*~*~*
Sherlock looked up as the bell rang, and all his carefully rehearsed words flew his mind and left him a witless idiot. Basil approached the counter, and the smile he offered was so shy and hesitant that Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Hi."
"Hey," Basil replied. "I—uh—sorry for bolting yesterday. There was a minor crisis with the moving company. It's all sorted now. I—" He broke off, looking awkward.
"So do I get to keep the book you gave me?" Sherlock broke in.
To his amusement and growing fondness, Basil flushed. "Y-yeah. It's all yours."
Sherlock retrieved the book from under the counter and slid it across to him. "Then you should sign it for me."
"Oh—yeah, sure," Basil said, smiling shyly, sweetly. Sherlock wanted to drag him into the stockroom, and it would completely be worth the unrelenting teasing from Clarence. Pulling a pen from his leather jacket, Basil bent over the book and, after a moment of hesitation, wrote and signed. He handed the book back and said, "So you didn't hate it? I mean, if you got a chance to read it."
"All I did last night was read it," Sherlock admitted. "I loved it. Please tell me there will be more."
Basil laughed, beamed, but it was the lingering hint of shyness in a man he remembered as always being so cocky despite everything that Sherlock loved best. "Yeah, I'm signed for five of them, maybe more."
Sherlock leaned on the counter, tilted his head to the side. "So how and when did you get into writing?"
Rubbing at his nose, Basil said, "Ah, I always kinda did it a little bit, in high school anyway. But it was all stupid shit, never showed it to anyone. Same in college and later while I was playing full time. S'what I did to pass the time, fill the hours when the season was over, and I wasn't practicing. One of my teammates saw it, though, and made his sister read it. She's an agent, wouldn't leave me alone about it, said I was really, really good and fuck football." He smiled wryly. "To my surprise, I kind of agreed with her. So I finished out my contract and quit, worked on the writing full time. I'm still a bit shocked it hasn't blown up in my face, though I'm really not looking forward to the book tour. The guys have been razzing me hard, and there are all kinds of comments everywhere about how good a book could a dumb jock really write?"
"Be sure to tell them you write well enough to sit at home all day laughing in their faces," Sherlock said. "You're a man of many talents."
Basil smiled and leaned over the counter himself. "At the end of the day, I'm still just a dumb kid mowing lawns and accepting rides because I suck at flirting."
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply then closed it as the words registered. "What?" He stared in surprise.
The smile faded, and Basil drew back suddenly, tension filling his shoulders. "Should I have just kept my mouth shut?"
"No!" Sherlock said hastily, then moderated his tone and smiled. "No way. After thirteen years, it's kind of a shock to realize that we both maybe needed to speak up more."
"Oh," Basil said, then Sherlock could see the words really hit. "Oh!" He grinned sheepishly. "Kids are dumb; we were no different. I like to think I'm a little less stupid now. So are you going to the New Year's party tonight? It's all I've heard about since I got here. I don't remember anything like it when we were growing up. Of course, when we were growing up, this little area was not the rainbow zone. Kind of cool that's what it's become."
Sherlock shook his head. "Nah, I never go. Still not my thing, really. I have other plans. Don't drink the punch, whatever you do. You'll be recovering for a week."
"Ah, okay," Basil said, looking disappointed. "I have to leave tomorrow to finish packing up my shit down in Florida. Did you maybe want to get together when I come back in a couple of weeks, then?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Basil wanted to spend New Year's with him, but Basil had sounded like he wanted to go the party, and he was a football pro turning world famous writer and must have been used to something more exciting than sitting in an empty candy shop drinking brandy. So he bit the question off and said instead, "Sounds great."
"Cool," Basil said. "Unfortunately I have to go now, but I'll stop in tomorrow before I go back?"
Sherlock nodded. "Definitely do."
Basil smiled, and Sherlock wished he'd stop because his smiles were really the most distracting thing ever. Then he abruptly leaned across the remaining space between them and stole a quick, soft kiss. Sherlock blinked then rolled his eyes, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "Dork."
Grinning, Basil waved and left. The store felt empty without him in a way it never had before. Sherlock liked being busy—liked the income—but he liked the quiet days a lot too. But he wished Basil were back already.
Well, a couple of weeks and then they had a date, and that was something he never thought he'd have with Basil. Maybe next year he could ask Basil to join him in the shop on New Year's Eve. That was probably getting way ahead of himself—definitely getting ahead of himself—but Sherlock just didn't fucking care right then.
He was allowed to be a total dork when there was no one around to catch him at it. Glancing down, he pulled the book Basil had signed for him closer and flipped it open—and then just stared, breath fleeing his body. To Sherlock, who inspired the first story I ever wrote ~ Basil
Sherlock suddenly wished he'd asked Basil to join him after all and called himself a fucking idiot for not thinking to get a damned phone number.
Ah, well. He'd be back in two weeks, and Sherlock would see him briefly the next day. Abandoning the counter, Sherlock went to putter and clean around the shop to make the afternoon go faster, thoughts mostly on where to go on their date and wondering how the hell he'd gotten so fucking lucky.
He closed the shop for lunch and headed down the street to Bennett's bar, in the mood for a burger and beer. Sliding onto his usual stool, he smiled in greeting and waited for Bennett to get to him. "How's it going?" he asked when Bennett finally came over with his usual stout.
"Not bad," Bennett said. "Finally got quiet. This place was crazy about an hour ago. Mr. Fancy Pants and all his writer and sports friends were in here, though I don't know why when I'm about as un-fancy as you get."
"Basil was here?" Sherlock asked. "I saw him earlier. He gave me a copy of his book."
Bennett sneered. "Everyone knows that thing is ghost-written, or whatever they call it. I remember how he used to sleep through classes, and I doubt being knocked around a field improved his brain cell count. You should've seen them in here, all suit and tie and import beer. He had that super bowl ring on and was flashing it around everywhere. Thinks he's so special."
Normally, Bennett's sour, bitter gossip was easy to ignore. Everyone knew he had wanted to be greater and grander than the owner of a small town bar. He never let anyone forget that everyone, but himself was to blame for the car accident that had wrecked his knee.
Right then, however, Sherlock wasn't in the mood to ignore it. "He didn't have the book ghost written, and Basil isn't the kind to flash anything around." Hell, he hadn't even been willing to show Sherlock his book himself, just left it on the counter and ran. "Basil was always a good guy, and that didn't change near as I can tell."
Bennett rolled his eyes. "Please, everyone knows you spent your entire life making eyes at him like some sort of girl, Detective. That's why we dared him to steal from the candy store, don't you remember that? You guys were so easy to fuck with."
"Shut up, Bennett," Sherlock snapped.
"Touchy, touchy. Did you hear he's buying up the old Millstone place? Fancy boy comes home and buys himself a fancy house, and he's been driving around in his fancy car, too. I don't know why he's coming home except maybe everyone else is tired of his bullshit, and he thinks we're so tiny and in awe we won't care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the rest of Bennett's bitching, relieved when he finally wandered off to help another customer. He glanced disinterestedly at the TV—and froze when he saw it was an ESPN spot about Basi
l. Of course it would be. With the book due out soon, it must be big talk all over again. If Basil's publisher knew how to market, they'd be certain to make it news.
Jeez, Basil looked good in a suit. It must have been tailored, the way it fit those shoulders. Sherlock wished they'd show a shot of his ass. He listened to the interview as best he could, smiling faintly at the way Basil lit up talking about his book, the shy smiles that appeared despite the way he was clearly used to doing such interviews.
His own smile faded as that thought sank in, and he wondered why the hells Basil would return to their little town when he clearly was only going to keep climbing higher. He wasn't Sherlock, who had realized he'd hated being a scientist. Basil clearly had liked football well enough to do it as long as he had and was so obviously in love with writing.
Why retreat to his itty bitty home town and flirt with a washed up, going nowhere candy shop owner?
Suddenly no longer hungry, Basil paid his tab and left, retreating to his shop once more and hiding behind the counter, doing his paperwork between customers. The harder he tried not to think about Basil, the more futile the effort became. He replayed their two short conversations over and over, wondering that the hell Basil really wanted, what he saw, when he could have literally anyone he wanted.
Well, he supposed he'd figure it out in two weeks, if he didn't manage to completely bungle their date. He'd settled on Mary's steakhouse as a good place to go, but wondered suddenly if that wasn't good enough.
Argh. Giving up for the day, judging it late enough he wasn't likely to get more customers, Basil closed up shop, cleaned everything again, then went upstairs to shower and eat and kill more time. Maybe he'd clean his entire apartment. That should keep doubts at bay for a little while. Maybe. Hopefully.