . . "
"Just—Sherlock, just, sh, all right? Inside voices."
Sherlock sighs, plucks a book off the shelf and glares at it before tossing it aside—lucky for him, the other man catches the book and gingerly replaces it.
"A-hem," Aziraphale says.
" . . . D . . . Darwin . . . Dahl? Why are there so many children's books? All first editions, just like the Dickens—why would it need to be a first edition? Argh, I need more data. John, have you still got that—?"
"Ahem!" Aziraphale says.
"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock stops pacing to wheel on Aziraphale, stares intensely at him.
Aziraphale brain catches up with him. "Wait a minute—I know you! You're that man from the papers. You're that Sherlock Holmes fellow!"
"Oh, not this again . . . "
"The one with the hat!"
Sherlock's glare turns deadly. The other man makes a strangled sound and then pretends to cough.
Aziraphale can't decide whether it would be in poor taste to ask for an autograph. "Oh, but this is lovely! I have so admired your work, Mr Holmes. You really are one of the cleverer humans."
Sherlock relents in his glaring to look proud of himself. The other man frowns and says, "Come again?"
"So!" Aziraphale pushes on. "What brings you to my humble little shop, this fine morning? Do you know, what with those handy electronic books that have becomes so popular, I rather doubt you'll find anything of interest to you here, Mr Holmes and, so sorry, my good man, I didn't catch your na—?"
"Dr John Watson," John says. He glances over at Sherlock, but Sherlock is too busy raking his eyes over Aziraphale to take part in conversation. "We're actually here about one of your customers in connection with a murder, Mr—oh, I am just terribly sorry, what did you say your name was?" He folds his arms.
Aziraphale smiles forcedly. "Mr Fell. It's on the sign above the door, I think you'll find."
"Is it? Huh. Well, I suppose it is rather faded. In fact, it took us a couple of tries to find the place. I'm pretty sure we walked by a few times without even . . ." John trails off under Sherlock's reproaching eyes. ". . . noticing. It. Well go on then."
Sherlock turns back to Aziraphale with the same intensity. "Mr Mitchell got a book here the day he was murdered. It was a first edition copy of A Tale of Two Cities."
"A customer?" Aziraphale says. "My goodness, it seems it's been centuries since I had a customer, to be honest with you."
"I didn't say he bought a book," Sherlock says shortly. "We'll need to take a look at your security cameras."
"Oh, I never saw the need to go to such lengths just to keep a couple of silly books secure." He'd installed cameras nonetheless, though. These two strangers really didn't need to see the footage, surely—it was mainly just of Aziraphale reading at the counter, with an occasional darkly-clad demon dragging him out the door to eat somewhere 'hip' or whatever it was he was so concerned about. "Why, who would want to steal a couple of dusty old books?"
"Mr Mitchell, apparently."
*
Crowley's found it's best to arrive at the bookshop several hours early, especially when there are dinner reservations involved. Of course he could just wish an open table into existence, but it was the principle of the thing.
He senses a human presence inside as he's walking up to the door. It was always treat to watch Aziraphale try to discourage customers as a kindly as inhumanely possible. The bell chimes and Crowley finds himself unexpectedly at the scrutiny of a flustered angel, a man with a stare to rival Crowley's, and another, decidedly unamused stranger with his arms folded defensively.
"You didn't tell me you had company," Crowley schmoozes, walking over and standing next to Aziraphale. "Well? Aren't you going to introduce us?"
Aziraphale blinks at him before collecting himself. "This is Sherlock Holmes, you know, the famous detective . . ."
Crowley makes a show of frowning. You kind of had to when you wore sunglasses all the time. "Hm, no, not ringing a bell, I'm afraid. What might I know you from?"
Sherlock's mouth twitches. The other man jumps in: "Faking his own death? Taking out Europe's most dangerous criminal network? I'm John, by the way, since you didn't ask."
"Oh, right. Right. Yes, I do remember hearing something about that." Crowley itches to brag about having cultivated many a dangerous criminal network in his day, but he doesn't think Aziraphale would appreciate that, and really he isn't particularly proud of it, anyway. Crowley beams at them, waiting. "So sorry, allow me to introduce myself, I'm—"
"Oh, I know who you are," Sherlock says haughtily.
Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I really doubt tha—"
Sherlock takes a step closer, tilts his head and studies him. "You've an eye condition of some kind—those sunglasses are too concealing to be solely for the sake of fashion. Cataracts? No. Too young for that. Not anopsia of course because those tinted lenses are cosmetic, not corrective. Something unsightly, then, but not inconveniencing otherwise. Just look at the sunglasses themselves—expensive, designer, deliberately vintage in style. It's abundantly clear from their make alone that you are extremely concerned with appearances, presumably because you'd rather be judged on your exterior than on your integrity."
There is a pause during which John sighs and checks his watch.
Crowley inclines his head toward Aziraphale, doesn't take his eyes off of Sherlock, murmurs, "You're sure he's not one of yours." It feels more akin to when Adam had looked at them and just known everything about them, though, and Crowley had never felt close to understood, Above.
"Well, I daresay I'm not as sure now, Crowley," Aziraphale hisses back.
Sherlock's still gleaming at them. "Problem?"
Aziraphale hurries to say, "Oh, not at all! My goodness, that is awfully impressive. And you knew all that just by looking at him? Just fantastic. How does that work, exactly?"
Sherlock looks Aziraphale up and down, smiles. "Ga—"
"Ahem!" John coughs. "Right, then, that's enough for introductions, don't you think?"
"Not to worry," Sherlock says to Aziraphale's bemused expression and Crowley's facepalming. "It's all fine with John, here."
John sputters for some reason.
Sherlock ignores him and continues: "This unassuming middle-aged librarian act is just that, an act. You're not actually kindly, though you strive with every fiber of your being to prove that you are. I expect being, well, intimately acquainted with—Crowley, was it?—helps you feel better about yourself. You don't really need those glasses, and you're borderline addicted to chocolate, are quite vain, and really this doesn't bear repeating, given the library of first edition masterpieces we're standing in, but—bibliophile"
Crowley nods, definitely not panicking. "Mmhmm, mhmm, and what about the two of you, then? How long have you been together?"
John laughs. "Oh, no, we're not. No."
Sherlock watches John out of the corner of his eye. He shrugs. "Sort of."
John notices and frowns at him. "Wait, what . . . no." He laughs again and faces Crowley and Aziraphale instead. "Definitely not, no."
"I don't know that you've said 'no' enough times, there, John," Sherlock says mildly, apparently bored of interrogations as he pushes past him to go in search of whatever it was he was looking for in the bowels of the bookshop. It's only a moment's hesitation before John trots after him.
Stop teasing them, Crowley. You can't rush these things, you know.
Crowley definitely doesn't jump. The last time they'd spoken telepathically had been at a showing of Inglourious Basterds where Crowley couldn't get Aziraphale to shut up about all the historical inaccuracies, and he'd kept right on doing it no matter how many times Crowley had tried to explain they were rather the point. Since when can you sense that?
Well, it doesn't work on demons.
Yeah, I know that. Wait, what are you . . . ? Look, never mind. Can we get back to the topic at hand, angel?
Which is what, exactly? Toying with the affections of chronically repressed humans?
It is in the job description, a bit. Anyway are you honestly so intimidated by a particularly observant human that you've resorted to bloody telepathy?
Well, you have to admit he's brilliant, Aziraphale says.
Crowley really doesn't. Right, yeah . . . he's brilliantly throwing your hard-haggled books on the floor, right now.
And Aziraphale seems to forget all about Sherlock's brilliance. Yes, why on earth are they here, anyway? I'm sure no one's come into the shop since 1976 at least—well, except for a certain incident a few months back, he says darkly.
Yes, well, that couldn't be helped. I did find you new one. Eventually.
That's not the point, Crowley. The point is the lack of respect for—
Okay, can we do this some other time?
Aziraphale sighs. Quite right. What I really want to know is how they managed to even see the shop in the first place. Surely no one is observant enough to counteract my meticulously employed . . . insurance policy.
By which you mean the infernal cloaking device you quid pro quo'd me to put on it? Yeah, well, I dunno. They might still be able to find it if they'd been told what to look for by . . . well er, you know, just anybody really . . .
I'm sorry, Aziraphale says dangerously. What?
Oh, calm down, it's not a big deal. I couldn't very well lure them to my flat if they were angels, now could I? An angel would sniff me out right away, which is the last thing I want. No offense. And a demon might find a way to use some of the infernally-lethal materials I have in there to their advantage.
Aziraphale sighs. Why is it so hard for you to believe that humans are capable of greatness? Surely we have seen enough of their history to have the proof of that.
I could quite easily argue the opposite, you know.
Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably, doesn't want to deal with it. What exactly did you do, Crowley? How did they find the shop?
I just submitted an anonymous tip to the police. The poor sod was dead, anyway, it's not like I killed him, but I knew he'd been involved with some unsavory sorts—me, for instance. It wasn't much effort to add a few juicy little details to sweeten the deal, and sure enough, it lured the great Sherlock Holmes in like clockwork. Easy.
I see. So let me get this straight: you used my bookshop as bait?
It's fine! We have the home field advantage, here, as it were . . .
And this is all for what exactly? To prove he isn't all that great after all?
Crowley's quickly losing patience. Obvioussly.
"Having a little spat, are we? Don't worry, it's perfectly normal in long-term relationships," Sherlock smiles, having appeared out of nowhere.
Crowley adopts his most conniving syrupy tone. "Oh, we were just—"
"Crowley here thinks the two of you are ethereal messengers from above," Aziraphale says brightly. "I told him that was mad, of course, but he's a bit of a zealot, you know."
Sherlock shrugs. "Impossible. God isn't real."
Crowley sneezes.
Aziraphale is too busy being primly offended to notice. He purses his lips and blinks rapidly. "Well, everyone is certainly entitled to their opinion," he says, in a tone that clearly says otherwise.
Sherlock goes back to scrutinizing the shelves while John fades into view. "Sherlock," he says, in a tired tone that suggests this is not his first attempt, "there's not anything here."
"No, there has to be." Sherlock starts pulling books off the shelves at random. Aziraphale twitches, and Crowley takes a mean pleasure in it.
"Sherlock."
"It has to be here, John. There has to be something . . ."
Crowley watches, horrified, as sympathy makes a home on Aziraphale's face. The angel gestures subtly and then not so subtly points at one of the distant shelves. "I say, what's that I see over there?"
Sherlock pauses to roll his eyes before continuing in his rampage through Aziraphale's books, and no matter how completely obnoxious Aziraphale is being right now, it still rubs Crowley the wrong way to see someone treat Aziraphale's things so cavalierly. It's more fun to watch Aziraphale step in and try to yell at people, though, so he just sits back and waits.
John, who Crowley keeps forgetting about, looks to Sherlock for a cue before shrugging and checking the far bookshelf out, himself. "Sherlock," he calls, walks back with a book which makes Sherlock's eyes light up instantly.
Sherlock snatches it out of John's hands and says, "We're leaving," already on his way out the door.
John pauses in front of Crowley and Aziraphale. "He means thanks. For your help. So—thanks. Er, here." He shoves a generous pound note into Aziraphale's hand and hurries to follow Sherlock. The bell above the door clangs loudly twice in a row.
*
"I knew we'd find it in the bookshop," Sherlock is saying as John catches him up.
"You're welcome," John says pointedly. Sherlock doesn't notice.
Sherlock tucks the book into some mysterious inside pocket of his coat. "They were rather . . . odd, weren't they?"
"Oh don't be such an arse. Yeah, it's obvious—even to me—that if they aren't already together, they want to be, but that doesn't give you a license to tease them about it."
Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John's vehemence. "It's pointless, though. Denying the truth is pointless."
John laughs. "Oh, is it? You deny yourself food, drink, and unless I'm gravely mistaken, even considering anything close to a romantic relationship, ever."
"That's not denial, that's a choice."
"Okay, so maybe they're choosing not to act on it for whatever reason. It's really none of your business, you know. Just because you can deduce everything about someone doesn't actually make it your business."
Sherlock isn’t paying attention. "I choose to function logically," he says stubbornly. Then, with great distaste, "Not physiologically."
"Right, so you have normal, lust-driven impulses just like the rest of us, do you? You just 'choose' to ignore them?" John is getting a headache, rubs his hands over his face.
"Not actually your business, is it?" That sly little smirk.
"Anyway," John says. "Their relationship can be whatever they want it to be." He isn't really sure why he's still talking about this. Sherlock's probably already deleted the whole conversation from his memory, by now, so it's—
"The thing is," Sherlock is saying, even lets up staring ahead as they hurry through the streets to look at John properly and like he's a person. "I don't have to choose to ignore it."
*
"What did you do?" Crowley asks once they're alone.
"I'm not sure. When they look at the book it will show them what they want to see."
"What, has it got psychic paper, then?"
"Psychic . . . ?"
"Never mind, never mind. Can we do lunch, now?"
"In a hurry, are we?"
"To forget about Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead and as big a git as the papers always said he was? Why yes, I believe I am."
"Oh, he's not so bad," Aziraphale insists. "You can't blame people for being the way that they are. You have to accept it and move on."
"Maybe you do," Crowley grumbles. "He seemed a right idiot to me, for all that he's apparently so bloody intelligent you barely bat an eyelash while he tears apart your bookshop in the name of faked murder mysteries."
Aziraphale studies him, rather more softly than Sherlock but just as uncomfortably piercing. He smiles. "You're jealous."
Crowley laughs. "Oh, angel, that is rich, that is. Really? I'm 'jealous', now? Oh for Someone's sake . . . "
Aziraphale is nonchalant. "You are, though."
"Seriously? I'm jealous of Sherlock Holmes?"
"No," Aziraphale says. "You're jealous of me—"
Crowley snorts.
"—of me," Aziraphale continues, "thinking him brilliant."
Crowley has all sorts of responses on the tip of his tongue, he really does, but unfortunately all that comes out is a petulant, "Huh, not bloody likely."
Aziraphale nods. "Oh I'm sure, I'm sure . . ."
"I'm really not! Like, really."
"Whatever you say, my dear."
*