Archive of Our Own

It is a bank holiday weekend, and although it is well into March, the weather on the Welsh border is bitterly cold. The valleys are green with spring, but the snow from the weekend before still clings to the peaks in a blanket of white, punctuated by the occasional crop of gorse or heather pushing its head out through the otherwise-smooth drifts of thick snow.

There are, despite the weather, several families out walking the Long Mynd. Most stick to the well-worn footpath that weaves up the centre of Carding Mill valley, content to follow the safest route to the summit, though many never get that far. However, halfway up the side of a lesser, parallel valley, three figures are wrestling their way up the unmarked slope, struggling through deep drifts of unmelted snow.

“Whose idea was this?” The first man calls over his shoulder to his companion. He is short in stature, but stocky and broad-shouldered. His thinning hair may have once been a dirty blonde, but now parts of it are fading to grey. His face too, soft and slightly rotund, is creased with age, though his eyes still sparkle with a love for life and adventure. Despite his telling appearance, he strides forwards with long, strong steps, still fit and well used to physical exertion.

“Emma did!” Calls back the other man, bringing up the rear. He is taller and slightly thinner in stature, with deep brown eyes set in a serious face, framed by a thicker crop of silvery-grey hair. The first man laughs.

“So why did we agree to it?” He calls back, and the third figure, a small girl of about eight years of age, walking between the two adults, replies.

“Because you’re a soft touch!” she says, and both men laugh, remembering that someone else had said exactly that to them both that very morning.

“Yes, we both are. Isn’t that terrible?”

“No!” she protests. “I like being spoilt!”

The blonde man has stopped to wait for the other two to catch him up. Emma, the girl, is jumping from point to point, having to leap to fit her feet into the holes the leading man has left behind him in the snow. Now the three of them stand together, cold and wet and dripping from their struggle through the relentless snowdrifts, some of which had been almost two feet deep.

“Can I lead now?” Emma is asking, bobbing up and down on the spot, her eyes bright with excitement. The blonder man sighs, resigned.

“Alright, sweetheart, but take it steady and mind where you put your feet.”

“Yes, dad!” She is off before he is finished, running ahead, ploughing through the snow like a small torpedo.

“Stay within sight!” he calls after her, but she is either already out of earshot or choosing to ignore him. He sighs. “That girl has way too much of an attitude for her age.” He says, but it is with fond amusement.

“And whose fault is that?” His companion is grinning, watching as Emma, in an oversized yellow raincoat and horrifically clashing pink wellingtons, dashes up the hillside. The smaller man sighs.

“I know, I know, he’s a bad influence, but he’s also my best friend, and surprisingly good at keeping her occupied.”

“Is that really a good thing? You know what he’s like!”

“Emma’s mellowed him. I think it’s the screaming that does it. Or maybe the sulking, or the manipulation, or the teasing, or maybe even the whining.” The second man laughs, and the first one smirks. “Honestly, she’s the only person I know who’s worse than him!”

The silver-haired man opens his mouth to reply, but never quite gets there, his voice cut off by a high-pitched squeal. Both men are instantly running, boots scrabbling over rocks, ice and clumps of grass. It is lucky that they have neared the footpath that runs across the top of the hill, because even as they reach Emma, somebody is helping her to her feet and is gently brushing the snow off her jacket.

“Oh, Emma, what did I say about being careful?” The blonder man scolds, kneeling next to her and pulling her into a hug. He mouths a ‘thank you’ over her head to the stranger, who smiles and steps back out of their way. The grey-haired man, panting slightly, offers the man his gratitude.

“We should keep a closer eye on her,” he says, apologetically, “but she hates it when we fuss, and she’s as stubborn as anything when she sets her mind to it.” The stranger nods, smiling.

“It’s quite alright. I know what they can be like; I’ve got a son.” He offers his hand, which the man takes, and they shake. “I’m Quentin, by the way.”

“Greg,” says the silver-haired man. “Pleased to meet you.” He carefully takes in the stranger’s appearance. Quentin has a mop of unruly dark brown curls, some of which are flopping down over his forehead in an untidy fringe. His cheekbones are unusually high, and his lips are shaped, pulled into an odd sort of smile that results in the corners of his mouth being turned down, but with a slight tilt to the left side of his face and happy, half-closed eyelids. He can’t see what colour the man’s eyes are, because his glasses reflect the glare of the sun too brightly, but he can tell the thick, half-rimmed spectacles are more for practical use than fashion. He is wearing a suit though, which surprises Greg, and even though the too-big dark green Mackintosh coat slung over his shoulders mostly hides it, it still makes the man look incredibly geeky. Strange that he is wearing so little – it is very cold up here, and yet Quentin doesn’t seem to be affected.

“And you,” he replies. “I hope your daughter is alright.” His voice is medium in pitch, quite quiet as he speaks, and pleasantly calm, as if he knows that he is in perfect control of the situation, which Greg finds oddly reassuring, despite him being so young. Looking again, he realises that Quentin’s appearance is carefully engineered for exactly that purpose; to make him look very, very young. He is not, as he first assumed, in his mid-twenties, but probably almost a decade older, in his early thirties. It is intriguing; Greg suspects that whatever Quentin works as, it is useful for people to underestimate him.  He wonders what job could possibly warrant that kind of qualification, especially enough for it to extend all the way to taking a walk at a popular tourist destination during a holiday season. There is definitely something oddly compelling about the man; he looks familiar in some way, though Greg can’t quite place why.

“Oh, she’s not my daughter,” he says, pushing his police instincts behind him. He is retired now, after all. “I’m more of an Uncle, just a family friend. John’s her father. He’ll take good care of her; he’s a doctor.”

Quentin doesn’t seem embarrassed by his mistake, but is apologising politely anyway, when they are disrupted by the sudden arrival of a small blue whirlwind with dark curly hair, who latches himself onto Quentin’s leg and stares up at Greg unashamedly with wide, ice blue eyes rimmed with black. He is a striking little boy, as pale and thin as Quentin, and probably about the same age as Emma, he estimates.

“Oh, Greg, this is my son Hamish,” Quentin says. Greg bends down and offers his hand to the little boy, who takes it and shakes, solemnly.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” says Greg. Hamish just nods once, warily, and then loses his nerve and goes back to hiding behind Quentin’s skinny legs.

Emma has stopped crying, and is just sniffling softly as John lifts her up to rest on his hip, but she still buries her face into the wool of his jumper under his coat to hide her eyes, swollen and red from crying. John makes sure she is relatively comfortable before turning to Quentin.

“Thanks for that,” he says. “It was my fault really; I shouldn’t let her run off so much,” he berates himself, still half-apologetic.  Quentin shakes his head, smiling that funny lip-quirk of his that folds his eyes into half-moons.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s good for kids to have a little freedom. I’m forever losing track of Hamish at home, I have to send James out to find him.” He admits, smiling.

Greg’s confused. “James?” he asks, as politely as he can, trying not to sound suspicious.

“My partner,” says Quentin, by way of an explanation.

“Hello.” A soft, deep voice comes from behind them, a little gruff, and sounding mildly amused. Greg and John both jump, startled, and Quentin chuckles.

“James! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he scolds, more amused than anything. “We’ve talked about this.” The blonde man just shrugs, sullen expression set firmly in place. Only Quentin notices the slight crinkle around the eyes that suggests that James isn’t feeling as grumpy as he is acting.

James is well-built, heavily muscled, with broad, flat shoulders and a rough-cut face, made to look all the more domineering by the frown-lines across his forehead. He is tanned, as if he spends a lot of time abroad (one thing he’s picked up from Sherlock – tan lines are very telling), and the stubble on his chin seems to be his personal rebelling against the smart white shirt he is wearing, top button undone, and tie loosed. He is a little sweaty around his neck and breathing more deeply than usual, which seems to say that he has been doing some pretty intense exercise. Possibly he was a distance from Quentin when Emma fell - which would explain why neither Greg nor John saw him - and ran across to them from wherever he was at the time. What it doesn’t explain is why he felt the need to run in the first place. Did he think Quentin was in some kind of danger?

“So,” begins John, conversationally, carefully bridging the gap in their casual chatting before it can become awkward. “Are you three on holiday together then?” James gives a little huff of breath and an eye-roll only Quentin sees, which quite clearly indicates that James is not feeling inclined to be sociable. Quentin glares at him, and answers John’s question politely.

“Yes, they’ve given me two weeks off work, and James is on leave too. My company are paying for the break.”

“Because you collapsed at your desk after working 78 hours straight without a square meal.” James grunts. Quentin doesn’t even look the slightest bit abashed by this revelation, and just twitches his lip slightly in response.

“A well-deserved holiday then,” Greg observes, and Quentin nods.

“What about you?” he asks. “Taking Easter off?”

Greg grins. “Nah, better than that. Retired.” Quentin looks surprised.

“Early?” he asks, and Greg smiles, gratified.

“Yes! Thanks for noticing.” He shrugs. “Used to live in London, but now that we’ve stopped working my partner and I are living in his family home, over near Caer Caradoc. John brought Emma down to stay for the holidays.”

“Do you live in London then, John?” Quentin asks.

“Yes. Baker Street, actually.” He smiles, and Quentin nods.

“Nice spot. We’re in London too, actually. Got a flat near Bessborough Gardens, in Vauxhall.” John and Greg both know the place. It is a nice area, mostly, if busy. But, after all, isn’t all of London?

“Oh, isn’t the Lithuanian Embassy down there?” asks Greg, and Quentin starts.  

“You know the area well,” he says, but Greg shakes his head.

“Nah. We um… we had a case down near there once,” he explains. Quentin just looks even more confused.

“A case? What do you… oh! You’re a detective!” Greg shakes his head.

 “Was a detective,” he amends, sadly. John nods.

“New Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“Oh, come off it.” Greg gives him a friendly nudge. “You’re the famous one.”

John laughs and nudges him back. “Not me. I just tag along and blog about it afterwards.” He can see the cogs whirring in Quentin’s brain as he puts together all the pieces of the puzzle. His name is John, he is a doctor, he is famous for his blogging, and he lives in Baker Street… any second now. 3… 2… 1…

“You’re John Watson!” Quentin exclaims, his eyes suddenly wide, and John sighs. Quentin’s immediately bashful. “Sorry, you must get that a lot.”

“I’m used to it, although I was hoping, being on holiday and all, that I could just be a normal bloke for a bit.” Greg snorts, and John gives him a rueful grin.

“Sorry, it must get pretty frustrating.”

“It’s fine, honestly. I’d rather you remembered my name, rather than just as the one who follows Sherlock Holmes around.”

Greg grins again. “If only they knew.” John rolls his eyes.

“Will you stop that? It’s not doing anything for my case here.”

Quentin is giving them a puzzled look, and so John explains, quoting his friend.

“You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as the conductor of light you are unbeatable.”

“Some people who aren’t geniuses themselves have the amazing ability to stimulate it in others,” quotes Greg, remembering what he had overheard Sherlock telling John just before discovering him at Baskerville. James raises an eyebrow.

“How flattering,” he says. John shakes his head, smiling.

“That’s a massive compliment from him.”

“Doesn’t get any better than that,” Greg agrees. Quentin frowns.

“You know, I had heard that he was a little short with people sometimes,” he says, and John can’t help but snort.

“Understatement of the century. He’s a self-proclaimed sociopath, actually.” Quentin looks doubtful, but before he can say anything, John continues. “Don’t believe a word of it, myself.”

Hamish interrupts them before Quentin gets to ask the question that is niggling at the back of his mind; what is it if not sociopathic tendencies? Not something John is willing to discuss with a stranger apparently. Not that Quentin is blaming him; the last twenty or so years of his life spent with Sherlock have consisted largely of trying to keep out of the eye of the media, so he is used to being guarded when talking about the detective; it has become common practice.

“Daddy, daddy, I’m bored, can we go now?” Hamish whines, pulling on his trousers, and Quentin leans down to ruffle his son’s shock of black frizz.

“Hamish, what have I said about interrupting me when I’m talking?” At least he’s not trying to guide James through a mission this time, though. “It’s not polite.” He remembers quite clearly that last time he had said ‘It’s dangerous’, and Hamish had picked up on the slip, his eyes widening in realisation. Not for the first time, he wishes that Hamish wasn’t so damn clever all the time. He is only eight for goodness sake, and yet he remembers everything that has ever been said to him since round about his fourth birthday. John smiles, unaware of Quentin’s inner turmoil, and moves slightly, shifting Emma on his hip into a better position.

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” He says. “We should be getting going now anyway, we’d better get Emma home so she can warm up a bit.”

“Not cold!” whines Emma, disproving her point by putting her tiny fingers up John’s sleeve and making him jump at the sudden cold touch.

“Emma! Where are your gloves?” She shrugs, pouting, and John sighs.

“Again? That’s the third pair this week! What are we going to do with you?” Greg smirks, fondly.

“Well, we’d better let you go. Nice to meet you though,” he says, but Greg shakes his head, pulling his own gloves off and handing them to his friend’s daughter, who glowers at him, but takes them anyway, and flops them against John’s neck and shoulder whilst trying to pull them on.

“Hey, no need to say goodbye just yet. You’re going back down to Church Stretton, right?” Quentin smiles.

“Yes, actually. You’re going that way too?” John nods.

“Yeah, we’re meeting Greg’s partner in the coffee shop at the bottom.”

“Ah. Prefers to sit and drink tea than brave the hills?” Quentin teases. He starts to turn along the pathway, and John and Greg easily fall into step beside him. Greg laughs.

“That’s far more accurate than you could possibly imagine,” he says, and John nods in agreement.

Hamish, pleased to be moving and clearly bored of the adult conversation, lets go of Quentin’s hand and charges off along the path, arms flailing wildly. Quentin yells after him.

“Hamish! Don’t go too far!” But the little boy ignores him and continues to race along as fast as his little legs can carry him. Quentin sighs, resigned, like this is a regular occurrence, and turns to his partner, who is following the little group with his sullen expression still set firmly in place.

“James, do you mind?” he says.

James grins for the first time since they have met, and takes off after his son. Both John and Greg are surprised by how quickly he catches up with him, covering the distance easily in long, fast strides. All three men watch, walking in silence, as James catches his son from behind underneath his outstretched arms, swinging him round and round through the air. Even from a distance, they can hear Hamish squealing with delight. Quentin watches them fondly.

“Honestly, I don’t know who’s a bigger kid sometimes,” he says.

The other two men smile politely, charmed by the complete transformation of Quentin’s sullen partner when dealing with his son.

The three of them chat idly as they make their way along the path, Quentin keeping a watchful eye on James and Hamish, who are chasing each other in mad circles up ahead. They seem to be having some kind of competition, which Hamish keeps winning, despite James’ obvious physical prowess. John notices, thinking that he could easily beat his son, but chooses not to for the boy’s sake. It is touching.

Emma seems to be growing restless, bored of being carried. So he sets her down, and she is quite content to walk along between them, one hand in John’s and the other in Greg’s, demanding to be swung into the air. They are happy to oblige, lifting her by the arms when she reaches the high point of her step. Eventually though, their arms begin to ache, so she makes do with skipping instead. It is only a matter of minutes before she is flicking her wrists, and the too-big gloves fly off. When Greg picks them up for her, she bluntly refuses to put them on again, claiming that they are far too big for her. Greg attempts to argue, but Emma wins, to nobody’s great surprise.

“So, what made you choose to holiday here?” John asks. “If your company is paying for the break, why didn’t you go abroad?” Quentin shakes his head.

“I don’t fly. But James’ job takes him away quite a lot anyway, so he doesn’t mind being stuck in sunny old England for a little while.” John grins, acknowledging the universal joke about England’s lack of decent weather.

“What do you both work as then?” Greg asks, curious.

“I’m an IT technician, and James is a security guard,” Quentin says, expecting questions about James’ job description. He is surprised that John and Greg just accept the little white lie. It explains James’ attitude and appearance, and they live in a very nice area of London, so it makes sense that James’ job is high profile. If he goes abroad a lot, he must be pretty high up in the service. “I’ve got family down in this part of the country too, so we’re planning on dropping by to see them at some point.”

“Oh right? That’s nice,” John offers absent-mindedly, trying to distract Emma from pulling up the gorse.

“Yeah,” says Quentin, “I’m hoping so. We haven’t seen each other for a while. A decade, almost.” John looks up, surprised, while Greg distracts Emma.

“What made you want to see them again now, after such a long time?”

“Well, James. I don’t think they even know about him, and we’re planning to make it official, so… and they’ve not met Hamish yet, either.”

“What really? What relations are they? I mean, how close are you to have not had any kind of contact at all for such a long time?”

“Uh… my brothers.” Quentin shrugs. “We’ve never been the most conventional of families and… well, we’ve all been busy, I suppose. The time never seemed quite right. I figured I probably ought to tell them about my family sooner or later.”

“Oh, right. Where do they live?”

“I’m not sure. They’ve never told me.” John blinks, and tries to fit his head around that statement.

“They do know you’re coming, right?”

“Not exactly.” He’s not really paying attention to what is being said now, but is instead squinting out across the Mynd, searching for James and Hamish, who appear to have completely vanished.

“So you’re just going to turn up at your brother’s houses, after ten years of not speaking to them, and introduce them to your fiancé and a kid, who they didn’t even know existed?”

“Yes. I did say, we’re not exactly the most conventional of families.” Quentin frowns and shrugs a little, his shoulders hunched as he walks, surprised by John’s bluntness and worried by the disappearance of his family. Thankfully, Hamish appears out of nowhere, shrieking in excitement, and careers into Quentin, who gives a little ‘oof’ of surprise. James arrives almost right behind him, panting a little, his wide grin fading as he slows down.

“Where have you two been?” Quentin scolds, and Hamish, suppressing giggles, points at James.

“Papa was chasing me! He’s the big mean baddie, and I’m the hero, and I’ve got to run away, otherwise he’ll catch me and have me thrown into the snake pit, like in the Indiana Jones films!” He looks positively delighted at the prospect, and Quentin finds himself wondering if a) he has ever let Hamish watch those films, and b) if there ever were any snake pits in Indiana Jones. He can’t be sure of either, because he knows for certain he doesn’t own the DVD’s. He settles instead for giving James a stern look. James throws his hands up in the air, defensively.

“Hey, his idea, not mine.” Hamish nods furiously.

“Well, obviously it was my idea, it’s too brilliant to be anybody else’s. But Papa let me watch the films, Daddy, so you should definitely blame him for being a bad influence.” Quentin agrees, and tries to look severely at his partner, but ends up grinning when James lungs at his son, yelling;

“Come here, you little rascal!” Hamish squeals and giggles as James lifts him high into the air, swinging him around so that Hamish can cling to his shoulders, so he is giving him a piggyback.

“Go! Go! Go!” Hamish cries, and James is off again, his little boy clinging to him tightly as he is bumped around in all directions. John can’t help but smile.

“He’s good with Hamish, isn’t he?” he observes, making Quentin smile too.

“Yes. You wouldn’t expect it from him either; he’s normally so smooth and suave. He’s wonderful.” Neither John nor Greg miss the fondness in his expression. Even Emma picks up on it. She stares up at Quentin, obviously scanning him, before a slow grin starts to spread across her face. John knows what is coming next, and tries to stop her, but she is already pointing her finger at him and triumphantly proclaiming;

“You love him! You do! You do!”

John groans.

“Emma! What have we told you about deducing people?” She frowns at him and crosses her arms, defiantly, sticking out her bottom lip.

“Not fair! Uncle Sherlock does it all the time.”

Beside him, Greg mutters; “Definitely a bad influence.” John sighs.

“He’s a very naughty boy then, isn’t he?” he says, and Emma grins.

“That’s what Uncle Greg said to Uncle Mycroft last night!” she says, happily. Greg groans and blushes, putting his head in his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

John snickers at him.

“That’s disgusting!” he proclaims and Greg smirks.

“You think that’s disgusting? You really don’t want to hear what he called me then.”

“Ooh! I know, I know! He called you a… mmf…” She glares at Greg reproachfully, trying to bite at his fingers which he has clamped firmly over her mouth.

“We really do not want to hear that Emma, alright? That’s private information.” He lets her go, and her eyes light up.

“Is it a secret?” she asks, and Greg nods, hurriedly.

“Yes, it is, so don’t go telling everyone, alright?” She nods vigorously, and turns to Quentin.

“Is it a secret that you love James too? Because I won’t tell anyone if it is.” She suddenly looks worried. “You do, don’t you?”

He smiles reassuringly at her.

“Yes, I love him very much, and no, it’s not a secret.”

“Good,” says James, appearing suddenly at Quentin’s side, who laughs.

“You idiot,” says Quentin, and kisses him on the cheek. “Did you deliberately hide until I’d admitted it? I would have said it in front of you, you know.”

James grins, ignoring Hamish’s cries of ‘gross!’ and says;

“Love you too, Q.” Hamish squirms, and slaps at James’ head with his tiny hands.

“Stop being all squishy!” he says.

“Yes, do.” Quentin agrees. “People get embarrassed if you do it public.” James has set Hamish down and grins mischievously, leaning forward to whisper something in his partner’s ear which makes him blush and slap him gently.

“Not in public, James! Be off with you!” he cries, mock scandalised. Hamish voices his hearty agreement, so James backs down, outnumbered.

The six of them walk back down the valley together, happily chatting in turns about everything and nothing. The adults get along well, but James and the children are soon bored with the conversation. James gives Hamish runs until the little boy gets tired, and snuggles into the hood of James’ jacket. Emma runs off ahead, dashing back and forth with interesting icicles for her uncle to examine. Greg makes her stop when her fingers are blue with cold, and gives her his gloves and a piggyback the rest of the way.

By the time they reach the bottom, Hamish is fast asleep, his head draped over James’ shoulder. Emma is looking equally tired, her head lolling forward into Greg’s silvery hair, eyelids drooping. They part ways at the cafe, Quentin politely refusing the offer of tea, saying that they really must be getting Hamish home. They exchange phone numbers though. John promises to text, and Emma sleepily promises to remind him. So they say their goodbyes with promises to meet up again sometime, maybe in London when they are all back at work. Emma especially seems delighted at the prospect.

Then Greg and John take Emma into the cafe to meet Mycroft, and James and Quentin start back towards the sleek BMW that will take them back to their hotel.

“They seemed nice,” says Quentin, helping James release himself from Hamish’s sleeping grasp, and carefully tuck their son into his car seat. James shrugs, non-commitally.

“Yes.”

Quentin smiles, and nudges him in the ribs.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to be nice to people you don’t need to seduce to get information from. You treat your whole life like a mission sometimes,” he says, and James sighs. This is a common conversation.

“Look, I’m tired, alright? Three weeks worth of jet lag has been busy catching up with me.”

“Ah, the mighty James Bond, defeated by jet lag and a simple holiday,” Quentin teases, and James kisses him.

“Shut up,” he says, but Quentin shakes his head.

“When Hell freezes over. You’d better make an effort next time, though.”

“Next time?”

“Of course! We will be seeing them again. Much sooner than they’re expecting.”

“Care to explain?”