#anyway i just think young kip is neat

[wrishwrosh]

‘i made a joke, my lord.’

the new secretary / the last emperor of astandalas

[disneyprinceronweasley]

can we talk about some of the funny moments that happen in DH for a change?

That ‘Skeeters book contains less fact than a Chocolate frog card’  - In Memoriam 

Harry’s favourite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware that Dudley had added his dumb-bells to his case since the last time it had been unpacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with roars of pain and much swearing. - The Dursleys Departing 

‘Are you actually as stupid as you look?’ Harry to Vernon.  - The Dursleys Departing

‘Don’t you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories...Dudley punked on it after I saved him from the dementors’ - The Seven Potters

‘Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry,’ said Fred earnestly. ‘imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever’  - The Seven Potters

‘Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry’  - The Seven Potters

Fred and George turned to each other and said together, ‘Wow - were identical!’ -  The Seven Potters

Mrs Weasley reappeared carrying a bottle of brandy, which she handed to Hagrid. He uncorked it and drank it straight down in one. - Fallen Warrior 

‘Saint-like,’ repeated George opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. ‘you see...I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit’ 

‘Pathetic,’ he told George, Pathetic! With the whole world of ear-related humour before you, you go for Holey’ 

‘Ah well,’ said George Grinning at his tear-stroked mother. ‘you’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum’  - Fallen Warrior

‘We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few days’ time, young man -’

‘Are they getting married in my bedroom?’ asked Ron furiously. ‘No! So why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left-’ - The Ghoul in Pyjamas 

‘I’m doing it, I’m doing -! Oh, it’s you,’ said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room, Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated.  - The Ghoul in Pyjamas

‘Oh, of course,’ said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. ‘I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldermort in a library’  - The Ghoul in Pyjamas

‘Oh, well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of Basilisk fangs, then,’ said Ron, ‘I was wondering what we were going to do with them.’ -  The Ghoul in Pyjamas

‘I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest’ - The Ghoul in Pyjamas

‘How’s Norbert doin’?’

‘Norbert?’ Charlie laughed. ‘The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now.’

‘Wha-Norbert’s a girl?’ - The Will of Albus Dumbledore 

‘No I’m not,’ retorted Hermione, ‘I’m hoping to do some good in the world!’   - The Will of Albus Dumbledore

‘Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldermort’ - The Will of Albus Dumbledore

‘We heard Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Cinderella-’ 

‘What’s that, an illness?’ asked Ron. - The Will of Albus Dumbledore

Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s directions, he had sat himself not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat sat aside for him in the back row, but on five seats that now resembled a large pile of golden matchsticks. - The Wedding 

‘She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realise how much we can learn from the wise little gonmes - or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumli gardensi.’ 

‘Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,’ said Ron, ‘but I think Fred and George taught them those’ - The Wedding 

‘But I must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low-cut.’

Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry. - The Wedding 

Krum was pointing at Ginny, who had just joined Luna. ‘She is also a relative of yours?’ 

‘Yeah, said Harry, suddenly irritated, ‘and shes’ seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke you wouldn’t want to cross him.’  - The Wedding

‘You there! Give me your chair, I’m a hundred and seven!’ - The Wedding

‘God, that’s revolting, Ron added, after one sip of the foamy, greyish coffee. The waitress had heard; she shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the new customers orders. - A Place to Hide 

‘It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they’re too tight.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ hissed Hermione as she dragged the waitress out of sight of the windows. Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron could stick his wand instead. -  A Place to Hide

‘You got in all right, then?’ Hermione whispered to Harry.  - A Place to Hide

‘No, he’s still stuck in the bog,’ said Ron. - Magic is Might

‘NO!!’ roared Ron, causing Harry to jump into a hedge.- Xenophilius Lovegood

‘I think we should vote on it,’ said Ron. ‘Those in favour of going to see Lovegood -’ His hand flew into the air before Hermione’s.  - Xenophilius Lovegood

‘Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!’ said Ron. ‘Yeah, because  we really need a bit more fear in our lives,’ said Harry, before he could stop himself. - Tale of the Three Brothers

‘Death’s got an invisibility cloak?’ Harry interrupted again. ‘So he can sneak up on people,’ said Ron. ‘Sometimes he gets bored of running up at them, flapping his arms and shrieking...’  - Tale of the Three Brothers 

‘For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a Basilisk, listeners. One simple test: check weather the thing glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.’ - The Deathly Hallows 

‘Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard works he’s been putting in?’ asked Fred. - The Deathly Hallows

‘The fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to’  - The Deathly Hallows

‘Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,’ said Ron, ‘but I think they might have noticed we broke into Gringotts.’  - The Final Hiding Place

‘Stag!’ roared the barman, and he pulled out a wand. ‘Stag! You idiot - expecto patronum!’ - The Missing Mirror 

‘Aberforth’s getting a bit ratty,’ said Fred, rasing his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. ‘He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station’ - The Lost Diadem 

The aged caretaker had just come into view, shouting, ‘Students out of bed! Students in the corridors!’ 

‘They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!’ shouted McGongall. - The Sacking of Severus Snape 

Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin nearly dropped his photograph.  - The Sacking of Severus Snape

‘Hello, Minister!’ bellowed Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. ‘Did I mention I’m resigning?’  - The Battle of Hogwarts

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. Harry stunned the Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, beaming, for his saviour, and Ron punched him backwards on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused.

‘And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!’ Ron yelled. - The Elder Wand

‘Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!’ and pointed out of the window. Everyone who heard looked around. - The Flaw in the Plan

‘As a matter of fact, I did Confund him,’ Ron whispered to Harry, as together they lifted Albus’ trunk and owl on to the train. ‘I only forgot to look in the wing mirror, and let’s face it, I can use a Supersensory charm for that.’ - Nineteen Years Later

‘Don’t get too friendly with him, though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pure-blood’ - Nineteen Years Later

‘No,’ said Harry firmly, ‘you and Al will share a room only when I want the house demolished.’  - Nineteen Years Later

‘Outside, yeah, but at school he’s Professor Longbottom, isn’t he? I can’t work into Herbology and give him love...’ - Nineteen Years Later

‘Why are they all staring?’ demanded Albus, as he and Rose craned round to look at the other students. 

‘Don’t let it worry you,’ said Ron. ‘It’s me. I’m extremely famous.’  - Nineteen Years Later

[anoldwound]

Preserve Your Memories, Chapter 1 - John/Sholto [BBC Sherlock]

Chapter 1

Paris

“I love you” was always in the back of his throat, itching its way up his esophagus, pulsing on his lips. It was in his hands when he would pass John a cup of coffee, it was on his knees that knocked into his when they were in bed; “I love you” was etched onto every inch of his body, every hidden crevice and wrinkle, every fold of his skin. The words never left his tongue, never made their way through the air into John’s ears, even though it was there, always, as much a part of him as his soul.

He has to know, he would tell himself. I don’t need to say it. Surely he can see it.

Years later, James Sholto would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the things he’d never said crushing him.

* * *

Six months after the accident. No, not an accident. “Slaughter” would be a more appropriate term.

Every day was much the same – he would rise at six in the morning, and undergo the painfully humiliating ritual of showering with assistance and getting dressed using only one hand (Remember, you shouldn’t even be here). The daily security breakdown with his personnel. Breakfast (alone). A walk about the grounds (alone). Other meaningless activities (alone alone).

His estate was large, impeccably neat and well-kept, with a rotating staff of a little over a dozen people, all carefully vetted, all of whom kept to themselves as instructed. A house full of people, yet James kept a moat of isolation around himself at all times.

It was a very large estate. And at the end of the day it was very large and very empty.  

He didn’t know why he was here and all those young men were dead.

* * *

During his usual morning routine, James absently grabbed the newspaper, almost not noticing the giant headline plastered across the front page:

“SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

John. He’d seen the duo in other articles – with a pang, always, every time there was a photo of John’s face, his name in black and white print that James would brush the fingers of his good hand against. He’d (pathetically) read John’s blog far too many times, but had never left any comments or sent him an e-mail. What would the point have been?

But this…

The paper fell back on the table with a quiet thump as James screeched his chair back and began walking to his office.

“Do you need anything, Major?” his secretary asked as he passed her.

“No thank you, Sheila.” He closed the door and sat at his desk.

His computer sat in front of him, almost seeming to taunt him with how difficult he was finding this.

What can I even say? There’s nothing I can do, nothing at all. He thought of John after Captain Stradlater had died in the bomb blast at Helmand, and how they’d both sat utterly silent in the barracks for hours. Not moving. Not saying a word. He wondered if John was doing the same thing in 221B Baker Street right now.

In the end, all he could type (clumsily, one finger at a time) was:

   John,  

   I am very, very sorry for your loss.  

   -Major James Sholto  

He’s probably received hundreds of e-mails like this, he thought. What’s the point in me sending one too? But he clicked send anyway.

He owed John so much more than this, but it was all he could give.

* * *

“You know, I’ve never been to Paris,” John said, as he and James observed a riotous conversation between the privates about the last time they had gone on leave in France.

“Really? Never?” James gave him a curious look. “It’s not that far from home.”

“Dunno. Never got the chance.” His foot traced circles in the dirt. “Never went abroad much to begin with.”

“Well. That’s certainly a shame.”

It was a few months later when James pulled John aside and told him, “Apply for leave to Munich the second weekend of June.”

“What? Why?”

James held back a smile. “Because some of the other captains are going. And a few of the majors. For a conference.”

“So wh – oh.” John never held back his smiles, which James liked. “You got something planned?”

“I might.”

“What’s the conference for?”

“It doesn’t matter. We won’t be going.”

“Why not?”

“Because we won’t be in Munich.”

“Then… where will we be?”

James paused, and let himself smile. “Paris.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded, and let his smile grow a little wider, which in turn made John’s face light up.

“But – won’t everyone notice that we’re not there and that we left together?”

“Not to worry. I’ve taken care of it.” As James explained his plan, John’s eyes grew bigger and bigger with amusement and disbelief.

“You have to be descended from Rube Goldberg,” John said when he was finished. “On the crazy side.”

“Well, do you want to go or not?”

John’s gaze darted about quickly and, seeing no one around, planted a kiss on James’ lips and whispered, “Of course, you bloody loon.”

* * *

He was surprised to get an e-mail back only an hour later.

   James -  

   Thank you for your condolences. I heard about what happened with you a few months ago and I tried to get in touch but I was never able to get your information. They really cracked down on that sort of thing.  

   It would mean a lot to me if you came to the funeral. You two never met but I think you would have got on.  

   Don’t be a stranger.  

   -John  

* * *

James paced the specially designated compartment in the specially designated train for approximately 10.5 minutes before John slid the door open and scooted inside, plopping himself on the seat closest the window. He was dressed in his civilian clothes, a plaid button-up and green trousers with a brown belt. He un-buttoned the top of his shirt and smirked, and James was, yet again, embarrassed by how much that smirk could disarm him.

“Your mental plan worked,” John said. “You can relax.”

“Oh. Good.”  He awkwardly sat down, fingers laced tightly around each other. He didn’t know why he was so nervous – it wasn’t the fear of getting caught; he was reasonably sure he had taken correct precautions – but the idea of being in Paris with John was making him unbearably fidgety. They had never been alone together outside of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and James didn’t know how to act around him without the presence of the military and other soldiers.

Being in France wasn’t the only foreign thing about the situation.

John seemed to sense his distress, and laid his foot across his, and even just this small touch was enough to uncoil him. James often wondered if John was fully aware of the effect he had.

“We’ve got a long ride,” he finally said.

“What time’ll we get there?”

James checked his watch. “Around noon. We can check in as soon as we arrive.”

“Alright.” John yawned and stretched. “I’m gonna have a kip.”

James’ lip twitched as John crossed his arms and closed his eyes, his foot still resting atop his.

* * *

“Hotel Britannique? Really?” John shifted his overnight bag as the two of them stood in front of the building.

James shrugged. “Why not?”

John pulled his lips down and shrugged back. He looked pleased.

“Now, since I was the one who made the reservation, I’ll go in first,” James said. “Wait about twenty minutes at the cafe down the street, then I’ll come out and give you the extra key, and you’ll go and leave your things, then – ”

“James, James. What the hell are you going on about? Why are we going in separately? You do realize no one here knows us, right? We don’t have to sneak around.”

James stared at him.

“We can just go up to the hotel room together. It doesn’t matter.” He blinked. “I thought… I thought that was the whole point of coming here? So we wouldn’t have to worry about that stuff.”

The point of coming here was because you’ve never been to Paris. “Yes – of course.”

“Right.” John looked up at him with fond bemusement before clearing his throat and heading inside.

Not having to come up with an elaborate plan was already throwing James off. The fact that they could just waltz in at the same time and walk into the same room with the double bed and no one would mind or care was… disconcerting.

And exciting, truth be told. His heartbeat accelerated as they entered the hotel.

“Welcome to the Hotel Britannique,” said the concierge as they approached the reception desk. “Are you checking in?”

“Oui.” James placed his bag on the floor after digging out his card. “Je me rappelle vous avoir eu au téléphone il y a quelques semaines au sujet du paiement de ma chambre. Au nom de James Sholto.”

“Ah, your French is very good, sir!” The concierge seemed delighted, while John stared at him like he’d never properly seen him before. “Aucun risque d'indiscrétion chez nous. Puis-je avoir votre carte?”

James handed his card over. He looked back at John, who was still staring at him, entranced.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” he said, a little breathless, and James bit back the smirk that threatened to overtake his face.

After a moment, John shook his head and seemed to come back to his senses. “I’m gonna go explore a bit.”

“Alright…?”  But John had already wandered off to check out the rest of the hotel.

It took a little longer than James had anticipated for the concierge to follow his instructions on how to charge him for the room, but the timing worked out quite well, as John was just returning as the process was completed.

“Would you like for someone to carry your bags?” the concierge asked.

“No, we can manage, thank you.”

It wasn’t until the lift doors closed that John let out a long, slow breath, leaning against the wall.

“Really? That’s what gets you going? Me speaking French?” He couldn’t help but be amused.

“It’s the – your tone, or something. I dunno. Your voice gets all deep.”

James made a hmm noise. Useful.

As soon as they entered the room and set the bags down – it was a nice room, not especially spacious, but the deep red hues of the curtains, bedspread, and the canopy that draped the wall behind it were certainly erotic – John had his fingers hooked through the belt hoops on James’ trousers and was pulling him unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Not wasting time, are you?” James chuckled as John kissed him to shut him up, wrapping his legs around James’ hips. His cock was already hard, and James groaned into John’s mouth, rocking against his erection.

“Tu vas me sucer la queue bien comme il faut, en prenant ton temps.” James whispered in his ear, and John shuddered. “Puis tu me baiseras profond jusqu'à faire de moi une tâche humide sur le matelas.”

“I’m assuming you said something dirty?” John was so hard that James felt morally obligated to begin removing his trousers.

“Yes. Positively filthy.”

“Good.” John, eyes alight with lust, grabbed his neck and kissed him with such desperation that James became momentarily distracted from un-buckling his belt. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

James obliged, continuing to murmur all the things he wanted John to do to him in French – not that John understood any of it, but he seemed to get the general message anyway, as before long John was on his knees, his mouth wrapped around James’ cock, doing that thing with his tongue that always made his bones turn to jelly.

John traced his hands down his thighs, he moaned, the vibration made James shake with want and he ran his fingers through John’s hair, urging him to go faster, which he did, his cock sliding against the inside of his cheek.

They didn’t have to be quiet. He didn’t have to keep an eye out for possible intruders. He didn’t have to time things exactly right. It was just them. It was exhilarating.

It was terrifying.

* * *

How could I go to the funeral? James was pretending to contemplate his dinner while his maid wiped the kitchen counter. It would be disrespectful for me to go. I didn’t even know the man.

How could it be disrespectful if John asked you to come? part of his brain asked.

He didn’t have an answer for this. Instead he picked at his pre-cut steak. He didn’t have much of an appetite tonight. Sighing, he placed his fork carefully on the table and pushed his plate away.

“I’m done with this,” he told the maid, who wordlessly grabbed his meal and tossed the leftovers into a sealed plastic container.

Admit it, his brain said, you won’t go because you’re a coward.

I never denied being a coward, James thought, and avoided his reflection in the mirror as he passed down the hall to his bedroom.

* * *

John had a unique talent for fucking him until he was raw and filled and completely spent. It wasn’t as though he was the first man James had ever been with – he wasn’t even the second or the third – but there was something about John Watson and his cock that sent him to another plane of existence, something about the way he dug his fingers into his hips, something about how hard he rode him, roughly, slowly, then frantically; it made his knees buckle and it made him tremble uncontrollably and it made him come so fucking hard, and it would have embarrassed him were it not for the fact that he appeared to have the same effect on John.

John was lying on top of him at the moment, breaths ragged in his ear, his sweat clinging to James’ back. His cock was still inside him, though he had just come uncharacteristically loudly (although maybe James just found it uncharacteristic because of their usual circumstances).

They laid like that for some time, John’s fingers intertwined with his, the low hum of the air conditioner the only sound in the room. The chill was welcome after their rigorous activities, and the warmth of John’s skin was welcome also. It was a relaxing mixture.

John did roll off of him, eventually, and went in search of his pants, which had disappeared at some point. James took the opportunity to get a nice, unobstructed view of Captain John Watson completely nude, his cock swinging between his legs.

“How did they get behind the telly?” John wondered out loud, laughing as he fished them out from their improbable landing site.

“I think mine wound up underneath the bed,” James said.

They both went on a brief treasure hunt for all of their clothes, and as John was buttoning up his shirt, the sunlight from the window hit him in a certain way, and it was like time had stopped and James couldn’t breathe.

“What?” John asked, noticing James staring at him.

“Nothing.” He went back to pulling on his socks, but he didn’t miss the quick smile that flashed across John’s face.

“So, what are we doing now?” John asked. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. “Eiffel Tower? The Louvre?” He pronounced it the English way.

“It’s le Louvre, actually.”

“Oh, sorry, Major Fancypants.”

“You weren’t complaining about my French earlier.”

John made a face at him. “Anyway – where are we off to?”

“Something a little off the beaten path.” James zipped up his fly. “La butte aux cailles.”

“What’s that?”

“A neighborhood. My grandmother lived there. I used to visit her during the summers when I was a boy.” He didn’t know why he was telling him this; he wasn’t usually prone to talking about himself. “It’s like a village inside a city.”

He looked up to find John beaming at him. I want to always make him smile like that, was a stray thought that passed his mind before he dismissed it. It was pointless to get too sentimental. He began making the bed, while John tittered at him from the corner of the room.

* * *

Two days, and the email remained unanswered. James knew he didn’t have much time left – the funeral was at the end of the week – but every time he tried to type something, anything, explaining why he couldn’t come, any excuse he managed to come up with seemed like an obvious lie. It would be better for him to just not respond, he knew, rather than invent a false story.

But he still felt he owed John an explanation. But what? ‘I can’t attend the funeral, I’ve got a meeting’? A meeting with who? 'I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to come; I don’t think I will be able to handle seeing you again, especially in a situation like this’?

Honesty wasn’t always the best policy. James shut down his desktop, and day slowly turned into twilight.

Say what you will about living alone; at least it was nice and quiet.

* * *

John had insisted that they walk down the River Seine before taking a cab, and while James had been a tad confused about it at first – sure, it was a lovely day out, but they would be walking once they got there, so what was the difference – he suddenly understood when John’s right hand kept brushing against his left, and he felt his stomach drop all the way to his feet. He wants to hold hands? In public? Really? It was one thing for them to walk into a hotel room together with basically no one around, but this was…

…too late, John’s fingers had found his, and there they were, holding hands, in front of everyone, a balmy breeze blew past and the sky was brilliantly blue, James’ heart was hammering in his chest and he was sure John could feel his rapid pulse, he was holding hands in broad daylight with John Watson in Paris, France; what on earth was going on? This was much, much more than he had anticipated, why did John even want to…?

“It’s alright,” John was whispering in his ear, on his tip-toes, “no one knows us, remember?”

“Yes, I know.” His voice didn’t come out as wavering as he’d feared it would, thankfully. He tried to relax. He could do this, just this once. If John wanted to hold his hand while they walked next to the Seine and the air was warm and his heart felt like it was swelling, then fine. He would do it.

* * *

Every morning, he woke up tasting the sound of gunfire.

The sulfur in the air. The smoke.

The broken bodies and dead hearts.

It was a routine at this point, which leant it a certain comfort. Routine, he could understand. Routine was clockwork, it was careful machinations, a never changing constant, like the sunrise over the desert and a hot cup of coffee at exactly 7:15 am every morning.

What was difficult to understand was why he was still here drinking his coffee and reading his newspaper and waking up from his usual nightmares when over a dozen men were lying in their graves when they were never supposed to be there.

It was war. Casualties were inevitable. He knew this. Of course he knew this.

He hadn’t known those men, though. They were fresh recruits, almost straight from boot camp. He hadn’t even known most of their names until after, when they were read aloud to him in his hospital bed. He hadn’t known anything about them. He hadn’t known where they had gone to school, whether any of them were married, how they took their eggs, what their favorite colors were.

The only survivor. Why?

At times he would almost begin to pray, felt the urge to go to church, to ask God why his supposed “plan” included leaving a fractured old man alive and killing over a dozen men that had been under his command, that had been his responsibility. And not only to keep him alive, but to leave him disfigured and cast out of what he had spent his entire life devoted to. What had the point been, exactly? Why couldn’t he have just died with them, if the event itself was inevitable?

But Major James Sholto had not been to church in years, though the Catholic guilt still plagued him, the cross hanging above his bed.

In any case, he knew God wouldn’t answer. Never had.

No one had any answers.

* * *

“How do you pronounce it again? La boot of cayes?”

“Er, close. La butte aux cailles.”

“La butte – oh, sod this.” John gave the “Rue de la butte aux cailles” sign the finger and walked on, while James laughed.

They had continued holding hands during the entire cab ride, and they still were now, and after James’ initial hyper-awareness of John’s fingers around his, it seemed… normal. Natural.

He tried to warn himself off of getting too comfortable with this, but the voice of reason in his head was getting drowned out by John.

“Bit of a young crowd, isn’t it?” John gestured over to the group of twenty-somethings gathered outside one of the restaurants. “You sure it was your grandmother that lived here?”

“Reasonably sure, yes. Unless she was some sort of shape-shifter.”

“A shape-shifting twenty-six year old pretending to be your gran.”

“Though you would think a twenty-six year old shape shifter might find other uses for their shape-shifting abilities besides pretending to be someone’s grandmother.”

“Might’ve been on the run from the law.”

He guffawed. “The idea of my grandmother being a fugitive is even more unlikely than her being a shape shifter in disguise.”

“Oh yeah?” John’s grip tightened. “What was she like?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” James glanced around. “Just the usual. Old-fashioned, as you can imagine. Very religious. Went to confession constantly. Sort of made me wonder what she was doing that she had to confess all the time.”

“See, there’s another clue for the shape-shifting fugitive theory. Did you like visiting her?”

James chewed on the inside of his cheek, part of him reluctant to talk at such length, but something was making him want to tell John everything about himself. “It was alright. She was stern, but she could be funny when she wanted to be.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” John smiled slyly up at him. James smiled back, despite himself. He looked away, flustered, and the sight of the public drinking fountain caught his eye.

“Come.” He pulled John towards the giant metal faucets, where a few children were lapping the water straight into their mouths before they ran off, shrieking with laughter.

James let go of John’s hand and cupped his own hands together under one of the faucets, the water pooling in his palms. He quickly drank it, and the taste brought a flood of memories with it – hours spent playing soldier with the neighborhood boys, getting so tired he could barely stand, splashing the cold water on his hot cheeks, his grandmother yelling at him in French from down the street to come back for dinner…

“What’re you thinking about?”

James ran his hands through his hair, the cool droplets of water a relief in this warm weather. “Remembering. It’s strange, what can trigger memories. Sights, sounds, tastes. Things you haven’t thought about for years.”

“Good memories, I hope?”

“Mostly.” James pointed at one of the faucets. “Try it. It’s good.”

He did, drinking the water thirstily, and James looked down upon him with so much affection that it felt like the sun was about to burst out of his finger tips.

* * *

He was slightly paranoid about running into old childhood acquaintances or people who had known him in his youth, though he looked very different from when he was a boy and it was unlikely he would be recognized. And in any case, he was trying not to think about things like that for the time being.

John’s right hand had found his left again at some point as they continued to stroll. It was fairly quiet at this time in the afternoon, and it was astonishingly easy to forget that the rest of the world even existed. The street art adorning the buildings, the community center with the pool he had swam in countless times, the shoes strung on a wire running between two houses, the lush trees and the stoney road, the Sainte-Anne church where he had spent solemn Sundays in prayer… John was seeing all of it, soaking it all in, asking him questions and relishing in the answers, and the prospect that had frightened him so many times before – the idea of someone knowing him, really knowing him – didn’t seem quite so frightening.

They turned down into a quiet alley, between two rows of houses. Bright green leaves poked through the wrought iron fences, and moss grew between the stones that lined the path. John was talking about how an old school friend of his named Steven had once mooned the pastor at their church during a sermon.

“He just did it with no warning, too!” John said as he shook with laughter. “God, he got in so much trouble for that. I didn’t even see him outside of school for half a year.”

James chuckled. “You know, I fancied someone named Steve once. Or, I thought his name was Steve.”

“What do you mean you 'thought’ his name was Steve? Didn’t take you as the kind for nameless one night stands, Major.” John bumped his hip playfully into his.

“No, it wasn’t – it was at school. I’d seen him around, and he was very handsome. Blonde hair, blue eyes.”

“You’ve got a type.”

“Very funny. Anyway, there was an awards ceremony one day, and one of the names they announced was 'Steve McIntosh’, and that’s when he ran up to the stage. So I spent the whole year thinking his name was Steve McIntosh. Never said a word to him, of course. Then at the end of term, we got our class photos, and it turned out his name was Christopher Goodwin.”

John burst out laughing. “You’re joking!”

“I’m not. It’s a good thing I was too shy to talk to him. Would’ve made a complete idiot out of myself…”

John came to a sudden stop, his hand still gripping onto his, yanking him to a stop as well. James looked back at him, puzzled.

He had the strangest look on his face – like there was so much warmth inside of him that it was about to explode out of him at any moment, like James was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen (though that was perfectly ridiculous). Then it morphed into something else, something quieter, but no less loving, and James was being pulled close to him, too close, their bodies practically touching, and he could feel the heat emanating from John’s body.

“Watson, what are you – ”

“Ssh.” He put his finger against his lips. Then slowly, slowly, he grasped the back of James’ neck, the pads of his fingers gently stroking his skin, and James knew what he wanted to do and he couldn’t move closer but he couldn’t move away, either, his eyes locked onto John’s. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

James closed his eyes, and John’s lips brushed against his.

It felt more electric than any of the other times they had kissed. It grew deeper, James using his free hand to cup his cheek. Kissing, right outside of people’s homes. John pressed against him. In public but in private.

It wasn’t a long kiss, and John broke away slowly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.

They continued walking as though nothing had occurred.

* * *

One of the many odd things about being here with John was the city itself. It had been a while since James had been anywhere that wasn’t surrounded by endless stretches of dirt and sky, and the tall buildings, the concrete streets, the motorcycles chugging past on cobblestone roads and even something as simple as a couple eating ice cream outside a cafe, felt more like a novelty than ordinary. He could not shake the niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he was not meant to be here. That this kind of life and this environment was meant for someone with a completely different constitution than him. That he needed, absolutely needed, to get back to where he belonged and was most useful.

But James batted those thoughts away as best as he could, at least for the present. They would only be in Paris until tomorrow morning, after all, and then it was back to his real home.

After spending the rest of the day traipsing along the streets of Paris, then getting dinner and drinks at one of the bars near the hotel, James felt surprisingly good.

“That was…nice,” he commented as they headed back to the hotel.  

“Yeah?” John rubbed his back. “I thought so too. Thanks for this.”

“Of course.” James gazed after him as he walked through the double doors into the lobby. John turned and winked at him.

* * *

They fucked again that night, but it was different. Usually it was frantic, heavy with desire; a giant, passionate burst of energy and a quiet fizzle.

Tonight, John ran his hands languidly over his skin as they kissed, facing each other in bed, his fingers leaving trails of warmness in their wake. That’s how they remained, for a time, just kissing. And when it became something else, it was indeed passionate, but it was rather more like a slowly burning candle. James felt himself build up and build up, a careful climb that did not plummet immediately once he reached the top, but had a gradual and wonderful descent.

They were both so thoroughly satisfied afterwards that James thought he heard John mumble, “I love you so much” as he fell asleep.

I love you, too. He could feel it, scuttling across his chest as he watched him sleep.

John Watson was incredibly dangerous.

* * *

James woke up the next morning tangled in white sheets, his hand atop an empty space where John was supposed to be.

“What…” He shot up, instantly awake, looking around the room. Where had he gone? Had he left on his own? His clothes were gone, but his bag was still here…

Just then, the door opened, revealing John holding two cups of coffee, and James felt like a fool for panicking.

“You actually overslept,” John said, smirking as he pushed the door closed with his foot. “We’ve got less than an hour before our train leaves.”

“What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “8:23. Here.” He handed him one of the cups and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. “When was the last time you didn’t wake up at an exactly scheduled time?”

“I don’t remember.” Uneasy, James sipped his coffee and changed the subject. “You didn’t happen to get any breakfast, did you?”

John pointed at the nightstand, where a croissant was sitting on a china plate. “Thought I’d go for a stereotype.”

“As far as stereotypes go, this is fairly inoffensive.” He reached over and took a grateful bite. His stomach was rumbling.

“Guess you must’ve slept pretty nicely.” A flirty look.

James swallowed and gave a small smile. “I suppose so.” He wolfed down the rest of his croissant and set the coffee down on the nightstand as he swung his legs off the side of the bed. “We should hurry. I need to shower.”

“Yes, sir.” John turned on the telly as James went into the bathroom.

James had always been quick to shower and get dressed, so it wasn’t long before they were checking out and leaving, James hailing a cab to take them to the Gare de l'Est.  

They arrived on schedule, thankfully, and when they sat down in their compartment, John said, “Wish we could’ve taken a plane instead. I’m not sure I’m up for another six hour train ride.”

“It’s unfortunate, but harder to trace us this way.” James placed the newspaper he had grabbed for John on the seat next to him. “You should’ve brought a book.”

“Speaking of, is that all you read? Historical non-fiction about World War 2?” John grabbed the giant tome out of James’ bag, grinning.

“They’re not all about World War 2. I have some about World War 1. And the Falklands.”

John laughed and tossed the book back into his bag. “You need to broaden your horizons a bit.”

James rolled his eyes. “Read your newspaper, since you didn’t bring anything with you. Too bad you couldn’t have bought yourself a souvenir.”

“Well, actually…”

Oh no. “What?”

“I didn’t tell you at the time, but…” John licked his lower lip in excitement, then reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. “I got you something.”

“What is it?”

“I took some photos.” He eagerly unsealed the packaging and grabbed a stackful of glossy photographs. “I got a disposable camera in the lobby when we checked in. Look, see…” He rifled through them, showing James each photo – the view from their room, James walking in front of him by the River Seine, James drinking from the water fountain, La butte aux cailles at night, a photo of John smiling in the foreground while James obliviously looked off to the side…

“Mementos, you know,” he said, straightening them and sliding them back in. “Thought it’d be a nice surprise. Like them?”

“Watson, are you mad? We can’t keep those.”

John looked up. “Hmm?”

“We… I can’t…” He took a deep breath. “You know there can’t be any evidence we were here together.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ve got to hang them up in your office or something; I just thought – ”

James shook his head violently. “You have to get rid of these. What if someone found them? How would we explain it? It’s too risky. You really should’ve known better. Why would you think this was a good idea in the first place? I won’t jeopardize my entire career just for – ”

He could immediately tell he’d said the wrong thing. John looked as though he had just been slapped across the face. His gaze fell downward.

“Oh. Yeah – you’re right. It was… it was stupid. Yeah.” He cleared his throat and looked everywhere but at him. His fingers clung to the envelope like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Okay.”

Shit. “Watson – ”

“No, I know. It’s fine.” He seemed so lost. He stood up. “I’ll just…”

John stood there for several long moments before exiting the compartment. James could hear him throw the photos away in the bin across the hall.

He came back, all his looseness and joviality replaced with a stiff spine and a soldier’s posture. The lips that had been smiling so widely only a minute ago were pursed.

“You get off the train first, yeah?” John asked him.

“I…” His mouth felt dry. John wouldn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Okay.” John picked up his newspaper and started to read, while James couldn’t find any words and his eyes slid toward the city that was disappearing behind them.

* * *

All he’d ever done was hurt John. Over and over and over. He couldn’t do it again.

* * *

The funeral was scheduled for 10 a.m. James was sitting in his black car inside the graveyard at 9:46.

A few people had trickled past – no one James recognized – until a car pulled up behind him and he saw John emerge from the passenger’s side through the side view mirror.

It hit him all at once, like a clap of thunder.

He was dressed in a black suit, and James didn’t know whether it was the cloudy day or John’s grief, but everything about him was grey. His hair, his skin, his eyes. He looked so much older. His eyes were haunted and dead. He barely seemed aware of the world around him.

Some ghost inside of James was reaching out, reaching through the clear glass with its pale fingers, before John passed out of view.

“Sir?” His driver turned to look at him. “Will you be going in now?”

“No, it’s… just a few more moments.” He could hardly move. Something was keeping him affixed to his seat.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long. He didn’t look at his watch. He didn’t look at anything.

James eventually peered out the window to see that the service had started. There were not very many attendees. He supposed that had to do with Holmes’ name being smeared in the press. James didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t, but what he saw was a completely, utterly, entirely broken John Watson was standing next to an open grave marked “SHERLOCK HOLMES”.

He had never, ever seen him like this. Not once in the entire time he had known him.

Get out of the car, he told himself. Get out of the goddamn car.

He didn’t.

The service continued, and he watched from a distance. From back here, everyone was just a blur of faces and black clothes. But John somehow stood out from them all. He was grief in a suit.

When it was over, when the coffin was buried and the people began to walk away, it started to drizzle, like some cliché out of a movie. James’ chest felt tight as he watched John be the last to leave; he wouldn’t look back at the grave, his every movement as though he was in a thick fog. There seemed to be an invisible barrier surrounding him that everyone was walking outside of.

Then John looked up and saw him.

He was standing only a few feet away. James instinctively flinched at the sudden eye contact, blinking rapidly, and his heart raced (stupid, so stupid, not at a time like this, what is the matter with you) as John came to a stop. The rain dripped off of John’s skin as recognition flickered across his sad, sad eyes.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t move.

Until, finally, all James could do was incline his head slightly. John did the same.

His driver pulled away. James felt hollow and empty. The word coward followed him all the way home.

When he returned to his office later, he found the following e-mail in his inbox:

   James -  

   Thank you for coming.  

   -John

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