Bring me the cheese!

Renovation in progress

naturegirlrocks — Sat, 09 Aug 2014 17:10:47 GMT

Title: Renovation in progress for hd_cliche
Author: naturegirlrocks
Rating: R
Cliche: Draco helping Harry renovating Grimmauld place.
Words~ 4700
Notes: Sorry I'm a bit late. My wifi is not happy with me at the moment.

Harry looked up from the blueprint spread over the kitchen table when he head the single long ring of the doorbell upstairs. He glanced over at Ron who also had been standing leaned over the table.

“At least he's on time,” said the redhead.

“Did you doubt it?" asked Harry. "There's both money and pride involved."

“The guy has been away for over five years. I heard he swore never to return, and you get him here to help with only one owl.”

“What can I say? I'm a master of negotiation. That's why I'm payed the big bucks."

Ron rolled his eyes and returned to his measurements. Harry put his wand up his sleeve. He really didn't think hat he would need it, but it never hurts to be prepared.

He took the seven-step staircase up from the kitchen to the hallway in three large strides. The doorbell rang out again, this time somehow sounding more impatient.

“Keep your shirt on,” Harry called as he opened the door.

“I don't like waiting," Draco Malfoy pushed himself inside the house passed Harry. "And I don't like being here, so let's get on with it."

Harry was hit over the head with a black robe that obscured his sight and almost knocked his glasses off. When he managed to get free of it Malfoy was already on his way to the second floor. His legs and shoes disappearing at the top of the stairs.

"Come in, by all means," Harry huffed and hung the robe on a hanger. "Long time, no see. Come in let me help you with your robe..."

“Who're you talking to?” Ron came up from the kitchen and looked around the hallway. "And where's his nobs?"

"Upstairs," Harry pointed. "Didn't even bother to say hello."

"You want me to stay?"

"Nah, you get home. Don't forget the hardware store tomorrow."

"Nine-thirty right? I'll pick up up."

Harry was about to confirm when a sharp voice called him from the second floor.

“Potter! Are we doing this or not? And where am I supposed to sleep? Do you ever clean this dump?"

“Good luck," Ron patted Harry on he shoulder and left with a half-sympathetic grin.

Harry sighed, closed the door after his friend, and turned exasperated to walk up the stairs.

"Listen, Malfoy! I just need your blood to break some of the spells, if you want me to get it through a nosebleed that's all fine with me."

"You're going to need much more than blood from me if you're to fix up this place. This is..."

Malfoy stopped talking abruptly as he walked out of Harry's bedroom. Harry also stopped in his stride, unable to utter the sardonic worlds on his tongue. They looked at each other.

Harry tried to regain some of his senses, but it was hard. Malfoy had changed. He had always been handsome, but when had he become gorgeous? He's features seemed to have softened, even though the nose still came to a point. His hair was slightly longer, scruffier, devoid of any product. He was muscular in a slim sort of way that more showed the absence of fat than that of athleticism. And his eyes seemed bluer. Harry closed his mouth that he didn't even know he had open.

Malfoy straightened his back, giving Harry a once over.

“I see that Auror training is treating you well," he said, raising one blond eyebrow. "You are still short though. I'm taking this room."

“Th-that's my room," Harry's tongue started to untie itself.

"It's the only room that's clean. This place is full of stuff and boxes and more stuff. Dusty stuff."

"Thanks, I know. I'm renovating the whole house. That's why you are here. What did you expect it to look like?"

"You do know you are a wizard right? You can still do magic? Or is the great hero all tapped out?"

Malfoy's smirk did things to Harry's stomach that wasn't allowed to be done in this conversation.

“My magic is stronger than ever, Malfoy, so just watch it. And for your information, you can't build houses on magic alone."

"Malfoy manor was build on magic alone," huffed Malfoy, crossing his arms.

"Yes, and where is it now?"

Harry regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. He saw Malfoy's face first turn white and
the red.

"That house stood for over five-hundred years until your followers brought it down," Malfoy's sharp finger stabbed hard against Harry's chest. "It would still stand today, just as steady as ever, if you had had even the slightest guts to stop them.”

Harry was almost mesmerised by the passion and angry sadness in Malfoy's face. If he had thought him gorgeous before...

"So I'm taking this room," Malfoy glared down at him. "Sleep in one of your dusty boxes, and if you have forgotten the spell to turn it into a bed then though luck!"

The door was slammed in Harry's face.

“So I guess we're not starting today?"

There was no answer.

"Can I get my toothbrush?"

"Wizard!" came a yell muffled through the door.

"A pillow?”

Harry could have sworn he heard something like a laugh, and he suddenly felt bold and mischievous.

"A kiss goodnight?"

"Go away, Potter."

This time there definitely a laugh.

Harry smiled and returned down to the kitchen and the blueprints. Though he had a difficult time concentrating, thinking about what was probably in his bed at this moment. He caught himself wondering if Malfoy slept in the nude.

Harry slept in one of the guest rooms that night, only bothering to spell the dust away before lying down.

////////////

In the morning Harry knocked on the door to his bedroom and entered without being given an answer, it was his room after all

He expected the room to look ransacked, but it looked cleaner and more orderly than ever. It was a sure sign that it had been ransacked.

Harry looked to the bed. Malfoy was indeed sleeping in the nude. On his side, leaning slightly forward, hugging the covers with arms and legs like it was a person. His pale hair ruffled over the pillow.

Long legs that could have gone on for days if not curving softly to a round backside suddenly stretched, making the foot Harry was staring at contort slightly and make soft cracking sounds.

"Do you often look at your guests when they are sleeping, or do you only save that honour for people you once tried to kill?"

Harry looked up the length of the smooth body. Malfoy was now sitting up, the covers hiding only his left thigh and genitals, though some tantalising hair was visible on the top of the right thigh and lower belly. There, on the lower belly, was the beginning of a red scar like a long caterpillar that searched it's way up over soft muscular skin crossing over the right nipple and ending just under the collarbone.

He met Malfoy's waiting blue eyes. Harry couldn't help but to nervously lick his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said.

It sounded flat. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Just do what you came in here to do and get out. There's a lot if work to do today."

"Right," Harry tore himself away from the vision on the bed and hurried over to his closet. "I just need a change if clothes. Ron's going to be here in an hour. We're going to the hardware store. Do you want to come?"

"No," Malfoy rustled the covers as he got out of bed, Harry kept his back firmly turned. "I was planning to look over the house and search for blood magic. I'll tell you this, Potter, you are lucky I'm still alive to bleed for you or this house would be better off being torn down."

"I know," Harry picked out a pair of jeans, fresh underwear, and a sweatshirt. "I actually considered it. But you ware still alive, so..." he shrugged. "It was worth a try."

"You sure know how to make a boy feel wanted," Malfoy huffed.

Harry could hear him leave the room and head off towards the bathroom. He turn around, hugging his clothes, the bed was impeccably made up. There were even decorative embroidered pillows on it that he knew for a fact had been packed in a box on the third floor. It made him feel uncomfortable.

Like this house was more Malfoy's than his.

During breakfast Harry explained the blueprints of the renovation to Malfoy. The other man was wearing impeccable a grey three-piece suit without the jacket, green tie, and rolled up white shirtsleeves. His forearms were unmarked, Harry pretended not to look.

"You can make notes on it if you want," Harry pointed to a room on the blueprint. "I've already marked out some of the spells and curses I found I need help with."

"Fine," Malfoy looked around the kitchen. "You know you should really get some house elves."

"Hermione would kill me," laughed Harry.

"You could pay them," Malfoy shrugged and took a dainty sip of his hot tea. "Free house elves basically work for food and board. They would even thank you for it. There are quite a few out there who has been unemployed since the war."

"I know..." Harry sighed.

They were interrupted by Ron arriving. He and Malfoy gave a cold exchange of each other's names and the continued to ignore each other. Malfoy left the kitchen soon after.

"I still can't see why you can't use Andromeda's blood, or even Teddy's," Ron said as they exited through the kitchen backdoor. "They are both of Black and Purebloods."

"Andromeda was disowned, the house knows that," Harry rubbed his neck. "Teddy's still too young. And since he is part werewolf there is a risk he will add on to the curses instead of breaking them. Malfoy is..."

He trailed off, thinking back to the way Malfoy's body had appeared that morning.

"What?" Ron had caught in the hesitation and was immediately suspicious.

"He has changed, hasn't he?"

"Bugger off!" Ron stopped in his stride, making Harry walk on a few steps before noticing. "You think he's hot! Harry! Seriously?!"

"Don't you?"

Ron made a disgusted face but seemed to consider it. He started walking again, Harry marched his steps.

"He's more of a prettyboy now than last I saw him, if that's what you mean. Though I think he's putting on an act about that."

"Why would he do that?"

Ron just gave him a pitying look. Harry felt confused.

////////////////

Harry returned home about three hours later, he was carrying several miniaturised bags that he unloaded and enlarged in the first floor living room. He called out for Malfoy but got no answer.

Shrugging, he took the bags containing kitchen stuff down stairs. He noticed several new markings on the blueprints over magical hotspots. He moved to look closer at them and was surprised to see that Malfoy had used Harry's own system of making notes.

He turned around when the backdoor opened and Malfoy entered followed by three small house elves each carrying a large box, the smallest elf carrying the largest box. Malfoy gave Harry a look over and a small smile as he directed the elves to place the boxes by the wall.

"What's going on?" Harry frowned and pretended not to look too intensely as Malfoy bent over to adjust the elves' grey waistcoats that they were wearing over different floral pillowcases.

Of course Malfoy noticed him looking anyway and soothingly adjusted his suit jacket as he stood back up. Harry had difficulty knowing which way to turn his eyes, but settled on going between Malfoy's face and the three elves.

"Just some paraphernalia and ingredients needed for the curse breaking. Don't worry, I put it all on your bill. These are Squeeze, Nubby, and their daughter Drub," Malfoy indicated the elves from the largest to the smallest. "They're going to be assisting me. You can of course ask them to help you as well if needed."

The elves gave Harry tentative and hopeful smiles and pulled awkwardly their waist coats.

"Oh," Harry looked them over. "Hello... guys."

"Greetings Mister Potter," said the three of them in unity, their high voices mixing.

Malfoy looked like a proud father, a very good look for him Harry noticed and looked away. Malfoy smirked again. He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, leaving him in his selves again.

"What's in the boxes?" he asked to distract himself.

"All my worldly belongings," Malfoy was rolling up his sleeves, again displaying his smooth unmarked forearms. "I'm between residents at the moment since I just got back into the country."

Harry looked at the three boxes, even with wizard-space they wouldn't even contain a tenth of Malfoy Manor. Again he felt bad for Malfoy. The man had more rights to Grimmauld Place than Harry ever had. He wondered where Malfoy would live when his job here was done.

Malfoy gave him an amused once-over before turning to the blueprints. The three elves began whispering together.

"Let's start with the hearth," Malfoy moved over to the large fireplace and looked inside it, careful not to get soot on his clothing. "Since this is a frequently used entrance to the house I recommend protection- and security-spells."

"There is a difference?" Harry asked.

"I'll pretend you didn't ask me that,"

Malfoy bent down to his knees in front of the fireplace. He motioned to the male house elf, Nubby, towards one of the boxes. The elf made a squeaking noise as if he was honoured to be asked and hurried over to the box. He took up a old book about the size of his upper body and carried it over to Harry.

Harry took it and looked it querulously over. It had gold lettering almost rubbed of by age, but also newer damages like a tare in the binding and the trace of a mending-spell were it had been burned or scorched. Harry didn't dare to ask where it was from, but he had heard that parts of Malfoy manor had been ransacked and burned.

Malfoy placed both his hands on the flat stone.

"Page seventy-five," he said. "Read the spell over me, to the end, don't stop. Be ready if anything comes out and tries to disturb you, but don't stop reading until you get to the end. Or we'll have to do it all over again."

"Like what comes out?"

"The hearth has been protected by blood for centuries, how the hell would I know what's trapped inside?"

"Hang on, what, 'trapped'?" Harry asked but didn't get any answer.

Malfoy had already leaned forward and looked as he was going into a trance, or just slowly falling asleep. Harry wondered if it was an act, though the three house elves seemed seriously concerned. Harry pulled his wand.

The next moment he sensed the magic. He quickly opened the book to the right page, thankfully it was in English, sadly it was Old English in handwritten calligraphy. Harry squinted.

"Ye..."

The fireplace immediately spewed ashes in a large grey cloud over Malfoy and the kitchen. Harry was mostly saved by his position to the side of the eruption. The house elves began screaming and running around, trying to find wet cloths, brooms, and dusters.

"It's pronounced 'the'," Malfoy coughed and looked up at Harry disapprovingly through the grey dust covering his face and hair, his clear blue eyes looked almost unreal in the midst of the mess. "Clearly I overestimated you. As usual," he added as he spat out something black on the floor and curled his tongue in disgust.

He got up to his feet, stumbling a little as he did so. Harry reached out to catch Malfoy's hand and it closed hard around his.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit dizzy. I was concentrating pretty hard. Ugh, it got up my nose!"

"I'm sorry. Maybe we should get Hermione over to read it."

"I'll write it out for you on paper," Malfoy smiled, his teeth were still white. "Lucky for you, we only need the one spell. You can let go now."

Harry looked down to see he was still holding Malfoy's hand. He let go, his hand itched a little at the loss.

Malfoy took out his wand and tried removing most of the dust on his clothing, but it seemed hard to come off. Harry noticed that the wand was the one that had belonged to Lucius, but he didn't mention it. Malfoy's original wand was in the Ministry of Magic's war exhibition.

Squeeze, the largest house elf, was trying to use her own magic to rub out some of the soot on Malfoy's trousers, she was doing marginally better. The other two were busy with the floor. The dust seemed much tougher that regular dust, Harry noticed. Malfoy sighed.

"It's not working," he gently pushed Squeeze away. "I need to take a shower, you can take this and see what you can do with it."

Then he started undressing, right there in the kitchen. Harry tried to opinionate but swallowed down his words as he watched Malfoy pull his tie off and drop it into the house elves waiting hands. Harry looked away, down on his own clothing. His sneakers were ruined. Without really thinking about it he stepped out of them, and thereby dirtying his socks as well.

Malfoy gave him an amused look.

"Let's try something easier next time," he gave his shirt down to Squeeze and started working on his belt-buckle. "Like the bogarts in the attic, or the pixies in the drawing room curtains."

"Yes," Harry was staring at the line on Malfoy's neck were the dust met the silky skin. "I can do that."

"You're so cute," Malfoy laughed as he leaned forward and kissed Harry on the side of his mouth.

He laughed again at Harry's stunned expression.

"Sorry," he said wiping away the soot he'd left on Harry's face with his even snootier thumb.

Harry wondered if he was saying sorry for the kiss or for the soot. He restrained the impulse to lick his lips and settled for just blinking like a loon.

Malfoy turned away and walked up the stairs, only wearing, Harry noticed, a pair of tight black briefs. Harry looked down at the three house elves who were staring up at him as if he was missing out on something very important.

"What?" he asked.

"Mister Potter is needing shower as well," said Drub, tightly holding on to a small broom and a dustpan.

"Squeeze can wash his clothes as well," said Squeeze. "Mister Potter can leave them with her."

"Master Draco is be needing help washing his hair," said Nubby more boldly.

Harry opened his mouth but, again, no words came out. He looked towards the stairs were Malfoy had disappeared and then down at the house elves again. They looked slightly irritated over how long it took him to connect the dots, as far as house elves could pull of that look. It only took him a moment to put things together. He pulled his sweater over his head and corrected his glasses that had become askew.

"Are you sure you can clean this by yourselves?" he asked indicating the sooty mess.

"Is our job, Mister Potter," grinned Nubby up at him.

Harry didn't need to be told more than twice, he stepped out of his jeans and socks, and followed Malfoy.

Outside the bathroom on the second floor he hesitated again. Then he knocked.

"Come in!" came Malfoy's voice from inside.

Harry slowly opened the door and peaked inside. The bathroom had been one of the first rooms he had managed to renovate so it was still sparkling with new white tiles and polished chromed faucets and handles.

Except it wasn't. The tiles were checkered off-white and black with a subtle hand-painted gold leaf pattern, the faucets and handles were polished silver. The frosted shower-stall seemed bigger and the towels seemed of a higher thread count than before.

"You redecorated," Harry looked around before his eyes landed in Malfoy standing in front of the mirror checking over the sooty damage of his face.

He wasn't wearing the black briefs anymore and his pale hip was casually leaning against the sink, making his left buttock slightly less tense. Harry didn't even try to look away.

"Wizard. Though it's simpler when the groundwork is done by hand, I'll give you that." Malfoy turned around to look over Harry appreciatively, stopping momentarily at the growing bulge in the red boxers. "You could move that wall and fit in a bathtub."

Malfoy's cock was about the size of his own, perhaps a bit more slender and of course surrounded by blond hair. It was half-hard, the slick pinkish head tantalisingly peaking out from the foreskin. Harry tried to think of something intelligent to say.

"I'm having a bathtub fitted in the back room downstairs, with a large window overlooking the garden," Harry felt like he was rambling.

"How very romantic of you, Potter," Malfoy stepped closer, the soot making his face look like it had been haphazardly ceremonially painted for a big heathen event. "You should tell me more. Later."

Harry's lips were caught in a real kiss this time. He opened up his mouth, letting Malfoy explore it with enthusiastic care. He was tasting the bitter soot, a sweet bitterness that was Malfoy, and a distant minty flavour that could be either candy or toothpaste.

"You taste like after a thunderstorm," said Malfoy with a sigh, eyes closed, and rubbing his nose against Harry's. "You taste like home and safety."

Harry had no idea what that meant but was reluctant to care since he felt a hand search its way firmly down the back of the lining if his pants, and another kiss on his lips. He placed his own hands on Malfoy's back moving them over the vast expansive of soft skin.

"Shower," breathed Malfoy. "I refuse to get any of this stuff inside me."

Harry was again slow to understand what Malfoy was implying, but it made very much sense when he was grabbed by the cock by a sooty hand left a clear handprint on the stretched fabric of his underwear.

Malfoy grinned dangerously and stepped inside the shower-cabin. Harry didn't loose time to remove his last restating garment and follow inside. He was welcomed by soft lips, groping hands, and a spray of slightly warmer than skin-temperature water. He had no objection to this.

//////////////:.::

Harry had to spend he next day in Auror training, or rather following a senior Auror around taking notes and getting coffee. He had been reluctant to leave Draco (he was calling Malfoy 'Draco' now) alone after what had transpired in the shower, and on the bathroom floor, and in the hallway, and against the bedroom wall, and on the bed yesterday.

But Draco had unceremoniously kicked him out of the house with a 'have a fun day at work, darling' and a peck on the cheek.

"I think he's hiding something from you," said Ron during the half an hour lunch break that they amazingly had managed to share ten minutes of together. "He's moving way to fast. And decorating the bathroom? Something's up with that. He's planning something."

"Like what?" Harry asked nervously.

"I don't know, but you better keep your eyes open."

"I thought that you were going to be more mad at me," said Harry checking his watch.

"Oh, I am mad at you," Ron finished his soda. "But I don't blame you. Who you fancy is your business even if I want to rip you a new one for pure stupidity."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You are welcome."

When Harry got back that evening he was worried of what would await him.

It turned out to be a candle-lit supper for two in a newly renovated downstairs living room and Draco in a flattering dark-purple wizard-cut suit. He was immediately send upstairs for a shower. There was a navy-blue suit waiting for him on the bed.

"I like what you done with the place," he said as Draco pulled out the chair for him at the intimate table. "I should really pay you as an interior designer in addition to being a curse-breaker."

"You couldn't afford me," Draco poured him a tall glass of lemon ice-water since Harry never drank alcohol on a work night, Harry wondered how Draco knew that. "That's why I'm going to let you pay me off in kind."

"How gracious of you," he laughed, their eyes meeting and holding a little longer than necessary.

Harry looked away when Squeeze entered the room with two plates of food, it looked like lasagna made on pumpkin and squash instead of pasta. The elf had to stand in her toes to reach up and place the plates before them. Harry watched her leave, he thought back in what Ron had said. Did Draco have a hidden agenda?

"When you asked me earlier if I wanted to hire some house elves, did you mean them?"

"Nobody wanted to hire them," Draco shrugged, not really meeting Harry's gaze. "They are good house elves, their only fault being born to the service of the Malfoy family. I thought you might wanted to help them."

Harry watched the other man fold his hands and hide them under the table. The atmosphere had begun to get a bit tense. Harry's feelings ranged between pity, anger and concern. He knew Draco was hiding something from him, he knew that he would understand and forgive, but he wished he had known it before they had sex.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I wouldn't trick you to let me stay," Malfoy looked up in defiance, because it was Malfoy again, the fierceness in those blue eyes. "I was going to do the spells, collect my money, and go back to France where I can live and breathe without being ridiculed or repressed. I could have given you a half a pint of my blood and just left... I would could have left in an hour..."

Draco had turned away even more as he spoke, his voice was cracking up. Harry tried to keep calm but his heart was spreading up and his breath was becoming shorter. Inside his chest there was a strange urge just to get up and hug the man opposite.

"Then there you were," Draco spat. "With your disability to organise anything like a wizard, your horrible colour-themes, your stupid broad shoulders, and your stupid cute smile! It was clear that you needed really my help, and I..." he bit his lower lip as he drifted off.

Harry couldn't stop himself anymore but hurried up from his chair to crouch next to Draco. He caught one of his hands in his and brushed away a lock of blond hair with the other. It was clear Draco was fighting back tears.

"I don't mind," he said. "It's fairly obvious that I do need your help, my bedroom had never been so organised and the bathroom is wonderful. I'm sure you would do this old house so much good, it would even be yours if I wasn't in the way," he gave a small laugh. "And you would do me so much good as well. I don't know if I ever enjoyed myself as much as I did last night."

Draco wiped an escaping tear from his eye and chuckled.

"I don't know if I have the strength to keep that pace up for a longer time."

"Me neither," Harry brought up Draco's hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm a great smuggler."

"We have to change the bed linen of course," Draco straightened up. "And the blankets are just awful. That lamp in the corner must go! And..."

Harry stopped him with a kiss. Draco responded with a content humming noise and folded his arms around Harry's neck.

"Our food is getting cold," he gasped as Harry's lips brushed his neck.

"Wizard," murmured a Harry, placing a spell over the food to keep it warm.

The End.

My video blog

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 04 Aug 2014 15:49:37 GMT

My first try at a video blog. Let's see if I can keep this up.

Not happy

naturegirlrocks — Wed, 30 Jul 2014 06:23:30 GMT

Stupid update on my stupid phone erased all my WIP's.

The Game Is Afoot - a short story

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 08 Jul 2014 19:43:51 GMT

Title: The Game Is Afoot
Author: Naturegirlrocks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Note: s3ws3
Summary: John wants to play a game to get to know Sherlock again.

"Games?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes, games," John gave his friend a patient smile. "I'm certain you were a child once in our life. Children play games."

"And now you want me to play one with you?" Sherlock frowned. "We are hardly children, John."

"I'm very aware of my age, Sherlock."

John gave his friend an amused smile and took a sip of tea from the large novelty mug Sherlock had given him for his birthday a week ago. It was dark blue with red letters saying 'I'm 40 but I'm still keeping it up'. John doubted that Sherlock fully understood the double meaning of the words, but he liked the cup anyway. Even if he was only thirty-nine.

It had been a special birthday in many ways, not only because John had woken up to find his not at all dead best friend sleeping on the sofa with the mug, very badly wrapped up in a two-week-old newspaper, balancing on his chest, but also because Sherlock had actually remembered the date.

"What was your favourite game as a child?" John tried again, he was determined to reacquaint himself the man who had painfully been missing from his life the last two years. "Except from playing pirates."

Sherlock looked a bit embarrassed, but the movement of his eyes told John that the detective had remembered something.

"There was one..." Sherlock interrupted himself. "I'm not sure if it counts as a game though..."

"Tell me about it."

"Daddy came up with it," Sherlock bit his lower lip hesitantly. "I was..." he took a breath and something vulnerable showed in his face for a short moment. "I was seven, and I was sad because Mycroft would never spend any time with me. Daddy invented a kind of bonding-exercise for us."

John could defiantly imagine Sherlock as a lively small dark-haired boy, whose uncontrolled thoughts scattered everywhere, and who was desperately trying to get the attention of his ordered and focus-minded older brother.

"He would blindfold me, and then we would go for walks," continued Sherlock in a tone that indicated fond memories. "He would make me listen to birds, engines, voices, and other things, making me identify them. He would go in circles, and make me guess where we were. Sometimes he gave me food or things to smell, and I would guess what it was."

"Things are starting to make sense to me now," mused John.

"But then Mycroft went away to uni..." Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said after a while, meeting John's eye. "I would actually like to play that game again. Purely as a experiment, of course."

"Of course," grinned John.

"You will need to take notes," said Sherlock, standing up, going to his room to get dressed.

Half an hour later they had manufactured a blindfold out of a old black necktie, and were ready to leave. John had agreed to take notes, since it was an 'experiment' after all.

Mrs Hudson had also graciously given them a assortment of biscuits and foodstuff from her kitchen for later testing. She wished them a nice day out.

Outside they hailed a cab, and John handed a written note of their destination to the driver.

"Bachelor party," he said to the cabbie's questioning look.

They had agreed that it was the best, and shortest, explanation to keep any nosy people away.

"Hampstead Heath," murmured Sherlock after a few minutes and turns of the car.

John smirked, he should have known that it was impossible to fool Sherlock, at least within the London area. He didn't confirm anything, but it was clear by the smirk on his face that Sherlock knew John was impressed with him.

He made a note of Sherlock's deduction on his phone, knowing that the sound of a pen scratching against a paper would make Sherlock react. The mobile made a click as John turned it off, Sherlock's smile widened slightly.

To entertain themselves for the rest of the ride John gave Sherlock different things from his pockets to feel and identify. Several coins, a button, different keys, a cap for a syringe, a pack of tissues, and a empty 8mm cartridge from a crime scene where he had used his gun without permission. Sherlock got them all right.

Sherlock could even tell the difference between banknotes. John checked the blindfold after that, it was on good, and Sherlock had his eyes closed.

"They make notes slightly different on purpose," explained Sherlock. "To aid the blind and sight-impaired. Blind people mostly fold their notes in different ways to save time, though."

When they arrived at Hampstead Heath, John immediately led Sherlock to the children's petting zoo. It was still quite early, about half passed ten, so there wasn't too many children around.

The keepers just smiled at them, the bachelor party story was working. Though what kind of party two grown men in a petting zoo could have was beyond John's imagination.

John lifted a small lamb off the ground and placed it in Sherlock's arms. The detective looked stumped for a moment, John took a picture with his phone. Then the lamb started sucking on Sherlock's fingers.

"Domestic sheep, Ovis Aries, male, Cheviot breed, quite common. Judging by the teeth approximately five weeks old."

"That's amazing," said John. "I would have given you a point if you had just said 'lamb' though."

"Are we playing for points?" asked Sherlock, gently putting down the small animal on the ground. "What do I get if I win?"

John watched as the lamb scampered away to its mother.

"I will get you a appropriate reward," chuckled John and placed a kid goat in Sherlock's arms.

"Ah," Sherlock patted the kid as it bleated. "Capra Aegagrus Hircus"

"Now you are just showing off," John took another picture with his phone.

"You are not sending any of those to Lestrade or Mycroft, are you?" Sherlock put the kid down, it affectionally nuzzled his leg.

"Private collection," said John, taking Sherlock's hand. "Let's touch some other animals."

"Homo Sapiens," said Sherlock squeezing his hand. "Fine specimen, though a little callused."

"I think that is the nicest thing you ever said to me," John laughed.

He took Sherlock around the small zoo, letting him pet the different farmyard animals living there. Once John thought he had Sherlock stumped when the man was about to call a duckling a gosling, but Sherlock had changed his statement at the last moment.

"It was the smell," explained Sherlock with an indignant huff. "They swim in the same pond."

"Let's go and sit down on the grass," smiled John . "I'll buy us something to drink in the shop and we can go through the things Mrs. Hudson gave us."

He helped Sherlock to sit down on a good spot on the grass, placing the bag of food next to him, and hurried over to the shop.

"How's the groom doing?" asked the lady at the checker. "You keeping him good and busy?"

"Yes," John payed for the four different cartons of fruit juice. "A best man's job is never done."

How true that sentence seed to sound with John. Sherlock had many times in the past called John his 'best man'. The thought of it made John smile.

"Are they having the wedding here?" She continued asking. "Many do, you know."

"Maybe next time," John gave her a polite smile and gathered his juice packages.

When John returned to Sherlock the man had removed his blindfold. He was sitting still, letting the sun shine in his face.

"Careful," John sat down next to him on the grass. "Too much sun will hurt that delicate skin of yours."

"I'm not a vampire, John."

"You could have fooled me," he lined up the juices next to him. "Do you still want to do a blind test on the food?"

"Yes," Sherlock held up the blindfold to John, asking him to help. "We must test each one twice. Once with me holding my nose, and once without. Make good notes. We can so a spreadsheet together later."

"How fun."

John got to his knees so he could reach around Sherlock better. Sherlock leaned forward, inhaling deeply as John moved closer.

"What was that?" John felt a little flushed as he tied the knot behind Sherlock's head..

"Reference," Sherlock inhaled next to John's neck again. "If you try to contaminate the samples.

"I'm hardly going to rub the food on my neck."

John's mind gallantly sufficed with an image of this. He had to shake away the surprisingly arousing thought of Sherlock licking smeared food of his skin. By the smile Sherlock was making, a similar thought was taking place in Sherlock's mind. John was glad their eyes couldn't meet.

He cleared his throat and turned quickly to their bag to take out the food. Mrs Hudson had packed everything in separate Tupperware, knowing Sherlock's dislike of contamination. John choose a cheese-cube.

"An easy one first," he said. "Open up."

Sherlock held his nose and opened his mouth. John placed the piece of cheddar on his tongue.

He was immediately regretting this game when Sherlock's lips circled his forefinger.

"Sherlock!" John said not sounding like a flushed maiden.

"Too slow, John" chewed Sherlock. "Consistence is cheese, without smell I can't say which one. But based on Mrs Hudson's preferences and the sandwich she forced upon me yesterday, it's cheddar, 28 percent."

His voice sounded funny.

"No fair," laughed John. "If you tasted it yesterday, it doesn't count."

"Did you just make up new rules?" Sherlock let go of his nose, swallowed, and smirked.

They tried some more food, including a piece of pancake, a chocolate biscuit, a meatball, and sips of the different juices.

Sherlock mixed up the strawberry and the apple juice, he wasn't happy about that.

"If it helps," said John reading the list of ingredients. "The strawberry juice is just apple juice with strawberry taste."

"It doesn't," pouted Sherlock taking off his blindfold. "It's all the sugar and preservatives they put in those things. It isn't healthy."

"I know," smiled John.

"We should start eating healthier."

"I tried to order from that vegan place three days ago," John shook his head while absently arranging the small juice cartons by colour. "You refused."

"I don't like beans," Sherlock looked away.

"I know you don't," smirked John. "Do you want to taste more?"

"Let's take a break and just eat what we got. Like a picnic."

"I thought we where eating healthier."

"I have to make research and a chart over it first."

"Of course you do," John popped a meatball in his mouth and chewed. "It's a nice day for a picnic. We should get out more."

"We go out all the time."

"Name one time the last month you have been outside the door that didn't have to do with a dead body."

Sherlock drank the strawberry juice contemplatingly. John didn't look at the small white plastic straw and the curved lips surrounding it.

"That kidnapped broker survived," said Sherlock proudly.

"Yes," sighed John, he had set himself up for that one. "But you still have his cut off pinky toe in the freezer. You should give that back to Scotland Yard."

"Can't," Sherlock tasted the apple juice and then the strawberry again. "Melted it."

"You melted a toe?"

"Quite a satisfying experiment."

John shook his head and giggled. He then sighed and looked out over the field to some schoolchildren playing in the grass.

"Do you want the blindfold back on when we go home?"

"Are we leaving?" Sherlock looked a but disappointed.

"Not unless you want to," John smiled. "There are still a few things you can taste."

"Why don't we do it the other way around?" Sherlock suggested. "You wear the blindfold."

"I won't be any good."

"I don't care. I just want to play. You don't need to hold your nose."

"Fine," sighed John and leaned forward.

Sherlock took up the tie and tied it around John's eyes. John felt a bit nervous, and exposed.

"Open your mouth," said Sherlock's smooth voice.

John carefully held his mouth open as Sherlock placed something on his tongue. A fingertip touched John's lower lip briefly.

"Soft," said John am chewed. "Sweet. Is it the bun?"

"Good," Sherlock put a straw to John's mouth. "Next."

"Grape."

"You got that fast."

"I like grape," John shrugged.

Sherlock let John taste a few more things, never not touching his lips. John felt slightly embarrassed and strangely happy at the same time. He got most of the tastes on the first try, but that was just because he knew what they brought with them. Sherlock pointed this out. John chuckled.

"Open up," said Sherlock. "One last thing."

John opened his mouth and reached out his tongue slightly to receive what ever tidbit Sherlock had in store for him. He suspected that it would be the cheese or the apple drink since those were the only things he haven't tasted yet.

He was slightly surprised that it was neither.

First it felt like a finger, but is was too soft and moist. It tasted sweet, a bit fruity like one of the juices. Then, before he had time to register the chock of it all, it slid tentatively over his tongue inside his mouth and was followed by a hesitant soft pressure on his lips.

It was over in a second. John licked his lips and smacked his tongue. He took a breath and removed the blindfold.

Sherlock was looking at him. There was a mixture of worry and anticipation on the detective's face as their eyes met. John blinked a few times, mostly because of the light that stung his eyes. Sherlock looked down at his hands.

"I-" John licked his lips again. "I don't know that one. Would you mind letting me try it one more time?"

Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"You must let me have a second try," John had trouble hiding his smile.

Sherlock hesitated only for a moment before leaning forward to place a kiss on John's mouth. John reciprocated it with enthusiasm. They were slightly out of breath as they parted a few moments later.

John laughed.

"'Labium oris' I believe is the medical term for lips. See, you're not the only one that knows fancy Latin names."

"Actually that translates to 'lips of the mouth'."

"Know-it-all."

"John?" Sherlock bit his lower lip.

"Yes?"

John boldly reached out at took Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock gave half a smile.

"Was that good?"

"It was great," John laughed again. "I like this game. We should do it more often."

They kissed again, this time softly, both smiling.

They broke apart as a group of giggling children ran passed them, their teacher giving them a slightly disapproving smile.

"Do you want to go home?" asked John. "We can continue playing there if you want?""

"No," Sherlock stretched his arms, letting one seemingly casually fall over John's shoulders in a smooth gesture. "Let's stay here in the sun for a while."

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?" John leaned effortlessly against the other man. "Don't you want to do a little research? Make some spreadsheets?"

"I can do some of that here," Sherlock took out his mobile. "And we need to clean out those containers so we can take some samples of animal droppings with us home."

John laughed and shook his head. He settled in to enjoy the moment and look at the erotic pictures that Sherlock conjured up on his phone.

This was turning out to be a very good day.

-----

Looking for things to do.

naturegirlrocks — Wed, 18 Jun 2014 19:47:28 GMT

Hello!

Are there any promt-fests or gift-exchanges going on around here at the moment?
I only have about seven WIP's going on and I need something to do to get me back on track. Thank you!

Rise of Sherlock

naturegirlrocks — Fri, 06 Jun 2014 11:54:10 GMT

Title: The Rise of Sherlock
Fandoms: Sherlock BBC, Rise of the Guardians
Parings: Sherlock/John, Pitch/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Summary:John wakes up to find a living dead man in his bed and a frost spirit on his sofa, it's the beginning of a new adventure that will test his believes to the limit of sanity.
Chapters: 15
Words: 40.000+

AN: This is one of the stories that I wrote during my LJ hiatus.

Read it here (AO3)

I'm back! (hopefully)

naturegirlrocks — Wed, 04 Jun 2014 11:59:16 GMT

I have had about a year away from LJ, but have now decided to return (yay)

Why have I been gone? Honestly, I discovered new fandoms like Sherlock, Avengers, and some other stuff (like another blue-theamed community page that shall be unnamed). LJ for me a year ago was Harry Potter. Not that I don't like Harry Potter anymore, I LOVE IT, but I needed to explore new ground. It was not you LJ, it was me!

I have now decided to explore new sides of LJ as well.

So those of you who has been patient (or lazy enough not to remove me) and still follow me after this year THANK YOU! And be ready for a more varied fandoms from me In the future.

One a day, day 3

naturegirlrocks — Thu, 26 Sep 2013 08:43:15 GMT

Title: Bird watching
Fandom: Sherlock BBC, kid!lock
Day 3: Funeral
Note: "I'm going to bury him later, after the experiment is done. Please, please, please, mummy?!"

One a day, Day 2

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 21:01:10 GMT

Title I'm here
Artist: Naturegirlrocks
Rating: G

One a day. Day 1

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 23 Sep 2013 19:17:12 GMT

Title: Your friends
Artist:
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Challenge:
Promt: Evidnece

naturegirlrocksone a day

One a day.

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 23 Sep 2013 07:00:28 GMT

To get back in the saddle of drawing I have decided to do one drawing a day (mixed fandoms) - No Excuses!

From http://100-prompts.livejournal.com/
Table 30-A (by isaviel)

001.	Evidence	002.	I'm here	003.	Funeral	004.	Puppy love	005.	Gloves
006.	Blackboard	007.	Muse	008.	Magic	009.	Clean	010.	Secret
011.	Superstition	012.	Fantasy	013.	Test	014.	Tease	015.	Storm
016.	Strawberries	017.	Weapon	018.	Beach	019.	Lost	020.	Cry
021.	Aloof	022.	Blood	023.	Tower Block	024.	Taxi	025.	Search
026.	Writer's Choice	027.	Writer's Choice	028.	Writer's Choice	029.	Writer's Choice	030.	Writer's Choice

Inspire me to write crossover movie!fic

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 26 Aug 2013 15:19:50 GMT

How to:
1. Give me a movie (preferably something with at least one pair of lovers or pre-lovers)
2. Choose at least 2 of my fandoms:
Sherlock (BBC), Harry Potter, Supernatural, Doctor Who, Merlin, Cabin Pressure, Welcome to Night Vale, Avengers, Rise of the Guardians, The Hobbit, and James Bond (Craig-movies).

Note: I am a slash-writer, but I can do f/f and f/m up to PG-13/T if the story calls for it.

Thank you!

Bilbo

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 08 Jul 2013 19:35:00 GMT

Title: Under the tree
Fandom: The Hobbit (LOTR)
Artist; Naturegirlrocks
Rating: G

the ding part 3

naturegirlrocks — Sun, 07 Jul 2013 17:04:52 GMT

Title: The Ding
Author: Naturegirlrocks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: M/R
Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: Sherlock has been back for three months, but there is something distracting him. John worries while he slowly accepts his attraction to the man.

Read it on AO3 or here:

part 1 part2

John was awoken by the sheer closeness to an other body. He flickered open his eyes to see that he was really watching Sherlock's smooth collar bone.

"Are you ready?" asked a familiar voice.

"For what?" John stroked his chin against Sherlock's .

"Mycroft is coming over," Sherlock smoothed his hand over John's back.

"Why?"

"To talk about us."

"Nothin' has happened yet," grumbled John, half between anger and sleep.

"But it's going to," whispered Sherlock close to his ear.

John blushed. He shifted.

"Why were you doing all those things?"

"Because I like it when I'm close to you."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Scared..."

John smiled.

"From now on, you tell me everything. I was really worried about you."

They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. John felt a hand sneaking to rest on his hip. He giggled. Sherlock leaned forward and their lips met in a soft kiss.

John blushed as he put his own hand on Sherlock's hip and found only bare skin. He caressed it. Sherlock shuddered.

"Can I...?"

John nodded even though he had no idea what he was agreeing to, it was all good. He felt Sherlock's hand move from his hip to the front of his trousers, yes, this was definitely good.

His own hand kept stroking Sherlock's bare side. John could feel himself getting hard. Sherlock had opened his trousers and was stroking him through his pants.

"Sherlock..." whispered John.

"I see I made a good estimation on the size of my purchases."

"How many... did you buy?"

"Five," Sherlock kissed him again, and moved his hand underneath John's waistband.

John gasped when skin finally met skin.

"Can we...?" he finished the question by momentarily letting go of Sherlock and freeing himself from his restrictive pants by pushing them down his thighs.

"Definitely," said Sherlock.

He slowly began stroking John's length. John moaned, tugging on Sherlock's prominent hipbone and rubbing himself against those deliciously dextral fingers.

"Did..." he breathed. "Did you... research this too?"

"Self-experimentation," Sherlock captured John's lips in a soft, slightly wet, kiss.

"We are definitely... going to revise this this experiment later."

"I love it when you talk science," smirked Sherlock, and pressed his own erection against John's, holding the both in one hand. "This.... Oh! I... John!"

John had entwined his other hand's fingers with Sherlock's, encircling their cocks. Pre-ejaculate and sweat made the movement easier. John knew the antiseptic cream from last night wasn't far away, but he was damned if he was letting of this to go look for it.

Sherlock grunted loudly, spilling warm semen in between them, on their hands and bellies. John grunted his partner's name and followed with his own orgasm, reverently caressing whatever part of Sherlock he could reach with his lips, which was mostly nose, cheekbones and eyebrows.

They lay panting for a moment, kissing lazily. They were starting to stick together but neither were feeling any need to move.

At last John gathered his wits about him.

"When did you say Mycroft was coming?"

"I didn't say any specific time, but if you are wondering, he was here about five minutes ago and left again, quite quickly might add."

"Oh," John should have felt embarrassed but didn't, not one bit. "Your fever is gone. How... Hrm... How does your... backside feel?"

Sherlock shifted a little, seemingly taking note of his sensations.

"It feels very nice," he smiled mischievously. "Want to check, doctor?"

John suddenly felt very hot.

"Why don't we take a shower, and change the sheets? We need to talk."

Sherlock looked like he was about to pout. John kissed the frown between his eyes.

"And then you can show me all the things you bought from the penis-cosy-knitting lady."

"Yes!" Sherlock lit up with the idea. "Her name is Joan by the way, Mrs Hudson introduced us..."

"I don't want to hear it!"

John shook his head, tucked himself back to his pants, and, reluctantly, got off the bed. His trousers fell to the floor so he stepped out of them. He turned back to look down on Sherlock's half-exposed body.

"I want my own ding, though."

"Your own what?"

"You are the genius," John winked. "You figure it out."

------
The End

the ding part 2

naturegirlrocks — Sun, 07 Jul 2013 17:02:14 GMT

Title: The Ding
Author: Naturegirlrocks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: M/R
Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: Sherlock has been back for three months, but there is something distracting him. John worries while he slowly accepts his attraction to the man.

Read it on AO3 or here:

part 1

:::::

Sherlock had managed to find the shop clerk's killer within two hours. The suspect had been hiding out in a public bathroom stall at Paddington station, trying desperately to flush a gun down a toilet...

The consulting detective collapsed not far after the suspect had been taken away by sergeant Donovan. Sherlock's fever was by then through the roof. John berated himself not for noticing earlier.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Greg as he helped John carry Sherlock to a waiting police car that was taking them back to Baker Street.

"Let's get him home first," said John.

"I'm fine," murmured Sherlock against his shoulder.

Neither of his two friends believed him though, mainly because he didn't argue about riding in the back of the police car.

"Just need to go to the bathroom," murmured Sherlock as they arrived home.

John and Greg tried not to listen to the painful grunting sounds emerging from the other side if the door. It was quite hard.

After putting Sherlock to bed, John took out a six pack of beers from the fridge. There wasn't going to be any pub visits this evening.

Greg had frowned when John told him that Sherlock probably had got himself a violent lover, most likely a man.

After collecting himself from the shock that Sherlock actually was capable of having a lover, Greg became thoughtful.

"Then you need to take him back," he said, taking a swig from his bottle. "You can't stand by watching your man get hurt."

"He is not my man," John huffed.

Greg just giggled in his beer, but then he put on a more stern face.

"Seriously, though. If someone is hurting Sherlock, we have to do something before his brother finds out."

"Mycroft would sink them to the bottom of the Themes with cemented shoes," nodded John bitterly. "But then he had to get in line after me. I'm not letting Sherlock get lost again. I just got him back, from the dead I might add."

"I hear you," Greg clinked his bottle to John's.

"Do you think he could have meet someone while away?" John bit his lower lip. "He hasn't really been acting like himself. He has been absent, I mean even more than before."

"Not impossible," Greg tapped the bottle opening thoughtfully to his chin.

They talked a bit more as they worked through the beers. They turned on the telly to watch the football game. John checked in on Sherlock regularly, but the man seemed to sleep soundly. The match ended at a draw with two goals for each of the teams. Greg called for a cab.

"Take care of him," he had said as a farewell.

------

John was standing in the doorway to Sherlock's room, looking down at the heap of gangly man spread out on the bed, face down. They had managed to get him out of his shoes, socks, coat and jacket, but had left the shirt and trousers on.

He stepped forward and poked Sherlock's thigh with a forefinger. There was a pathetic moan in response. John sighed.

"Sherlock..."

"Did you have fun at your hockey game?" Sherlock's eyes were still glossy.

"Your fever is worse."

"I'm fine."

"No, you are not!" John sat down on the edge of the bed so that he would be more level with Sherlock.

"Are you worried?" came a question from the pillows.

"Of course I am, Sherlock! Bloody hell! Look at you. This bloke of yours is either completely incompetent, a sadist, or both!"

John took a few calming breaths, the alcohol in his system wasn't helping.

"He's actually not that bad," Sherlock rubbed his forehead against sheets. "And he's getting better..."

"Sherlock! I don't who this man is, but I won't let you see him again! I forbid it!"

"You what?" Sherlock tried to turn in a sudden way, but winced in pain.

"Wait here," John got up, walked out to the other room to retrieve his medical bag.

There was a moment of silence when he came back to Sherlock's side. He took out a pair of latex gloves and a tube if anti-septic cream from the bag. He was actually going to do this.

"What?" Sherlock looked even paler.

"You know very well what I mean," John pulled on the gloves.

"No." Sherlock gave him a look almost akin to fear. "I'm not letting you. You have been drinking."

"You are right, and be glad that I have been drinking. Otherwise I would recognise this as the horribly bad idea that it is. Now show me..."

"No!" Sherlock pulled away.

"You know that I'm only trying to help you, right?" John sighed, and tried to put on a professional face. "If there is taring, you could have an infection, and that would only make it hurt more. You have a fever, something is wrong. You shouldn't get fevers from having sex. You know this, Sherlock! I have seen you do plenty of experiments on flesh and bacteria..."

John took a breath, feeling anger and bile rise in his throat.

"Is this the experiment? The experiment you needed the pants for? To get some guy to..."

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. John clenched his gloved hands.

"So is this the experiment going wrong, or is it going right?" John had great trouble keeping his voice calm. "Did you intend it to be this way?"

"I don't want you to see..." Sherlock starred at the roof, avoiding John's eyes.

John recognised the tone in his voice. It was shame, and fear.

"Sherlock... I would never hurt you."

After a minute of undecisive breathing, Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his trousers and rolled to his stomach. John took a deep breath as his friend pulled up his knees to raise his backside.

John was not supposed to find the sight a turn on, but he did. His hands were steady, but his heart was shaking, as he pulled down the trousers and pants to reveal smooth skin. It was the black and grey designer pants.

Sherlock's breath hitched as John pulled them down.

There was a red buttplug in Sherlock's arse. John stared at it. Then he took another breath.

"Sherlock... What...?"

"Take it out," moaned Sherlock.

This was the worst idea in the history of worst ideas, and John wished he had had something stronger than just three bottles of beer to drink.

Gently he took hold had the end of the plug. Sherlock tensed up. He took up the antiseptic gel from his bag to busy his hands, and smeared it to the sides of the plug.

"Relax," John wished he could say the same to himself. "Just relax."

John pulled, Sherlock grunted. The plug coming out was about the size of a tennis ball. He put it aside on the bed.

Another breath to calm himself down, and he gently parted Sherlock's arse cheeks. The hole was, loosened, but also unnaturally swollen and irritated. There was, thankfully, no tarring.

Something, that John very well knew wasn't just something, stirred in his pants. His cock was filling up with blood just as fast as his mind was filling up with anger.

John let go of his grip of Sherlock's buttocks before he bruised them. Sherlock was breathing hard.

"I'm going to kill him," John grunted between clenched teeth, sending mental waves of gathered hatred to whom ever the pervert was who had done this to his friend.

Slowly he parted Sherlock's cheeks again, and applied the gel in so much of a professional manner as he could muster. Sherlock groaned, and John had to stop.

He moved back, and settled down on the edge of the bed to catch his own breath.

Sherlock rolled to the side, and turned his back to the wall. John clenched his fists over his knees.

"There's no one else," said a low voice from the curled up bundle beside him.

"What?" John turned to see Sherlock looking up at him.

"There was never a date," Sherlock bit his lower lip. "I did this to myself..."

"You... What?"

"The woman at the shop told me how, and she has messaged me when my new orders came in. I had some questions, and we texted. Rather pleasant for an adult-shop keeper, fifty-nine, lesbian, owns three cats, and knits her own penis-mittens."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"It went a bit out of hand, I admit that," Sherlock pushed his lips together a little. "I might have misjudged the speed of the proceedings, and the amount of preparation needed... It is a sensitive area after all, prone to infections if damaged."

John was just gaping, not believing his ears. He wasn't even thinking about that Sherlock still had both his trousers and pants down around his knees. Not much anyway.

"But it was really only the first trial when it was bad, when I couldn't climb the stairs," Sherlock suddenly sounded a little more enthusiastic. "Both the second and third trial has shown great improvement... Of course this fever was a obvious drawback, but... Perhaps I should wait longer in between the sessions."

"Why?" John interrupts what has the possibility to become a scientific report.

"Because I need reference points, of course. The gathering of baseline data is crucial."

Sherlock gave him a condescending look, but didn't manage to hold it for long before he slumped back to the bed.

"Why the hell would you....?" John stopped as he was reminded of Sherlock's lower body nudity. "Can we pull your pants back up? Please?"

"Why? Is my penis distracting you?"

"Of course it is!" John groaned.

It was. Sherlock's penis was half-hard. Just as John's was.

"This is distracting me too," said John taking the buttplug of the bed and throwing it into the dustbin by the bedside.

"Actually," Sherlock rolled to his side with a bad wince, which wasn't better since he was now facing John even more. "I was building up my tolerance..."

"For what?!" John was so upset that he got to his feet and almost paced the room.

"For you," whispered Sherlock with a low voice.

John stood still, just staring at his mad friend. Sherlock swallowed. With another grimace he sat up against the headboard, and pulled the bedcovers over his lap.

John had to sit down again. The strain on his trousers was painful.

"I..." Sherlock Holmes hesitated, actually hesitated. "When I was away... I... I discovered that I missed you. That... that I was in love with you."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing, he rubbed his face.

"When I returned," Sherlock continued. "I noticed my feelings were reciprocated."

"Sherlock..." John reached out and took the detective's hand, it was slightly bigger than his own. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Sherlock made a huffing sound that meant that John was an idiot, and that John could bloody well find out for himself if John only put some of his feeble mind to it, but since John was an idiot, Sherlock was going to tell John and spare John's poor brain the trouble.

"Because you are constantly claiming to be heterosexual, I am basically asexual since I never taken interest in sex, and neither of us have any experience in male-to-male-intercourse. At least one of us should have done some kind of proper research before the inevitable happens."

John was speechless. He still held on to Sherlock's hand, though. Sherlock's eyes darted over John's face, probably analysing every little micro-expression.

"Most people just look up some gay porn on the internet," John said finally.

"I'm not most people."

"No," John laughed. "You most certainly are not."

"Though I did that too."

John sighed and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"What am I going to do with you?"

He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

"What are you going to do with me? Sherlock tried a smile.

"I'm going to lay down beside you," said John settling next to Sherlock on the bed. "Hug you, and I'm going to let you get better." He placed his arms around the other man. "Then we are going to do your experiments all over again, together. Okay?"

"That's acceptable," Sherlock snuggled closer to John. "You want to share the covers?"

"Sure," John smiled. "We are going to talk more about this in the morning."

They settled together. John noticed that Sherlock had pushed off his trousers and pants from his ankles. The thought of the other man naked below the waist made him giggle.

"What?" asked Sherlock, settling on John's shoulder.

"I can't believe you."

"Is that new?"

"No," John laughed, but then gave him a serious look. "How would you ever think I would accept this?"

"You were not to know."

"You are a idiot. I'm a doctor."

"Stating the obvious."

"You're mad," John shook Sherlock a little. "Is that obvious enough for you? Now rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

It took two minutes before Sherlock's breath was calm and rhythmic against his chest. John sighed, surprised over his own tender feelings.

He felt calm and a bit happy. John noticed he was still wearing the latex gloves, he gently pealed them off and dropped them on the floor. After that he settled against Sherlock and soon fell asleep.

:::::

part3

Attempt of making Sherlock porn

naturegirlrocks — Sun, 07 Jul 2013 16:52:33 GMT

Title: The Ding
Author: Naturegirlrocks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: M/R
Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: Sherlock has been back for three months, but there is something distracting him. John worries while he slowly accepts his attraction to the man.

Read it on AO3 or here:

John stood still in the doorway. He was watching Sherlock who was wearing a blue striped pyjamas and standing by the window.

It was three months since the detective had returned. Three months since John's heart had begun the long crooked journey back from being broken. It would had be easier to heal if Sherlock fully had returned, and not having left a part of himself back there, wherever he had been.

The detective was leaning against the window frame, the orange curtain was draped over his right shoulder giving him a good view of the night street below. He looked like a strange parody of a superhero watching over his sleeping city.

He probably wasn't watching the street at all, but some higher etheric level of existence visible only to him.

The yellow-tinted lights from outside made the dusky room look gloom. It made Sherlock look more troubled and alone than John had ever thought possible.

John was sure it wasn't just the light. He placed his restocked medical bag on the table next to the door. He was tired after his eight hour shift at the A&E, but not tired enough to go to bed just yet.

"New case?" he asked.

"Perhaps," Sherlock didn't turn around, but continued his long stare out the window.

"'Perhaps'?" John sat down in his comfortable chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, and wiggling his toes in his socks. "You don't know?"

Sherlock turned, his face half in shadow, half in light. His deducing grey eyes roamed over John. The intense scrutiny was not unusual. Since Sherlock had returned there had been plenty of these observations, not as many explanations though.

John had done plenty of his own observing. Especially in the first month as they had reestablished a daily routine, mostly to confirm that Sherlock actually was back, and not just a figment of his imagination.

Their fight a few days after the return, when John's pent up emotions finally snapped, had swept away most of his existential doubts. He was even more convinced this new reality as he had needed to patch Sherlock up afterwards.

John's own observing was now more of a getting-to-know-you-again type. Spending over twenty months away chasing dangerous criminals around the world had done nothing to make Sherlock's personality any more understandable than before. The missing part of him was even less than so.

"Can I help?" asked John, a sentence he had repeated to infinity by now.

"I need to speak to Mycroft!"

Sherlock jerked away from the window, the curtain slid down from his shoulder as he moved. He grabbed his long coat from the hanger by the door, and continued passed John out the door and down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" called John. "You are in your pyjama and slippers! Sherlock?! It's over ten o'clock! It's February!"

The front door slammed. John got up and walked over to the window. He could see the contours of Sherlock, and the coat, hurrying away down the street. Every time Sherlock left 221b there was a fear in John's, not quite yet healed, heart of never seeing him again.

John frowned. He took up his mobile as he walked to the kitchen. The table was as full of ongoing experiments and chemical equipment as if Sherlock never had been away. There was even a human eye floating around in a jelly-like pink liquid in the middle of everything.

He's coming to you, JW

John sent the message to Mycroft. The man probably already knew that his brother was on the way, but a friendly heads up was never wrong. Mycroft had received a lot of the blame while Sherlock was presumed dead, only half of it had been deserved.

Since there was nothing else to do, John decided to go to bed. He lay awake for three hours before he heard Sherlock return, and was able to relax.

It wasn't until the next morning he read the answering message from Mycroft that Sherlock had never arrived.

------

"John," said Sherlock. "Can you advice me on this?"

John was in the kitchen eating breakfast. Sherlock was in the living room, ignoring breakfast. A plate with two cold prices of toast with fried eggs and baked beans stood forlorn on the table.

"What?" John swallowed the last piece of his own breakfast. "You want my advice?"

This is a rare occurrence, thought John as he took two cups of tea to the living room. Sherlock was by the sofa, looking down on it with serous thought. John stopped by his side, and looked as well.

"Any particular reason why you draped our sofa with underpants?" He asked and gave Sherlock one of the cups.

"They are my underpants," said Sherlock and tasted the tea without the usual vince.

"Ah," nodded John, still not understanding. "Obviously. I would have been worried if they were mine."

"Why?" Sherlock immediately turned to him. "Why would you worry if so?"

"Well... that would have been just... weird."

They looked at the pants for a moment. There were about fifteen pairs, most of them black, but there was also a few blue, and some white. A few briefs, a few boxers.

John sipped some tea as he scanned the exhibition, and came to the conclusion that Sherlock was actually quite unexciting when it came to underwear. There were no bright colours or patterns. Still he felt a bit uneasy, and perhaps a bit excited, watching something that was worn by Sherlock so intimately.

"If you were going on a date," said Sherlock, putting a bent forefinger under his bottom lip, and his thumb under his chin, pinching it. "Which pair should you choose?"

"You have a date?" John blinked in surprise. "Do we have a case? Why haven't you told me?"

"No case. It's simply an experiment."

"You are experimenting with dates?"

John shifted nervously, Sherlock wasn't going to ask him out, was he? That would be... John frowned and took a drink from his cup to distract himself from the thought.

Not that he would mind a date with Sherlock. It didn't have to be romantic, since John wasn't gay, no. Though a date with Sherlock...

"The pants, John. Which pants?"

"Um..." John frowned again. "I guess... those?"

He pointed to a black pair of briefs that had a grey print of some fancy designer's name and logo over the waistband. They looked almost new, and quite comfortable.

"Really?" Sherlock sounded bit surprised. "Interesting."

"Did I get it wrong?" John couldn't help but to feel that he had been put through a test of some kind.

"Thank you for your help," said Sherlock, took the chosen pants, and then moved towards his bedroom.

"You are cleaning the rest of these away, aren't you?" John called after him.

-----

The display of pants were still on the sofa when John got back from work five hours later. Sherlock and the black designer pants were not at home, though. John sighed and started to gather together the scattered clothing.

He blushed a little thinking that these were clothes of very personal character. They were not exactly fine lace knickers and bras, but for a man like Sherlock they might as well be.

John cleared his throat, and headed for Sherlock's room. He had first planned to dump everything in a pile on the bed, but that was quite a juvenile thought.

The top drawer of the bureau was for the sock index, John knew that much from his raids for cigarettes, and from when he had put all of Sherlock's things in storage after....

He pulled out the second drawer, and was going to dispose of the pants there, when what he saw made him pause. A tube of lubricant and a large pack of condoms, both opened. John blinked.

It was not the lube or the condoms by themselves that were shocking. Almost every healthy adult male would own something like it, and a underwear drawer was a common place to keep it in. What was shocking was that it was Sherlock's underwear drawer.

John had on occasion even wondered if Sherlock even had a penis. Though being a doctor John was aware of the anatomical necessity. He had seen Sherlock go to the bathroom, several times, even stood beside him on a couple occasions when in a public bathrooms.

The thought that his flatmate had a penis, and that it actually was used in other ways than peeing, was a bit chocking. Though the thought was not as unpleasant as he would have imagined.

Then he remembered that he had found nothing like this when he cleared out Sherlock's room for storage. There hadn't even been a single one of those sample condoms that was given out free at clinics. Again John felt conflicted by his feelings.

What had happened while Sherlock was away? And why did it affect John?

John quickly stuffed the pants haphazardly in the drawer, and closed it. He left Sherlock's room quickly, not wanting to think of it anymore.

-----

Sherlock was getting texts. There was no sexy moan accompanying them this time, it was a distinctive ding, but it was a different ding than the usual ding. The look on Sherlock's face was the same as when Irene had texted him: irritated and mildly intrigued.

John hated that ding. Sherlock said it was a friend. Since when did Sherlock get more friends? Him, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and occasionally Mycroft. If Sherlock got any more friends his brain would surely explode.

Neither of them had a special ding, not even John, who really should have deserved his own ding by now. He should defiantly get his own ding. John immediately stopped that strange train of thought, because that way madness lay.

Was it someone Sherlock had met on his year and a half travelling as a dead man? Sherlock didn't like to talk about those missing months. Except from saying that they all were over now. John accepted that, mostly. Though he would very much want to know what had changed during that time, and what had been left behind.

Sherlock couldn't... He couldn't possibly be in a relationship with somebody, could he?

There had been a irritating ding interrupting John's Friday night favourite telly show about three hours ago. Sherlock had put on his coat, and left, leaving John who was actually missing the snarky commentary, that he had apparently gotten used to all over again. It was like watching a American sit-com without the boxed laughter.

After the show ended John worked on his blog, answered a few mails, wrote to his sister, and then read some other people's blogs.

He was reading an American soccer-mom's description of her day, and making scary associations to his own life with Sherlock, when he heard the front door slam downstairs.

Nothing happened for another two minutes, then there was a painful groan from the stairs. John was immediately on his feet.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs, resting on the rail. His dark hair was wet from sweat, and his posture was slumped. There seemed to be a considerable amount of pain in every move he made.

"Fuck," John hurried to help him. "Who'd you piss off this time?"

There was no cuts or bruising on Sherlock's face, which was odd because there was usually the place you wanted to hit him first. John placed a hand on Sherlock's back, the detective winced badly.

"Was it in the kidneys?" John asked, while assisting the man up these stairs and into the flat. "How does your ribs feel? Can you breathe all right?"

"Why do you assume..." Sherlock took a breath, and feebly tried to stand up straight, "...that someone has beaten me up?"

He pushed away from John. A look of pure determination settled in his brows. Gingerly, and slightly limping, Sherlock tried out three different ways to get down on the sofa, before deciding for a forth: just fall, face first, on to the pillows.

John hesitated for a moment, but then helped Sherlock by removing the coat. He carefully rolled the man on to the side, facing outwards. Sherlock groaned again, he was obviously in pain.

"Won't you tell me what happened then?" John kneeled down on the floor. "I can see you're hurt, and you have the beginnings of a fever. Don't lie to me."

"Experiment..." came the murmuring answer, followed by a small smile.

"Sherlock, you haven't taken any drugs, have you?" John tried to look at his eyes.

"I'm clean," said Sherlock in a harsh voice. "I just need to rest a little. Everything's fine."

"You still going to have a fever," John got to his feet. "I'll get you something for that."

John walked to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. He frowned as he looked through the various chemicals that had no place there in the first place.

The back pains, the stiff movements, the flushed cheeks. If he didn't had a long run and fallen badly on his arse, Sherlock just had sex. Though judging by the fever, the sweats, and the denial, very badly prepared and rough sex, but still sex.

And it had, almost surely, been with a man. The thought was disturbing in levels that John didn't even know he had. Was that actual jealousy he felt?

Suddenly he wished he was wrong. He wished that Sherlock really had taken a bad beating from some idiotic thugs, but he knew that wasn't the case.

He wondered if Sherlock had worn the pants, the ones thatJohn had chosen. He wondered if it had been consensual...

"Sherlock...?"

John really didn't want to ask, but as a friend, and as a doctor, he didn't want Sherlock to get hurt. If he were to believe, not only Mycroft, but also his own eyes, then Sherlock had very little experience in sex.

"Hm?"

Sherlock was still on his side, but his eyes were closed. The pain was still visible on his face, but the flush on his cheeks had gone down a little.

"You..." John hesitated, but then pulled himself mildly together. "You are being careful? I mean... You are using protection, and good preparation...? And, err... Keeping clean? And so on."

He placed a cool wet towel on the detective's forehead. John couldn't believe he was talking about such things with a grown man well into his thirties. Sherlock opened a eye.

"And if I'm not?"

John felt his stomach turn into several knots. Was Sherlock asking as in just asking, or had it already happened? Sherlock could never, never be this ignorant, even about sex. Or could he?

"You can get an infection," John tried to look serious through the worry. "Or... or a disease."

"I'm fine," Sherlock closed the eye.

"G- good," John rubbed his face, feeling his patience running low. "Take these," he said, and held out two pills and a glass to Sherlock. "Water."

"It does hurt..." murmured Sherlock as he swallowed down his medication. "I will take your advise under consideration."

John just sighed, looked at his friend for a few moments, and then he went to bed. There was nothing more he could do anyway.

It took him over an hour to fall asleep. Should he have offered to look for damage or tarring? He might be a doctor but asking to check his flat mate's arse out before bed was perhaps pushing it.

He ignored the prickling sensation in his own arse as he thought about it.

----

When he got down the next morning Sherlock was still on the sofa. It wasn't clear if the man had slept or not. Either way, he looked a little bit better.

John was about to start breakfast when he was interrupted by Greg Lestrade suddenly coming out from the bathroom.

"Sherlock!" said the D.I. "I said we were in a hurry. Oh, good morning, John."

"Morning," nodded John.

He noticed the impatience in Greg's posture, and guessed that there was a case. Not wanting to be left behind John immediately walked over to the washing hamper to pull out yesterday's trousers to wear.

"It can't be that urgent if you have time to take a bathroom break," murmured Sherlock.

"I was hoping you were ready to leave by the time I finished."

"So you peed for my benefit? How kind of you."

John pulled on a grey knitted junper, also from the hamper, over his sleep crumpled t-shirt.

"He had a bad fever last night," he said to Greg. "As his doctor I recommend he rests..."

"I don't need to... Ah!" Sherlock made a clenched face as he got up from the sofa. "I'm perfectly fine!"

He wobbled a little where he stood. Both John and Greg took a step forward as if Sherlock was going to fall, but then he gained control of his balance. There was only a slightly noticeable limp as he began to move.

"Robbery in a jewellery store gone wrong," said Greg, watching Sherlock's stiff movements with a frown. "The store clerk was shot dead."

"I'm not going in a police car," said Sherlock, gingerly pulling on his coat.

"I'll let you sit in the front seat," said Greg.

Sherlock gave him a thoughtful glare.

"Fine," he gave a nonchalant shrug, and limped out of the door.

Greg exchanged a smirk with John.

"What's with the limp?" asked Greg as they followed Sherlock downstairs and out if the door. "If I didn't know better I'd think..."

"He got in a fight," said John resolutely.

"Right," hummed the D.I. as he seated himself in the backseat of the police car next to John.

John looked at Sherlock's black set of curls through the steel netting that separated the back from the front seats.

The uniformed driver started the car and edged it in to traffic. As they reached the end of Baker Street, were it connected to a more busy road, he turned on the sirens.

Under cover of the wailing sound John leaned closer to Greg.

"Actually," he said in a low voice. "I'm a bit worried that he's up to something dangerous."

"Do I want to hear this?" Greg looked a bit queasy.

"I don't think it's illegal," John shook his head. "But I think he is in risk of getting hurt."

"Why don't we talk about it tonight?" said Greg.

The police car pulled up in front of a jewellery store with a smashed window. Two other police cars, and Sergeant Donovan, were already there. The sirens were turned off.

"What are you two canoodling about?" Sherlock turned, giving John and Greg a suspicious look.

"I was asking John to have a pint with me tonight," said Greg. "Do you want to join? The pub has the Arsenal versus Man-U game on a big screen telly."

"I don't like cricket," said Sherlock, and moved out if the car.

A very shocked police driver let John and Greg out of the backseat.

:::::

( The Ding Part 2 )

part3

Albumcover

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 19:42:47 GMT

Artist: naturegirlrocks
Title: Alive
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Note1: This is for the letsdrawsherlock challenge on Tumblr
Note2: Based on Skillet's cover for the album Awake

Knitted bondage <3

naturegirlrocks — Fri, 24 May 2013 06:36:10 GMT

Artist: naturegirlrocks
Title: Knitted Bondage with flower
Material: Yarn
Rating: R?
~~Incentive~~ Warning: There is a knitted penis!

For more photos: http://naturegirlrocks.tumblr.com/post/51209949175/knitted-bondage-with-flower

Sherlock fanfiction

naturegirlrocks — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 09:36:07 GMT

Title: Something new, Something old...

By Naturegirlrocks

Fandoms: Sherlock BBC, James Bond (Skyfall)

Rating: T/pg13

"And how many children do you have?"

"Four, all boys," she laughed. "Well, almost..."

Sherlock attends his soon-to-be sister's wedding, meets his younger brother's soon-to-be boyfriend, and finds out that he already-is to John.

Sherlock Holmes as Bridget Jones

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 12:24:52 GMT

Sherlock Holmes (not a spinster) by naturegirlrocks

Rating:PG13

Summary

Summary: Johnlock based on the book Bridget Jones Diary by Helen Feilding
In which Sherlock is quite emotional, John is a bit sexually confused, Mycroft is friendly, Greg is cool, Molly is sweet, and Jim is a fuckwit.

mulifandom fic part 1

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 20:10:21 GMT

Title: Fandom,) Actually.
Author: aturegirlrocks
Crossover: ove Actually
Fandoms: arry Potter (EWE), Sherlock (BBC), James Bond (postSkyfall), Supernatural (S7), Doctor Who (11th, between S6&7), and Merlin (S4), featuring The Avengers, and special guest Cabin Pressure (pre-series).
Romantic Pairings: arry/Draco, Severus/Sirius, Severus/OFC Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, Irene/Molly, James/Q, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Anthea, Merlin/Arthur(/Gwen)
Bromantic pairings: olly&Martin, The Doctor&The Avengers, Dean&Sirius, and Mycroft&his butler.
Brothers: ycroft&Sherlock&Q, Dean&Sam
Rating:T/R/15
Words:25K+
Summary: herlock does porn. Cas is left behind in purgatory. James is not too old for the field. Mycroft is fighting his forbidden feelings. Harry does his biography. Merlin does photography. Dean likes The Scorpions. Martin has breakdowns. Snape is thoughtless. The Doctor is making American friends. And so much more...!
Note: his was supposed to be my Christmas fic, but RL happened. Please see this as a Valentine with a Christmas theme :)
Warning: ome angst, not linear

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Prologue

"So this is London," said Dean Winchester, clearly not impressed with the view through the big windows of the airport terminal.

"It's called Gatwick," said his younger, but taller, brother Sam. "Apparently it's only a suburb to London."

"I knew saw you reading the guide book on the plane," Dean smirked.

"It was a long flight," shrugged Sam.

The brothers gave each other some good-nature bantering looks and continued walking to the arrival hall. It was much smaller than they had imagined, it actually only had ione/i hamburger restaurant. Nothing like the American big city airports, which were the only kind of airports they had visited before.

Not that they flew that often. Not since they had to do that exorcism, on that demon, on that plane, in the middle of a flight. Dean had fallen more in love with his car, an '67 Impala, after that adventure. He continually insisted that the entire continent of America was within driving distance. For the moment the car was in a, heavily protected, storage garage outside Chicago.

"Where were we supposed to meet him?" asked Sam.

He was looking up at the many different screens overhead depicting arrivals and departures of planes, trains and buses. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The brothers where both used to awkward working hours, sleeplessness, and constant travelling between three American time zones, but the the clock jumping twelve hours on a six hour journey was taking it's toll on them. Dean was eyeing the hamburger joint, wondering briefly how the burgers tasted over here.

"He said he'd meet us here."

Dean thought about the man he and Cas had met in Purgatory. The wizard had spoken to him in that humorous British accent. That was one of the better things about Sirius, who had become their friend in that hole halfway to hell, the man had kept his humour. It seemed that the former place that he had been held was even worse than Purgatory. In his dark moments he had talked about a place called Azkaban, and Dean, who had actually been to Hell, understood what Sirius had been feeling.

Sirius and Dean had managed to escape Purgatory through a loophole back to Earth and lif. The exit hadn't worked for the Cas, though. Dean had been forced to let go of his hand. Dean swallowed hard and pushed his thoughts away from the angel that was left behind. He missed Cas more than he ever would admit, even to Sam.

"Dean!" a familiar voice called out not far away.

"Sirius!" Dean smiled at the approaching man.

It was different to see Sirius clean and healthy. The wizard was just about fifty years old, Dean's height, the body under the stylish, but old-fashioned, three piece suit was lean and strong. They shook hands.

"Sam, It's good to finally meet you, and not just through fire-calls," said Sirius with a sincere smile.

"Sirius," Sam shook the outstretched hand. "It's exciting to be here."

"Yes," the wizard smiled. "This is your first time outside the Americas. I hope you will have a good stay. I'm sorry that we couldn't meet under better circumstances."

"Don't worry," said Sam. "It's not the first time we are accused of going on a cross-country murder spree, and have to fake our deaths."

"I know that feeling," said Sirius with a bitter smile. "Far too well."

"Just point us towards the monsters," said Dean. "And we'll feel just as home."

"Now, now, Dean," Sirius grinned and held out a hand, indicating them to follow him. "As I told you before. We have a different way of handling the supernatural in Britain."

"Because you are more wizards here?" asked Sam curiously as they started to walk towards the exit.

"There are almost exactly as many wizards in all of the United States as there are in Britain. It's the much shorter distances here that makes us more of a tight-knit community here. American wizards and witches are loners, or they live in private villages."

"Figures why we never come across many of them back home then," said Dean and shivered. "Witches."

Outside the airport Sirius took them aside to the corner of the building. There was a broken down red telephone box. Dean looked around, feeling strange. Like someone was watching him, trying to scare him away. If he had his gun he would have drawn it. Sam also seemed unnerved.

"What you are feeling is the Muggle repellant," said Sirius. "Don't worry. Most people just walk away, but I guess you are not most people."

"I guess we aren't," smirked Dean.

"Take hold," Sirius held out his hands to Dean and Sam. "I'll take you to your new home."

Bond took aim on the cardboard human cut out on the other side of the long room. The brand new weapon had a good heavy weight in his hand. Slowly he squeezed the trigger and set off a round of six shots without blinking.

"You missed!" said Q over the radio in Bond's ear protection.

"Damn!" Bond swore.

"It wasn't too bad," said Q, looking at the target through his binoculars. "He is badly wounded."

Bond put a new clip in the gun. Focusing on the fake paper-head he wished he was on a mission, not stuck in this secret test faculty with only the precocious quartermaster as company. He fired

"Again!" called Q's sassy voice.

"Fuck!" screamed Bond. "There is something wrong with this gun!"

"Are you compensating?"

"Of course I'm fucking compensating!" Bond reloaded. "It's your fucking crap gun! You must have done something wrong with the sight."

"Language, 007."

Q gave Bond the binoculars to hold, and took the warm gun from him. While the young technician was looking over the weapon, Bond pouted. His superiors thought he was getting too old for the field. That was why he was here, he was sure of it. Fuck them. He was only forty-four, he was in his goddamn prime.

Bond huffed as Q gave him back the gun. None his sudden burst of anger was soothed by emptying the new clip.

"A centimetre to the right."

"Fucking shit balls!" Bond kicked the partition of the gun range. "I can fucking do this."

"I have no doubt."

Bond imagined Q's face on the cutout as he, once again, reloaded. He took a deep breath and fired.

"Perfect!"

"Ha!" Bond raised his arms in victory. "See?!"

"Yes, 007. I'm very glad twenty-five years military service has paid off for you."

"Twenty-seven actually," said Bond, much happier now as he took up a new clip. "My legal guardians lied about my age to the navy recruiters because I was too much trouble for them to handle."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" said Q with smirk, as he took back the gun for final adjustments.

"I don't have to go, you know," said Harry letting Ginny tie his best bow-tie around his neck.

She was on her knees in their bed, only wearing a panties and a sleeveless top. Her long copper-red hair gushed down over her freckled shoulders. Harry had seldom seen her more beautiful. His heart leaped at the sight of her, his wife of seven years.

"It's the house-warming party of the century," she smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. "Of course you have to go. Just because I'm sick doesn't mean you have to miss out on all the fun things."

"I love you."

He tried to kiss her on the lips, but she held up her hand.

"I don't want to infect you," she said.

"Did I mention that I love you?" Harry kissed her forehead instead.

"Yes, you did, you silly berk," Ginny laughed. "Now go! And don't forget to bring the present!"

Sirius was cleaning some very stubborn orange juice-stains off his youngest son's shirt when his mobile rang. Giving the six-year-old a stern look, and telling him not to move from the table top, he answered by waiving his wand towards the phone. The new hands-free spell, invented by George Weasley, was one of the best things Sirius had learned recently.

"Hello?" Sirius returned to rubbing the juice-stains with the wand, the child giggled as the magic tickled him through the fabric.

"Sirius?" said a familiar American voice.

"Dean," Sirius smiled. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm just..." Dean sounded strained, like he very much wanted to say something but couldn't get it through his personality. "Look..."

"Is this about the ceremony?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed a little relief. "It seems really... stupid, you know."

"There is nothing stupid by saying good bye to the departed."

"Cas isn't dead!"

"But clearly you grieve as if he is," Sirius put his son down on the floor letting him run off to get dirty again. "You agreed to it. Castiel would like for you to move on. I know this. Everything is set up for you. Sam will take care of it. All you have to do is say a few words."

"Fine."

"How's Sam?"

"I don't know..." Dean sighed. "Ever since those assholes from MI-5 took him for questioning about that vampire, he has been different. I think they really scared him in some way, but I can't figure out what happened."

"Try talking to him, Dean."

"Why does everybody think talking is such a great idea? I talk all the time. Nothing good ever came out of it for me."

There was a sudden and omnibus noise from the living room.

"Albus!" shouted Sirius, probably making Dean wince at the other end of the line. "Don't you and your big brother dare touch those things! They are for the big Christmas party!"

"We didn't!" shouted the older of the boys back in a slightly panicked voice.

"Talk to you later, Dean," Sirius hurried towards the sound. "I think the kids are tarring down the house."

Severus Snape was a very lucky man. Who would have thought that fourteen years ago when he was on the dusty floor of an abandoned old shack with powerful dark snake poison pumping through his veins, and accused of more murderous crimes than anyone alive at that moment? Now he had a husband who loved him, three wonderful adopted children, and a blooming apothecary business that served both the wizard and it's muggle-related community.

He stirred the last of the pulverized dandelion roots down the cauldron. Putting the solution on a slow simmer he glanced out through the glass windows of his office to the large working area on the other side. His employees were all busy with their assigned tasks. His eyes fell on the young, pretty, muggle woman who was bent over a microscope, while speaking intensely on her mobile phone. With a sigh he went over to the door.

"Molly?" he called. "Can you turn off your phone, and come to my office, please?"

The muggle woman jerked up from her work, her eyes like those of a frightened deer. She didn't look much to the world of science, but she made it up by being a star at her job. Severus was lucky to have her on his team. Pathologists were very rare in the wizard world, since wizards usually had an aversion to use hands-on science where a spell would be enough. Wizards overlooked quite a lot of good facts because of that.

Just like the other muggles in his care Molly Hooper had been placed in the wizard world by the British government as a kind of witness protection program. Apparently she had helped to fake the death of the brother of the Ministery of Magic's Muggle Military Middleman, the man called Mycroft. Severus wasn't supposed to know any of that, but he had his own ways to get the information he wanted. His husband did sometimes work closely with Mycroft at the Ministry after all.

"Mr. Snape?" asked Molly closing the door behind her. "Is something wrong?"

"Molly," Severus leaned back on his desk, trying to give the younger woman a fatherly look. "How long have you been with us now?"

"One year, five months, twenty days and two hours," she looked down on her hands.

"And how long has you been in love with Miss Irene Adler, our esteemed product-casing designer?"

She blinked in confusion, but then took a breath.

"One year, five months, twenty days, one hour and thirty minutes... Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully," Severus rubbed his temple. "Everybody knows."

"Does she know?" Molly covered her mouth.

"Yes."

"Oh my god!" she began kneading her hands. "Oh my god!"

"Calm down, woman," Severus said a bit irritated. "Look. She is muggle, you are muggle. She was brought here by the Mediator, you were brought here by the Mediator."

"But we are in love with the same man," whispered Molly, fiddling with her phone.

"And now you are in love with each other. Also, by the sound of it, this man has no reciprocating feelings for neither of you. Please for all our sanities, ask her out!"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was, speak of the devil, Irene.

"I'm sorry," she smiled at Molly with perfect red lips. "I'm finished with the new bottle designs for the rose oil soap."

"Let me see," said Severus, looking down at the detailed drawing of a very sensually shaped pink bottle with a delicate golden rosebud stopper.

"I- I'll just..." Molly hurried passed Irene.

Severus rolled his eyes when he heard Molly's phone ring.

The Doctor was again looking for a companion. He knew it wasn't fair to upset the life of some poor earthbound human, but it wasn't fair for him to continue on alone either. It really wasn't. In exchange he could give them memorable moments of adventure, amazing sights, and probably a lot of running.

He parked the Tardis in a random obscure London alleyway in the beginning of the twenty-first century, his favourite place to park between travels.

His latest trip had been bit of a cock-up, the blunt expression totally necessary in this particular case. It wasn't everyday, even in his long life, that he managed to create real parallel living copies of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, and the great wizard Merlin. Slightly embarrassed, the Doctor had left the suddenly existing and misplaced trio in the care of some his trusted wizard friends, hoping for the best. He would check in on them soon. Well, soon-ish.

As he came out of the alleyway he took in his surroundings. His eyes was immediately pulled to the window of a nearby apothecary, clearly wizard in origin. It was full of fanciful bottles and parcels. The special thing about the display was at it showed a very refined and subtle eroticism, but eroticism none the less. His interest peaked the Doctor stepped inside.

It was actually a cool store, full of little bubbly things. The Doctor poked a flask of red stuff with his sonic screwdriver, the stuff turned green.

"Oops," he said, then pretended that the he hadn't noticed, and moved on.

He looked around at the people working there. They all seemed busy with science stuff, or magic potion making. There was a cute redheaded girl talking on a mobile phone while poking sadly on a liver on her worktable. The Doctor shook his head, no more gingers for a while at least. There was another lady sitting by a drawing board, but the Doctor just had to look at her to know that she was really scary, and probably would try to kiss him when he wasn't ready. No more of those either.

There were three more people in the apothecary. The first one was a grumpy hook-nosed wizard that actually frightened him a bit, not many earthlings could do that. The second one was actually Guinevere. Awkward! She looked at him with a bit of resentment as she stirred a cauldron. The Doctor just waived at her, and turned quickly away to the third person. A woman who was chewing on a goose feather quill and starring at the hook-nosed man through the glass that separated them. She gave the Doctor a uninterested once-over, and then turned back to her work.

There was no one here that was interesting enough to be a companion. The Doctor looked around a bit more though, it was really a cool place with lots of things to look at.

"Sherlock Holmes," whispered John Watson with so much indignation that Sherlock actually looked worried for a short moment. "When we are finished here you are going to wish you died when you jumped off that bloody building."

"I really didn't mean for you to find out like this," whispered Sherlock back.

"No?" John grabbed hold of the neck of the cheep cotton robe Sherlock was wearing. "How were you going to tell me then? Show up on my doorstep one morning? Saying 'Hi John. I'm not dead. Cheer up. Did you buy milk?'"

"Now you are exaggerating..."

"Getting to know each other, are you boys?"

John and Sherlock turned to smile at the short dark haired man in the tacky white suit.

"Oh yes, Mr. Kalipolis," said Sherlock in a ridiculous voice borrowed from a giggly woman trapped inside a man's body. "He's such a sweetheart."

"Lovely," grumped John, tugging his own cotton robe tighter around himself.

"Good, good," Kalipolis rubbed his hands together. "Let's get this show on the road then."

John glared at Sherlock. He was so angry. He was so happy. His emotions were running amok with his feelings. He wanted to punch the other man to a pulp, all while hugging him tight and never letting go.

He looked over to the small photographic crew and sighed. First they had to get through this. Sherlock was already standing by the bed waiting for him. A female make-up artist was powdering his face.

"John?" Mr Kalipolis asked in a apologising voice, holding up a little chart of blue pills. "Do you need some Viagra?"

"Let's see how it goes," said John turning to look at Sherlock again. "I think I have some good motivation to take him apart.

Sherlock shifted nervously.

John had, thanks to hundreds of emails and letters, noticed that there were people who still believed in Sherlock. There were also people who, besides himself, still needed Sherlock, so he had done his best to try fill the great detective's shoes.

He wasn't as quick or as efficient as the dearly departed detective, but he had learned a lot from the man, and he managed to get the job done. John was helping people, and that was the best he could do to honour his best friend's memory.

Sherlock's reputation had been, partly, restored over the last year. Mostly thanks to the two mobile phones that had been found next to the dead body of Jim Moriarty on the roof of St Bart's. Later there had also been reports of Moriarty's network falling apart all over Europe.

John had just gotten a new client. The case was about a small company dealing with male erotica with the questionable name of 'HeyGay'. While the company itself was legit, there were questions about some of its partners.

It was the owner, Mr Kalipolis, himself that had asked for John's help. He suspected that his associates were using HayGay's 'good' name to smuggle illegal pornography, and maybe even worse stuff.

John had agreed to come and take a look. But when he arrived to the studio the suspect partners was already there. The gentleman in question, Addams, didn't look like a gentleman all, more like a stereotypical former Soviet villain, even though he was obviously English. So were the two muscularly built men in his attendance. Mr. Kalipolis had panicked and introduced John as one of the nude models.

"Isn't he a bit old?" asked the photographer, a young man called Dorian. "And we already have the other guy. I promised him that it was going to be a solo shoot."

John was just about to violently protest when he caught sight of 'the other guy' entering the room. Sherlock Holmes, not in the least dead at all, and very naked under a robe. John felt like he was going to fall apart, but managed with all his military and surgical strength to hold himself together.

The three Soviet stereotypes were sitting by the wall, looking over the set. They looked bored, though Addams had perked up slightly at the sight of Sherlock.

The make up artist, a pale blond woman in her early thirties with big blue eyes and a nice smile came up to John and put some powder on his face. She was humming some strange song to herself.

"Thank you, Luna." Dorian clapped his hand to get attention. "Let's start with both of you on the bed, side by side, belly down, leafing through that together."

The woman, Luna, gave them a gay porn magazine, probably one of HayGay's earlier publications. Sherlock took magazine and faked a smile that didn't reach is eyes.

"So this is what you been doing while I've been grieving our death," said John in a low whisper. "Nude modelling?"

"Of course not," hissed Sherlock while disrobing. "I've been round the whole of Europe and half of Asia, saving your life."

"Saving my life?" John frowned, taking off his own robe.

The doctor in him couldn't help but to look over Sherlock's naked body for signs of injury. There were plenty of scars, but none were too severe. Except for one, a knife wound, stretching raggedly across the right side of his abdomen, that seemed about three months old. There were also signs of slight malnutrition, but Sherlock seemed generally healthy.

He ignored the intake of air from the crew at the sight of the horrible scar tissue over his left shoulder. John was surprised, though, when Luna showed up from seemingly nowhere and started powdering the glossy scar. She didn't seem fazed at all to be touching it, almost all women usually were.

Sherlock lay down on the bed with the magazine. John took his assigned place next to him. They pretended to look at the pictures while the camera began snapping.

"Yes, your life," continued Sherlock in a low voice so low that only John could hear. "And Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's."

"It was you," said John looking at his resurrected friend. "It was you. All the reports of Moriarty's network crumbling. It was you."

"Yes."

It was six months since Arthur Pendragon, together with this wife and his servant, had been kidnapped by a strange madman in a blue box, and taken over one thousand years into the future.

As that wasn't shocking enough, he then found out that he never ever where going back home. The madman said it was because of parallel universes, big storms in space, and rips in the fabric of space, time, and space-time. Though Arthur had been reassured that Camelot was safe, and that Arthur was still there as the king, it was not just the Arthur that he was now, but another Arthur, but the same Arthur. At that point Arthur had tuned everything out and had a big minor panic attack.

His two fellow victims, who were actually more his two best friends, Gwen and Merlin, had taken the news slightly better than him, but that was only because they were both long-schooled to give comfort to his distress before taking care of their own.

The madman had left them in the care of a community of wizards, saying that ordinary, non-wizard, people would probably see all three of them as loons and lock them up. At least on that Arthur had agreed with the madman. He really had nothing against wizards as long as they kept themselves to themselves, and weren't doing evil things.

The next shock came when the wizards had started worshipping Merlin for no apparent reason at all. That shock wasn't even half as bad as the one he that got when he found out Merlin actually was a wizard himself.

Arthur felt betrayed and angry, and he told Merlin as much, in very loud words. It got even worse when Merlin then in a furious rage resigned from Arthur's service to 'spend time with his own kind'. Arthur told him to do just that, and that Merlin had been a really rubbish servant anyway, and now also a lying traitor. Gwen had begged Merlin to stay, but he had left. Good riddance, thought Arthur bitterly.

After that, which all had happened within a week of their abrupt arrival, including some slow presentations to the new non-magical world, Arthur was so emotionally drained, scared out of his mind, and thoroughly confused that he thought that one more surprise was going to knock him off his feet. Which was when he found out that he had a massive fortune in a wizards bank. The Camelot accounts had been untouched for a thousand years, with interest. After a quick test of his blood it was all his. As surprises went, this was actually all right.

The wizards had set Arthur and Gwen up in a large house in the outskirts of London, a place called Wimbledon. The fact that Gwen was now a free woman of equal rights under the law was highly stressed by their appointed assistant, and helper, a witch named Hermione Granger-Weasley

"Since when hasn't she been?" had Arthur asked.

Mrs Granger-Weasley had just blinked.

"Welcome home Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you, Bradbury," Mycroft handed his coat and umbrella to the newly employed butler. "How is everything working out for you?"

"Remarkably well, Sir," Bradbury smiled handsomely at his employer.

Bradbury, a former member of Sherlock's homeless network, had saved the detective's life not long ago when he was trapped inside a building that had suddenly caught on fire. Mycroft had been so thankful that he had given Bradbury a job on the spot.

"I have no doubt," said Mycroft looking through the mail that had gathered on a table in the hallway. "Fetch Lestrade for me, please."

Mycroft was pleased that everything was working out so well. After the Moriarty scandal had finished dragging Sherlock's name in the mud, the next casualty had been Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The man had been suspended from his work at New Scotland Yard, without pay, for a undecided period of time depending internal investigation.

He had saved the man from becoming a bitter forty-nine year old 'rent-a-cop' at a shopping centre by giving him employment as a security adviser at the Holmes' ancestral manor. The house and grounds had many functions and was, among other things, used as a guest-house for dignitaries, a safe-house for government agents, and a place of top-secret conferences. It was also Mycroft's home when he wasn't in London, and his mother's home when she wasn't in her cottage in the south of France.

He had decided against giving Lestrade to the wizards, mostly because he suspected the man was too practical and too down to earth to believe in magic. Letting Lestrade live with wizards was as desirable as letting Sherlock run a kindergarten.

Mycroft hadn't been back to the manor since he had informed Lestrade of his duties two weeks ago. He had been given pleasing reports though. Even his chief of security, who Mycroft had been worried would feel threatened, was pleased with Lestrade's work.

"Holmes?"

"Lestrade," Mycroft smiled as he looked up at the approaching man.

His smile then froze on his face. The on-leave-Detective-Inspector wasn't wearing the regular suit and tie. Lestrade was wearing gratifying blue jeans, a tight white t-shirt, a loose red-checkered open shirt and sneakers. His salt-and-pepper hair was charmingly ruffled, brown leather gloves on his hands. Mycroft swallowed.

"You look different," he said in what he hoped was a refined voice.

"I'm helping out with some of the Christmas cleaning," said Lestrade displaying his gloved hands. "Not much to do here security-wise at the moment, so close to Christmas and all. Most of the staffers are on leave. The only guests are that secretive brother of yours, that I'm not supposed to know about, and his secret agent friend, that I also know nothing about, by the way. They are taking care of themselves down at the gun-range house."

"Yes..." Mycroft licked his lips. "Good. Thank you. Excuse me."

With out further ado Mycroft hurried to his office and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the wood, fighting against the bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't possibly...

"No," he whispered to himself. "Not good at all."

"Poor guy," said Hermione to Sirius.

They were looking at Arthur standing by one of the big windows looking out over the city. The young man looked lost. More than that, he looked sad and bored.

"We are trying to do the best for him," said Hermione. "For all of them. I got Gwen a job with Severus, she seems happy with that. Colin Creevey is helping Merlin to adjust, they are really bonding over cameras. It's just Arthur... We thought this party would cheer him up."

"He needs a job," said Sirius. "That's the problem. His wife has one, and she is beginning to get along fine. He has no real friends, now that Merlin and he wont see each other. It's no wonder he's bored out of his mind."

"He doesn't want to work with wizards," sighed Hermione. "He has major trust issues. I'm only getting through to him because I'm muggleborn."

"I might know a guy..." Sirius frowned. "A muggle. But I'm not sure Arthur's ready for so much of the modern world."

"He is ready. He just doesn't know it yet."

"You are right. He needs to get out. I'll call my friend and ask him to come by."

Sirius handed his glass to Hermione and took up his mobile from his inner pocket.

The sound of applauds was suddenly heard from the middle of the room. It was Merlin doing a magic-trick. Even Harry Potter seemed impressed with the warlock's skill with raw magic. Merlin had a large camera hanging on a strap around his neck.

Arthur had looked to the direction of the sound, but then looked away again with a bitter and angry frown on his face. Merlin was there for Gwen's sake. Hermione sighed.

"Ginny," Harry laughed as he entered his house. "You won't believe it, but I actually forgot the- Oh?"

Neville Longbottom was standing in the hallway by the coat-rack. Harry Smiled at his friend.

"Hi Neville," he said, walking over to the table where he had forgotten the gift he bought for Arthur. "You leaving some work for Ginny?

"Y-yeah..." said Neville.

"Well don't work her too hard," Harry patted Neville's arm. "You might be her boss, but she is sick-"

"iHurry up, Nev/i!" called Ginny's voice from the direction of the bedroom. "I want to fuck you twice before Harry gets back!"

Harry stopped, one hand holding the gift, the other the doorknob. The feeling of utter coldness travelling through his body.

"What's taking you- Oh!" Ginny had appeared in the hallway, even less clothing on than she had when Harry had left just a half an hour ago.

"I-I'm sorry, Harry..." whispered Neville.

"... and that's why I'm looking for a new companion," said the Doctor to the blond witch in Arthur's very nice looking kitchen that was filled with many different food. "So what do you do?"

"I do make-up and wardrobe for gay male muggle porn," the woman said without blinking her large blue eyes.

"Absolutely fascinating," nodded the Doctor, taking one of the better tasting pink titbits from her plate. "I'm guessing there isn't so much wardrobe going on."

"More than you imagine, actually," she smiled. "But yes, not so much."

The Doctor smiled as well, then he turned and looked back to the main room.

"Oh! Dancing!" he exclaimed. "I love dancing!"

He grabbed hold of the woman's arm. She followed him like they known each other for years, and not only for five minutes.

mulifandom fic part 2

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 20:08:46 GMT

Title: Fandom,) Actually.
Author: aturegirlrocks
Crossover: ove Actually
Fandoms: arry Potter (EWE), Sherlock (BBC), James Bond (postSkyfall), Supernatural (S7), Doctor Who (11th, between S6&7), and Merlin (S4), featuring The Avengers, and special guest Cabin Pressure (pre-series).
Romantic Pairings: arry/Draco, Severus/Sirius, Severus/OFC Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, Irene/Molly, James/Q, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Anthea, Merlin/Arthur(/Gwen)
Bromantic pairings: olly&Martin, The Doctor&The Avengers, Dean&Sirius, and Mycroft&his butler.
Brothers: ycroft&Sherlock&Q, Dean&Sam
Rating: /R/15
Words:25K+
Summary: herlock does porn. Cas is left behind in purgatory. James is not too old for the field. Mycroft is fighting his forbidden feelings. Harry does his biography. Merlin does photography. Dean likes The Scorpions. Martin has breakdowns. Snape is thoughtless. The Doctor is making American friends. And so much more...!
Note: his was supposed to be my Christmas fic, but RL happened. Please see this as a Valentine with a Christmas theme :)
Warning: ome angst, not linear

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

"Touch each others faces," instructed Dorian.

Sherlock's long fingers circled John's soft hairline, ears and cheeks. John moved his left thumb over Sherlock's right cheekbone, he had forgotten how sharp they were.

"I had to die," Sherlock kept on whispering. "And I can't come back until the threat against you is gone."

"Isn't it over yet?" asked John.

"John, roll over," instructed the photographer. "Let him caress your chest."

Turning to his back John had a better view of the three men by the wall. Addams looked slightly entertained. Sherlock's hands moved over John's torso.

"You noticed the bossman in the middle over there?" Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's making their heads turn towards the men. "Henry Addams. He's a big time smuggler. Everything from pornography, to cigarettes, to humans. He's why I'm here."

"Tell me," John pretending to kiss Sherlock's neck.

"If I can take him out, I'm basically home free. He's one of the last big pieces in Moriarty's wicked game."

Sherlock threw his head back and looked straight into the clicking camera. He returned his notice to John a few moments later.

"Let's work together," Sherlock smiled, rubbing his nose against John's. "Deduce him for me."

Oh, god, how John had missed this. That sharp intellect with those calculating eyes asking John to be the conductor of light.

"He is defiantly into men," noted John placing a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "He looks at you like you were dinner."

"Oh, he is defiantly into men," said Sherlock, pressing his lips to John's collarbone. "But if my plan is going to work I need him looking at me as if I was a three course meal. We are just too vanilla for him for the moment. His guards on the other hand are both disgusted."

John looked again. The two beefy men were totally expressionless.

"How can you tell?" John let his hands run up and down Sherlock's arms.

"Their feet."

"Make-up!" called Dorian and handed the camera to his assistant.

Luna sat down on the bed, right next to John's head. She had a small paint brush and traced Sherlock's lips with it.

"You have eyes like a unicorn," she said with a hum.

"Thank you," said Sherlock in his fake persona voice. "I like your hair."

"I snuck you some food," she said.

She placed a small plate topping over with bite-sized party-snacks on the floor by the bed. John hadn't seen anywhere she could have got it from. It looked really good and fancy, though.

"Thanks," said Sherlock taking something pink from the plate, and seductively placing it in his mouth.

She smiled and dabbed his forehead with some powder. Then she looked down at John, who had his ear against her hip. She poked tip of his nose with the brush once and then left.

"Strange," said John.

"A witch," said Sherlock stretching a leg over John's body and sitting down on top of his belly. "Obviously."

"That wasn't a nice thing to say."

Sherlock just smirked with his now even more prominent lips.

Dean stood by the water edge of the big lake. He had been told by Sirius it was the third biggest lake in Britain, but he had forgotten it's name. Not that it mattered. Not that anything really mattered anymore.

The sky was dark and the moon was full. They had already checked that area was free of werewolves and other monsters. The light of a large camp-fire trickled down over the water. Behind him stood Sam, a large boom-box and a twelve-pack of beer by his side.

"All right," said Dean giving his brother a nod. "Let's do this."

Sam nodded back. There was a miniature boat with leaves and herbs by Deans feet. He hunched over and set it aflame with his lighter. Dean then took out a single white feather from his pocket and placed it in the flames. He carefully kicked the burning boat out on the water.

"Cas," he said, his voice almost wavering. "You were a bastard most of the time, but you were always a glorious bastard... You were my glorious bastard. Be safe out there."

He wiped the single tear that fell down his cheek. Without turning around he reached back, and Sammy placed a cold bottle in his hand. Dean took a deep swig of the drink.

"Play it again, Sam," he said, almost with a straight face.

Sam made a eye roll, that Dean could see without even looking back, and pressed play in the boom-box.

The soft guitar tones drifted out over the water. Dean had to empty the whole bottle to hold back the tears. He totally ignored Sammy's long suffering looks as the music played on.

iThe wise man said just walk this way
To the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face
As the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find
The passage out of the dark

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star

.../i*

Arthur stood to the side, letting his guests mingle. He was starting to wonder why he had agreed to this party. He looked over at Gwen, she was speaking to Merlin who was showing her a machine that Arthur vaguely remembered being called a 'camera'. It was supposed to renter impressions of the world and save them, like paintings, to look upon later. Hermione had tried to explain it to him once. It looked kind of interesting.

Arthur sighed. He knew he needed to apologise to Merlin sometime, but he didn't know how. How could you apologise for treating a servant as a servant, when he really was a friend? Your best friend. A best friend that had lied to him for years...

"Pink titbit?"

A man with a strangely tied cravat was holding out a platter of little pieces of food. Arthur frowned. He still didn't understand why everything had to be so small in the future.

"Frankly," said the man. "I think they are awful, looks like baby fingers. Those pink ones over there are nice though."

"Doctor?"

"Oh, hello. Nice to see you again. Lively party. Should be more dancing though. You guys settling in all right?"

"I guess," sighed Arthur. "There are still so many things that I don't understand. And there isn't much for me to do here but to practice my sword... Not that I can use it for anything..."

"Oh I don't know..." the Doctor pushed back his hair. "Middle Age fairs, movies? I know for a fact that knights are the new aliens. Not this alien though. Ha!"

Arthur starred at him.

"Well," the Doctor grinned. "Have to go, moving on, places to see, people to find... Good luck on you, mate!"

The Doctor gave him a thumbs up and moved away towards the kitchen. Arthur shook his head.

Again he looked over to Merlin again. There was a tall man there, instructing him about the 'camera'. Merlin nodded attentively and raised the machine to face the man, who immediately pushed it away and shook his head. i'Never me'/i the man seemed to say. The i'or you'll be sorry'/i was implied.

Then the man shook Merlin's hand, and turned to walk towards Arthur. He moved like a man who was confident with his power. Arthur straightened, feeling like he finally was to meet a real equal in this strange new world.

"Mr. Pendragon," said the man holding out his hand. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You are not a wizard," said Arthur, taking the firm hand.

"No, not me," Holmes shook his head. "Though I have a way of making things happen. For instance..." he moved closer, "I have heard that you are looking for a place for your special skills. I believe I have several employees that would benefit from your... tutorship."

"What can I teach?" Arthur almost laughed. "Everything I know is a thousand years too old. Merlin is adjusting thanks to his magic. Gwen works for that apothecary. What can I do?"

"You can fight, both with your bare hands and with several types of weapons. You are quite good with horses. You certainly know more than basics of strategy. You are a natural born leader, and I would venture to guess that you are a good teacher. And, I might add, you love this country, what ever age it might be."

Arthur blinked in surprise.

"What kind of employees do you have? I've been here for six months and encountered nothing like this."

"I would be very surprised if you had," said Holmes. "But we have been observing you. And we think that you're just what we need."

"Who are you?"

"We are what stands between this country and chaos. A car arrive at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Pendragon, it's your own choice if you go with it. Don't tell anyone. If you do so the offer is off, and that would be very unfortunate for both of us."

Holmes held out his hand, Arthur took it.

"Happy house-warming," Holmes said as he left.

Arthur smiled, finally something exiting was happening. He wished that he could talk to Merlin about it.

"Who was that man?" asked Gwen, coming up by his side.

"One of those pesky scholars again," said Arthur placing a arm around her waist. "They are really tedious with their questions."

"I know," she laughed. "Yesterday someone asked me how I washed my hair."

Arthur smiled. He looked over the room for Holmes, but the man was gone. He caught Merlin's eye, the wizard looked away, down to his 'camera'.

"Let's dance," he said to Gwen. "This party needs some dancing."

"M, get me out of here," pleaded Bond. "Don't you have anything for me to do?"

He was on the speaker phone, pacing the room back and forth between the two small beds at opposite walls that had been set up for him and Q.

"You are helping Q with his testing."

"I want a mission!"

"007," M sounded irritated, and he probably was. "It's almost Christmas, take a load off. You are going good work were you are."

"I'm testing guns! I'm spending time with a waif of a nerd-boy who rather live in a sterile barn-come-gun-range, than in the perfectly good country manor half a mile away!"

Q didn't look up from his tinkering, he only gave a small long suffering smile, and a sigh.

"Enjoy your time off," said M, and the call disconnected.

"I should be in Paris," said Bond to the almost room at large. "The Ritz has one of the best Christmas spreads. I could call Danielle, or maybe Helene. Or maybe both..."

"Spare me," said Q adjusting the tension of a small coil. "I bet you don't even know their last names."

"Or Berlin," sighed Bond, starring at the dull wooden walls. "I've never been there in at Christmas. Gretel invited me once, but I had to go to Greece."

"Where you met Victoria," murmured Q with a sigh.

"Have I told you this story before?"

"My predecessor did. That was when you dropped his prototype gas dispenser in the Mediterranean."

"He never said it wasn't waterproof."

"Gas goes in air, not water."

Q didn't only dress like a tired old science teacher, he sounded like on too. Bond refrained from giving him a fond smile.

"Besides," said Q handing Bond the altered gun now ready for a new round of testing. "Your Gretel is now happily married to a environment politician, and expecting her first child."

"Well, good for her," said Bond weighing the weapon in his hand. "I guess I could always call Petra..."

"I thought you were going to Berlin," Q smirked, got up from the table, and began moving towards the control room.

"How much did R tell you exactly?" frowned Bond.

"Enough," Q smirked.

"Next on the agenda is the visit from David Greenbow," said A, reading from her BlackBerry.

"Is this about that pesky CIA agreement again?" sighed Mycroft. "We signed the latest deal only two months ago."

"New facts have come to light since then..."

"Are you referring to the American agent that Sherlock exposed in Geneva, only for getting in his way?"

"The Americans are convinced that we are working on their district, outside the negotiated restrictions."

Mycroft groaned and rubbed his palms over his cheeks.

"They think we have a rouge agent," he sighed. "And they blame us for ruining their cover. They are taking the opportunity to renegotiate better terms for themselves."

"Probably," A gave him a sympathetic smile.

"And then we'll give in because we need their support."

"Actually, Sir, we could do without them most of the time."

"I know..." he sighed. "But it's too soon to make that move."

"Don't make it too late, sir," A smirked.

"Damn!" Mycroft leaned back. "Who do you have to screw to get some order around here?"

There was a sudden knock in the door and Lestrade leaned in.

"Excuse me for disturbing, but I have put the new security details in order. I just need your signature."

A gave a small chuckle, but was decent enough to look at her small screen, and not on Mycroft.

The Doctor stood by the circular mushroom control panel of the TARDIS. He was gently going over the controls, buttons, switches, wheels, pulls, rolls, whisks and spins, checking them, giving a dash of oil or a tinker with the sonic screwdriver where it was needed. He talked gently as he worked.

"What makes a good companion, then?" he asked the ship.

She hummed gently back at him from the depths of her many rooms and passages, some of which the Doctor hadn't used for over a century.

"Adventure," nodded the Doctor, letting the screwdriver hover over a reader and then looking at the result. "Love the adventure. And lots of running. Should I start to bring bikes? They are quite useful. Orville Wright was a bike manufacturer, you know. iOrville/i, I said to him, iOrville, wouldn't you like to fly?/i"

The Doctor looked around. It wasn't the same telling good stuff on his own. TARDIS gave a comforting cricking sound.

"Let's get adventurous, then..." he sighed, and shifted some levers around.

Severus frowned. He was not a person who arranged parties. He was letting Sirius take care of Christmas, which meant that he had to arrange his own 'office party' this year. Severus didn't like office parties, but his staff, his best suppliers, and some of his more important customers was expecting him to give one.

"I don't know were we are going to hold it," he complained to his bookkeeper, a young witch named Miranda. "I have nowhere to create a good wizard-space."

"I know of a place, sir," she said leaning back in her chair. "A friend of mine knows Merlin from photography class. Apparently he has this big gallery that he never uses. I could take care of everything."

"Everything?" asked Severus, looking down at her.

"For you," she leaned forward, displaying a very nice cleavage. "Everything. Any time."

"Thank you," Severus shifted, feeling both flattered and uncomfortable.

"So..." said Dean, sitting down next to Sam on the park bench. "Want to talk about it?"

"You want to talk?" Sam sounded chocked.

"No," Dean sighed. "But you obviously do. So let's... do this talking stuff. You know that I'm here for you, Sammy."

"I know that."

Dean steeled himself as he looked into his younger brother's puppy-dog eyes. This was going to be about Dad. Or Bobby. Or even Cas, please, please don't let it be about Cas. At this point he actually hoped that the British intelligence service had sexually molested his brother in some way, that would be easier, emotionally, to handle.

"Did those... did those MI-5 types do something to you? Touch you in a bad place?"

"No!" Sam called out. "Nothing like that! Don't be disgusting. I told you what happened. They caught me after I killed that vampire, took me to some gun-range, they questioned me, said they were keeping an eye on us, and then they let me go. That's it."

"Then what got you that moping stick up your ass?"

"Truth is..." Sam took a breath, looking down on his wringing hands. "I'm in love."

Dean almost laughed out loud, but clasped a hand over his mouth to stop it. Sam gave him a evil look.

"What's so funny?"

"I just..." breathed Dean. "I mean... It's about a chick? I thought it was worse..." He paused and suddenly liked serious. "She's not a monster is she?"

"No monster," Sam shook his head. "But she is totally out of my league. She didn't even look twice at me."

"You? All the chicks fall for you! And you fall for a chick that doesn't notice you!"

"You can choose who you fall in love with. You should know that!"

Dean rubbed his forehead.

"You been in love before," Dean straightened up, trying to be supportive but still tactile.

"This is the one, Dean!" Sam held up his forefinger. "The One! I have never felt like this before."

"Fine," Dean nodded, giving Sam's knee a pat. "Fine. We are stuck in this goddamn country anyway. Why not make the best of it? Go for her."

"Really?"

"Really. Let me know if you need any help."

"Thanks."

"No problem," Dean got to his feet and made some arm-stretches. "Good talk. Good talk."

Molly watched Irene packing up her workstation for the end if the day. The apothecary was closing, but Molly was working overtime as usual. She had to stay alert if her phone should call.

Irene was dressed in a white silk shirt and a smooth grey skirt that ended by her knees. The sound of her high heals against the floor moved towards the door. Molly took a breath.

"Are you going to the Christmas party?" she asked.

"I am," said Irene, giving her a flirtatious smile. "Are you?"

"Yes," Molly nodded. "Yes I am."

"See you there then," Irene winked, and left.

Molly fisted the air, and then quickly looked around the empty room so that no one had seen her. Her phone rang, she answered with a smile.

Mycroft was enjoying a day at the manor. All his London business were taken care of, and all that was left could easily be done over the computer. It was his very excellent staff that he had to thank for moments like these.

There was a careful knock in the door.

"Enter."

"Hiya," said Lestrade peaking inside with a grin in his face, he was carrying a silver tray with a china cup and a plate of biscuits. "Thought you wanted some tea."

"What are you doing?" Mycroft looked shocked. "That is defiantly not your job, where is Bradbury?"

"Oh, I don't mind," said Lestrade taking one of the biscuits for himself. "Bradbury is busy with the Christmas tree, he seemed really in to it, so I offered my services to serve."

Mycroft tried not to look at how the blue jeans were fitting the man perfectly, or that the white t-shirt was rumpled after being under thick jackets and sweaters the whole day. The bottom of his jeans were wet.

"You have been outside," said Mycroft tasting his tea, which was perfect.

"Yeah," Lestrade sat down on one of the chairs opposite the desk, without even being asked. "We have been doing security walks along the borders. The people you rented your meadow to were there, by the way."

"Good. Be sure to treat them well, and keep out of their way."

"Sure," Lestrade nodded. "That American bloke is coming by this weekend isn't he?"

"That 'American bloke' is a millionaire US-government official with strong CIA connections."

"Shall I count the silverware?" smirked Lestrade.

Mycroft couldn't help but to smile at this. He took a biscuit from the plate.

"Chocolate," he said. "My favourite."

"You're welcome," Lestrade winked at him. "My wife never appreciated good food."

"You are divorced."

"Yes," he glanced down at his bare ring-finger. "She left me."

"Her loss, I'm sure," Mycroft said honestly.

Lestrade looked like he was blushing for a moment. Mycroft felt like blushing himself, but cleared his throat instead.

"You have a son."

"Toby, light of my life," Lestrade smiled. "He's eleven and spends most time away at school, but I got him over Christmas. He's spending New Years with his mother."

Mycroft liked that smile. It was a smile of a proud father who loved his child. He was a little curious however how Lestrade was able to afford sending his son away to a boarding school. His ex-wife was a middle-school teacher, and there was nothing in any files about an extra income. The only explanation he had found was that Toby Lestrade was on a scholarship.

"I'll let you get on with yours then " said Lestrade and got up from the chair. "Just call if you need anything."

Mycroft tried not to look at the man's arse, he failed. But he wasn't sure if the man hadn't walked that way on purpose.

"How do we get this chick to notice you then?" asked Dean.

"Don't call her that," muttered Sam, typing away on his laptop.

"Sorry," Dean made a mocking face. "The 'lady'."

He took a swig of the bottle of dark ale and nodded his consent of it's taste. He was slowly warming up to the British taste in alcohol.

"We need to find one of monsters that her branch of the MI-5 are hunting, and kill it."

Sam turned the laptop and showed Dean a news article of a mysterious wild beast attack near Gloucester. Dean put his bottle on the table to move closer to the screen.

"You should use a coaster," said Sam with a nod to the bottle.

"Why the... Fuck!"

The ale was foaming out of the bottle like a white miniature fountain. Dean groaned.

Bond woke up to find that they had a visitor. He had never seen the man before, but Q seemed to on very intimate terms with him.

"Bond," smiled Q. "This is Mycroft Holmes. He is our host for the time being."

"Good morning, Mr. Bond," said Holmes offering his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Good morning," Bond shook the hand, the grip was firm but friendly. "Not all bad I hope."

"No, not all bad," Holmes smiled in a way that looked almost too familiar.

Holmes was about the same age as Bond, but more of the behind-desk-type of person. Though he noticed that Holmes wasn't at all bothered by the small arsenal of high-tech weapons that Q had lined up next to his tea and toast.

"So, that's your manor up the way."

"Yes," Holmes nodded. "If you are still here by Christmas you are welcome to join us for the celebration."

"That seems to be my fate this year," sighed Bond walking over to the kettle. "I'm going to be forced to spend Christmas with the stick insect."

"Excuse me?" Holmes sounded offended.

"Don't bother," Q shook his head. "I'm used to it."

Q handed Holmes a small silver-coloured gun, no bigger than the palm of his hand. Bond took some tea, and looked Holmes over, while Holmes looked over the gun.

"Are you working this year?" asked Q.

"When am I not working?" smirked Holmes and put the gun in his pocket. "Mr. Bond."

Holmes nodded, patted Q on the shoulder, and left.

"Strange guy," said Bond.

"That strange guy has the power to make you live the rest of your life gathering intelligence in Antarctica."

"Well, penguins are very devious creatures," said Bond with half a smile. "Someone ought to keep an eye on the little bastards."

"I love penguins," mused Q, looking off in the distance as if he was retracing a memory.

Bond sat down with his breakfast across from Q. The young man actually looked attractive like this. In lack of female splendour you can't be too choosy, and in some ways this view was even better.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The distant stare disappeared in a moment and was replaced with suspicion.

"Classified."

"Come on. Just your first name."

"Still classified," Q took up his phone, pressing some seemingly random buttons.

"You know my name."

"You don't have a name. You took your name from the author from a ornithology book."

Bond blinked. It wasn't often he felt hurt, but when he did, it really did hurt. He looked down. Q shifted.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," said Bond, taking a drink of his tea, wishing it had liquor in it.

"Look," Q sighed. "I'm not going to tell you my name. It's against regulation."

"Can I guess it?" Bond lit up.

"You'll never be able to."

"I bet you I can guess your name with twenty questions. And you can only answer 'yes' or 'no'."

"What do you bet?" Q leaned back in his chair.

"I bet I can guess your first name in twenty questions, or... I'll run around the manor naked. And if I win you'll never take me to one of these tests again."

"Deal," grinned Q.

Bond didn't like the look on Q's face.

Arthur was sitting on a sofa in his living room. He still had no idea why the room was called that. He glanced suspiciously to the moving image viewer by the far wall, it's face was dark now but he had seen it scream with little people trapped inside it. They had explained that the images wasn't real, more like visions. Arthur still didn't trust it. Like most things in this new world.

There was a mug of mead on the table. Hermione had said that those mugs was meant for the brew called 'tea'. Arthur enjoyed the variations on that brew, but sometimes he needed his mead.

Hermione was in Gwen's room for the moment, talking about women things. She had left a device on the table and Arthur was trying not to pry at it. It reminded him somewhat of the staff that subdued the image viewer. He had seen that all his knights-in-training had devices like these. They called them 'phones', or 'mobiles', or 'cells', and were used to communicate with over distances.

Curiosity took over and he poked it. It lit up. Arthur drew away his hand. The magic didn't seem harmful, and within moments the light was gone.

Scoffing at his own cowardice, Arthur picked up the device. It lit up again. He started to press the different buttons and symbols. They made strange noises. Arthur frowned at the words and pictures coming up on the thing. Then he froze. Merlin's name had come up. The thing was making strange noises.

"Hello?" said the device.

"H-hello?" said Arthur.

"Hello?" said the device again, with something that sounded like Merlin's voice.

"Merlin?" Arthur frowned.

"Arthur?" said the voice of Merlin. "Is that you?"

"Aah!" screamed Arthur throwing the device away to the other side of the room.

He then hid in his bedroom, pretending to read a book about horses, for the rest of the day.

mulifandom fic part3

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 20:03:05 GMT

Title: Fandom,) Actually.
Author: aturegirlrocks
Crossover: ove Actually
Fandoms: arry Potter (EWE), Sherlock (BBC), James Bond (postSkyfall), Supernatural (S7), Doctor Who (11th, between S6&7), and Merlin (S4), featuring The Avengers, and special guest Cabin Pressure (pre-series).
Romantic Pairings: arry/Draco, Severus/Sirius, Severus/OFC Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, Irene/Molly, James/Q, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Anthea, Merlin/Arthur(/Gwen)
Bromantic pairings: olly&Martin, The Doctor&The Avengers, Dean&Sirius, and Mycroft&his butler.
Brothers: ycroft&Sherlock&Q, Dean&Sam
Rating: /R/15
Words:25K+
Summary: herlock does porn. Cas is left behind in purgatory. James is not too old for the field. Mycroft is fighting his forbidden feelings. Harry does his biography. Merlin does photography. Dean likes The Scorpions. Martin has breakdowns. Snape is thoughtless. The Doctor is making American friends. And so much more...!
Note: his was supposed to be my Christmas fic, but RL happened. Please see this as a Valentine with a Christmas theme :)
Warning: ome angst, not linear

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Harry had fled from the idiotic gossipers to his Scottish cottage. He sat by the typewriter. It was a muggle-thing, old, but magically improved. He stared at the keys. What was he going to write?

There had long been a longing in the Wizard world for the story of his life, written in his own words, and not by misinformed reporters. But how far back should he go?

Thirty-two years ago, when he was born? Thirty-one years ago when Dumbledore had left him on the Dursley stoop? Or twenty-one when he first entered the great halls of Hogwarts?

And where should he stop? At the death of Voldemort? After the celebrations where over? Or three days ago when he left his wife, who had longed for the children that he just couldn't give her, and who had slept with her boss and one of Harry's best friends?

Harry was relived when the doorbell rang to distract him from his dark thoughts. It was probably Mrs. McDermit, the witch that looked after the cottage.

"Mr. Potter," said the merry witch as Harry opened the door.

"Hello," smiled Harry.

"Your wife didn't come with you this year?"

"No. I'm alone," he kept up his fake smile.

"Oh, no matter," said Mrs. McDermit, patting his arm. "I just came by to tell you that the hubby and I are going to spend the weeks up to Christmas with my sister in Newcastle. But I found you a housekeeper to see you over."

"Oh I..." Harry was about to say that he could manage on his own when the words froze on his lips.

"This is Draco Malfoy," said the still smiling witch. "Don't you be scared of that name, Mr. Potter. He would hurt a fly, the dear."

Harry hasn't seen Malfoy since that day fifteen years ago when Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to Azkaban. The years hadn't been kind to him. He was thin, his blond hair almost grey, his clothes very simple. The man didn't look like himself at all. Malfoy's eyes met Harry's for a moment and then looked away in shame.

"Malfoy?" said Harry, who had expected some snide remark.

"Oh, he was cursed, poor dear," Mrs. McDermit shook her head and patted Draco's arm. "He's deaf and mute."

"What happened?" he asked.

"Anti-Death Eaters," she said as it explained everything, and it did.

Harry didn't argue. Malfoy hadn't been completely innocent, but many of the new hate-groups were even more ruthless than the the hate-groups they hated in the first place.

"He does good work though. And he can cook."

"It's all right, Mrs McDermit," Harry stepped aside and showed that Malfoy

was welcome to enter. "I trust him."

Malfoy made a flying gesture with his hand.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. McDermit. "He's not allowed to use magic after five o'clock, by Ministry law, so if you could please apparate him to his flat in town in the evening, it would be very nice."

"I can do that," Harry nodded.

Malfoy nodded back and passed him into the house. This was going to get interesting.

Apparating Malfoy home means holding his hands. Harry holds on to them very tightly, since he is always scared to leave some part of his passenger behind.

The first time he takes Malfoy's hands this way, Malfoy looks surprised. Harry tries to explain himself, that he holds him like that because he doesn't want him to get hurt, that he doesn't do side-alongs that often. He is not sure if Malfoy understands because they are still holding hands, and Malfoy looks at him as if he was a strange circus creature.

Harry just sighed, held Malfoy tight and apparated.

"Try this."

Mycroft stood by as Q, disguised in neutral clothing, different glasses and neatly combed hair, equipped Lestrade with another gun. The American guest, Mr. Greenbow, was given a tour of the facilities, or at least the ones that were not too secret for him to see.

The gun range wasn't off limits, but James Bond was. The agent had been sent out on a long run, and replaced with Lestrade who was the best shot of the staffers currently at hand. He had been given strict instructions to act professionally, not that Mycroft ever doubted he wouldn't.

"So you are a former policeman."

Greenbow was looking Lestrade over appreciably. The American was in his greying fifties, in good physical shape, and a face that time (or skin products) had been kind to. And though reputation told him to be republican to the core, he had a roaming eye to handsome specimens of both sexes. Mycroft had done his research, several times.

"Yes, sir," said Lestrade, keeping his eye sternly on the new gun as Q pointed out it's features.

Mycroft knew this topic was a sore point for Lestrade, but he could do nothing at the moment to soothe it over. He had just been through over an hour of heavy negotiating that had resulted in him conceding much more than he ever wanted.

"Most of our agents are required from the police force now a days," said Mycroft in a easy tone.

"With your army, I don't doubt it," leered Greenbow.

Mycroft just smirked politely, and imagined the human-shaped cardboard target with Greenbow's face. It was a pleasure seeing Lestrade shoot it to pieces.

His mirth didn't last long though because his phone rang, the display showing the codename of one of his informants in Chicago.

"I have to take this," said Mycroft with a sigh. "Lestrade could you please escort Mr. Greenbow back to the car? I'll be right along."

"Yes, sir," Lestrade gave Q back the gun. "This way, sir."

Q started to ruffle his hair loose as soon as the door closed. Mycroft smirked at his younger brother while he listened to to what the voice in the other side if the Atlantic told him.

"Thank you," he said and disconnected.

"Trouble?" asked Q, putting on his regular glasses.

"No," Myctoft opened the door. "A car, an classic Impala '67, will be arriving in a few days. You will probably feel a need to tinker with it, and I'm sure your agent friend would want to drive it. Don't."

Mycroft gave his brother a look that would scare the life of little brothers everywhere. Q nodded.

Satisfied that something was finally going his way Mycroft walked out the building. He stopped at the sight that greeted him.

Greenbow had Lestrade pushed against the car, kissing him. Lestrade just stood there, letting it happen.

Mycroft cleared his throat. Both of the men looked at him. Lestrade gasped and pushed away from Greenbow, hurrying passed Mycroft, and back inside the gun range. The door shutting close behind him.

He looked at Greenbow, who was straightening his tie and looking very pleased with himself. Something dangerous boiled inside Mycroft.

"Shall we?" Greenbow gestured towards the car.

"Yes," said Mycroft. "Yes, we shall."

In the car, driving up to the manor, Mycroft sent a message to Anthea.

i'Pack Mr. Greenbow's bags, and get him a ticket back to the states. He's going home right now. And tare up the treaty, we are doing a new one on our own terms.'/i

i'Good on you, sir'/i answered his loyal assistant.

Severus and Sirius were sitting in their living room making long lists of preparation. Well, Sirius was, Severus was trying not to get in the way. Food, decorations, music, games, dance floor, presents... Sirius took a deep breath.

"Tell me again why I'm doing this damn huge Christmas Eve party."

"Because you promised the children?" supplied Severus.

"Yeah," Sirius sighed. "That's the problem actually. It was supposed to be a simple children's party! Now it's grown to the bloody quiddich cup! I had to ask Mycroft Holmes to lend us his meadow."

Severus gave his husband a pitying smile, they both knew the party was going to be a success. And Severus told Sirius so, in his own words of course.

"You are a good mutt," he said, and patted Sirius's head.

"Well, I got you into order," Sirius brushed against his mate's scared and calloused hand. "Guess a Christmas party won't be that hard."

"Cheeky."

Mycroft had revived several messages and e-mails from department heads, politicians and associates, all congratulating him on his decision to stand up to Greenbow, and thereby the CIA.

It was a long time since he had gotten appreciation for his work. Usually he moved in the political shadows and pulled invisible strings. This move had put him on the proverbial map. He could really need an upswing after the failure with Moriarty.

There wasn't many people that Mycroft had to answer to, and usually they just let him be, but it was always better when they had a good eye to him. It made them easier to manipulate.

He was happy enough to begin humming. He would even taken a few dance steps if Anthea hadn't been there with her all-knowing looks.

Harry has decided to move his writing down to the edge of the close by the half frozen lake. The sky has gotten dark, but he has a small magic fire burning to give him light and heat. The wind is cold and it threatens to blow away his papers. Harry casts a wind-blocking spell to shield himself and his work. He feels a bit cold even so.

He has come to the part of Sirius's disappearance to behind the vail, and he needs air to keep his feelings under control. Even though he knows Sirius returned twelve years ago, with horrible tails of Purgatory, he still gets emotional when he remembers this point in his life.

Harry leans back and thinks that he needs to floo-call Sirius soon. He is invited to spend Christmas with him, Snape and their family. He doesn't notice when Malfoy arrives, not until the man accidentally steps inside the wind-blocker and breaks the spell.

All the papers are thrown away by the wind like enormous snowflakes. Malfoy gasps, the first sound Harry has heard him make since arrival. The sound is so surprising that Harry takes a moment too long to react to the papers flying into the lake.

When he finally reacts he sees that Malfoy has thrown of his robe and is running over the ice to catch some wayward sheets.

"Malfoy!" Harry screams. "It's not worth it!"

Of course Malfoy couldn't hear him. Harry swore as he ventured out on the ice himself. Malfoy had stopped at the edge between ice and dark water, and was looking towards some papers further out on the surface.

"I really should make copies," Harry murmured to himself.

At that moment Malfoy turned around, gave him a stern look, pointed to the papers and held up two fingers. He obviously thought Harry should make copies too.

Then, before Harry could do anything to respond, Malfoy was pulling off his shirt and placing it as a weight on the collected papers. Harry could see the outlines of muscles on Malfoy's lean, smooth body, highlighted by the pale ivory skin.

"Oh my..." Harry breathed.

Malfoy dived into the water.

"Oh my god!" Harry screamed, running forward to the edge. "Fuck, Malfoy. It's really not worth it, it's a piece of crap anyway!"

He watched the blond head bobbing up from the darkness and moving towards the floating papers.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Now I have to go in to or he'll think I'm scared."

Harry pulled off his own robe and moved to the edge, were the ice broke under his feet and made him fall into the water with a big splash.

"Oh fuck! That's cold!"

He began swimming. The cold water reminded him if the forest lake with the sword of Gryffindor at the bottom. Though, he admitted, that had been slightly colder. When he caught up with Malfoy, the other man was paddling water and looking at Harry as if he had lost his mind.

"What?" Harry splurted.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and moved his hand briefly over the water surface as if wielding a wand.

"Me? Why didn't you use magic?" Harry pointed accusingly at Malfoy, trying not to swallow too much water.

Malfoy just starred at him, then he held up his hand again, five fingers. Harry would have blushed if he could, but it was too cold. It was after five o'clock, Malfoy was forbidden to use magic. He had probably just come to ask Harry to take him home.

Harry fumbled with his clothing under water, trying to untangle his wand from inside his sock. Malfoy was swimming to collect the rest if the papers.

When Harry finally got hold of the wand it was easy for him to make a small wave that brought both him and Malfoy back and up on the ice. There he summoned their robes, and cast a quick warming spell over them.

They hurried back into the house. Harry took the pile of wet paper and starts drying them. Much of the ink has blotted, but most of it is salvageable.

After a few minutes Malfoy came out from the kitchen carrying two cups of hot tea. Harry took one with a thankful nod, and they sat down on opposite chairs. Malfoy glanced to the rescued papers and frowned as he leaned in closer to read. Harry noticed that the man's chest is still bare under the robe, they had forgotten the shirts on the ice.

Harry isn't aware that he is starring until Malfoy makes an amused snort.

"Sorry! I..." Harry begins but realises that Malfoy isn't looking at him.

He turned to see what Malfoy is reading. It's the time when Ron had eaten the chocolate laced with love-potion. Harry smiles at the memory. Malfoy's eyes meets his for a moment, before the both look away. Harry takes a large sip of the tea.

Malfoy stands up and motions that he is ready to leave, his cheeks are a bit pink.

"You know," says Harry, very much aware that Malfoy can't hear him. "This is my favourite part of the day..." He reaches out and takes Malfoy's hands in his. "Taking you home."

Malfoy tilted his head, giving Harry a look of confusion, and then a sad smile.

Bond was on his fifth question and was getting annoyed. He had established that Q's name is not a royal name, it was not a ordinary name, it was very old-fashioned British, and that Q often had been teased in school over it.

Q was yet again scanning Bond's handprint for a electronic gun safety lock. It must have been the seventh time in the last two days.

"Why don't you just save it?"

"Not allowed to outside HQ," said Q.

"I won't tell anybody."

"Still not allowed. Ask me another question."

"Hm. Does the rest of your family also have these kind of silly old names?"

"Yes. Six," Q placed a print-locked gun in Bond's right hand.

"What happens if I need to shoot with my left?" asked Bond, switching hands. "I could get injured, or I can need to hold on to something, or someone."

Q blinked. Then he suddenly looked very angry and took the gun back. Bond grinned as the younger man opened up a new design program on the computer.

"'Mycroft' is a silly old name," said Bond thoughtfully, thinking about their host. "Are you family?"

"Yes, seven."

"Hey. That wasn't one of my questions!"

"Sounded like one," smirked Q. "Seven."

"I think I'll go for a run," muttered Bond. "That looks like that will take a while."

He couldn't help but to fondly ruffle Q's curly hair before pulling on his jacket. The quartermaster growled.

Bond jogged through the snow, enjoying the cold air in his lungs. It wasn't like being in the Alps or the Rocky Mountains, but the English countryside had it's charm. And there was no one trying to shoot him.

Arthur was enjoying his new work at the British secret service. It wasn't like being 'the King of Camelot', but then again what was?

He was pleased because he had been given new knights. And this was something his wealth couldn't buy him in this new age. Fine men, and several women, who wanted to learn the noble arts of sword fights, jousting, hand to hand combat, and the most important thing: being chivalrous while doing it. He was also given good opportunities to work with horses, which he loved.

These knights, or 'agents', as Mycroft Holmes called them, were quite skilled on their own, but they seemed very enthusiastic to learn new ways to fight. One of them had even said that Arthur had taught him a new move that saved his life during a mission. With that, things were finally starting to fall into place in Arthur's own life.

There was just one thing pressing on Arthur's mind. Merlin.

That was why he found himself outside Merlin's home one late chilly December afternoon. He had thought long and hard over what to say to Merlin. That 'phone call', as he had made on Hermione's strange talking device a few days ago had just been a transportation of voices. They had promised Arthur that it wasn't magic, but he was still not sure. Anyway, it seemed that he couldn't escape talking with Merlin.

The wizards had placed Merlin in a building that from the outside looked like every other house in the area, inside it was the size of a barn. Merlin had settled in a small corner of the large room furnished with wooden furniture, the rest was a kind of a warehouse, laboratory and gallery. The gallery-part was decorated with Christmas things as if there was going to be a kind of a party.

"Arthur," said Merlin, shifting awkwardly by the door. "What are you doing here?"

Merlin stepped to the side and let him in. At that moment bravery and his carefully thought up words failed Arthur.

"I-" he breathed. "I saw that you rendered images of the home-warming party. Can I see them?"

"Why?" Merlin bit his lower lip.

"I want to see the images... I heard they are a good way to remember things to."

"What is it you want to remember?"

"Just let me see them, Merlin."

"I-..." Merlin hesitated, but then sighed as if giving up, and pushed his fingers through his hair. "Sure..."

Merlin offered Arthur a seat on a soft chair, and moved over to a shelf where several books where stored. Arthur rubbed his hands together. He was not going to ask Merlin to come back as his servant, but hopefully they could still be friends. Gwen was a wonderful friend, and a lovely wife, but she wasn't really a best friend, she had also been growing more and more independent in this new world. Arthur needed Merlin, he only had to come up with a good apology.

"I really like this time," said Merlin not meeting Arthur's eyes and hugging a glossy book to his chest. "People don't believe in magic but they still live with it everyday. There is magic everywhere. And the images..." he gave the book a fond pat. "I love the making of images."

"I'm happy for you," said Arthur, and he was.

Merlin gave him the book, his hands shaking slightly. For a moment Arthur thought that the man was going to pull the book back. He hurried to take it so it wouldn't be lost.

"W-what are you looking for?" Merlin's voice was low.

Arthur took a breath, his brain working hard to find a good enough answer that didn't involve 'I just want my friend back'. A stoke of genius took him as he remembered Mycroft Holmes.

"My new employer was at the party," he said. "He didn't want his image taken. I'm going to..."

Arthur cut himself off, looking down on the book. He tuned the page. There were all him. All the images of Arthur. There were of his face, his hands, his eyes, his mouth. Page after page. He took a breath.

"But you said..."

"It was for protection, you know..." Merlin looked away, the fingers of his right hand playing on his lower lip. "I... had to get..."

The next moment Merlin was gone. He was gone like the wizards used to disappear. Merlin was a wizard after all. Arthur looked down at the images again. He knew Merlin wouldn't return home until Arthur had left.

So he did, leave, with a naggingly strange feeling inside.

Mycroft read through the congratulatory messages again.

He wondered what they would think if they knew it was all done for the feeling of jealousy. The feeling that he didn't want Greenbow ever to be on the same continent as Lestrade again. They would think he was weak. They would think Lestrade was a liability to him. What kind of man makes decisions about national security based jealousy over a simple crush?

Lestrade hadn't brought him tea again. Neither had he asked for signatures nor any orders. The man still did his work, though. The manor was safer than ever, and it sparkled with Christmas decorations.

"Anthea..." he said in a low tone.

"Yes?" she didn't look up from her paperwork.

"Please don't read anything in to this..." he took a breath. "And don't comment. But, Lestrade... Can we have him... redistributed?"

"I'm right on it, sir."

Without another word she got up and left the room. Mycroft leaned back in his chair. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Right," he sighed. "Right."

There was work to be done.

Dean wiped the vampire blood off his machete. He felt a bit lonely, Sam hadn't wanted to come with him on the hunt. There was research to be done. Apparently, the woman that Sam had met wasn't working for any of the official agencies, and the search for her was continually being thwarted. Sam had become a bit obsessed.

For a moment Dean looked to the night sky to pray to Cas, but then remembered, and looked down on the ground instead. There was nothing but dead vampire, and that would be gone to ashes when the morning came.

Mycroft looked on the plate of biscuits next to his tea cup. He wasn't being given the ones with chocolate any more. Had it been Lestrade that had bought those especially?

It was time to go home. Harry was finished with the draft of his book. It was soon Christmas, and he had gotten word that Ginny had moved out of their house, and in with Neville. The divorce was final as well.

It was the last time he was apparating Malfoy before leaving. It wasn't likely they would ever see each other again. Malfoy had written a note saying good luck with the book, and farewell. He also wrote that he now had saved enough money to move to in with some relatives in France. .

"I'm happy for you," said Harry as they arrived in front of Malfoy's small apartment building in town.

Harry smiled, pointed to the smile, and then pointed to Malfoy. The pale man gave a smile and a nod back.

"I'm actually going to miss you."

Harry was sad again to receive the sweet but confused smile. Awkwardly he leaned forward and gave Malfoy a light hug, patting him on the back. Malfoy patted Harry's arms before going inside.

Harry stood still for a moment, looking at the closed door. Then he left, starting on his four-parted apparation-point journey home to London.

On the other side of the door, Draco sank down with his back against the wall, and hugged his knees.

"Can you make a girly nickname of it?"

James took a sip from one if the bottles of Christmas beer Mycroft Holmes' butler had delivered earlier. Since all testing for the day was over, Q had conceded to some rest and relaxation. He had even, to James surprise and dubious pleasure, hooked up one of his computers to the BBC network. The program they were watching was a blaring mix of scientific facts, sexual innuendoes, and a whole lot of of pre-Christmas cheer. It was quite nice.

"Yes," muttered Q, his tone confessing to a childhood full of name calling. "Ten."

James hummed as Q took a big swig if his own bottle. He glanced at his quartermaster's bitter face.

"People used to call me 'Jamie' in school," he offered.

"That is a perfectly good nickname for James," said Q. "That's nothing to what me and my brother suffered."

"You have a brother?"

"Shit. I shouldn't be drinking this. Yes... Eleven."

"You shouldn't work for MI6 if you can't keep secrets under influence of alcohol."

"I'm not drunk."

"Even worse," smirked James and patted Q's thigh.

"Pervert."

"Calm down, Gladys," James frowned at the screen where a over-zealous, and sexually ambiguous, game-show host was shouting out orders to harassed-looking professional comedians wearing silly hats.

"What name is that for?" asked Q.

"Gladstone."

"Sounds like a dog. Not me, sorry. Twelve."

"That wasn't even a question!"

"Woof."

"Mutt," James laughed fondly.

"Sam!" called Dean, coming home. "You totally missed out, dude! Sirius has this friend, Charlie, that takes care of dragons in Romania! Not those evolved shithead ones we met back home, but real big ones. They showed me pictures and everything. It was awesome!"

Dean looked around the hallway and the living room for his brother, without finding him. He continued moving towards the kitchen.

"There are no dragons in this country though," he said, taking a beer from the fridge. "Good thing, I wouldn't even know were to start..."

There was still no answer. Sam's car had been in the driveway. Dean started to get a worried. Putting his beer aside on a table and pulling out his gun, he started to move up the stairs.

"The shotgun would only make it mad," he kept on talking. "He showed me a real claw. It was awesome..."

He pushed open the door to Sammy's room, aiming the gun around. Sam was on his bed, reading a big book. Dean lowered the gun. Sam gave him an unimpressed look.

"Dragons," nodded Sam. "Cool."

"Is that a history book?"

"British history book. It's good to know a little history about the country you live in."

"Awsome," Dean nodded and retuned downstairs to his beer.

Molly stood by the magiced up drink trolley. At first it had seemed exciting to work with wizards, but when you looked upon it... It was all the same. Wasn't it? Wither you had magic or not, life had same troubles. It was still life. And if you were a mousy lab girl it didn't really matter if you had magic or not, which Molly hadn't. She looked down on the phone in her hand. There where no messages from Martin. She hoped he had a good day.

"Enjoying your evening?"

"Oh, Sirius, hi!" Molly almost dropped her glass as she tried to hide the phone in the pocket of her cardigan.

"Careful," he laughed.

"I'm sorry," she blushed. "Oh, yes it's very nice. Terribly exciting. Merlin's home. I mean ithe/i Merlin."

"Yes, he does have lovely photography doesn't he?" Sirius looked a little uncomfortable.

Molly looked over to the small dance floor. Severus was dancing with Miranda. She was wearing a short, tight, red dress.

"I'm sure he will dance with all of us," Molly hurried to say. "He is the boss after all."

"Mm," Sirius took a sip from his drink.

Molly was about to say something else that would sound comforting. She was interrupted by Irene Adler in a little black dress asking her to dance. Molly was speechless, but Sirius gave her a push making her take a step forward into Irene's arms.

"Relax," purred Irene I her ear. "I'm not going to bite, unless you want me to."

Molly started to giggle, and relaxed.

Anthea had allowed Mycroft exactly seven minutes for a tea break before he had to call the prime-minister of... well, it didn't matter. He took his tea in the downstairs salon facing the garden lawn. There was no chocolate biscuits here either, but Bradbury had put out some figs, but that was little consolation. He looked out the window to the snowy grounds and felt very alone.

He smiled a little though, when he saw James Bond jogging by out on his daily workout, dressed in a bulky tracksuit, a knitted hat, and a big scarf. Q really was the master of giving out accessories.

It felt nice, thought Molly. She swayed slowly to the music, embraced by Irene's arms. Their cheeks were touching, and it felt soft. She could feel soft kisses by her ear.

"Take me home," breathed Molly, feeling braver than ever.

Irene moved so that their eyes met. They exchanged a look of happiness, lust, and just a little bit of trepidation. Irene took Molly's hand and led her away from the party.

In the taxi they let their finger's intertwine between them. Irene's thumb stroked over the side of Molly's hand. From time to time their eyes met, at first just for short moments, until they both held the gaze as the car eased to a halt outside Molly's apartment building.

The still held hands as they walked up the stairs to Molly's door. They kissed softly. Molly was doing a happy inside dance. Then she paused for a moment.

Had she put away her dirty laundry? Was there ice cream packages on the floor by the bed? Where there autopsy photographs on the table? Thank god, she had cleaned the cat-litter-box this morning.

"Can- can you please just count to ten before you come inside? I need to..." She trailed of while making a vague hand gesture.

"Sure," Irene gave her a understanding smile. "I'll count to ten, then I'm coming to get you."

Molly hurried inside, picking up stray pieces of clothing, candy wrapping paper, and photographs of human organs as she went. She took up Mr. Cuddles from her bed, kissed his furry head, and put him in the kitchen.

She turned to find Irene standing on the threshold.

"If Sherlock could see us now," mused Irene, softly taking Molly in her arms kissing her lips.

"I'm sure he would find it dull," Molly found the zipper on the right side of Irene's dress.

"But he would still watch for the sake of science."

They were moving towards the bed. Molly breathed in the scents of mixed perfume and arousal. Irene let her hands stroke up over Molly's thighs, to the hem of her skirt, pushing the fabric upwards, and revealing a pair if white cotton panties. Their lips met again in a deeper kiss. Molly hummed.

Her mobile rang.

"Don't answer that," Irene's hands continued up Molly's hips.

The phone rang again

"I have to..." Molly turned under Irene's body to reach for the phone.

"Hello? Martin? ... No you are not a failure ... Sweetie, don't do this to yourself ... Of course you are going to get your licence ..."

Molly could hear Irene sigh, and she felt bad.

"Read your books ... Yes, again ... I believe in you ... Yes, do so ... Good bye Martin."

She hung up.

"I'm sorry," she said awkwardly. "My ex-step-brother. He's very depressed, and isn't doing so well."

"It's fine," said Irene, positioning herself again over Molly's body and kissing her chin. "You are a very good person."

Molly blushed. She hesitantly put a hand on the side of Irene's left breast. They kissed again. The phone rang.

"Damn..." swore Irene. "Don't!"

There was authority in her voice, the sound if someone who was used to giving orders to her lovers. Molly hesitated only for a moment, but she still answered the phone. She moved away from Irene, sitting more straight on the bed.

"Martin? ... N-no, you are not disturbing me," Molly shut her eyes hard. "... I can talk... No, sweetie. You are only hurting yourself ... All will be fine ... I'm here..."

Molly pressed a hand over her forehead as he watched Irene get dressed. She so much wanted to shout out, but she couldn't. Irene gave her a sad look, and left.

"No, I'm listening ... You'll be fine ... Everything's going to be fine ..."

Standing in their bedroom, Severus was removing his robes. He preferred unbuttoning the long row of buttons by hand rather than using magic. He looked up as Sirius entered.

"The kids are all sleeping. I paid Teddy and flooed him home."

"Good," Severus placed the robe on a hanger.

"It was a nice party," said Sirius.

"Yours is going to be much better."

"And bigger. Don't remind me," Sirius began to undress, staying quiet for a moment. "Miranda is a pretty girl."

"Is she?" Severus sat down on the bed to remove his socks.

"Yes..." Sirius walked towards the bathroom. "Be careful there."

Severus sat still, looking at his socks.

Molly looked around the small attic flat. The daylight was coming in from a small window in the ceiling. Otherwise it was quite dreary and the paint was pealing. She was sitting on a narrow bed, it was well-made but with threadbare sheets.

There was one small bookshelf, all books were about aviation. A couple of old postcards depicting different aeroplanes were pinned to the wall.

She smiled as the door opened and Martin Creiff entered with two cups of, plain, steaming tea. He put the cups on the small bedside table.

"Thank you," Molly smiled. "How are you?"

He was thin. Too thin for a grown man of thirty-one. There were dark patches under his eyes.

"Miserable," Martin pulled up a rickety chair to the table. "I don't know why you bother with me."

"I don't mind at all," Molly regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. "I mean..."

"Yeah, you don't mind..." Martin looked away. "Why would you mind me?"

"I didn't mean it like that. Look. How did your pilot certificate test go?"

"I failed."

"Oh," Molly lay her hand in his arm.

Martin looked like was about to cry. She had seen that look on him several times before. Her father had been married to his mother a few years while Martin and Molly were teenagers. The two of them remained like siblings even after their parents divorce.

"I'm never going to be a pilot! I study, and study, and study! I break my back working, moving other people's nice things..."

"You'll get it next time..."

"I done the bloody test bloody five times!" screamed Martin, throwing his teacup, chattering, to the floor. "I'm never going to get it!"

Molly grabbed hold of him before he could do any more harm to his sparse possessions.

"Don't do that," she hugged him tightly. "I'm here for you. You know that. You are going to make it. You will be a pilot. I'm sure of it. And then I will fly with you."

"You promise?" he asked in a teary voice.

"I promise," Molly kissed the top of his red locks. "Now, lets clean this mess up, and get you a new cup."

"I'll be out for the rest of the day," said Severus to Miranda, tucking his robe around his coat as a protection for the cold.

"Are you going to buy me a present?" she asked, crossing her legs, and thereby showing a considerable bit of thigh under her short skirt.

Severus shifted, failing slightly to look away completely. He gave her half a smile.

"Are you getting me something?" he retorted.

"You can have it all, sir."

She smiled with sensually painted lips, clearly influenced by Irene's make-up skills. Severus cleared his throat to clear his thoughts.

"What do you need?"

"I don't want anything I need," she leered. "I want something I want..."

Severus left the apothecary on slightly unsteady feet.

Sirius arrived to Diagon Alley just as Severus exited to the walkway. They gave each other a quick kiss on the cheek.

"You'll go that way," said Sirius, giving him a small pouch of coins newly withdrawn from the Gringrott's bank with Severus' seal on it. "I'll go this way, and we'll meet up back here in an hour."

Severus nodded. He hadn't really thought about what to give Sirius for Christmas. He usually gave him a scarf or something similar. Sirius looked good in scarves.

The thought of Miranda was nagging him, though. She was defiantly flirting. Nobody had flirted with him before. Sirius and he had just... fallen together on common ground somehow after they had come out of their respective purgatories, though in Sirius's case that had been literary. Severus loved Sirius, but it felt nice to be flirted with. Maybe he should buy her something.

He had reached a small accessory shop. The window displayed different kinds of jewellery, ties, scarves and silly hair ornaments. Severus hesitated for a moment but then stepped inside.

There was a display case next to the till. Severus' caught sight of a thin gold chain that looked quite nice.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I..." Severus looked up. "Lockhart?"

"I'm sorry?" said the handsome man who had once been Severus' colleague. "Do we know each other? That happens a lot, but I have slight memory problem. I have no idea why...?"

Severus held up a hand to stop the Lockhart from talking.

"I'll have that one."

"Excellent choice, sir. Twenty-four carats, no charms attached..."

"Yes, yes. I'll take it." Severus looked over his shoulder, suddenly worried that Sirius was going to walk inside the shop, it was the kind of shop that Sirius would walk into.

"Do you want it gift wrapped?"

"Fine."

Lockhart took up a small box from under the till. Then he took his wand and spelled some blue cotton inside the box. Then he changed it to pink, then to purple, then to blue again.

"What are you doing?" asked Severus.

"Does sir prefer a certain colour?"

"Any is fine..." Severus had caught sight of Sirius through the window. "Not that one!"

Lockhart looked down at the Hufflepuff-yellow cotton with a confused frown.

The door opened and Sirius stepped inside. He halted on the threshold at the sight of Severus.

"Oh!" he said. "Sorry, dear. I didn't know you were here. What are you buying?"

"Nothing," Severus turned and grabbed hold of his husband, pushing him back out of the door. "Let's go!"

"But sir?" called Lockhart.

"You don't have to buy me anything expensive," smiled Sirius. "A scarf will do just fine. I love this one very much you know..."

Severus kept walking, moving him and Sirius as far away from the shop as possible.

The Doctor was quite discouraged in his search for a companion. The blond witch named Luna had been ideal at first, but the Doctor knew far too well that he needed a companion that was less loony than himself. It evened things out if he was the loonier one. They would defiantly keep in touch though. That was the new him, keeping in touch. Definably.

Maybe he should go back to the old-fashioned way of choosing companions, by taking whomever happened to tag along by accident. That was the good old days. It was fun, but it often broke his hearts.

The Doctor decided to make a last try, and stepped inside the slightly up-scale New York bar. Going to America for his search had been a wacky idea, and he hoped it would pay off. He shouldn't play favours for the British, even though those favours had played well in his favour so far.

Dorian, the photographer, and Mr. Kalipolis were looking over the pictures on a computer screen. John would most defiantly take the memory-cards away as he left, but if the pictures were on the computer... He wondered how he ever was going to show himself in public again if those pictures ever came out.

"Don't worry," said Sherlock as if reading his mind. "I know one of the best hackers in the world. He's already on the job of destroying the files when we are finished here."

"Good," John sighed with relief.

They were still on the bed. John was on his back and Sherlock was on top of him, half sitting, half supporting himself on his underarms that were resting on John's chest. It was quite comfortable and warm. Since there was no friction, John didn't even mind that their erections were pressing against each other.

"The pictures must be really good, though," noted Sherlock leaning down a little. "Kalipolis looks irritated."

"Why?"

"Cause he knows he can't publish them without your consent."

John took a breath, looking up at Sherlock's stormy eyes.

"When this is over," he said. "We need to talk about this."

"I'll let you take me out for a drink."

John almost laughed out loud.

"Sammy!" Dean called to his brother who was standing by the deserted forest road looking forlorn. "She's not going to turn up! We've waited for like an hour."

"I was sure this time," Sam sighed. "The creature was impersonating a politician. That has to be up their alley."

"Yeah, well..." Dean cleaned the still not coagulating dark red blood of the charmed knife. "Maybe she wasn't voting for him."

"We need to find a new case!" huffed Sam waking over to their Jeep that was parked between two big trees.

Dean just sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Where have you been?" scolded Sirius as Severus walked in the door. "You promised the James and Albus that you'd help them with their decorations for the party."

"Can't a man have some secrets?" grumbled Severus, letting Sirius help him off with his coat.

Sirius smirked as he watched Severus move towards the living room were the children were waiting. He hung up Severus' coat on the rack by the door. His hand bumped against something hard in one of the pockets. Wondering why Severus hadn't resized it, he took up the box. There was a thin gold chain inside. Sirius smiled.

"He really shouldn't have."

Harry couldn't get Malfoy out if his mind. He laughed quietly as he remembered the old Malfoy, the Slytherin one, peaking out of those silver eyes just before diving into that ice cold water.

The next day he went to the Ministry of Magic. It took nearly six hours of pushing his weight, name, friend's names, hero-status, and excessive magical power around, but in the end he had gotten rid of all magical restrictions over Malfoy. It was the least he could do.

"Wadda yah havn'?" asked the bartender.

Luckily, the Doctor understood this language.

"Tea," he leaned into the bar, looking cool. "And make it hot, with a sip of milk, and two sugars."

The bartender rolled his eyes. The Doctor winked at him, and then winked at another patron sitting by the bar. The man, a very handsome looking man in his mid-forties, raised an eyebrow.

"Are you from England?" he asked.

"Not originally," said the Doctor. "Actually..." he leaned closer. "I'm from outer space."

"Oh," said the man taking a sip from his drink. "Asgard?"

"Pwah," said the Doctor dismissing the name with a waive of his hand. "Do I look like a god-complex inside a ridiculous suit of armour?

"No," laughed the man. "And I know a few of them. I'm Tony Stark."

"I'm the The Doctor," said the Doctor, shaking the offered hand.

The Doctor felt a funny tingling at he touch.

"Pardon me... If I may..."

He pulled out his sonic screwdriver. Tony gave it a curious look, but did nothing else. The Doctor moved the screwdriver over the man's chest. There was a high peak of energy coming from there.

"How terribly exciting," beamed the Doctor, happy to finally find something interesting.

"Can I introduce you to a friend of mine? Clint? Oh, there he is. At the back. He likes the place with the best view."

He pointed to a muscular man in s black t-shirt, half hidden in shadows further in by the back wall.

"Who doesn't?" smiled the Doctor, taking his tea. "Oh darn! That's really hot!"

"Hey, Hawk," called Tony, guiding the Doctor along with a light hand to his back. "This is the Doctor. He's from outer space."

"Cool," said the muscular man, looking the Doctor over with incredibly sharp eyes.

"Yes," nodded the Doctor. "Very cool. But not as cool as the arc-reactor in your friend's chest. Are those electro-galvanised platinum settings?"

"Oh, Bruce is going to love you."

"Bruce?"

"Bruce Banner," said Tony. "He just loves aliens with technical skills."

"Me too," the Doctor took another sip of his hot tea. "They are so cute when they talk."

Indeed, when the man called Bruce arrived he basically threw himself over the The Doctor. Oh, the science they could talk about! Soon, The Doctor, Tony, and Bruce were laughing so hard the nearly fell of their chairs. Clint looked on with an amused grin on his otherwise stoic face.

"And he said..." laughed the Doctor, wiping tears out of his eyes. "He said it was a particle fusion!"

Tony put a hand over his chest as if he was going to push the arc reactor out by laughing too much. The Doctor drank out his third cup of tea.

"This one!" Bruce called, holding up a picture of a long mathematical formula on his phone. "Do this one now!"

"Three!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"And this one?" Bruce shifted image to another formula.

"Potato soup, but easy on the parsnip."

Another round of loud laughter broke out.

"You are funny!" Tony hugged the Doctor around the shoulders. In a very brotherly fashion "Where are you staying?"

"Well," the Doctor straightened his bow tie a little. "My home is sort of mobile."

"Your spaceship?" asked Bruce.

"You can't stay in a spaceship when you are in New York!" Tony interjected loudly. "You have to come to the Avengers Tower with us! We have a brand new binary reactor you have to see. And Cap is there!"

"That's right," said Bruce enthusiastically. "You haven't met Steve yet. He was frozen in ice for nearly seventy years."

"Still fresh as a daisy," smirked Clint.

"What are waiting for then?" the Doctor rubbed his palms together.

The Avengers Tower, and the reactor, was a timelord's dream come true. And then The Doctor met Steve, and Thor, and Natasha. There were times that night that he almost thought his hearts were going to burst of happiness.

Sirius smiled as he sat down next to the decorated tree. Lily sat on Severus's knee chewing on a gingerbread cookie. They had agreed to open one gift each before going to the big Christmas party.

"You choose one daddy!" called Albus.

"Then..." Sirius reached for the box he had seen Severus placing under the tree earlier, "...I choose this one." He leaned forward an kissed Severus.

"What was that for?"

"I'm just happy, that's all," Sirius opened the box.

"What is it daddy?" Albus looked over the edge.

"It's... it's a bow-tie." Sirius held up the red silk.

What was happening? Where was the chain? Hadn't Severus bought that for him? No. Then who was it for? Sirius forced a smile on his face.

"Thank you, dear," he got up to his feet, feeling his eyes sting. "I... I love it. Why don't I go and put it on and you get everybody their jackets on?"

He fled into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Deep breaths. Sirius hiccuped and let a quiet wail go. Deep breaths. Clam down. He wiped away a couple of stray tears running down his cheeks. He leaned against the wall. He needed to calm down. This night was for the children. He could keep it together for the children.

With a last strengthening breath he tied the bow-tie around his neck, and cast a quick spell on his face to hide the blotching.

"Ready or not!" he called as he opened the door. "Let's go party!"

mulifandom fic part 4

naturegirlrocks — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 19:59:52 GMT

Title: Fandom,) Actually.
Author: naturegirlrocks
Crossover: Love Actually
Fandoms: Harry Potter (EWE), Sherlock (BBC), James Bond (postSkyfall), Supernatural (S7), Doctor Who (11th, between S6&7), and Merlin (S4), featuring The Avengers, and special guest Cabin Pressure (pre-series).
Romantic Pairings: Harry/Draco, Severus/Sirius, Severus/OFC Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, Irene/Molly, James/Q, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Anthea, Merlin/Arthur(/Gwen)
Bromantic pairings: olly&Martin, The Doctor&The Avengers, Dean&Sirius, and Mycroft&his butler.
Brothers: Mycroft&Sherlock&Q, Dean&Sam
Rating: T/R/15
Words:25K+
Summary: Sherlock does porn. Cas is left behind in purgatory. James is not too old for the field. Mycroft is fighting his forbidden feelings. Harry does his biography. Merlin does photography. Dean likes The Scorpions. Martin has breakdowns. Snape is thoughtless. The Doctor is making American friends. And so much more...!
Note: This was supposed to be my Christmas fic, but RL happened. Please see this as a Valentine with a Christmas theme :)
Warning: Some angst, not linear

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

"Dean?"

Dean looked up from his computer. He had been watching adult manga-movies while cleaning his guns for at least three hours. It was late, almost midnight, and his eyes were beginning to get a bit sore. He clicked pause.

"Can't sleep?" he asked Sam.

"No," Sam sat down on the sofa, playing with the remote but without turning the television on. "I've been thinking..."

"Help us all," Dean got up from his chair and sat down beside his brother. "What about?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"We have been talking about me quite a lot lately," Sam cleared his throat. "How are you holding up?"

Dean smirked sadly.

"I can hold my own," he said, leaning his head back on the sofa.

"You... haven't meet someone lately? I mean like..."

"Sammy, when I do meet a British supermodel I promise I throw you out of the house. We would like to have sex in every room, including yours."

"Thank for the heads up," Sam bumped his brother's shoulder.

"Yes!" James fisted the air.

"Try not to break something in your celebrations," said Q dryly.

"Who cares?" James rubbed his hands together. "I'm going to spend my Christmas in a luxury hotel in San Francisco. Bless all international diamond smugglers and their great timing."

Q rolled his eyes and continued packing James' bags. Some of the newly tested weaponry found their way down the secret compartments and folds. James was humming a unknown holiday melody, and mentally going through his Californian contacts for some Christmas company.

"I wonder if Bambi is free," he mused.

"You went out with a girl named Bambi?" huffed Q.

"She is a PhD in physics I'll have you know."

"Figures. All physicists are mad."

"You sound like you speak from personal experience."

"Huh," Q closed the bag. "There you go. Your ticket is at the airport, Air America. Mycroft's lending you his chauffeur to drive you there."

"I never guessed your name," James fingers touched Q's as he took the bag.

"You have two questions left."

"Does it begin with an 'S'?"

"Yes. Nineteen."

"'Sherlock'?"

He remembered seeing that name somewhere in the papers, but couldn't remember in what context, Q blinked rapidly as if the name had struck a core, and James felt a rising sense of victory.

"No," Q shook his head, half a smile on his lips. "You are out of questions."

"I was close though? Wasn't I?" James grinned, knowing that the name itself must mean something personal to Q.

"Very close," Q gave him a full smile and a light hug. "Now go, or you'll miss your flight."

"What is your plan for Addams?" asked John, automatically moving his hands over the sides Sherlock's long neck.

"My original plan was to flirt with him," Sherlock glanced over to Addams, making sure the man caught him licking his lips. "I'm playing his preferred type of partner."

"You are kidding?" John tried not laughing out loud. "This is his type?"

"He likes them silly. Makes him feel smart."

"Very silly then."

"I'm going to make him take me home. From there I can render him unconscious, and gather all evidence I need evidence against him."

"There is only one thing wrong with that plan," said John.

"What?"

"I'm not going to let you go," John placed his hands possessively on Sherlock's buttocks.

"You have to," Sherlock looked into his eyes. "If you want me for Christmas, you need to let me go."

"Christmas?"

"To use a tired cliché: 'All I want for Christmas is you'."

John couldn't help at that moment roll over and pin Sherlock down underneath him. The camera continued clicking away enthusiastically.

Christmas Eve Harry arrived, laden with packages, to the big tent that Sirius had set up on the Holmes estate. He could see Sirius further off speaking to two muggles, one of whom was Mycroft Holmes. Harry didn't know the man other than by proxy, since he avoided to involve himself in politics.

"Harry," Severus walked up to him, followed closely by his three children, and a small herd of Weasley kids. "That's quite a lot of presents."

"Uncle Harry!" screamed the children happily.

"Are they for me?!" asked Lily, the small but brazen girl by Severus left leg.

"Some if them..." said Harry, looking around, feeling strange.

He thought about what he had done for Malfoy, giving him back his magical rights. 'The least he could do'. But what if he didn't want to do 'the least he could do'? What if he wanted to do more? What if he wanted to be with Malfoy? To help him? To live with him? To love him?

Did Malfoy want that too? He remembered the sad smiles, the looks, and the perfect cups of tea. Harry had to know.

Why was he even here?

"What is it?" Severus frowned.

"I- I can't stay," Harry breathed, looking down at the disappointed children.

"Potter, where are you going?"

Harry haphazardly handed over his burden of presents to Severus, who didn't even bother to take them. They quickly fell into much smaller and faster hands.

Harry had already left the festively decorated tent by then.

"Idiot," muttered Severus fondly.

Molly was in her car, driving to Martin. She had promised to spend Christmas with him. He didn't want to be alone, neither did she. She stared at the road before her as small snowflakes started to fall.

There was a sudden beep from her mobile lying on the passenger seat. Molly slowed down and let some other cars pass her from behind before she reached out to take the device and read the message.

i'Merry Christmas – Irene'/i

Molly pulled the car up to the side of the road and read the message over. She took a breath, and typed a message back.

i'Merry Christmas. I'm sorry. - Molly'/i

She wiped away a few stray tears from her face. Her mobile beeped again and she scrambled to look at it.

iWhere are you?/i

Molly bit her lower lip to keep from tearing up more. She sent a message back to Martin, saying she was nearly there, and motored up the car on the road again.

Mycroft stood by the window in his fanciful lounge. He was looking through the glass at the snow covering the great back lawn. At the edge of the garden he saw the lights coming from the wizards' party. He thought he'd might take Q and pop by there later in the evening, it was better than them being alone at Christmas.

A sudden memory flashed by in his mind. He had been fifteen years old, it was Christmas Day, and he was sick with high fever. Outside was Sherlock, eight years old, testing out his new kerosene kitchen by melting snow in a pot. Their mother was sitting by, supervising, with laughing baby Q on her knee. Mycroft had been so jealous at the time.

"Sir?" Anthea came up behind him. "Your Christmas cards."

"Thank you," he gave her a tired smile. "Take the rest of the day off, and take the whole day tomorrow as well."

"Thank you, sir," she handed him the pile of festive cards. "I'm just going over to the gun range first, sir. Our two guests are soon to be arriving."

"Send them my regards. Happy Christmas, A," he gave her cheek a light kiss.

"You want some food?" asked Dean, looking over to a nearby Fish and Chips stand.

"Not hungry," said Sam, who was scanning through the headlines displayed in the window of the magazine store. "That is just pure fat anyway."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Salad," huffed Dean, he was already counting the coins in his pocket, adding them up for a meal. "You didn't complain the last time you ate all my fries."

The conversation would have had the promise of becoming a enjoyable round of bantering, if it wasn't abruptly interrupted by a van screeching to a halt beside them, four men jumping out, and stabbing needles in the brothers' necks. The last thing Sam heard before all went dark was the clatter of Dean dropping his coins on the ground.

Molly tied a long knitted scarf several turns around Martin's neck.

"It's long," she laughed.

"I love it," Martin smiled, and hugged her. "I'm so sorry I cause you so much trouble."

"Don't worry," Molly smiled and kissed his forehead. "I know you don't mean to."

Arthur and Gwen sat by the fire in their big living room. Arthur looked at the flames, and thought about Merlin, and how the wizard had run away earlier. He also though of the pictures that were all of him. Merlin had looked so distraught...

Gwen was quietly reading a fictional book about romance that Hermione had given her as a study to the new times. Judging by the blush on her cheeks, Gwen seemed to enjoy the book. Arthur hadn't really cared for picture of the half-naked couple passionately embracing on the front cover.

There was a sound of the bell by the door.

"Who could that be?" asked Gwen, she looked a bit irritated to be drawn form her book.

"I'll go look," said Arthur getting to his feet. "Probably some scientists wanting to know how we celebrate Christmas. I have already told several of them that we are going to make sacrifice to the Moon goddess and the fairies. Oh, and also the divine fawn, the woodland ruler of the Winter Solace."

"You didn't?" giggled Gwen.

"They seemed very excised over the prospect," shrugged Arthur with half a smile, and left the room.

He had to walk through another room and a short corridor to come to the entrance hall. 'I really miss having servants', he thought as he opened the door. Arthur frowned in surprise as he saw Merlin standing outside on his doorstep.

"Mer... "

Merlin held up a hand to stop him from talking. Arthur blinked and watched as Merlin took held up a large, white paper. There was a moment of silence before a soft tune began to play from seemingly nowhere. Merlin made a smooth move of his hand over the paper and letters suddenly appeared, forming words.

iI just want to say

that even though I lied

you are still my best friend

and I find you perfect in every way

and I will continue loving you

for another thousand years

Merry Christmas/i

Arthur swallowed several times as he read, his heart beating hard in his chest. Then Merlin gave a sad smile, nodded, and turned to leave.

Arthur took a deep breath and grabbed hold of Merlin, stopping him from leaving, forcing him to looking at him. A few moments of confusion, desire, and need passed between them. Then Arthur leaned forward and pressed his lips against Merlin's. Softly, slowly and then breathtaking. They parted, staring into each other's eyes. Arthur nodded and dragged Merlin inside with him.

"Never leave me again," he whispered embracing his friend tightly.

Q was sitting in his favourite comfy chair, trying to figure out what was inside the merrily wrapped book-sized package M had sent him by shaking it. Usually M didn't give personal gifts, only signing his initial on token boxes of fine chocolate that Eve had purchased. Mycroft was busy eating his gift from M at this very moment.

"You look sad, brother," noted Q.

"I'm not sad," Mycroft sighed, looking out the window to the snow covered grounds. "Perhaps a bit lonely... And I'm worried for Sherlock."

"I know what you mean," Q placed the package on the floor, saving it for Christmas morning, and took up his laptop instead. "I hope he has a warm bed tonight, wherever he is... Speaking of Sherlock, there were some pictures he asked me to erase..."

Q started typing out some codes to get himself into the 'HayGay' server.

"Maybe I should give John Watson a call," Mycroft took his last piece of fancy chocolate from the box.

"I think he's just fine," said Q indicating his screen.

"What do you mean..." Mycroft came to stand beside his brother. "Oh good heavens! Doctor Watson, I knew you were hiding something big from me."

"This one is actually quite good. Shall we send it to Mommy as a Christmas card? To let her know Sherlock is fine?"

"Don't you dare!" Mycroft leaned in. "Maybe if we crop this piece off..."

"Sherlock's going to kill us."

"After what he has put us through?" Mycroft stood up and walked back to the window. "He deserves it... Oh my goodness! There is a very attractive naked man running across my lawn."

"What?!" Q got to his feet, the laptop almost falling to the floor. "Bond!"

"I figured he was one of your friends," smirked Mycroft.

"What the hell is he doing?!"

Q grabbed hold of the nearest blanket, the one thrown over the sofa, and ran through the room to the French window doors that lead out to the lawn. He could hear Mycroft chuckle behind him.

"Bond!" screamed Q, running through the snow in his slippers. "You complete and utter fool! What the fuck are you doing?!"

James shortened his pace and headed for Q. His lips were slightly blue, but smiling none the less. Q threw the blanket over him.

"We had a bet," shivered the mad spy.

"You are supposed to be halfway on your way to America!" Q was still screaming. "Get inside! Now!"

"No," James stood his ground, taking Q's hands in his. "I need to tell you something."

"Idiot..."

"Listen to me! I was standing in the airport, about to board the plane, when I got a call from HQ. The target's business partner, a smuggler named Andrews, has been arrested, in London of all places. The meeting in San Francisco is off. HQ said to just take the ticket, and see it as a Christmas gift."

"Then why didn't you?" Q rubbed James's cold fingers. "What about Bambi?"

"Her name is 'Bambi' for god's sake!"

"Oh," Q couldn't help but to laugh a little.

"And it got me thinking," James released his fingers, placing his cold hands on Q's cheeks. "I'm forty-four years old. My life has been nothing but short meaningless affairs. The few whom I have really loved has all betrayed me, or died, often both."

"James, you are freezing..."

"Listen Q!" James shook Q desperately. "I thought about my life! There has never been someone safe, someone I could feel like home with! Until now. With you!"

Q starred at him. The blue lips, the shivering jaw, the blanket that had fallen to the snow. Q swallowed, trying to fight the tears in his eyes.

"Blimy, 007," he breathed. "Just the thought of going to San Francisco has made you gay as a maypole."

"Shut up," James pressed their numb lips together. "What is your name, by the way?"

"Sherrinford Holmes," said Q breathlessly, and without thinking.

"I'll stick to 'Q'."

"Thank you," Q draped the blanket over James's shoulders again. "Jamie."

"Now lets go inside and get fucking drunk, or the other way around. I'm freezing my balls off here,"

Q laughed and looked down on said appendix.

"Don't judge me," growled James at the quizzically raised eyebrow. "It's very cold out here."

The Christmas cards in Mycroft's pile were from family, friends and some non-secret work related contacts. All of them had covers with classical winter scenes. There was also a simple card with a smiling cartoon Father Christmas in the front. It wasn't the kind of thing Mycroft usually received.

i'Dear Mycroft' /ihe read (no one had ever called him 'dear') i'Thank you for getting me my job back at the Yard, and with the compensation pay! I don't know how you did it, and I'm not sure that I want to. I'm sorry for the way we parted. We never had a chance to talk about what happened before I left. I want you to know that whatever you saw that day, I am, actually, yours. Greg.'/i

Mycroft took a deep breath. It took only a second to realise what he must do. He had his phone in hand within moments.

"Bring the car around," he said moving through the house, grabbing his coat as he went. "And pick up Lestrade in London, where ever he is, we'll meet halfway."

Bradbury was ready with his coat, and slipped it galantly over Mycroft's shoulders as he passed through the hallway. The black car was already waiting for him as he exited the front door. Mycroft got into the back.

"Just drive," he said to the driver. "Coordinate to meet with the pickup."

He leaned back, stapling his fingers under his chin. He had been a fool to send away Lestrade in the first place, but he had been jealous, and he had thought it clouded his judgement. Mycroft realised now that his judgement never had been clearer.

"Sir?" his driver called for attention.

"Yes? What is wrong? Can't they find him?"

"They have found him, sir. He was on his way here."

"H-here?" Mycroft stammered.

"There they are, sir," the driver said, and steered to the side of the road.

Mycroft saw Lestrade's blue car by the edge of the road, it had been stopped and blocked by one his own black cars. Lestrade didn't look happy, and was arguing with the agents from the other car. He looked surprised when Mycroft arrived.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't intend disturb you... I'm... just here to take my son to the Christmas party..."

Mycroft looked to the back of Lestrade's car. There was a young boy, about eleven, he was wearing a red robe, and a slightly scared expression.

"Stand down," Mycroft told the agents. "You can go back."

"Sir," the closest agent nodded.

Mycroft turned to Lestrade.

"Your son is a wizard?" he asked.

"You know about them?" Lestrade shifted, but then rolled his eyes. "Of course you do. You know about everything. They have their bloody Christmas party on your bloody back yard."

"I got your card..." said Mycroft.

"Yeah?" Lestrade came closer.

"Yes," nodded Mycroft.

He looked down on Lestrade's lips. There seemed to be a opportunity there, one that was open...

"Dad!" called the boy from the car. "We are going to be late!"

"Yes!" Lestrade jumped. "We need to get to the party."

"I don't want to be in the way..." Mycroft hesitated.

"Bollocks to that," said Lestrade, taking his hand. "You're coming with me. Toby, scoot!"

Mycroft was almost manhandled into the back of the car, the boy quickly moved over. It was all a rather exciting feeling to be handled so roughly, yet another thing Mycroft wasn't used to.

"Hello," he said awkwardly to the young wizard.

"Hi," smiled the boy called Toby.

Lestrade jumped in behind the wheel. Outside, Mycroft's driver was grinning widely as they drove away. That was certainly not standard operation protocol when your boss was being forcefully thrown into the backseat of a vehicle by a brute. Mycroft adjusted his tie.

"I didn't know what to do," said Lestrade after a moment of silence. "With Mr. Greenbow I mean..."

"You don't..."

"He was an important guest," continued Lestrade, following the road he ahead. "You told me to act professional."

"Not that type of professional..." muttered Mycroft before realising he was talking out loud, and glanced at Toby who thankfully seemed oblivious of the implications of what was said.

"Professional in the sense that I wouldn't punch his face and knee his fucking balls in, I mean."

Toby laughed at his father's bad mouth. Mycroft couldn't help but to smile a little himself.

"I'll be taking those," said John taking the camera memory cards, and putting them in his pocket.

He really wanted to follow Sherlock who had left on the arm of Mr. Addams, but he had been given distinct orders to keep back. He had gotten Sherlock's new phone-number though, and Sherlock had John's number on his speed-dial. The words i'If you want me home for Christmas, then you have to let me go'/i, echoed in his mind. God, did he ever want Sherlock for Christmas. He could have a thousand Christmases, and still only want Sherlock. So he had let Sherlock go.

"I'm sorry it came to this," said Mr. Kalipolis with a vary smile. "I panicked. He is not a nice man, you know."

"Don't worry," John pulled his jacket on. "You won't be hearing from him again, my partner will make sure of that. Your next distributor better be legal."

"I thought Addams was," the man sighed. "Can I hire you to check out the next ones for me?"

"Sure, but there will be no more modelling."

"But you are a natural," interfered Damien gesturing to the images on the computer screen.

But as they watched the images disappeared. Then all the files. Then there was just one photo left on the monitor. It was Sherlock and John looking deep in each other's eyes, hugging and smiling. The image suddenly changed to crop out their bared erections, leaving it looking like a nice, though bare-chested, hug. Then two digital Santa-hats were edited on their heads and words were typed over the bottom of the image. 'Marry Christmas Mummy!'. Then that image was gone too.

John cleared his throat. Who ever Sherlock's computer genius was, it was a person who had a very strange sense of humour. John coughed.

The two other men looked at him. They might have lost the photos, but where probably comforted in the fact that something embarrassing was about to happen to John. He could give them that, it was Christmas after all.

Harry didn't really know which way to go. He had thrown a point-me spell, but it didn't point to France, or Scotland. In fact it pointed to the south-west, which was London. Why would Malfoy go there?

Perhaps he wanted to find out why his restraints had been lifted. Harry took a deep breath and apparated directly to the Ministry of Magic. It was a dangerous jump, but Harry landed well.

He made another location spell. It showed that his target was close, but to the east. St. Mungo's hospital. Harry felt a dread in the pit of his stomach. Again he did a quite dangerous apparation.

Lestrade's car stopped not far from the meadow. A big white circus-tent was put up on the snowy slope. There was music, happy voices, and cheery lights coming from within the flaps. The tent was defiantly bigger on the inside.

"Go on then to your friends," said Lestrade, patting his son on the back. "I'll be right there."

They watched the boy run towards the tent. There was a sound of laughing children's voices as Toby disappeared through the flaps. Mycroft felt nervous as he and Lestrade were left alone.

"You could have told me you know..."

"Telling you about wizards isn't my division."

"I didn't mean about that."

"I know you didn't," Lestrade turned to him, their fingers interlocking between them.

Mycroft looked down at their hands, then up at Lestrade's face, and his lips He could feel his cheeks blushing. Lestrade shifted closer. Their foreheads were almost touching.

"Mycroft!" a voice interrupted them.

"Sirius," Mycroft smiled politely. "My friend."

"You came anyway," Sirius gave him a friendly hug. "I'm so glad. And..."

"Greg Lesteade," said Lestrade shaking Sirius hand. "Toby's dad."

"Little Toby, a good friend of my Albus," the wizard nodded slowly, with a distant look in his eyes. "I- I'm really glad you are here, My."

There were tears in his voice. The next moment Sirius was embracing him. Mycroft was a little chocked to suddenly be hugged by the, otherwise so collected, man. He patted Sirius on the back, and looked to Lestrade, who shrugged.

"We'll talk later, yeah?" said Sirius with unsteady voice, and pulled away,

"Are you all right?" Mycroft put a hand on Sirius' arm.

"I'm fine," smiled the wizard bravely. "Just fine. Now go on. It's a party. Have fun."

He left, hurrying over to a large group of children who was opening presents. Mycroft looked after him for a moment, but then he felt the tug of Lestrade's had in his.

"Come," said Lestrade. "I know a more private place where we can snog."

Mycroft then forgot all other thoughts, and followed gladly.

"I fucking kill you all!" screamed Dean as the black bag was pulled off his head.

The sedation drug was just beginning to ware off, and his neck hurt like a bitch.

"Sammy!"

Sam was sitting next to him, his arms and legs tied up, just as Dean's were. The expression in Sam's face showed that he also had been drugged.

"It's fine," he blinked, actually giving half a smile. "I know this place from before."

"Before?" Dean struggled against the bonds fastening him to the chair. "You mean those FBI guys?"

Sam looked around the room. It was the same gun-range they had brought him the last time. He had been drugged then too, after a bit of struggling. They seemed to be alone.

"It's called MI5 over here," he said, keeping his eyes open. "I told you that."

"Yes, and no," a smooth female voice was saying from behind them. "They might seem similar, but they are not synonymous."

"What the...?" said Dean, turning to look at the beautiful brown-haired woman in a black dress coming up beside them.

"But since I'm neither, we won't go into that discussion."

"What the hell are you then?" scowled Dean.

"Funny that you should mention Hell, Mr. Winchester."

"You're not a demon."

"No," the woman gave a little fake laugh. "I'm on your side."

"Then why are we drugged up and tied down?"

"Because, Mr. Winchester, your brother put up a right fight when we wanted to talk to him last time. And then we only wanted you to know that we were keeping an eye on you."

"Good on you, Sammy," grinned Dean.

He looked to Sam, but his brother was staring at the woman and did not answer. The woman quickly glanced at the phone in her hand, and smirked.

"Do you gentlemen know the difference between The Old World and The New World?"

"That's America," said Sam in a eager 'teacher's pet'-voice. "The new one."

"And what age are the creatures of Hell?"

"It this some kind of quiz show, lady?" asked Dean. "I'll take government asshole bitches for five hounded, thanks."

"Oh this arse is worth much more than that, Mr. Winchester," said the woman coolly. "Now, when you gentlemen opened the gate to Hell... Did you think that the spirits inside all were likely to stay in the New World? Or do you think some of them would rather come home to the Old one?"

"Oh!" Sam shifted.

"Hey! There are old creatures in America too!" huffed Dean.

"Your attempt for political correctness and patriotism is noted. True, the Native American spirits are older, but they are also more... natural, so to speak. Very few of the evil natural spirits go to the Judaic, Christian and Islamic Hell."

"What do you want with us then?"

"The same thing you do with the wizards. What you do best. Hunt."

"But the wizards..." began Sam.

"The wizards have magic," interrupted the woman. "We poor muggles has to rely on other things. For instance, you two, if you accept the offer of my employers."

"What offer is that?" growled Dean.

"Identity cards, data base access, tech support, continually updated weapons, a steady pay..."

"Keep talking," Dean was rubbing his wrists, he had managed to get his hands free from the binds. "You have five more seconds to convince me."

"And there is that lovely car of yours, of course."

"Baby?" Dean stopped the movement to undo his legs from the chair.

"Arrived from Chicago this very morning," she held up a set if keys. "Merry Christmas."

"It seems you got us," said Sam, who also had gotten loose from his chair.

"It seems I do," half-smiled the woman as Dean greedily grabbed the car-keys from her fingers. "By the way, you can call me Anthea. Do we have a deal?"

"If not?" asked Dean.

"Deportation back to America, and we'll keep the car. My employer's brother is quite the excited tinker."

"Boss," said Dean with a sudden, and handsome smile, taking hold of Anthea's hand, and shaking it vigorously.

"Mr. Winchester."

Sam shook her hand as well. He held on to her hand a little longer than necessary. She gave him a patient smile.

"Do join the wizard party," said Anthea before leaving. "Your friend, Sirius Black, said you were welcome to join in. Just up the hill. Your car is in the heated garage up at the big house. Good evening."

Dean and Sam were left standing alone on the shooting-range. Dean hugged the car-keys tightly in his hand. Sam looked sad.

Greg was pushing Mycroft against a tent pole. Their lips had been interlocking for the last minute a half and neither of them really wanted to come up for air. Hot strong hands were stoking hips, fingers were pulled trough hair, groins were pressed together.

They were interrupted by loud laughter and giggles. Greg glanced to the side. They had managed to move quite a bit away from their original hiding-place. They were in fact standing in front of the whole party. About thirty grown wizards and about twice the amount of wizard children were staring, amusingly, at them. Greg's son was probably giggling the hardest of them all.

"Mmm.. Myc..." Greg breathed.

"Oh! Hm..." said Mycroft, his lips felt numb. "Not as private as we hoped, then. What do we do?"

"Just smile, and discreetly make our way to the bar."

"It's a children's party," Mycroft gave some parents a apologetic smile as they quickly passed them.

"You have a bar in your house..."

"I like the way you think, Detective Inspector."

Sirius was standing next to one of the big decorated trees. He was watching Albus and Toby Lestrade trying to persuade one if the fairies on the lower branches to flash its light in different colours. He looked up has Severus came and stood beside him.

"What would you do if you were me?" Sirius asked.

"In what respect?"

"What would you do if you found out your husband had bought a gold chain..."

Severus paled somewhat.

"...and then you find out he gave it to someone else," continued Sirius. "Someone else who probably could be described as your complete opposite. Would you stay with him, knowing that he desires everything you are not, or would you leave, and save yourself the heartbreak?"

"I'm sorry..." Severus took a breath., his face was pained "I was a fool, blinded by my own ego..."

"And you are making a fool of me..." Sirius wiped away a escaping tear from his eye.

"Sirius..."

"Daddy," said Albus, taking hold of Sirius' sleeve. "Can Toby sleep over with us tonight? Now that his dad has gone home with Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course he can," smiled Sirius bravely. "Now lets go and see what we can find in the candy fishing pond..."

He took the boys by the shoulders, leading them away. Severus stood still by the tree, looking down on the ground, feeling like he wanted to sink through it.

Dean insisted on going to the garage to look over the Impala before they joined the wizards' party. He was playing with his new phone as they walked the snowy path up to the big house.

"They are crazy as fuck these Brits, but they have their good sides."

"Hn," murmured Sam.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean hummed in delight when he discovered that all his favourite albums had been uploaded to the phone's music library. "This is really a sweet deal!"

"Hm."

"Fine," Dean sighed. "We might never be able to return to the States, but... Sam are you even listening?"

"She didn't notice me."

"What? The chick?"

"She just... Didn't..."

"Sam," Dean stopped, took hold of his brother, and turned him around. "Do you like this girl?"

"Yes! I'm sure. She is the one!"

"Then go get her, you knob-head," Dean gave Sam a push. "Go after her, and tell her how you feel!"

"'Knob-head'?"

"You say 'knob-head' in England, dick-face. If we are going to stay here we better learn the lingo. Now go!"

Sam laughed and began to run. Dean wondered if his brother even knew were he was running to, but decided it was out of his hands. Anyway he had a very nice car waiting for him.

Ten minutes later he reached the big house, and is was big. Big, in a old and classy way. It felt a bit awkward walking over the large yard to a smaller door that looked like the kitchen entry. Better not take the front.

Dean could literary feel the security cameras zooming in on him. He pressed the doorbell, while trying to look cool and confident. The door opened.

"Hi," he said. "That Anteha chick said you had my car..." He stopped half-sentence. "Cas?"

The man in the doorway looked exactly like Castiel. No, not only looked like, it was Castiel! Castiel in a fucking white shirt and yellow west.

"You are mistaken, sir," said Cas in the familiar barytone, but in a British accent. "My name is Bradbury."

"No it fucking isn't," said Dean, rubbing his face and smiling like a crazy person. "It's Castiel. And you are fucking awesome angel!"

Dean grabbed hold of Cas and pulled him in for a hard, teeth-clacking, kiss. He laughed.

"And you are a son-of-a-bitch memory-loosing idiot angel, but I love you anyway."

"Th- hrm- thank you, sir," said Cas, sounding a bit more American than before. "Though, I doubt that my mother was anything like a dog. You were looking for your car?"

Dean grinned, holding on thightly to his returned angel.

"Yeah," he said. "I was."

The head mediwitch, a rather large witch with small eyes, didn't look at all pleased that Harry had manifested in front of her desk. She was in the middle of decorating her workspace with holly.

"What in Helga Hufflepuff's name?!" she huffed. "This isn't visiting hours!"

"I'm sorry," Harry put his hands on the desk. "I'm looking for Draco Malfoy!"

"Are you family?" she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"No, but..."

"Visiting hours are..."

"Why is he here? Is he injured?"

"The privacy of our..."

"He is in the fifth floor, room six, Mr. Potter," said another mediwitch that had come up beside them.

"Thank you," Harry rushed to the elevators.

He swallowed down another batch of worry as he pressed the fifth floor button.

"'Level five'" said a female recorded voice over his head. "'Head Trauma, Muggle to Magic Research, and Feet Turned to Clubs."

Harry winced as he imagined Malfoy with a club for a foot, and hurried towards room six.

Sam was running over what looked like a big lawn, though it was now covered in snow. Where was he headed? Maybe to the wizards, they would find Anthea for sure.

"Hey! You there!" Someone called out. "Stop!"

Sam looked back over his shoulder. Two big men in thick security jackets were running towards him. He sped up. It would take too long a time to explain himself, and time was of the essence.

There were lights up ahead, it must be the wizards party. The security guards were shouting at him. He felt something like a small dart shoot passed him.

Then two other guards were standing in front of him, blocking his way. Sam swore, knowing he was trapped. The guards closed in. He held up his hands. It wouldn't do well to hurt colleagues on his first day of the new job.

Then someone ran passed them. Someone very naked and very male. The guards seemed confused.

Sam, being quite used to sudden distractions and knowing how to use them, took the opportunity of the moment to jump to the side. He continued to wards the lights. Luckily, the naked man was running in another direction, so it didn't look like Sam was chasing him.

As he closed in to the wizards, he saw a familiar outline against the light. The curves of that body were defiantly Anthea's.

He called out her name. She turned. Sam could read her lips forming the words 'Mr. Winchester' and then smirk, just as he was tackled down into the snow by a heavy guard.

"Ouchfff," he said when his arms were pulled behind his back.

He felt a sting as if of a needle on his shoulder. His sight blurred as he was looking on a very classy pair of black high heal shoes approaching him. It must be difficult to walk in the deep snow with those.

"Mr. Winchester," said Anthea's amused voice from a place above the shoes. "Was it something else you wanted to ask about in your job description?"

The people on Sam's back moved away, and his hands were free. He was rolled onto his back. Everything felt very dizzy. A beautiful face with red lips came in sight above him.

"What am I going to do with you?" the beautiful face asked.

Sam felt the pressure of soft lips against his own as darkness overtook him.

"The one," he murmured.

Harry took a breath of relief when he caught sight of the blond head on the white pillow. Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise. Then he smiled.

'Harry' he mouthed and begun digging around in his covers for something.

"What are you doing here?" Harry pointed to him and then the bed. "What happened to France?"

Malfoy had gotten hold of a small device that looked like a muggle mobile phone and was typing something, seemingly great with difficulty.

"'France can waif'," said the small device with a generic cut-and-paste male voice. "'Opera tent ion'."

Malfoy looked irritated and tried again.

"'Operation'." said the machine.

"What operation?" Harry widened his eyes when he realised that Malfoy had heard the words.

Malfoy smiled, and pushed a away his hair. Something that looked like plastic rings with a earbuds surrounded his ears. Harry's mouth fell open.

"'Mug glee to magic ex president'," Malfoy rolled his eyes. "'Experiment'."

"Wh- why would you do something like that?" Harry stepped closer.

Malfoy blushed.

"'Want to hear you voice'."

"How did you know I come for you?" Harry kneeled by the side of the bed.

"'Just in cases'."

Harry laughed as Malfoy leaned forward and softly kissed his lips.

bSome weeks later, end of the Chistmas holiday/b

Severus and Sirius waived to their two oldest children as the boys passed through the barrier between the ninth and tenth platform. Sirius adjusted Lily who was sitting on his arm. He sighed and glanced to his husband. Severus was looking away, towards the wall.

With another sigh Sirius reached out and took Severus hand.

"Come on then," he said, pulling him along. "Let's go home, you silly sod."

"Thank you," murmured Severus as he followed.

They gave a nod to Homes and Lestrade as they passed them. Lestrade was pushing a trolly of suitcases towards 9 ¾. Holmes held Toby in one hand and his umbrella in his other.

"Don't look now," whispered Greg. "But John and Sherlock are over by the ticket booth."

"Ignore him," muttered Mycroft. "Or he'll try to speak to us."

"Honestly," sighed Greg and gave John a nod as their eyes met across the embarkation lobby.

"There's Mycroft as well," noted John from his side. "What's he doing out of his cave?"

"Ignore him," muttered Sherlock. "Or he'll try to speak to us."

John sighed, but then noted another person he recognised.

"Luna!" waived John pulling Sherlock along with him in a firm grip of his hand. "Fancy seeing you here!"

He gave the blond witch a hug with his free arm.

"Just seeing some friends off to school," she smiled.

"We're going to Sussex," said John indicating Sherlock who seemed lost in his mobile. "Finally got this one to take a vacation. Might even get a real shag out of him soon."

Sherlock huffed and started to leave, dragging John with him.

"Bye!" laughed John.

Luna waived as the two men left towards their platform. She then smiled and waived again as the Doctor ran passed her.

"Lovegood!" called the Doctor and made a sharp turn towards her, making the woman in his wake skiffle slightly for balance. "You are just what we need! Luna, Maria, Lovegood, Hill."

"Hello," said thw woman in an American accent.

"Now let's run this way! I'm sure I saw that man over there had a tail!"

Luna smiled at the woman, Maria Hill, who smiled back, they shrugged, and then ran after the Doctor. She gave Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy a big grin as she passed them in the crowd.

"Was that Luna?" frowned Harry.

Draco just rolled his eyes.

"There they are!" Harry waived. "Merlin!"

"Harry," Merlin hugged him. "Good to see you. Thank you again for taking us to look at Hogwarts."

"Don't mention it. Draco, love, this is Merlin. And this is Arthur and Gwen."

Arthur was holding an arm around Gwen's waist, as Merlin stepped back Arthur's other arm encircled his waist as well. Gwen's and Merlin'a hands met behind Arthur's back. Draco smiled mischievously.

i"If I had know Harry had such famous and handsome friends, perhaps I should have waited to propose to him."/i

"Don't listen to that silly machine of his," laughed Harry. "It mispronounces things all the time. This way to the platform 9 3/4."

A blond man walked passed them, talking in his mobile.

"I didn't mean to break it Q," he said as he sauntered for the exit. "It just got in the way of an explosion... I love it when you threaten to kill me, sweetheart. You sound really sexy... Can't flirt now, babe. I see my contacts." He hung up the phone. "Mr Winchester, and Mr Winchester."

"Mr. Bond," said Dean as the agent sat down on the bench beside him and his brother. "Got anything for us?"

"Werewolves gone rouge," James handed him a package of Q-designed silver bullets and a travellers guide to Blackpool.

"Oh, there is a ferris wheel on the beach," smirked Dean. "Cas is going to love that. And a roller coaster, awesome."

"This is for you," said Sam, with a suffering glance at his older brother, and gave Bond a file. "The vampire's human contact is in Zurich, it's probably there you'll find the kidnapped victims."

"Thank you," Bond got up. "Say hello to A from me."

"I will. See you later."

A few meters over Molly Hooper stood fretting over a timetable. She didn't like going by train, but her car was in the shop.

"I can't find the train to Fitton anywhere," she bit her lower lip.

"Don't worry," said Irene, gently taking the time table from her. "We will find it."

"I just don't want to be late for Martin's first flight on his new job," said Molly. "It's all so terribly exciting."

Irene smiled at her, and pulled her along to the ticket booth. Perhaps she was even more happy than Molly and Martin put together over Martin's new job.

-The End-

Multifandom fic!

naturegirlrocks — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 20:39:44 GMT

Title (Fandom,) Actually.

Author: naturegirlrocks

Crossover: Love Actually

Fandoms: Harry Potter (EWE), Sherlock (BBC), James Bond (postSkyfall), Supernatural (S7), Doctor Who (11th, between S6&7), and Merlin (S4), featuring The Avengers, and special guest Cabin Pressure (pre-series).

Romantic Pairings: Harry/Draco, Severus/Sirius, Severus/OFC Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, Irene/Molly, James/Q, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Anthea, Merlin/Arthur(/Gwen)

Bromantic pairings: Molly&Martin, The Doctor&The Avengers, Dean&Sirius, and Mycroft&his butler.

Brothers: Mycroft&Sherlock&Q, Dean&Sam

Rating: M/R/15

Words:25K+

Summary: Sherlock does porn. Cas is left behind in purgatory. James is not too old for the field. Mycroft is fighting his forbidden feelings. Harry does his biography. Merlin does photography. Dean likes The Scorpions. Martin has breakdowns. Snape is thoughtless. The Doctor is making American friends. And so much more…!

Note: This was supposed to be my Christmas fic, but RL happened. Please see this as a Valentine with a Christmas theme :)

Warning: some angst, not linear