#there's one right across the street from their next clue in kensington

[britishchick09]

the best thing about writing a modern sherlock holmes adaptation? having him and watson go to kfc! ;D

[themirokai]

Sort It

A BBC Sherlock / James Bond Crossover Fic by MiroKai

“We’re being watched,” Bond grumbled.  “Yes,” Q agreed calmly. “That’ll be his security. Don’t do anything that looks threatening.”

“Whose security? Threatening to whom?”

“The person we’re going to see.”

“And are you going to tell me who that is?”

Q cleared his throat. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Bond snorted. “And is our next stop the North Pole to see Father Christmas? Mycroft Holmes doesn’t exist. He’s a myth, or at least a code name for a group of people.”

“Not a myth,” Q said, opening the gate to a particularly lovely house. “He is just one very real person. He’s also - ah - my brother.”

A while ago I went down the rabbit hole of "Q is a Holmes brother," and while there's some very good stuff in that rabbit hole, none of it had exactly what I wanted which was (of course) MORE MYSTRDE. Specifically, the loving, Established Relationship Mystrade that I am so fond of reading and writing. So, with the axiom in mind that one should write the fan fic that one wants to read, I started writing what eventually turned into this story. I don't think that any specialized knowledge of either fandom is needed to enjoy this, so if you're just here for one of these ships, I hope you'll still read.

Earlier draft beta'd by @marta-bee , all errors in this version are my own.

You can read the first part below the break, or all of it on AO3.

Q watched Bond pace across the small room of the safe house. “Right,” the Quartermaster said, crossing his arms over his slim chest. “So you had the Defence Secretary at gunpoint before you realized that he wasn’t the mole?”

Bond nodded, still pacing.

“And you took out his security team to get to him?”

“No,” the agent said quickly, “I just incapacitated them. They’ll all be fine. But M won’t stick his neck out for me, not after that last incident, so when the Secretary figures out it was me, I’ll be swinging in the wind.”

“I can sort it,” Q said quietly.

“What?” Bond was certain he hadn’t heard correctly.

Q uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. “I can sort it.”

“There’s no sorting it, Q! I conducted an unsanctioned operation on British soil and threatened a cabinet minister!”

Q stepped into the path of Bond’s pacing and the agent stopped short. “Do you trust me, James?” Q asked.

Bond thought about all the times he had put his life in this man’s hands, trusting Q’s tech, his guidance to keep him alive. He thought about how their relationship had changed recently. How casual flirting had turned to serious flirting. How serious flirting had led to drinks. How drinks had led to a tumble of discarded clothes, desperate mouths, and entwining bodies. How it had been happening for a few months, but they hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t labeled it. How every time he returned home from a mission he was inexorably drawn to Q’s apartment, to his bed. How, when he curled himself around Q in the depths of the night, the warmth was enough to drive away thoughts of the things he had done, the people he had lost. Bond thought about how, after today’s debacle, he had no earthly clue what to do, how to fix it - a rare sensation for him - and the only thing he could think to do was call Q.

“Yes,” Bond said. “I trust you completely.”

They parked the car on a side street in Kensington and proceeded on foot past mansions worth millions and millions of pounds.

“We’re being watched,” Bond grumbled.

“Yes,” Q agreed calmly. “That’ll be his security. Don’t do anything that looks threatening.”

“Whose security? Threatening to whom?”

“The person we’re going to see.”

“And are you going to tell me who that is?”

Q cleared his throat. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Bond snorted. “And is our next stop the North Pole to see Father Christmas? Mycroft Holmes doesn’t exist. He’s a myth, or at least a code name for a group of people.”

“Not a myth,” Q said, opening the gate to a particularly lovely house. “He is just one very real person. He’s also - ah - my brother.”

“What?!” Bond exclaimed in a hushed tone as they started up the path.

Before Q could respond, a man in tactical gear stepped out of the shadows and leveled a gun at them. “That’s far enough.”

Bond stepped between Q and the gun faster than a blink. Q sighed. “Stand down, Bond.” He stepped up beside the agent to face the security guard. “We’re MI6. This is Agent 007 and I’m the Quartermaster for the double oh section.”

“We know who you are,” the guard kept his gun trained on them. “You’re not expected.”

“Please tell Mr. Holmes that I’m here and I need to speak with him. He’ll agree to see me.”

The gun did not move a centimeter as the guard took out a mobile, tapped, and held it to his ear.

Read the rest on AO3.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Magical Loopholes

Chapter 39:  Villain Hunting

Dove was working for him again. Not happily, but he'd take what he could get. The man had appeared in his shop the morning after he left the message with a grimace on his face that said he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but a stance that suggested he was ready to work. That was convenient for him because he had a job for him. He'd kept Smee overnight, but now he'd overstayed his welcome. He had a plan for letting him go back out into Storybrooke, one that would ensure that if Hook was here and he knew where he was, then he'd find him. But that plan had hinged on the dove before him standing there. How lucky for him that his accomplice knew how to use his brain.

"It's good to have you back in my services, Mr. Dove."

"It's not like I have a choice, as you so kindly reminded me."

That was true. During the Curse this had been Dove's only job, and he, and his family, had profited greatly from it. He could have found another job now that the Curse was broken, but one that would pay as handsomely as he did and come with a rent-free lifestyle for himself and his parents? Doubtful. Very doubtful. So here he was, taking instructions once more. In five minutes, he informed his employee, a man in a red hat would come around the corner of his shop. Dove's job was to follow him for a couple of days. He wanted to know where he was going, who he was seen with, and he especially wanted to know if he was ever seen in the company of a man with a hook for a hand.

Dove agreed for his usual reimbursement and when the man stepped outside he saw him take a step, then fall into the air as a white dove soared away where the man had once been. He'd smirked. Dove wasn't pleased to be back with him, but he imagined that being able to do that again, to fly off in a different body and perch on a roof, certainly worked in his favor.

He released Smee a few moments later. The man was alert but obviously exhausted from a night in his basement. He smelled of sweat and piss and fear as he untied his bonds. "Now you listen to me," he growled menacingly as he worked. "I'm gonna let you go now, and you are going to go tell any of your old friends and crew mates that the girl you tried to take is off-limits. She's under protection of the Dark One. She's not to be touched, harmed, or even gawked at from across the street. Stay clear of her, stay clear of her library. Do we understand each other, Mr. Smee?"

The man had nodded vigorously and the second he motioned toward the open door he was up and out. He ran for his freedom like it might disappear if he wasn't fast enough, but he had no idea that he wasn't free. Not truly. Dove was watching. He was certain of this because twenty minutes after he'd freed him, he received a call from him.

"You want me to follow Barrie Kensington?"

Barrie Kensington…was that who he was here? The name didn't ring a bell, no property leases came to mind, no history. But Dove had said the name so easily…

"You know him?"

"Who doesn't?"

"How do you know him?" he questioned. "What does he do?"

"He gets things," Dove answered as if it was obvious and he should have known, like he was surprised he needed to tell him. "Guy's a mouse, but he's resourceful. Half the time you've wanted me to find you something, it's because I've gotten it from him."

William Smee, procurer of hard to find objects, was Barrie Kensington, also a procurer of hard to find objects. Sometimes he thought the Curse outdid itself.

"Have you ever seen him in the company of a man, tall, one hand?"

"Can't say I have, but he works with damn near everyone, and I've never followed him before."

"Your friend Scarlet, he's known for some of the same things, can you see if he has knowledge of him and a friend he might have with a hook?"

"No can do," he answered. "Scarlet has been missing since the Curse broke, no one has seen him and he's not answering his phone."

Shit. He'd never particularly cared for Scarlet. He had kept him on his payroll during the Mary Margaret situation and he knew that the boy was good for giving information to Dove when he needed him to. He hadn't a clue where he'd disappeared to and he didn't really care. But he did lament not having the information he needed.

"Where is Smee now?"

"Home," the Dove answered. "He went right to his apartment." No surprise there, after a night in his basement he'd probably need to shower, sleep, and eat before he went about his way. He could allow him that concession.

"Stay on him, Mr. Dove. If he meets a man with one hand call me immediately and if he goes anywhere near the library…don't let him get in the front door."

"Fine," he agreed in an unfriendly tone.

"Hm…no 'got it, boss'? Even for old times?"

There was nothing but silence on the other end. It only made him smirk.

"I see you've learned to fly again," he mentioned idly, as if he was trying to initiate chit chat, a habit he never engaged in without reason.

Dove promptly hung up the phone without answering. He chuckled as he put his phone back in his pocket and returned to his own work. He had to admit, he enjoyed people who knew their place in their relationship but refused to accept it, refused to be frightened or scared of him. Those who were weaker standing up to him left him amused and intrigued. Belle had been one of those people; Jefferson and Ruby were like that too. Now it seemed that Dove would be joining their ranks. He was rather looking forward to the entertainment that would bring. He needed entertainment, considering the dull hole not having Belle at home had left in his life.

He hadn't been back there, not to stay, not really. That first night he couldn't bring himself to go when she was in the library, alone and vulnerable. So, he'd stayed in the shop that night and over the course of the next few days he'd begun to make a habit it out of it. During the day he worked in the shop like he normally would, taking calls and text messages from Dove who reported that Smee seemed to be following instructions. The docks, the bowling alley, The Rabbit Hole Bar, Granny's, even the Middle School…Smee paid visits to all of them after he was released, it was the same story each place.

"I don't know what to tell you," Dove informed him on one call. "He goes in, he talks to someone, he leaves, he goes to the next place and does it all over again. So far, no one has had a hook for a hand."

Dove was confused; he saw it with clarity. Smee was simply doing what he'd asked him to do, going to his old crew mates and friends, delivering the warning he'd told them to. He was aware that doing that could potentially put Belle at risk, but he also knew that no one without a substantial amount of power would dare to attack a woman under his protection. With the protection spell he'd placed on the library, he'd know if anyone like that tried anything. Fortunately, few people came and went at the library, and he could feel that no one with power greater than Ruby dared to enter. Belle was safe, but that didn't stop him from spending every night in his pawnshop. Just in case.

It wasn't entirely bad. During the day he could do his usual work and during the nighttime, that was when his real work began. At night his work room transformed into his own little workshop, just like he had in the basement, only he found himself forcing himself to take a break from his spell for the town line. There were other things he needed to do.

Smee's attempt, futile as it had been, had scared him. There were so many, many dangers in this world, so many enemies, he never wanted to be caught off guard again. For the first night, he tried to find as many as he could. He didn't have a crystal ball, but he could pour water into a cauldron, add the proper ingredients, and ask it for images. The first he pulled up, his test image, was of Belle. She was in the library, sitting in a chair with a book in her lap, clearly asleep. She was safe. But only if he could keep her that way.

He tried searching for Hook next, but nothing came into the cauldron. He tried to summon an image of Zelena only to experience the same results…nothing. Smee had said that Hook wasn't here, that he wasn't in this world. That would make sense. The cauldron could only summon images of this world. To test that theory, he requested an image of August Booth. This time the cauldron gave him an image. There he was. A man made of wood, sleeping in a bed located in some kind of cramped and messy room. But where that messy room was…he couldn't tell. That was the problem with the cauldron, it could summon images, but it couldn't tell him the location of individuals, he would only know where they were if he recognized the place and unfortunately, he hadn't a clue where that room August was in was, and his magic kept taking him into the forest.

But there was another way, an old-fashioned method used for location…scrying. It was old and it involved maps. For that reason alone, it was complicated. The magic could work, but if it didn't have the right map, then it would be useless. And scrying could be done with crystals and head magic…but it was stronger with blood and heart magic. Still, he had to try. For Belle's sake.

He retrieved a map of Storybrooke, it was small, and not nearly as detailed as he wanted it to be, but he tried. With a crystal and by concentrating on August Booth he sat down and watched the crystal hover and sway and swing…and then circled a section of Storybrooke forest. The place he'd already checked. That was convincing but also devastating at the same time. Everything he'd seen, every sign, every piece of magic indicated that Booth was there! But when he'd gone, he couldn't find him. It was magic. No doubts, no assumptions, he was certain. He was using magic to hide. So, until he figured out a way around that…

He didn't stop searching at Booth. He continued his work, knowing that while Booth was important, he also needed to know the location of his enemies. Via scrying he found Smee sleeping in his apartment and Belle in the library and Regina in her home. There was nothing when he focused on Cora. That made sense. Regina wouldn't have wanted her here and claimed to have killed her in the Enchanted Forest. He still doubted that, but for now, he'd accept it, given she was no threat. Zelena and Hook also yielded no results, but now that he was thinking things through, he was curious about something else. Well…two someones was probably a more accurate description.

Cruella and Ursula. He'd watched as the Apprentice had opened a portal for Maleficent's child that they'd fallen through. He suspected it was to this world. He hauled out his globe and made an attempt but had no results when searching for the child. He expected that. There was no bond between them, nothing but a single image of a hand poking through an egg for him to recall and use. Scrying was already very weak magic; it needed a strong memory to work. Besides, he suspected the child was outside of Storybrooke, there was no telling what the magic would do with those outside. So, he tested it on someone he did have a better connection to first. He closed his eyes, focused on Ursula, the sea witch, the woman who had once taken Belle, and let the crystal roam over the globe. He spun it gently when he felt the need to, let it move over, up and down, until he felt a tug on the string of gold holding it. It had landed.

New York City.

He scrambled to the place he kept his maps and guidebooks, the places that he'd imagined going to search for Bae. One was for New York City. He opened the map, spread it wide on his table, and let the crystal do the work that it couldn't do on a globe. This time he felt the tug quickly. He looked down at the tourist map, and suddenly there wasn't a doubt in his mind the magic was working. It tracked the sea witch to an aquarium in New York City. Like always did call out to like. The former sea dweller would have gone somewhere she felt comfortable, working side by side with her fishy friends made sense. But then…where was her other friend.

He couldn't locate Cruella in the city, a surprise since he could easily see her fitting in there running a gallery or jewelry store. But no, he used the globe again and instead found her in upstate New York, of all places. Unfortunately, he couldn't pinpoint her. He didn't have any large maps of upstate New York to point him in any specific direction. However, he was satisfied that they both lived far enough away from Belle that he didn't care.

But doing all this…it did give him another idea.

He took a deep breath, moved the globe closer to him, closed his eyes and focused one more time…on Baelfire. For a brief moment, when he felt the crystal pull, he dared to hope, dared to dream that he didn't need August or Emma, that he might find his boy here and now all on his own. But then he opened his eyes. The crystal hadn't settled. It was hovering, swinging in a circle just as it had with Booth out in the woods only this time it circled parts of New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and even a little bit of Massachusetts and Pennsylvania.

He took a deep breath and clenched the crystal in his hand until it hurt. He hunched himself over his table and swallowed hard, anything to keep himself from overturning the table in anger. He held on to what was good. He had been right. Baelfire was close. Somewhere in the Northeast, south of here. It was still half a dozen cities to explore, but now he'd learned roughly where he was. It was better than searching the entire United States. And he'd learned something else too. The crystal had circled for Bae just as it had with Booth. It had circled out there for Bae when it hadn't for Cruella or Ursula. Not just one other thing. Two other things.

First, if it had the same reaction as it had for August and he'd concluded that it was because August had magical protection then logically, he had to make the same conclusion for Bae. He, too, was using magical protection.

Second, if he was using magical protection out there, then that meant August had been right. There was magic of some sort, beyond Storybrooke, unstudied magic…

The implications of that were terrifying.

It meant there was a possibility that he was going to need more than just one spell to get him over the barrier.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Prince Consort

This is a Valentine’s Day present for my lovely girlfriend who is awesome and the best and I really hope you like this baby @spiky-lesbian

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3!

-------

Of course it was raining.

Alex gave Henry a smug smile as they’d sat at the loveseat helpfully provided by their hotel, right by the expansive window so they had a lovely view of the entire city, slate grey and swimming beyond a thick film of rain. One of the things they loved to argue about was whose country had the most ridiculous weather.

“Don’t,” Henry warned him, seeing the look and giving a retaliatory pinch to his already flushed cheek. Their very late breakfast had turned into something definitely other than breakfast and it had left them both dishevelled and out of breath.

“I didn’t say anything…” Alex pouted demurely, leaning up to lick a smudge of chocolate that had used to be part of a pain au chocolat from his cheek.  

“You don’t have to,” Henry went redder, pleasantly scandalised, catching his mouth and promptly wiping the smug look from his face with a deep kiss that tasted of coffee and brown sugar.

They were being excessive. They both knew it but neither could care. This visit was the first time they’d really been free of work, of law school, of responsibilities that kept them from falling into each other’s arms as often as they’d like. They felt like their younger selves again, nearly wrecking hotel rooms with the abandon of rock stars, lounging around in the afterglow with no clothes on with neray a thought of an upcoming deadline or press conference or budget report.

Except now they could kiss without fear.

“So what did you have planned for today?” Alex murmured when they eventually drew apart, only because they had to breathe and because they knew there were more kisses close in their future.

The reason they were in town was to fawn over their new niece, the week old Princess Margaret, immediately nicknamed Maggie and immediately spoiled by both her uncles. But today were the official portraits for the press and both of them were going to avoid those like the plague. Alex had been ready to construct an overflowing itinerary but Henry had told him not to make any plans. Telling a Claremont-Diaz not to make plans was like telling a shark to swim backwards but he’d somehow managed to refrain.

Having Henry sprawled on the loveseat with him wearing only a robe that was suggesting more than it was covering, that helped a lot.

His boyfriend smiled enigmatically, “I just need you dressed and ready for seven. That’s all.”

Alex frowned, studying his face eagerly for clues, “What kind of ‘dressed’? Fancy? Casual? Smart casual, the most infuriating category of clothing ever?”

Henry laughed warmly, “Whatever you feel comfortable in, dear. That’s all.”

Alex snorted and settled back against his chest, letting it drop for now. He was confident he’d wheedle the answer out of him sooner or later, there was no rush. He let his eyes close, enjoying the sounds of the city below, a city so different from the one he knew but which had become another kind of home.

Henry’s hand stayed on his back where it had settled a little while before, rubbing slow circles just below his shoulder blades. And then it began to creep lower, cupping the curve of his hip, his thumb pressing in the divot where it started to become his groin. There was something hungry in that grip.

A smile tugged at the corner of Alex’s mouth, “If we don’t need to be ready until seven, that gives us...what, four hours, right?”

“Something like that,” Henry murmured, a grin in his voice.

“What should we do with all that time then...”

Henry didn’t deign to answer, just chuckling in that unbearably sexy way of his as the hand gripped tighter, turning Alex onto his back and sinking his mouth against his love’s.

Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time they headed down in the elevator of the impossibly expensive and indulgent hotel they’d sprung for, rather than face the awkwardness of staying in Kensington. Not that things hadn’t improved significantly since they’d come out but still, it was easier to feel like this was a romantic vacation when they chose their own bed. And when said bed wasn’t a centuries old antique.

The city was dark or, at least, as close to darkness as it ever came. The windows were still alive with light, bars and restaurants pools of it as they drove past, the streetlamps streaking it across the car’s tinted windows. Alex leaned his head against the glass, feeling Henry’s hand in his own, and smiled.

Though he was a little annoyed, down in his chest. He still hadn’t figured out Henry’s plan for their evening. He’d been watching the roads carefully, trying to map out London in his head with bars and restaurants he knew they’d been to before pinned in red. Placed they’d been to when they’d just started, places they’d had dates in since, places they’d spent one of their four anniversaries so far, though only two of them had been spent in London.

But, as he looked over at Henry’s face, illuminated by the car’s headlamps, he saw it again. The spark in his eyes, the suggestion that they weren’t here just for dinner and drinks. The look of someone who was up to something.

Alex tried to puzzle at it some more but he was quickly distracted just by looking at Henry. He always looked so content when he was driving, focused but at ease, the hand that wasn’t in Alex’s loose on the wheel. Sure their security detail flanked them from both directions in hire cars identical to their own but they were at least allowed their own privacy. It was a compromised sort of freedom, the kind they’d both grown used to. The kind that seemed to be tipping more in their favour as they grew.

“Hey,” Henry’s eyes didn’t move from the crowded London street ahead of them but his voice came soft and snagged Alex’s attention immediately, “I love you.”

Alex smiled softly, melting in the way only Henry had ever been able to get him to, “I love you too.”

Alex caught on about five seconds before they pulled up, with a sharp intake of breath and bolting upright in his seat, “The V&A!”

Henry gave him a grin, “Look at you, sounding just like a local. But yes, that’s exactly where we’re going.”

“It’ll be closed by now,” Alex was already shifting excitedly, not unlike a puppy, “Are we breaking and entering again?”

“Hardly,” Henry parked up with infuriating neatness and precision (he was easily the better driver though Alex would never admit it), “I don’t think it counts as that if someone just lets you in the back door. But yes.”

Alex bounded out, already smiling at the memories of the night he and Henry snuck out of the palace to come here, the night he’d looked at Henry and started to see a future. Even the weather was much the same, the pavements silvered by the earlier downpour, the blanket of clouds above him. He looked up at the grand, towering edifice of the museum and smiled, wishing he could go back in time and tell that confused young man that, three years from now, Henry’s hand would still be in his own and his own mind would be a place he genuinely loved to live.

He was so wrapped up in his own memories that he didn’t notice the security team pointedly staying within their cars.

Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls as they walked through the museum, dimly lit and eerie in a good kind of way. It had an excitement to it, like they were getting to see a side of it no one ever did. Like discovering a secret.

Henry was incorrigible; as soon as he came upon pieces he knew, he began to eagerly recount their stories, like an overzealous textbook given a voice box. Alex couldn’t complain, he was as much of a history nerd as the next person and he did adore seeing Henry so completely absorbed in something he genuinely loved.  He could listen to his boyfriend describe how the candlestick they were looking at was a fabulous example of the skill of medieval English goldsmiths all night.

They spiralled their way inwards, starting with the outer galleries with their Raphael cartoons and folios and moving down through costume displays and historical artefacts. Alex let Henry’s voice carry him somewhere else, to a place where everything was unique and precious and tagged with it’s own slice of history, perfectly preserved behind glass panels for anyone and everyone to come hear their story.

He was almost sad when they made their way to the main room, the last on their little journey. Though the statue in the centre was something of an old friend.

“There he is!” Alex grinned, gazing up at the twisted bodies of Giambologna’s masterpiece, looking almost haunting under the spotlights with no other light around, violence frozen into beauty, “No wonder the king passed it on to that Duke, you’d have to be gay to appreciate something this ostentatious.”

“That’s priceless artwork you’re talking about,” Henry pointed out, though he was smiling, abandoning his boyfriend��s hand completely and just sliding his arm around his shoulders.

Alex leaned closer in, enjoying the contact and the warm smell of him, “Priceless artwork with two buff dude’s asses on full display. Another point towards it’s obvious gayness.”

“You should be an art historian,” Henry snorted, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, just at the top of his jaw, “With a very specific focus.”

“Maybe I should. I could just keep going to school, doing degree after degree until I’m the most qualified person who ever lived who doesn’t actually have a job.”

Henry shook his head gently, deliberately, “No. The world needs you out there. Doing things, making things better the way you do.”

Sometimes Alex had to stop and just look at Henry, really look at him. Just so the voice that still lived somewhere inside him, the one that whispered to him and said he wasn’t good enough and he wasn’t worthy of everything he had, just so that voice could see the look of perfect sincerity on Henry’s face and know it was wrong.

“Fine. You can write the endless essays on the best asses in Renaissance art,” Alex murmured, aware that he was blushing slightly.

Henry smiled, hair looking like gold in the dimness, “Maybe...listen, I...I really, really love you. I just need you to know that.”

Alex frowned a little though his smile didn’t fade, “That’s twice now you’ve said that unprompted. What do you want?”

Henry looked a little abashed, like he really thought he’d been subtle, “Okay, fine, I do have something I want to ask you for.”

“Well spit it out,” Alex gave his usual cocky, lopsided grin, though there was now a genuine seed of worry in his chest, like something unseen was rushing at him, “You know I deal exclusively in blowjobs so we’ll see if we can come to an agreement about how many this favour of yours is worth.”

“Lord,” Henry turned his eyes upwards for a moment, looking exasperated, desperate and hopeful all at once, the expression of a man about to take a step forward into thin air, “Just…”

He pulled away suddenly and, for a moment, the seed of worry in Alex’s chest turned into a full blown panic...until Henry then sank to one knee and produced something from his pocket, something that caught what little light there was around them and glinted.

“I want you to spend the rest of your life with me,” he said, voice soft and sweet and sincere.

Alex froze in place, unable to stop his jaw dropping even though he knew he’d look ridiculous, “You...you’re proposing to me?”

Henry ran an anxious hand through his hair, sending it out of place, “Um...yes.”

“And...and the last thing I said before you did was a joke about you blowing me…” Alex said hoarsely.

Relief washed over Henry’s face and he smiled, “Rather appropriate for us, don’t you think?”

Before he could say anything more idiotic than he’d already managed, Alex threw himself down and caught that ridiculously perfect mouth in a messy kiss, one that nearly sent them both careening back onto the white tiled floor. Fortunately Henry shot one arm out behind him to catch them and managed to keep his grip on the ring.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured weakly, once their lips drew away for air.

“Yes,” Alex was crying like a baby, getting salt water on his jumper and Henry’s perfect collared shirt and he didn’t care, “It’s, like, a million yeses. I’m going to be a fucking prince!”

“Prince consort,” Henry corrected gently, laughing, his own eyes rather damp, “More importantly, my prince consort.”

“Yours,” just that simple word took Alex’s breath away and he kissed him again, unable to bear another moment without Henry’s lips on his own.

Somewhere in the middle of the crying and the kissing, the ring found its way onto Alex’s finger. Newly made and perfectly sized- just so they could have something that was theirs alone- it shone silver under the museum spotlights, as precious to Alex as any ancient statue or priceless painting.

There was so much Alex wanted to tell his younger self, standing where they knelt in a tangle, five years in the past, his heart heavy with doubts and fears and new discoveries about himself. He wanted to tell him everything would be okay. He wanted to tell him he was braver and kinder and more wonderful than he could ever know. He wanted to tell him that love was real and the future was bright.

But maybe he wouldn’t tell him that one day he’d marry a prince. Some things were better left as surprises.

[sophiaholmes221b]

Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker

Chapter Four

Dad hands me the book as we get into the taxi and I flick through it, seeing the date stamped in the front. This can tell us a lot: the book belongs to the West Kensington Library and is dated for the day he died. Was he at the library when he was threatened?

We stride through the double doors at the front of the modern building, and onto an escalator which takes us up to the aisle, the book is from.

I know this library like the back of my hand, as it's often the building of choice for me to go to when I think, so I have no trouble leading dad and John to the right place.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," dad states, for John's benefit. He checks the reference number stuck to the bottom of the spine, then wanders down the shelves, taking out books and examining them. I look further down, whilst John starts pulling some out opposite dad.

"Sherlock," John says, and I spin around to look at the space where the books were. Another tag sprayed in the same paint as before fills the gap.

Seeing this, dad steps forward, and takes a handful of books in each hand, revealing another identical set of graffiti to the one in Sir William's office. Instinctively, I reach for my phone and snap two or three pictures each of the new graffiti, then jog to catch up with dad as he turns on his heel.

Dad hails another taxi and we sit in silence, our thoughts churning over in our minds. John looks idly out of the window as we work. Two sets of graffiti, both exactly the same, but what's the link? The murderer needed to send the same message - a threat - to two people, but why?

I step out of the cab first and sprint up the stairs to the printer, printing off the new photos and sticking them above the others on the mirror, leaving just a small gap in the centre of the mirror. Dad and John join me by the fireplace, and together, we stare at the images.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cypher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in," dad recites, using the information we have to piece together the china fragments. "Hours later, he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cypher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home," John continues.

"Late that night, he dies too," I add.

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asks softly.

Dad traces his fingers over the line painted over Sir William's eyes. "Only the cypher can tell us," dad says, tapping his finger against the photo. We need some advice from an expert to tell us more. Dad's expression sharpens as he too reaches the same conclusion. "Come on John," he says brightly, standing up and striding towards the door.

"Hmm?" John murmurs, following us.

I tap a small message into my phone, send it, and receive one straight back. Smiling, I step into the cab dad hailed before my arrival and feed the cabbie the address.

***

We walk across the centre of Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery, trying to ignore the funny looks we're getting. Obviously, John's blog is picking up on followers, and more people are recognising who we are.

"The world's run on codes and cyphers, John," dad states randomly. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes," John says sarcastically, "okay, but ..."

"... but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" John asks.

"We need to ask some advice," I grimace.

"What?! Sorry?!"

Dad throws him a dark look and John smiles in disbelief. "You heard her perfectly."

"I'm not saying it again," I pipe in.

"You need advice?" John asks sceptically.

"On painting, yes," dad says. "I need to talk to an expert."

"We can't be experts in everything," I point out, leading them around the side of the Gallery to where a boy a little older than me is spray-stenciling onto a grey, metal door which leads into the back of the building. The image seems to be of a policeman holding a rifle in his hands, but in the place of his nose, he has a pigs snout. Near the bottom of the image, the graffitist has sprayed his tag, 'RAZ'.

Raz continues spraying as we approach him, a canvas bag overflowing with spray cans at his feet.

"Attractive," I call out as we get nearer. "Very fetching."

Raz rolls his eyes at my sarcasm. "Part of a new exhibition," he smirks, continuing to paint.

"Interesting," dad says, just as interested as I am.

"I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'," Raz chuckles quietly.

"Catchy!" John says, disapprovingly.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," Raz says, turning to face us, looking cocky. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

I show the photos of the cypher to Raz, who turns and tosses the spray can in his hand to John. Instinctively, John catches the can, then looks at us in bewilderment. Raz takes my phone and begins to scroll through the pictures of the cyphers from the office and library.

"Know the author?" dad asks, staring intently at Raz.

"Recognise the paint," he answers, still scrolling. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols: d'you recognise them?" I ask, mentally logging the paint type.

Raz squints at the images on the screen. "Not even sure it's a proper language," Raz replies and I sigh in disbelief.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz," dad continues, studying Raz sternly. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz taunts, vainly. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"It's all we've got," I say, gritting my teeth with anger. "Two men, Raz, the next could be any of us and the clue to stopping this is in the graffiti!"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" dad asks, a little more calmly.

Raz sighs, beaten, then shrugs. "I'll ask around."

"Somebody 'must' know something about it," dad asserts and Raz runs his tongue along his teeth.

I hear approaching footsteps, and look around. "Oi!" the PCSO calls, and the other three look around. I instantly grab my phone back and run, following dad as Raz drops a second spray can from his hand and kicks his bag towards John. Around the corner, we stop, panting and laughing.

"Any information, however small, you know where to find us," dad speaks to Raz. He nods, then scarpers off.

"Should we help him?" I ask, gesturing around the corner to where John is currently taking the fall for the graffiti.

"Nah," dad says, smiling. "Let's leave it to him."

***

We make our way back to 221B in silence as we quietly mull over the new information that Raz was able to give us. I file the paint type into its respected department, then continue to piece together what we already know about the crime.

There is a gang operating in London at the moment which is threatening seemingly random people through a set of cyphers sprayed in places where the target would see it and recognise it. The paint, as we now know, is fairly cheap to buy, coming in at just under £5. That would mean it's easy to get hold of, and that opens up the field of potential buyers of this paint considerably. All we can hope to do now is to wait and see whether this graffitist decides to show up again.

Around half an hour later, when I emerge from my thoughts, I realise I'm back in Baker Street watching as dad pins some more images of various pictograms and cyphers onto the mirror. I also realise that I'm holding a book that I don't remember picking up, and I look down to read the information on the page. It seems to be a book on codes and cyphers. My dormant mind obviously didn't find anything of use on the pages before, so I continue to flick through the book, occasionally glancing up at the mirror to compare an image. Dad stands beside me, mirroring my actions with another book containing similar translations.

The slamming of the kitchen door awakens my mind a little, but I continue to hold my head low, appearing to be studying the book in great detail. I hear John's heavy footsteps and assume that he is quite angry at us leaving him behind. It's just a guess.

"You've been a while," dad announces, not bothering to turn around.

John walks a few more steps into the room, and I look up in the mirror to analyse his body language. His shoulders seem rather bunched up, and he holds his fists in clenches, stopping to blink back the anger at dads steady calm as he turns to us.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," he says tetchily, and my head snaps back down before he notices that I'm trying to hide a smirk. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" He begins to pace, an angry grimace on his face as he begins to speak again, getting louder as he voices the consequences of us leaving him behind. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

Dad doesn't seem to be listening. "What?" he says absently, looking up to check another image, but I can see a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday," John yells, seeming to me to be rather angry. He puts on a rough London accent, not too far off the ones the so-called 'gangstas' use on the streets. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine," dad continues to half-listen, and I watch John's face tighten.

"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time," he says, a little more calmly as he turns to look out of the window.

Dad slams his book shut. "This symbol: I still can't place it."

"It's not in here either," I conclude, tossing my book onto the cluttered desk.

Dad walks over to John, who's just started to shrug off his donkey jacket and pulls the jacket back over his shoulders. "No, I need you to go to the police station ..." dad says firmly, wheeling John back around so that he's facing the living room door.

"Oy, oy, oy!" John protests indignantly.

"... ask about the journalist."

"Oh, Jesus!" John says, exasperated as dad grabs his own coat from the back of the door, and throws mine over.

"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements," dad continues, unaware or just not caring about John's protests. I don't know why he wouldn't want to go!

"If you look to see exactly what he does after going abroad, then that'll mean we're one step closer to piecing this damn story together," I say as we go downstairs and out onto the street.

"Why, what're you going to be doing?" John asks, obviously still a little annoyed with the both of us

"Gonna go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," dad tells him as we part ways.

On the other side of the road, I see the same Chinese lady from before, but as I glance around to look at the path in front of me, she disappears again.

***

"I would like to see Edward Van Coon's P.A.," dad demands as he strides up to the desk, flipping open Lestrade's Police Identity Card.

"Just a minute sir," the woman says before buzzing us through to the trading floor.

I walk on through first, walking directly to Van Coon's office where his P.A. sits by her laptop. She doesn't look surprised when we walk in, so I assume the receptionist phoned ahead to warn her of our arrival.

"Good afternoon," she says, standing up and letting us walk over. "I'm Amanda, Eddie's personal assistant. But, of course, you already know that." Amanda titters slightly. She leans over and taps a few things into her laptop, bringing up an online calendar of Van Coon's meetings and business trips.

"We just need the last two weeks before his death," I say, pacing the room as to take in as much as I can.

"Right, okay," she types a few more things in and brings up a bigger version of the dates, ones mainly focused on the days around his death. "Ah, here!" she cries out, and we lean over her to look at the screen. "Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me up a copy?" dad requests.

"Sure," Amanda replies, leaning over to type a command to print into the computer.

"What about the day he died?" dad asks. "Can you tell me where he was?"

"Sorry," she apologises, looking at the screen. "Bit of a gap."

I sigh through my teeth and twirl around, frustrated. The calendar shows no entries at all for the day he died - Monday 22nd. Dad also looks away, annoyed, and something clicks.

"I have all his receipts," Amanda realises, standing up to sift through a draw.

"Something isn't right, and I don't mean Van Coon's empty diary," I tell dad quietly.

He frowns at me, looking puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Look at the dates," I say, pointing to the computer. "Van Coon supposedly returns home on the Friday, yet when we come to his suitcase on the Monday, everything's still inside, untouched. Now we know the body was fresh because the graffiti warning was, so why was his bag untouched?" Dad looks up, frustrated, I think, that he didn't notice that. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

He nods, but there's no time to continue, as Amanda stands back up with a file of crumpled receipts, and spreads them over her desk.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda?" dad questions, probably trying to delve into their relationships. "Appreciative?"

"Um, no. That's not a word I'd use." Amanda says, fiddling around with her ring, a clear sign that she's not telling the full truth. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

Dad bends over the table to get a better look at the receipts and I cross to the other end, watching Amanda suspiciously. I notice a pump-action bottle of luxury hand lotion nearby, and realize that it's the same brand as the one in Van Coon's flat.

"Like that hand cream," I say. "He bought that for you, didn't he?"

Amanda looks at me in surprise, fiddling around with an emerald hairpin in her elaborate updo. I shuffle through the receipts, taking her expression as the only answer I need, and try to order them in a way that'll give us a vague idea of the things he did leading up to his murder on Monday. Picking out a few, I pass dad several taxi receipts dated for around the 22nd March.

He picks one up and hands it up to Amanda. "Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office," she says slowly, looking down at the piece of card as dad continues to sift through the paperwork.

"Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning," dad corrects her. "Eighteen would get him as far as ..." he fades off as he tries to calculate.

"The West End," Amanda realises. "I remember him saying."

I hand dad a London Underground ticket for Piccadilly with the same date, but at a later time than the taxi. He glances at it before handing that one up to the P.A. as well.

"Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly."

"So he got a Tube back to the office," Amanda frowns. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy," dad says, still sifting through the receipts, but beginning to form a chronological order of events. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."

"Delivering?" Amanda questions, sceptically, obviously wondering what, like all of us, was being delivered. Evidently, whatever it was that was tightly packed inside his luggage.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," dad repeats. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." Dad trails off as he finds another receipt, standing up as he looks at it. "... Stopped on his way," he looks up. "He got peckish."

Dad turns around and heads for the door. Amanda looks at me in surprise. "Thanks for the help!" I call, picking up the receipts and following him out.

[typhoonbook]

Chapter Extract 1: Sparks Fly

8:30am, my alarm was ringing loudly. Today was the day. Today was the day I was going to meet James again, and not just that, I would be meeting him alone, our first official 'date' date, and not group date. What was I to wear? Didn't have a clue, but it had to be sensible as I was going to be going to my grandmothers for lunch and then meeting him in the afternoon. So, with that in mind, I decided to wear my baby pink shorts, a grey short sleeved jumper style top (It literally doesn't fit any label, it just looks nice), and decided on my brown funky style plaited shoes. It was when I was finished getting ready and sat on my bed, when all the nerves that I was pushing away when getting ready hit me at once like the Titanic hit the Iceberg. Boom. Crack, and whooooosh.

Would he be the same as yesterday? Would he like me when I am not around my friends? Would he stand me up today? Stupid thoughts, coming from a stupid overthinking mind!

It is when I think back to these moments from today's lens, when I release how much I really overthink and overthought many of the situations that you will have the joy of reading about further along the book. Like why? It's a form of self-torture. I do not need to think of these thoughts, and they do not add anything to my life, but stress, worry and needless panic. Had he dropped out, nope. Did he show any signs of not liking me yesterday, nope. Has he done anything that could have possibly spurred these thoughts inside my head? Hell no. So I had no reason to listen to them. So I got up, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair into its signature style, and made myself look fierce with a couple of lotions and potions. I am a big lover of Lush (Other Products are available), for their natural ingredients and for a person with sensitive skin like mine, not all lotions and potions are a good fit for me. So once I was ready, we headed to my nanas house, and enjoyed the second day of summer sun as a family in the garden.

As a British person, the weather is a big thing for me, as this summer was especially lovely. The sun and warmth stayed for a long time! Usually it's a mixture of a week of amazing weather, then a couple weeks of just pure rain, then another block of sun, then rain, and you get the idea. This was a solid couple month of just sun. Maybe two days of thunderstorms, but that was concentrated in the evening, so it was nice to watch the electric light-show of strikes across the sky at night.

We sat and spoke. Updated each other on our lives and had a lovely lunch that my nana had prepared before our arrival. However, throughout the whole time as much as I was with my family, I had James firmly in my mind. He was my next meeting of the day, and the most nerve wracking. Would it be the same as the day before? Would we feel the same seeing each other? Were my friends a huge reason why we clicked so well, and why he was able to unwind as much as he did? Well, all my answers we going to be answered in one single hour, the hour it took for me to leave my grandmother's house and arrive at Kensington Gardens, where we were to meet.

The skies were grey, pretty average for London. A stark difference from the skies that graced us the day before. Piercing blue skies with the sun shining brightly all day long, from dawn to dusk. This day was equally warm, but the sun appeared to be hiding. This also made me nervous, as how could be cuddle up on the grass and talk about our days when its pouring down with rain. I hoped throughout the whole journey that the rain would hold off, or just not arrive at all, because I was enjoying the sun.

It was not long before I arrived at High Street Kensington. James said to meet him here so then we could both walk up to Kensington Gardens and find a nice place to sit and chat. Although I only waited in reality maybe a maximum of five minutes, those five minutes were the longest minutes ever. That seems to happen when you find yourself nervous or anxious about something, time seems too slow right down, almost to try and torture your mind. Make you feel even more nervous or anxious.

Then, without a moment's notice, there he was. On the opposite side of the gates to High Street Kensington station, James came through and greeted me with a lovely hug. Just like out departure hug, it was a very good one indeed. We spoke about how our days had been before this point, and what we had been up too. He then also made no delay in reminding me of how burnt my skin was after basking in the sunlight all day the day before for the parade. He tried to be funny, whilst failing miserably to try and mock me (That's what I try and believe inside).

We entered the gardens and proceeded to try and find somewhere nice to settle down for the rest of the day. The skies were holding at this point, and the chance of rain looked minimal, but it still played on my mind that in true Brandon fashion, the clouds above us would produce an orchestra of immense downfall and spoil our day. We found this lovely quiet area within the garden, big and open field of green grass, with one lonely tree within the middle of it, and not another human in sight. Well, close human, you could see a few scattered in the distance but they were purely dots in the horizon at this point. Blanket down, butts on the floor, we settled down and spoke some more! To my delight, it was just like the day before, the conversation flowed well, the feelings were just as bright, and he was just as witty and cute.

Worries, gone. Literally wiped away in a second. Our chat and connection felt so natural, I knew what he was feeling, he knew what I was feeling. We could finish each other's sentences and make each other die with laughter. Everything just seemed to perfect, however there was still one thing that played on my mind, I wanted to hold his hand. Agh it sounds so childish and cringe worthy when writing it out, but at the time this was a big thing for me. I was no expert, but I was no newbie either anymore when it came to dating. I had dated a couple guys, and been on a few dates, but until then, I had never held another guys hand in a romantic way before. By this point, we were both laying on our sides facing each other, and this alone just felt super cute. Our bodies had created a sweet little bubble, just for us and no one else. It was a nice feeling, looking into his eyes and talking so freely about many different things. I felt like I had known him for years.

We gradually got closer as we were speaking, at this point we were laying down, arms used as head rests and looking into each other's eyes intently. We were both so calm and collective, it was a nice feeling. No problems or life troubles taking up my mind, just him, me and the wind through the trees. The distant murmurs of people playing in the gardens, and the sound of the birds up in the trees, tweeting with delight and enthusiasm.

Closer and closer we got; our noses would touch if we kept getting closer. My aim was to try and hold his hand which was now millimetres away from my fingertips. So close, I could feel the warmth radiating off his fingertips, he was a radiator of heat don't get me wrong, but this was now the moment......

[fadingfartconnoisseur]

All of the July Elevenths

God bless Facebook. This platform has given me so much — the ability to get back in touch with long-lost friends, the ability to stay in touch with faraway and travel friends, and a collection of photos that I treasure.

But I especially love Facebook Memories — looking back and seeing what you were doing one, two, five, or ten years ago.

Recently Facebook Memories gave me such a cross-section of statuses and photos shared on July 11th of every year since 2007, and it made me stop and think. My life has changed so much from year to year, especially when it comes to my career and finances.

I’d love to share these days with you and show you how my life has changed over time.

On July 11th in 2016, I was in Johannesburg. Beth and I were exploring the city in style. We went to the top of the tallest building in South Africa, noting the bullet hole and taking a selfie with a strangely placed nutcracker. We rode the new, modern Gautrain across the city and nearly got in trouble with security for bringing our green juices on board. We got a cheeky Nando’s and drank $9 glasses of Veuve Cliquot in our hotel bar. And just after that, we jumped on a plane to Kruger National Park for a few days of wildlife-spotting.

The good: When you’re able to take your best friend to Africa on business class flights, as well as a stay in one of your favorite boutique hotels in the world, that is pretty much the definitive sign that you have MADE IT. Also, once you’ve gone business class, you’re forever changed.

This trip was also a reminder of how important it is to pick the right travel companions. I happen to love Johannesburg, but I know that most of my non-travel-blogger friends would be scared of it or hate it. Beth is exactly the kind of person who would enjoy it — open-minded, optimistic, and eager to mine a lesser-loved city for gold.

The bad: I’d be in crisis a few days later when a large check I had received for a campaign a week ago had suddenly been recalled. This left a grand total of $40 in my bank account. My bank had already processed and finalized the check, which is what made this crazy; this only happened because the sending bank had been hit by fraud and had recalled all outgoing payments of the last two weeks for security reasons.

Let me tell you, it’s less than pleasant calling your client over Skype on a tenuous internet connection from the middle of the bush in Limpopo Province. “You need to pay me by bank transfer, and you need to do it today,” I said firmly. They complied.

On July 11th in 2015, I was in Berat, Albania. For the fourth summer in a row, I was exploring the Balkans and hitting up some places I hadn’t seen before. I was staying in a nice hotel room for $18 per night and marveling at how the town was dead during the day but hundreds if not thousands of people were out during sunset. I had just spent a week chilling out in the resort town of Saranda; next up was Tirana, a city I would fall in love with immediately.

The good: I was traveling on my own terms. I look back at 2015 as when I was at peak travel — I was earning enough money to go wherever I wanted and didn’t have an apartment to pay for at home, so I was free to spend, spend, spend. I met up with tons of different blogger friends throughout Europe, hit up my first music festival, and even spent a few days with a ghost in Montenegro.

The bad: It felt a little too carefree — and that wasn’t right. I realize that’s a good problem to have. By mid-2015, I felt like I had been eating nothing but candy for the past year. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who backpacks and parties for years on end, chasing the sun and forever hitting on 25-year-olds. It was time to put down some roots. I would move to New York the following February.

In July 2014, I was in London. I actually have no clue what specifically happened on July 11th, as I had no Facebook posts from that day, but I have posts from the surrounding days and can figure out what happened then. I had just gotten home from Slovenia a few days before and was gearing up for Finland next. I was so exhausted from my travels that my London time had been spent catching up on rest.

The good: Major money was finally coming in, and consistently. I had finally cracked affiliate marketing and passive income on a large scale. I was getting paid for several blog campaigns as well. I was still in feast-or-famine mode, though, so I took on as much work as I could. In the past two months I had done paid campaigns in Malta, Ireland, Croatia, and Slovenia; in the next month and a half I would do paid campaigns in Finland, Italy, and Germany, plus unpaid trips to France and Norway.

I could pay for half of an apartment in a nice neighborhood in London and also have money to go out to dinner with friends, to take trips to cool places, to have a life. It had been so long since I had had that.

The bad: This was the darkest and most terrifying time of my life. I’ve been very careful about what I’ve revealed over the years. Part of that is because I deserve privacy. Part of that is because I’m still embarrassed. I’m still not sure exactly how much I’ll ever reveal.

Perhaps it’s best to illustrate with an anecdote from around that time.

I was cooking dinner and accidentally touched my wrist to the broiler in the oven. It burned. Immediately on autopilot, I went to the sink and ran it under cool water. And my only thought was, Please, God, please don’t let him notice that the water’s been running a long time.

It took a lot of time and more courage that I thought I had — but I got out. The only permanent scar is the brown line on my wrist.

On July 11th in 2013, I was in Istanbul. It was my second trip to the city but first trip during the summer (not to mention Ramadan), and it was like visiting a completely different city. I took a ferry to the Asian side for the first time, eating my way through Kadikoy and going to a real hammam with no tourists in sight. I wandered the colorful streets of Armenian Kumkapi. I gorged myself on iftar dinner specials, eating just before sunset to avoid the crowds.

The good: Things felt right. I had been nervous about spending so much time in Europe, but now that I was in Istanbul, it would be time for a lot of cheaper travel. And no more worries about spending too much time in the UK.

The bad: I worried a lot about money. My work was tenuous, and at one point I was owed $9,000 by various companies that didn’t pay on schedule. In the following weeks, I went through one of the toughest work periods of my life — trying to copy-edit a doctoral thesis into British English (!!) in 100-degree Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria, a town where I could have internet access or air conditioning, but not both. I chose internet, frantically Googling British spellings while mopping down my face with a towel.

Why had I taken on work like this? Self-employment was feast or famine. I had to take every job I could, when I could, because if I didn’t, I could end up broke. Especially with such a long and complicated trip ahead.

Looking back, I have no clue how I survived before having regular income streams.

On July 11th in 2012, I was in the middle of one of the longest, craziest journeys of my life, from Munich to New York. I had recently done the math and realized that I was about to exceed my permitted six months in the UK over the course of the year. A stern immigration experience after coming back from the Faroe Islands only exacerbated that. So I had to get out after my trip to Munich — but the only place where I could really afford to be was at home in the US.

At the time, the travel concierge site FlightFox had launched and I had a coupon to try them out for free. I had to fly home to my parents in Boston or my sister in New York, so I gave them those options and someone came up with a hellish but very cheap journey: I would have to stay up all night in Munich then get a very early flight to Lisbon, a layover for a few hours, a flight to Toronto, another layover of several hours, then an overnight bus to New York.

My sister had just moved to Hamilton Heights, and I brought her some packaged pasteis de nata from Lisbon Airport. Three and a half years later, I would be living just four blocks away.

The good: I learned one of my favorite travel hacks ever — act crazy and nobody will want to be around you. I spent my spare hour in Toronto wandering around Kensington Market and grabbed a banh mi on my way back. After getting onto the bus, not having slept for 48 hours and praying nobody would sit next to me, it hit me — why was I trying to eat my sandwich neatly? I should have done the opposite!

I hiked up my shirt and stuck my belly out, curving my back like a hunchback. I loudly munched my banh mi and scattered crumbs all over the place. I made my eyes extra big and laughed randomly.

The result? The bus was almost full, but nobody sat next to me. I lay down across my two seats like a cockroach, knees and elbows in the air, and I actually got several hours of sleep.

The bad: I was tough, but that was an awful journey. Staying up all night long followed by traveling all day followed by an overnight bus. An extra-long day due to the time change, plus the extremely long public transportation journey from the airport to downtown Toronto. And to think that I could have done a simple eight-hour direct flight from Munich to New York. Or even a reasonable flight via Dublin or Reykjavik.

And I hated having British immigration constantly hanging over my head. I needed to find a solution, and short of getting married, I wasn’t sure a solution existed.

On July 11th in 2011, I was at home in Massachusetts and plotting my next steps. After my six-month trip to Southeast Asia, I had always envisioned going to Korea and teaching English for a year. Korea is probably the easiest country in which to save a lot of money while teaching.

Things had changed, though. I was making money through my blog. I had an English boyfriend. And on that day in July, anglophilia reigned supreme. I posted about the royal wedding celebrations I attended in England (everyone there had the day off) and the Beckhams had just revealed that they named their baby girl Harper.

I was flabbergasted. The Beckhams gave their older kids names after where they were conceived (Brooklyn in New York, Romeo in Milan, Cruz in Madrid), and I had sworn up and down that their L.A. baby was going to be little Beverly Beckham.

In the coming days, I would decide to head back to Europe, crash with my boyfriend in England for a bit, and head to Austria for the TBU conference. I had no idea what would happen after that — but that decision changed everything.

The good: A few months at home was exactly the rest I needed. Those months in Southeast Asia were among the craziest of my life. I needed time to regroup and feel normal again, especially since I was dealing with recurring stress related to the shipwreck. I also got to indulge in perks from blogging, like a free movie tour in Boston, where I got to bring my friend Lisa along (pictured above at the Good Will Hunting bar).

The bad: I didn’t know if I could sustain it financially. I was winging it. In fact, I would continue to wing it for the next few years. I made a lot of bad decisions around that time, including paying for an expensive flight in order to go to a comped retreat, but at least that taught me what not to do in the future.

In July 2010, I was in hardcore work-and-save-so-you-can-get-out mode. I had already decided I was going to quit the job I hated and backpack Southeast Asia for several months. My tickets had already been purchased — I would fly to Bangkok in late October and come back in May. Nobody at work had a clue. And I had to save up as much money as humanly possible and thus cut myself off from virtually everything.

It wasn’t a completely ascetic summer, though. I spent time hanging out with friends, including a memorable day trip to Maine to eat my favorite seafood chowder and butter-soaked hot lobster roll at the Maine Diner.

The good: I was putting away insane amounts of money each month — and I was the skinniest I have ever been as an adult. The only problem was that I got there by virtually starving myself. I think the lowest I got was around 115 pounds, which for me was both scary-skinny and unsustainable, but I ended up maintaining at around 120-122 or so.

The bad: I was losing my mind. I would wake up at 6 in my downtown Boston apartment, take the subway and two buses to work in the suburbs, spend nine hours at a job I hated, come home, eat a 200-calorie Trader Joe’s eggplant parm, watch an episode of Family Guy, and then work hard on my blog and freelance work until 2:00 AM. I was a wreck and spent my weekends catching up on sleep. I could manage that for a few months at 25 but I know I couldn’t at 32.

The Lessons

It’s so easy to look back and think about the “good old days,” that things always used to be better in the past — but we know that isn’t true. Looking back at these past years, it’s clear that I was always dealing with difficulties even when times were otherwise good.

If I were happy in my life, I’d be struggling financially. Once the money started coming in, my personal life would take a nosedive. And if something in my life started going far better than usual, it was a guarantee that something would go far worse!

If I could talk to my past selves, this is what I would say:

To 2016 Kate: I hate to say it, but in 2017 you’ll still be getting surprised by checks from companies who swore they would pay you by direct deposit. It will be much better once you get a PO Box, though.

To 2015 Kate: Your inertia will soon end. You were wise to recognize it for what it was. I’m glad you enjoyed that trip and even more glad it was your last hurrah of nomadic life.

To 2014 Kate: It’s almost over. You’re about to find out how many people love you, respect you, and will fight for you. You’ll cry when friends you haven’t spoken to for years will tell you that they were praying for you.

To 2013 Kate: Trust me, you’re not going to have to take on projects like that in the future. Just one year until you crack passive income and say sayonara to crappy freelance work.

To 2012 Kate: Don’t worry, you’re never going to have to do a journey like that again because you can’t afford a normal flight.

To 2011 Kate: A lot of people thought you had balls to quit your job to travel the world, but I think this was far more ballsy — barely making enough money to live but deciding to go for it anyway. You made a good choice, and it will get easier, I promise.

To 2010 Kate: Your hard work is going to be worth it. But you already know that. Oh, and it will take you a long time to lose the weight again, but you will, and next time you will do it in a much healthier way.

So where am I now?

My July 11, 2017, was both ordinary and representative of where I am now.

It was a day for Harlem. I dove into a package filled with delicious goods made by Harlem entrepreneurs. I dropped by The Monkey Cup, one of my favorite local coffeeshops, and celebrated their second birthday. I chatted with my neighbors, some of whom have lived on my street for 30 years. I laughed at the sight of a newly thrown out Christmas tree (IN JULY!), so brown and dry it was almost red.

It was a day for work. I planned out my upcoming trip to the Florida Keys, answered a million emails, researched travel plans for the fall, shared a picture of Père Lachaise on Instagram to my just-hit-100k following, and dropped by the New York office of an agency I worked with recently.

It was a day for fashion. I got a peach-and-white-striped romper from my stylist at Trunk Club, literally the first romper I have ever worn since I was a kid, and decided to keep it and wear it that day. And hilariously, a lady on the street in Brooklyn called out, “Hey, you don’t have to strip down in the bathroom!” to me and handed me a card advertising a romper on it that lets you pee without having to take the whole thing off!

It was a day for nostalgia. I got lunch at Panera. Which will always remind me of high school. And if I’m not getting a Greek salad, I’m getting the watermelon feta salad, which they only have during the summer.

It was a day for friends and fun. I met up with a friend I hadn’t seen since college graduation, who himself became a backpacker and traveled the world for a few years. We got oysters and drinks in Brooklyn Heights, then played bocce — my first time ever.

And no, it wasn’t all good. Summer 2017 may have been one of the best work periods of my life, but I was also dealing with a nasty issue behind the scenes on the 11th — the single most malicious attack my site has ever received. An attack that baffled several different tech professionals for weeks and hurt my income. Thankfully, it has since been cleared up.

But that just goes to show that it’s never all good — ever. The important thing is that I’m staying content even when parts of my life aren’t going well. Looking at the past seven July Elevenths, I can see that I’ve grown, I’ve learned, and I’m applying the lessons I’ve learned over the years.

And I realize just how much I have yet to learn. Who knows where I’ll be on July 11, 2018? 2019? 2030? I have no clue, but I know I’ll be okay.

What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned over the years?

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