adjust the focus. release the shutter. there. you just took a first picture.
John vaguely remembered the first picture in his life; it was probably for his yearbook when he was at the beginning of education. however, he remembered how much he hated posing for it. John Watson was never the one to pose; for some reason, it made him uncomfortable.
his father was a hobbyist. when he finished his pristine military career, he found himself not knowing what to do with his life anymore. fortunately, it was around the birth of his brother’s first son, so someone had to be there to document the newborn baby’s early moments of life. fortunately, only Bobby Watson owned camera in their family at the time.
when John grew enough to take good care of his dad’s beloved camera, Bobby wasn’t there to help him. he’d died only few months earlier, leaving him and mum heartbroken, and Harry not giving a shit about it. her relationship with dad was never good, but John hoped his death would make her realize her mistakes. unfortunately, he was wrong. it just sent her deeper into the alcohol abyss.
it meant too much for him to be just hobby. his dad’s old camera quickly became the most valuable object in his possession that made him think about his dad’s beautiful pictures. that made him crave his dad’s pride. and so he made everything to not let him down. ever.
he took stunning pictures of the countryside near their little house. while rugby served to blow off some steam, photography helped him to find his balance every time Harry came home drunk and caused a scene. he always protected her and mom, sure. but sometimes it was just too much for him to bear.
*
it was Harry who actually suggested him to do something with some of the best photos he’d taken one summer the year their dad died. in the beginning, he didn’t want to. but after few nights of thinking, he gave up and decided it wouldn’t hurt to try.
"you know, Johnny", sad Harry when he told her he could enter, "your skies and your clouds or other shit you take pics of, are beautiful and so on and so forth, but why don’t you try something new?"
"new, as in what?"
"dunno", she shrugged. "maybe get yourself a model?"
he cocked his head.
"you serious? a model?"
"yeah, why not?"
"I’ve never done a portrait, Harry."
"so what? until few days ago, you haven’t even thought about showing your pics to any living thing, and gran doesn’t count!", she rose her voice at the last part, knowing what John was going to say. gran. the sweetest person John knew. biggest supporter.
John pursed his lips, not wanting to admit she was actually right. happens from time to time, very disappointing to both parties.
"would you like to be my model, Harry?", he asked instead. she only snorted out loud instead of response. "please?"
"I may give it a thought in my spare time if you let me pose with Clara."
he simply nodded. what else was there to say.
*
Harry never made things easier. never. maybe that was the reason why he hated her from time to time. maybe. maybe she was some kind of monster, devouring everything that proved to be valuable for John. first, it was their father who couldn’t stand the sight of his daughter stumbling drunk in the middle of the night. it quickly killed him. then, when John found some kind of comfort in photography, she came and did her best to make him hate it.
the thing is, at first he only wanted to send some of his best sky pictures. but then, Harry jumped in and started to invite more and more of her friends, expecting for John to silently take pictures of pointed people.
the worst? he did all of that without single complain. didn’t even bat an eye, when Harry – being the big sister – started to mention the exhibition. ‘course. whatever the fuck you want, Harry.
*
the rainbow flag was designed in 1978 by San Francisco artist, Gilber Baker. its original version had eight stripes, but that quickly changed when the original hot pink fabric started to become more and more unavailable. since 1979, the flag has six colors – original indigo and turquoise changed to more noble royal blue.
each stripe of colour means something different. red’s for life because it’s the colour of blood. then there’s orange representing healing because we all crave happiness. happiness is an important part of path to fulfillment. fulfillment means the healing’s ended. yellow’s sunlight because yellow and orange are world’s best pals. green represents nature. there’s always too little green in the world these days, isn’t it?
royal blue’s the colour of mind since it stands for harmony – your mind’s the first place you should look for inner peace in times of need.
for those who believe in higher power, artist used violet fabric because in the days when kings ruled the Earth, they were the only ones entitled to use such colour.
rainbow flag is commonly known as a symbol of LGBT pride and social movements.
and now, many years after the creation of the rainbow flag, John Watson (after tremendous in its numbers nagging from his older, always drunk sister) decided to fly his own flag.
after all, what's the worst that could happen?
*
John Watson didn’t have any kind of feelings when it came to colours. for most of his young life, he described them by using typical ‘cool/not cool’. but then, he took photos of gay community and agreed when his sister *convinced* him to make an exhibition out of those. that wasn’t even a proper issue. the issue, as always, was time. or rather its shrinking. deadline made him despise violet because it was the only colour left to depict, and just before all the fucking performance thing, he found himself in a situation without a model.
*
„really, Mycroft?”, Sherlock’s low voice carried dread perfectly, like it was created to do just that, „and here I thought you were intelligent.”
his brother only smiled crookedly above the rim of his cup.
„don’t be daft, of course I’m intelligent”, the older of the Holmes’ brothers raised one of his eyebrows while looking at his too-bored-to-move little brother, „I’m merely suggesting you to leave the flat from time to time, Sherlock. that’s not a blasphemy yet if I’m correct.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard he almost swiped the ceiling of his dingy flat with the movement.
„stop doing that”, Mycroft chastened him softly. „you’ll cross your eyes.”
„you’re not my mother!”, Sherlock bellowed at him. restlessness always ended with yelling.
„behave like a grown up you are, then”, Mycroft fired back without missing a beat.
„fuck you!”
„my love life is not your concern, brother dear. I ensure you.”
Sherlock’s face spoke freely of disgust. after a while, he started to remind Mycroft of that lost boy he found him when their parents had to put Redbeard down. Mycroft took a large breath and released it while placing his hand in an inner pocket of his expensive suit, looking for something very inconspicuous. when he found it, he passed it to his annoying little brother.
„what in Heaven’s name is that?”, he spat angrily. his beautifully shaped lips raised in a shadow of former smile. „didn’t take you for naturist, brother.”
„don’t be absurd, Sherlock. it’s not for me, obviously. I took a liberty of calling for you. better hurry up, they don’t have much time...”
„YOU DID WHAT?!”
simple piece of paper, most probably torn from notebook because of the irregular shape – person who did this was in a hurry, facing a deadline. wants to study medicine and join the army. strong moral principles. sometimes careless, but fiercely loyal. exhibition with portraits of gay community wasn’t his idea, but he went along with it anyway. under strong influence of an alcoholic older brother. dull.
„urgent. male model needed for a portrait. experience’s not required.”
ohh, after all that ends, he’s going to make Mycroft suffer.
*
alcoholic older brother. future soldier as well as a doctor. strong moral principles. carelessness. he could work with all of that. obviously. he was always mentally prepared for... humanity. what he could never brace himself for, was the brightest fucking smile he ever saw on anyone’s face. what he couldn’t work with, was utter perfection with sparkling eyes that sent shivers up and down his spine. what he could never predict, was how superbly his mouth shaped around his name. because this, all of this and a lot more, was John Watson. his sturdy body. his strong legs. his steady, warm hands. his blonde hair. his royal blue eyes. his ready to smile, thin lips.
John Watson.
even his name sounded awfully normal when he was everything but normal. normal would’ve meant flawed. broken. John Watson wasn’t perfect in typical meaning of the word, but for Sherlock, his little weaknesses and funny mannerisms were all the reasons why he absolutely was.
and oh. the way he kissed should be illegal. the way he kept hold of Sherlock, too. like he was precious. like he was the only one that needed mending.
„one of those days I’m going to send Mycroft basketful of flowers”, John panted after some time. he brought Sherlock closer to himself. like he needed any of it – he already was half lying on top of the smaller boy.
„don’t you dare wasting your money on my arsehole brother”, he calmly stated. „his beau already does it.”
John giggled quietly beside him.
„you’re such a terrible sibling”, he laughed.
„I have to be, John! do pay attention!”
„oh, I’m paying attention. wanna see how much attention I pay?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly at him.
„comere, you”, he said with traces of laugh in his voice, meeting Sherlock in a halfway of sweet kiss.