#james has a separate compartment designated for people he is close to in his room if you couldn't tell

[davidastbury]

There is only one age - and that is young. Somehow we have a concept of ‘growing up’ but it is a delusion, as fragile as burnt sheets of paper lifted from the ashes, as hard to sustain as sweeping fallen leaves on a windy day, as unsatisfactory as the hard stare in the bathroom mirror.

Eventually it falls apart - the struggle begins to ease and your own youth greets you like a loved friend; the person you rejected; the one who embarrassed you; the one you thought you didn’t need.

And from now onwards you will never be anything other than your authentic personality, and along with all the other miracles you may even look kindly at the years of separation.

The Healing Words ... 1965

Lorna once told me that Ian had saved her life. It was difficult imagining Ian as a hero in any shape or form, and she must have seen how puzzled I looked. We were alone, sitting in the back-room of the bookshop, where we took our coffee breaks, and for some reason or other she wanted me to share her thoughts.

Nearly all the staff were young, most still living at home, and naturally talk during the breaks touched on family chat. Frank’s dad was an MP and he had stories of trips abroad - others had memories to share; memories of holidays, cars, pets, hilarious mistakes and so on. There was a lot of laughter and any stranger looking in on this, would have concluded that we were a nice bunch of young people.

But Lorna did not join in; she sat silent and sometimes looked up at the clock and walked out. I could only guess that the family chat gnawed at a private pain - that she couldn’t bear hearing it.

Ian must have picked up on this too, because on that one occasion when alone with Lorna - when for no reason she told me that he had saved her life - when she told me, with her eyes as wide as a child’s, that things at home were bad and that Ian had saved her with a few astonishing, healing words ...

‘Lorna, please believe me - believe this if you never again believe anything I say - there is no such thing as a happy family.’

Why struggle with the heavy dough of Dickens - or the worthy seeded bread of George Elliot? Why munch through the bland oven-bottoms of Trollope - when you can have MY offerings?

I am the Ryvita of modern literature. Crunch my croutons and snap my crackers. Enjoy my oaties and crispbreads - my delicious shortcakes and scones, my hobnobs and ends, my pink wafers!

Ever ready and smiling; my only pleasure is in luring you away from stodge into the pure air of cadence and ambiguity - longings, broken gates, broken hearts - Madeleines and memory.

The Train

This is where he used to stand everyday waiting for the train. The spot was carefully chosen; he had taken note of how the drivers slowed down and pulled up; he would be nearest to the doors - the first one aboard.

Young people wait for their trains - they are impatient for its arrival - they are eager to get away - to be carried into their futures,

He liked the window seats facing the engine. He liked the sensation of going forward into the future - dictating his demands - not being pulled backwards, as if a helpless passenger.

Roughly halfway on the journey the train would go through a long tunnel. The windows turned black and the everyone looked shabby and haggard in the weak lighting. They stared at each other, wishing for the sunlight to return - as if waiting for depression to end.

For him, blinking in the new brightness, there was something to anticipate - the next stop - ‘she’ would appear! Sometimes she got into his compartment and sometimes she didn’t. They never spoke; she hardly looked at him, but he could still see her even when he looked away.

And after that the train doesn’t stop again ... just the relentless rushing uncertainty ... taking him towards his future.

The designer Judith Leiber died recently at the age of 97. She was a Holocaust survivor who somehow got through the horror and, starting a new life in the U.S. became famous as a handbag manufacturer - her designs were unique, every First Lady from Mamie Eisenhower to Laura Bush carried a Leiber bag at the inauguration ceremonies.

She married Gerson Leiber, the artist, in 1946. They did not have children.

They died hours apart. The day before she passed away he whispered to her - ‘Sweetheart, it’s time to leave.’

A Photograph

A friend had once taken several photographs of her in the local park. They were both nineteen. She doesn’t remember much about that day, except that it was very cold and the light was fading. It was a long time ago.

Only one picture has survived the upheavals of house-clearances, flat moves etc, and to her, it wasn’t one of the best. But looking at the photograph now, from such a distance in time, it all feels different and she experiences a rush of tenderness for the girl - the girl she once was. She stares at the picture and feels an ache flood through her. How could she have failed to see this before - not been affected by the luminous whiteness of the winter-pale skin, the trusting eyes, the expression of curiosity and kindness.

It breaks her heart to see this innocent girl, standing on the grass, surrounded by sharp, leafless branches, and dark opaque bushes.

At Such A Distance

Two metres - is that okay? A hundred metres - two hundred metres - still see me? How about fifty years - still see me?

And keep in mind, when you are close to someone, really close, you cannot see them clearly, but when apart you cannot see anything else.

Gus Barker was a relative of Henry James - part of a group of talented young people, cousins and friends - who had grown up together and as young adults, spent their summers as guests at the Temple’s house in New Hampshire. Among them was Henry’s brother William, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Gray, the three Temple sisters and others. They all had the glow and sweetness that great wealth and privilege bestows, and the self- confidence that they would cut deep and satisfying grooves for themselves through life.

Like the others, Gus Barker would have achieved distinction - he would have equalled the others - novelists, judges, psychologists - but he rushed to take part in the American Civil War. He was wounded and discharged; healed quickly and, against advice, insisted on returning to his regiment. Very soon afterwards the news reached Albany that Gus had been killed by a sniper at the Rappahannock River in Virginia; he had just turned twenty.

One Of Those Stories

We all carry so many improbable stories in our minds! The ones that are so deeply improbable that you eventually begin to doubt ever happened. They aren’t polished by retelling and sharing - they are kept shut away - untold, unmentioned, even embarrassing. They may be trivial but their oddity gives them an aura of importance - an unmerited depth and significance.

This little anecdote fits the bill.

Department store - he’s complaining about the long delay in delivering furniture he has ordered. Only one item has arrived - and it wasn’t what he’d ordered - it had to be collected. So he was complaining.

Complaining wasn’t easy for him; he actually felt sorry for the young man having to listen - how he tilted his head in sympathy; widened his eyes at the right moments and so on. He produced receipts and delivery notes - and the collection note for the unwanted item - and explained about the colour change that had been offered and agreed upon. It was a long story and the very telling began to affect him - it was as if he was lapsing into a childhood mode; he started to speak too quickly, stumbling over his words, becoming breathless. Like a child, he felt that the story needed emphasis, as it would crumble and become hopelessly undermined if he slowed down, as if the facts would melt away and he wouldn’t be believed.

The sales assistant interrupted him and politely asked him to wait a moment - he would get the manager. A few minutes later she appeared - just as he was arranging the documents in the correct sequence. They were introduced and he started again to explain the situation. Then - there was a sharp movement - as if his vision had changed without moving his head; as if about to faint - and then the soft blur of her grey eyes as she leaned forward and kissed him.

Kaş

Kaş is a little town on Turkey’s Mediterranean coast - the beautiful ‘Turquoise Coast’. The Romans loitered there for a while and then left leaving an assortment of tombs, fallen arches, sturdy roads and the like. Being an archeological philistine - ‘one pile of rocks is much the same as any other’ - I gave my attention to other attractions.

I used to visit a seafront cafe nearly every day. Looked at from the outside it would remind you of France; a sprawl of chairs and small iron tables spilling over the pavement; a frayed awning flapping; free standing tin frames advertising ices; a menu board with illegible chalked scrawl; a festoon of light bulbs on a sagging wire. The waiters wore black waistcoats and white aprons, completing the illusion of - ‘la belle France’.

The proprietor was a tiny, bird-like old man. He wore a loose fitting suit and tie - I have a picture of him somewhere - very neat and well groomed, with the grandeur and dignity you often find in the truly ancient. But he wasn’t the boss any more - that was in the hands of his two sons (or sons-in-law, or whatever). These were bulky, badly shaved men, scowling through their jowly middle age. The old man wasn’t giving up easily, he continued to behave as if he was still in charge. It was amusing to watch the two sons go along with this - kidding the old man and pretending to hear his occasional rants. It was easy to see that they were related by the insults they fired at each other. I tried to understand if the old man knew that they found him a bit of a joke - and if he actually knew, wouldn’t playing along to their deception be the finest satisfaction?

And then, early afternoon, a group of boys arrived - one of them was clearly family - he had the same wiry shape as his grandfather - I remember how his school blazer was too long in the sleeves and how he and his gang of pals took over a corner of the terrace and a waiter brought them tray-loads of ice creams.

[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

NEXT

#fandom: sherlock #ship: john/sholto

[katiezstorey93]

PNC, BNY Mellon projects among those honored by architects society

Nearby designers employed lighting windows and space to perform once they created BNY Mellon’s Development focus on Street called Large Field, and Industry Square Homes, whose buildings may support 16 overnight people to Frank Fallingwater.

Honorees along with the styles were introduced Friday evening throughout the yearly gala for the National Company of Designers, kept in the May Wilson Heart for American Culture’s nearby section. Three designers from Minneapolis find the champions and examined 86 records.

An honor was, obtained by the Structure at Plaza, created by the structure firm Gensler for quality in ecological style. 

The Prize, chosen through in-person online voting and, visited Wildman Chalmers Style, which oversaw BNY Development Center’s development on BNY-Mellon Center’s floor. The 32,000- square foot space certainly will support as much as 350 workers and  has an open-floor strategy. 

Managing director of BNY customer engineering options technique group, Bencho, stated the target was to produce room where seniors and millenials might collaborate.

Won’t that is “You discover any workplaces about the development ground. One another can be seen by individuals. There’s no requirement of solitude that was visible , Bencho stated.

Builder Chad Chalmers stated food may be the prominent aesthetic. The Development Centre provides restaurant room having an espresso stop a home along with a region where workers may enjoy with bocce or ping pong. For those who prefer relax and to stay, you will find Adirondack chairs along with a comfy banquette filled with cushions that are  decorative. Many glass-closed compartments permit individual telephone calls to be made by workers.

Such features, Ms. Bencho stated, “are exactly what the millenials wish to observe once they are selecting at Bing, Apple and Facebook.”

One aspect of the building offers workers close up sights of the “chapels” atop the Marriage Trust-Building.

Every chair within the room includes a watch to some screen. Your eyes can relax totally by searching exterior , Chalmers stated.

Within the historical maintenance class, Margittai Designers obtained an honor of quality for that act restoration of the red brick building that houses 2112 E, an alcohol distributor Brews on Carson. Southside, Carson St.. The customer was John Nickman, who possesses building and the company Wayne, together with his buddy. 

Margittai created three townhouses On the Residences, a factory built-in 1847 at Industry Road Downtown, and Avenue. Its style is spectacular even though task didn’t get an honor within the structure class. Every townhouse has a personal lift,000 square-feet of living area, a storage along with 3. Two of the townhomes are entertained.

Among the homeowners, who transferred in Oct that was last but favored to stay unknown, stated he’s an eight-second stroll to his workplace. The roof terrace is loved by him.

“The room that I’ve on that terrace is simply amazing. You take a look at PPG, which in my experience is among the many stunning structures in the united states should you look-back. Within the summertime, the feature is seen by me. Within the winter, the snow skaters.”

Custom Peter Margittai stated the stairway mounted in another of the townhomes consists of steel glass and timber. “We established it-up so the clerestory windows can get complete lighting all day long long.”

High Meadow created by Bohlin Cywinski Jackson and was completed in July. The task obtained a certification of value. A tested were utilized by the designers -in- porch – farmhouse contributed having a fresh framework constructed on piers that homes separate sleeping groups towards the Pennsylvania Conservancy along with a neighborhood space. Executive manager of Fallingwater, Waggoner, stated the areas are utilized for university students and senior school and students.

Recently Waggoner stated, arts teachers collected at Large Field to go over nationwide style requirements for U.S. colleges. In Sept, Parks Support workers, designers and teachers fulfilled at Large Field to look at a Global History nomination that addresses eight other Wright structures within the Usa and Fallingwater. The target would be to have these structures outlined as Heritage sites.

2016 People’s Choice Prize

BNY-Mellon Development Heart

Company: Wildman Chalmers Style, LLC

Style group: Chad Chalmers, Heather Wildman, Elizabeth Usnick, Donald Bostak, Natalie Sippel

Small Designers Facility Opposition: Honor of Quality

Style + Development: Award of Quality

NavADAPT LABORATORY for MOTION-Property Inc.

Company: Urban Design Develop Business

Style group: John Folan, Garrett Rauck, Rachel Sung, Alexa Roberts, Naomie Laguerre, Candace Ju, William Aldrich, Samuel Evening, Daniel Gomez-Latorre, Brian Bollens, Pyry Matikainen, Ruben Markowitz, Hetian Cao, Che-Yuan Liang, Yu Mao, Amit Nambiar, Christine Shen, Laura Sullivan, Qiaozhi Wang

Quality in Sustainable Design: Award of Quality

Style group: Lisa Adkins, Joe Chisholm, Jeffrey Prepare, Ian Doherty, Laura Duenas, Douglas Gensler, Anna Goszcynksa, Troy Grichuk, Marcus Hamblin, Philip Kaefer, Hao Ko

Historic Preservation: two Awards of Quality

Company: Margittai Designers

Custom: Peter Margittai

21c Memorial Hotel Lexington (Ky)

Company: Perfido Weiskopf Wagstaff + Goettel

Style group: Alan Weiskopf, Anthony Pitassi, Brent Houck, Joshua Frick, January Irvin

Local + Urban Style: two Certificates of Value

The Breakthrough of Bay 4 for Ft Willow Builders

Company: Rothschild Doyno Collaborative

Style group: Daniel Rothschild, Kevin Kunak, Paul Gwin, Drew Mosher, John Tuñón, Daniel Tse, Cari Anderson, Ellie Rullo

Center Avenue Corridor Redevelopment & Style arrange for Slope Neighborhood Development Corp.

Company: develop atmosphere:: structure

Style group: Christine Mondor, Anna Rosenblum, Bob Guignon, Ashley Cox

Interior Structure: Honor Honor

Building 37 For Less Than Armour

Company: Bohlin Cywinski Jackson

Design Team D. Robert T, Maiese. Aumer Jr., Joe Grauman, Andrew Moroz, Monica Barton, Wolfram Arendt, Drew Balzer, Nora Pursuit, Lauren Powers, Matthew Huber, John Phung, Thomas Breslin

Structure: two Honor Prizes

Carnegie Collection of Pittsburgh, Knoxville Department

Design Group: Anne Chen, Amanda Markovic, Julian Sandoval

Style group: Lisa Adkins, Joe Chisholm, Jeffrey Prepare, Ian Doherty, Laura Duenas, Douglas Gensler, Anna Goszcynksa, Troy Grichuk, Marcus Hamblin, Philip Kaefer, Hao Ko

Structure: three Certificates of Value

High Field at Fallingwater for American Pennsylvania Conservancy

Company: Bohlin Cywinski Jackson

Style group: Chris Q. Bohlin, William James, London Suhrbier

Floriated Meaning Room

Company: Urban Design Develop Business

Style group: John Folan, Alise Kuwahara Evening, T Bill Gott, 

Forbes Hospital Elevator Structure and Crisis Office Inclusion for Allegheny Health Community

Style group: Roger Hartung, Jonathan Lusin, Daniel Dillow, Katelyn Rossier, Robert Bailey, Samara Wheaton, Frederick Obritz, Adam Warner, Jeffrey Mataya, Daniel Gowin, Megan Gallina

Wayne Kling Fellowship Prize: distributed by AIA Pittsburgh and Grasp Builders’ Affiliation to identify cooperation between your style and constructor occupations.

Pitz: mpitz article that is @ – 412-263-1648 gazette.com or on Facebook: @mpitzpg. 

from network 8 http://www.nsorchidsociety.com/pnc-bny-mellon-projects-among-those-honored-by-architects-society/