Is it alright with everyone if I keep updating this twice dayly all week? I am going to assume that it is. I am enjoying this story far too much... I hope you are, too!
I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement.
TapTap
Quentin's house was gorgeous. Inherited from his grandmother, along with enough money to live off of interests, it was large and spacious and elegantly furnished with just enough oldfashion sense to make him like it without even changing the drapes.
His studio was at the back of the house, containing an amazing set of windows providing stunning light during the day. He had painted those very windows and their dazzling view of a perfect garden with large trees and a pond more times than he could count. This time, however, he was busy painting the room itself, including the outline of an antique sofa which was beautiful for even his grandmother's taste and which he liked to use in paintings, very much.
He was leaving a lot of empty space there, ready to accomodate James when he came by. James had been training recruits lately, as his back had started to get better, and had promised to pick up some food and come by when he got the chance. Before it got to that time of day though, the doorbell rang, and not with the typical determined sound only James could seem to accomplish.
It was funny that, Quentin pondered as he wiped his hands and went to open the door, how people rang doorbells. Mycroft made even that sound seem distinct and succinct, but determined. Sherlock could make any doorbell sound obnoxious. John and their mother, somehow, interestingly rang doorbells with the exact same sound, and Sherrinford had always managed to make the sound seem impatient. Maybe he was just generally impatient. Maybe that's why he had done what he had.
But he pushed that thought away. How much he missed his dear oldest brother, now remembered only as a distant memory of gentle games back when he was very young, was not an appropriate line of thought.
Getting to the door and opening it, Quentin smiled to see a couple of his artist friends, dropping by to see that painting they had talked about on the phone earlier that day, no doubt. "Come in" he grinned "it's in the studio". "As were you, I see!" he got several grins in reply. "What're you working on?" They walked through the house together, discussing the paint Quentin was using, until they reached the studio and he pulled out the old canvas his grandmother had owned. "Whoa. That is some special colour choises! Your grandmother owned the best stuff!"
As they were discussing it, one of his friends were going over his own frames, gently shifting through the canvases and looking at them appreciatively. It did not take long before he came across one of James. "Ey, Quentin? Is this one of yours?" They all turned to look at that instead. "Yes, from last week. I think it turned out nicely!" One of his friends blinked. "That's quite a nice model you've got there". "Yeah, who's that?" "That's James. He's just a friend of mine. I've got many more of him".
One of them rolled their eyes. "Quentin...! Guys like that...!" "He's just trying to get with you!" Quentin couldn't help but snort at that. "No. He's straight. He's just worried about me that I've been so... sad lately... He is a friend". One of them sighed. "And if that's not true?" "It is" Quentin assured them. "He'll be around soon for a sitting, as soon as he gets off of work. Then you can grill him yourselves". He got a few spread snorts and chuckles at that "you always tell us not to interrogate your girlfriends! What's happened?" "The part where he's not a girl. Also, James can handle himself. If you're trying to intimidate him or scare him away... good luck".