Full Summary: "You know how they say a picture's worth a thousand words? Well, a picture of you is like an entire novel. I look at you sometimes and I wonder if you actually exist. You move so fast, you're always going somewhere. Sometimes I think you're my imagination. But I can take a picture of you and you're finally standing still for once, and I have a chance to actually look at you."
Five photographs, five thousand words.
Warnings: Slight language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and their associates hold the rights to the contemporary universe based off of Arthur Conan Doyle's works. The only thing I own is the story below as you see it.
A day before their scheduled holiday to Toulon, John is rooting through their wardrobe to find anything else they might need. They've checked off everything on the extensive list John had written and posted on the fridge a month ago (Beach towels/sunglasses/toothbrushes/flashlight/condoms/first aid/sunscreen-sunscreen-sunscreen/aloe-vera) but John is a rather paranoid traveler (That's probably the army in him) so he's double- and triple-checking that nothing is left behind. They've been planning this trip for months, and Sherlock has promised he won't let his own impulsiveness to get himself embroiled in trouble and puzzles ruin the week.
He really, really does not want this holiday ruined.
So he digs through the wardrobe, looking for misplaced items. Finds an old pair of shorts that Sherlock must have owned before he even knew John, and chucks them in the suitcase just on the off chance. He also finds a copy of The Hobbit, which he hasn't read in years. Throws it in the suitcase, just because.
Then he finds something that takes him back years. It's the digital SLR that Sherlock bought during the early days of the Moriarty Debacle. John had thought Sherlock returned it, but apparently not; simply threw it in back of this wardrobe to be forgotten about. He opens the case, and it still looks brand-new. Of course, it's been five years (Four Christmases/five Easters/seventeen birthday cakes/seventy-one cases/eight kitchen fires/one faked death/thirteen blazing rows/nine shags in front of the fire) since that day and John's not so sure it will turn on.
Everything's there, though. Charger, extra battery, three different memory cards. John wonders if Sherlock ever actually intended to take this back, or perhaps just keep it until they found use for it one day. After all, the only thing he'd really needed was the camera.
He plugs it in. It lights up, flashes the word CHARGING, and blacks out again. A blue light in the upper left hand corner begins flashing. He assumes this means it's charging. John stares at it for a second, like one might at an animal they don't exactly trust, then turns back to the wardrobe. Spends another ten minutes going through it, gives up the pursuit, and retreats downstairs where Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, presumably emailing his various contacts that he'll be abroad for the coming week. John already changed the signature in his professional email and called Harry and his parents to remind them.
Puts on the kettle. Comes in, sits down with Sherlock (wedges himself in behind, legs on either side of Sherlock's hips) and wraps his arms around his waist. Chin hooked over shoulder. "Don't forget to print out the rental agreement."
They're renting a small two-room vacation house instead of going to one of the big resorts in Toulon. It's in Le Seyne sur Mer, which is about five kilometers from Toulon. The owner of the house (A woman named Estelle in her sixties who, according to Sherlock, has four cats and a smoking habit) lives in the nearby village and requires they provide proof of rental upon arriving, considering she's never seen them before.
Rent on the house is four hundred euros a week—roughly 320 pounds. It's very reasonable. It's set fifty meters back from a private stretch of beach, has an open kitchen-living room, one bedroom, and one bathroom. It's a little small, a little intimate, but that's perfectly fine. They have the entirety of Toulon to explore when Sherlock (Because it's always Sherlock) gets antsy.
In response to John's inquiry, Sherlock grunts an affirmative, clicks send on an email, and closes the computer. He has the worst habit of just shutting it and letting it hibernate, instead of shutting it down. John has it on good authority that treatment like that is very bad for computers.
"Mmm-hmm." Sherlock stands up, turns around, straddles John's lap. Pressures him to lay sideways. Spreads his body out over John's, hands on chest and head on hands. John smiles and moves a lock of Sherlock's hair out of the way.
"Kettle's going to boil any minute now."
John simply laughs and shakes his head, getting more comfortable and hoping the kettle's automatic shutoff will actually function for once. His hands map out the familiar planes of Sherlock's sides, trailing downwards to his hips. Up over his bum, down to his thighs. Rests his hands there.
"I found that old camera," John says. His right index finger has found a small, jagged scar that Sherlock got last year from brushing up against a piece of scrap metal in a junkyard. They hadn't even realized it until they got home. Remembers bandaging it up, Sherlock on their bed with one leg in the air. He traces the scar.
"Old camera? The one we got for the Prince case?"
Had that been the name of that woman? John honestly doesn't remember. They still air her show sometimes, in the mornings when most sane people are still. John and Mrs. Hudson found new stupid shows to watch (Snog, Marry, Avoid and Come Dine with Me most recently) and so haven't much thought of that woman since then. He's not surprised that Sherlock remembers the name. Although, to be honest, it seems like the sort of thing Sherlock would delete.
"That's the one, yeah." He's reasonably sure there's only been one case which required they buy an expensive camera. "Found it in the back of the wardrobe, still in its case and everything. Brand new. Thought you'd taken it back to the shop, actually." It had been a costly investment for one case, and the only reason they'd managed to afford it was by using a portion Sebastian Wilkes' generous five-figure disbursement (Read: Bribe) the month before.
Sherlock's eyebrows furrow. "I thought I had, too." A shrug. "Oh well. We can always pawn it."
"It still charges," John says, "and it's barely been used. I was actually thinking we could bring it to France with us." He suggests it hesitantly, because changing Sherlock's plans is never easy, once he's fixated himself on them. It's the autism, John thinks, that makes him so inflexible. Sherlock functions so highly that sometimes John completely forgets about it. Until Sherlock makes that face (That one; the one he's making now. In-turned eyebrows, pursed lips) and John knows what he's said does not appeal.
Nimble fingers find a loose thread on his cardigan and begin picking at it. Sherlock frowns at his, John's, chest. Says, "We already bought disposable cameras."
John laughs and delivers a lovetap to Sherlock's bum, eliciting a small grumble. "That's the great thing about disposable cameras." Come in blue foil wrappers kind of like the fruit snacks John used to get in his lunch when he was little. "They only cost us five quid."
Sherlock frowns. Still skeptical. "Do you know how to use an SLR?"
"Vaguely." The kettle lets out two seconds of shrill whistling before the automatic shutoff kicks in.
"My sister," John says, moving his hands up Sherlock's back, under his shirt, and spreads his palms out against his shoulder blades, "is a photographer."
Sherlock sighs as if put upon and says, "Fine. But no pictures of me."
Sudden realization: This is not Sherlock's autism speaking. This is just his habitual camera shyness. (Camera shyness not exactly the right term, but John doesn't think there's a word for a pathological hatred of anything with a lens.) He doesn't like having his picture taken, a fact which the press bemoans occasionally, and he's much more comfortable arming John with a mere disposable camera, rather than the freshly-unearthed SLR. Disposable cameras are a safe bet—only about thirty or forty pictures on each, most of scenery. Maybe one or two obligatory posed photos. But with the digital SLR and its three empty memory cards, John can take all of the candid shots he wants.
A daunting prospect for consulting detectives.
"Oh come on. Don't let the tabloids be the only one with a picture of you."
The only response he gets is a silent glare (Of death) and a sniff. John smiles and kisses Sherlock's forehead. Can't quite tell if he appreciates it or not, but he doesn't pull away. He wants to flip them over, suck a bruise onto Sherlock's neck, turn that petulance into pliancy. They don't have time for that today, though; still so much to do before tomorrow morning. There's a to-do list in here somewhere, buried, that John will have to excavate and execute at some point.
"Look," sighs John. "It's barely been used, and we spent a frankly horrifying amount of money on it for it to just sit around and gather dust. I'm bringing it, whether you like it or not."
Sherlock gives a huff and rolls to the side, pressing his body against the back of the couch. He informs the cushion, "The kettle boiled."
Well, that's as close to consent as John's going to get. He won't push the issue.
Any tips on how to use a digital SLR? -JW
Y? u got 1?
Could you not do that? And yeah. -JW
Fine. When did you get it?
We've had it for a while. A few years, actually. Sherlock bought it for a case and never took it back to the shop. We're taking it on holiday. -JW
Would you mind giving me the basics? I'm assuming a digital SLR is different from the analog one you taught me how to use in the 90's. -JW
Sorry. I'm a bit busy right now. I'll email you later. What model is it?
Bugger if I know. We bought it in 2010, if that helps? -JW
Mine's 2011 so it shouldn't be that different. I'll email you the basics tonight.
Ok. Ta. -JW
No problem. Have fun on holiday. ;)
In bed that night, the dull roar of the shower coming from the en-suite and the room smelling vaguely of Sherlock's soap, John sits cross-legged on the bed, with the camera and his computer displaying Harry's email. He's been at it for half an hour, and can operate it with relative confidence. He has no idea how to do any of the fancy stuff that results in those brilliant shots professionals are known for, but the camera itself takes lovely pictures and John's sure they'll come out better than any snapshots from a disposable.
He deletes his practice shots, because a few of them are blurry and the rest just aren't worth keeping. Shots of John's computer and the dresser and the Edgar Allan Poe portrait on the wall. (John hates it because it looks right on the bed and it's just not right to feel like you're being watched by a manic depressive gothic poet while you sleep.) Powers down his computer just as the shower shuts off. There's a moment of rustling, Sherlock dressing, and then he exits.
John glances at him. Smiles. He's wearing a University of London tee-shirt John bought when he was getting his doctorate. He bought it deliberately large, because he himself was a little larger back then, and comfort was the mindset at the time. It hangs off Sherlock's thin frame like a tent, and in the morning John knows it will be slipping off one shoulder. Probably the right. That's the side Sherlock sleeps on.
"Bedtime?" John invites, setting the camera on the nightstand and placing his computer in the nightstand drawer. It's only ten o'clock. Much earlier than either of them is used to retiring. Usually closer to midnight than anything. John can tell from the look of distain on Sherlock's face that he is not pleased with the earlier turn-in time, but will not argue.
Instead of directly answering, Sherlock circles around to his side of the bed. Sits down, reaches over John, and brings the camera into his lap. Commences turning it over and over, deducing what each button does. Sherlock could probably teach himself to use it in under an hour, if he wanted to. Doesn't want to. Just wants to fiddle with it.
Says, "Did Harriet's email prove useful?"
Of course he knows about his earlier conversation with Harry, despite most of it taking place while he was at the shop and Sherlock was at home. John's not sure whether he deduced it, or read John's texts. Probably a little of both. It's entirely possible he knew about the text conversation, but unlikely he deduced the pending email without looking at them.
"It did." He gets out of bed. Folds the covers back and crawls under. Sherlock's still sitting atop, cross-legged, examining the camera as though it's a box he must open. He manages to turn it on, probably more accidentally than anything, and turns it over to look at the display screen.
"How do you snap a photo?" There are several buttons that look likely.
John reaches over, a wicked idea on his mind, and says, "Like this," before grabbing the camera out of Sherlock's hands, flipping it around. The flash is bright, and Sherlock is left blinking for several seconds afterwards, not quite sure what's happened. When he realizes it, he huffs, turns out the light, and flops over. John giggles to himself, takes a look at the image, and turns out his own light.
Drops a kiss onto Sherlock's shoulder and says, "Goodnight."
Sherlock merely grunts, but only stays on his side for six minutes before migrating over and wrapping himself around John.
Image: Sherlock sitting in bed, legs crossed wearing John's old University shirt. Hair damp from the shower. He looks soft; less severe than normal. Bow lips are open slightly, forming a perfect heart. Eyebrows furrowed as if he's both surprised and confused/disgruntled/disappointed. Eyes almost green in the flash from the camera. Domesticity leaps out of the photo; bedtime, night in the window beyond, the background of a shared bedroom, marital? bed. A version of Sherlock few people get to see. He looks young. Younger than his thirty-five years. John will forget in later years when he took this picture and why he still has it. Won't be able to bring himself to get rid of it, though, because it will be a reminder of how young Sherlock once was. How young they both were.
They catch the 5:45 train to Paris from London St. Pancras. It's very early so their car is empty. They end up claiming a table and sitting one on either side, Sherlock facing the way the train will be going, and John facing back. Whenever they travel, Sherlock always sits the way the train will be heading. He's never said why, although John thinks it's because going backwards at high speeds makes him nauseous. Not that he would ever at admit that weakness. Any weakness.
The conductor speaks appalling English, so it's good that Sherlock speaks such good French. Not that he will be much help, considering he's out like a light. Wasn't happy to be woken up so early (Once he starts sleeping, it's hard to get him to stop) and the only thing that got him to the station this morning was John's promise that he would be able to sleep on the train. Sleep he does, through stops at Ebbsfleet and Ashford International, and through three announcements by the aforementioned English-impaired conductor.
They hit the Chunnel forty-five minutes out (Thank God for high speed trains) and all is dark for about twenty minutes. Halfway through, John decides that Sherlock looks quite uncomfortable with his face squashed against the window like that. So he does what any loving boyfriend would do.
Takes a picture of Sherlock while he's sleeping.
Almost immediately, Sherlock's eyes open. John doesn't notice it at first, absorbed as he is in staring at the snapshot and chuckling, but looks up when Sherlock's groggy baritone says, "You'll wake up tomorrow morning to find that thing has taken an unfortunate swim in the Mediterranean Sea."
"If you do, your mobile will be joining it," John replies, lightheartedly, in the same tone one might use to say If you do your chores I'll give you an ice cream. Smirks at the affronted noise Sherlock makes. "We're about halfway through the Chunnel, incase you're wondering."
"I wasn't. It's very apparent where we are considering it's pitch black outside these windows and right about now it should be six thirty AM, which in the middle of July—"
"Right." John scoots to the end of the seats, expels himself from behind the table, and starts off for the dining car.
He forgets sometimes that a tired Sherlock is an irritable Sherlock.
Are you coming back? –SH
At some point. –J
We've exited the Chunnel. –SH
Don't say. Excellent deduction. –J
John. I don't want to start our holiday like this. –SH
Well neither did I, but someone had to get snippy. –J
Are you in the dining car? –SH
Wait. Why? –J
John looks up to see Sherlock slide into the booth across from him. The dining car is small and smells like burnt bread. John has a packet of graham crackers and a bottle of Minute Maid orange juice. Not the most filling breakfast, but the hot meals these places sell are not worth the price, and he's not particularly fond of cheerios or yoghurt.
He's also got a consulting detective folded into the seat across from him, looking meek. That's not right, though; Sherlock's never meek. Pensive, maybe, but not meek. He stares at his hands, folded on the table, and mutters, "Sorry." (Sherlock does not have a problem with apologizing. Never has. Popular misconception. It's admitting he was wrong that he has the problem with.)
John's not going to press the issue. They are on holiday, after all, and it will be much more pleasant for all involved if he simply lets it slide. He nods and comes round to the other side. It's a small booth, so they're cramped, but Sherlock welcomes the intrusion.
"You should eat something," John tells him. "Paris is still an hour away and we have to switch terminals when we get there. Won't be a lot of time to eat."
He steals a graham cracker. "Maybe just a cup of tea."
"The tea on these things is pisswater, you know that." Behind the counter, the salesgirl huffs into her copy of OK!. John doesn't know why; she must know better than anyone else. "The coffee is a bit better. Perhaps a cup of that."
Apparently not, because Sherlock just grabs his orange juice and drinks out of that. John frowns, because he hates drinking after people, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"We've exchanged much worse bodily fluids than saliva, you know."
"I know," John mutters. "Doesn't make me like drinking after people any more."
Sherlock smirks and sets down the bottle. Leans over and kisses John on the mouth. He tastes, unsurprisingly, like orange juice.
Image: Sherlock slumped against the window of a train. Darkness in the window beyond. Not entirely obvious whether it's manufactured darkness or if it's actually nighttime outside. Sherlock's mouth open. Sherlock drooling a bit. He's in a polo shirt because while London is twenty degrees, Paris is twenty-five and Toulon could be as much as thirty. Sunglasses holding his curly hair back from his forehead. Most of their friends probably wouldn't recognize him as Sherlock Holmes at first glance. Sherlock hates this picture. John likes it. When Sherlock's comfortable enough to fall asleep somewhere in public, it's because he trusts someone else to protect him.
Toulon is lovely, sunny, hot when they arrive at roughly one o'clock. John hurries Sherlock onto the rental car they have waiting for them at the station and makes sure he applies sunscreen to every exposed bit of skin. After that it's driving around for what seems like hours looking for something decent to eat. They finally decide on a bistro on a corner. Here, closer to the station and farther from the hotels and resorts, it's a bit more urban and a lot less holiday.
"What should we do once we get to Le Seyne sur Mer?" John inquires around a mouthful. "I mean, after we find a grocery and pick up some stuff. We'll need tea and milk, some bread and butter. Jam, I think. Maybe some eggs. Something I can make breakfast with." The idea of this holiday is privacy and quiet somewhere where it doesn't rain all the time. The French Mediterranean was the first thing they thought of.
"I think," Sherlock says, "we should do what we came here to do."
"Have exorbitant amounts of very loud sex and not care who hears."
Despite not being what John expected Sherlock to say, it's not the most shocking thing, considering. Another motive for coming here was, indeed, to make copious amounts of love without having to worry about being loud and who they might disturb. Mrs. Hudson is a sweet woman, but there's only so much they can subject her to before she starts giving them exasperated looks every time she pops up for a visit. There's also the neighbors to consider. The Married Ones next door have adopted a baby (Elsa/Elizabeth/Isabel?), and as a courtesy to the sleep-deprived parents, John and Sherlock (Mostly John) have been trying to keep loud noises in their flat to a minimum.
It's deeply irksome to Sherlock.
"Good idea," John chuckles, after he's stopped himself from spitting out his drink, just a bit. "Other than that, though?"
"Well…we could go for a swim." Sherlock shrugs. John just shakes his head, smiling still. Sherlock says, "You haven't been doing that enough, lately."
"What? Swimming? I never swim."
Sherlock's eye-roll, which can enunciate stupidity just as well as his tongue. "No. Smiling."
John shrugs. "Well. We're even. Neither have you." Holds up the camera. "Smile for it, love."
The expression Sherlock gives is not, in any universe, a smile. Looks halfway between manic and in pain. John rolls his eyes and, just to be difficult, says, "Well that's pretty. It's one for the blog, I imagine."
"Need I remind you our close proximity to the Mediterranean Sea?"
Image: Sherlock sitting in a window, Mediterranean sun shining in behind him. In the window there are posters in French, translating into phrases such as soup salad sandwich combination 8€ and All products fresh every day. The face Sherlock is making is utterly disturbing, eyes bugging out and lips drawn back to bare his teeth. He looks deranged. It's not a particularly flattering photo. Such a typical tourist picture though—Silly faces in sunny places. Despite the fact that Sherlock's face is more terrifying than silly, it's such a novelty in their lives that it's unique and precious in itself.
Estelle Banet is the full name of the woman who owns the rental house. She's a plump woman who comes to John's shoulder. She's also nothing like John's mother or Mrs. Hudson (Whom are cut from the same piece of cloth, and John wonders when he started expecting all little old women to act like them) and is all business when they meet her. Speaks English with only the hint of an accent. Gives them the rules of the house (No smoking/no open flames/clean up after yourselves/sweep before you leave/no skinny dipping) in such a method.
John finds himself fixing himself into parade rest as she talks. She's a bit too reminiscent of a drill instructor—just with less yelling. She's the kind of woman who probably raised about five children, all of them boys, and learned very quickly how to keep them in-line.
Once the lecture is over, Estelle gives them the phone number for the house she lives in (Actually in La Seyne sur Mer) and takes her leave. By this point, Sherlock has already wandered into the house. John follows him. Takes a glance around. It's an open floor plan, the living room and the kitchen one room, about fifteen feet by seven feet. It doesn't have much furniture other than the sofa, the telly, and a lamp. The kitchen looks new, though, and is outfitted with counters, a stove, a fridge, and two barstools at which to sit and eat meals.
He tracks down Sherlock in the bedroom. It's a rather impersonal room, small and containing only the bed (White sheets), a dresser, and two nightstands. Sherlock is unpacking. As John enters, he's plugging a charger into the wall. John joins him. Reaches into the toiletries bag, pulls out the condoms and lube and puts them in one nightstand. Then takes the rest of the bag into the bathroom.
It takes about twenty minutes to find a place for everything.
"Okay, love, shopping time?"
John turns around to find that the bedroom is distinctly lacking in a detective that he knows was there thirty seconds ago. Sighing, John follows (Isn't that just his life in a nutshell?) and sees him standing on the edge of the beach. Quietly, he lifts the camera still around his neck and snaps a picture, then sets it down on the sofa and goes out to Sherlock. Toes off his shoes and comes up behind Sherlock. Wraps his arms around his waist.
They are silent for a second, then, "I heard the camera."
Snort from John against his neck. "You love it." If he didn't, the camera really would be in the Mediterranean right now, expensiveness or no.
Image: Sherlock standing on the beach, looking out on the little corner of the Mediterranean they have in front of the house. Barefoot, jeans rolled up to his knees. Casual. The sun is filtering through his hair and bringing out its auburn highlights. He's lovely. The fact that he's facing away is a drawback, so it's not John's favorite picture. He doesn't mind the angle, though, because Sherlock has other certain assets that can only be enjoyed from behind. There is sand sticking to his ankles, his hair is being whipped in the wind. Rumpled from six hours on a train. Looks a mess.
Shopping takes longer than expected. It appears that three o'clock on a Saturday is crazy hour at any grocery store. By the time they're done, it's five o'clock, John is wound up tight as a spring, and Sherlock is on his way to a migraine. Not the best start to their week of peace. When they get back to the car, John reaches over and massages Sherlock's neck one-handed, thumb and forefinger. Sherlock dips his head forwards, sighing.
John leans over and pecks Sherlock's temple, lingering there for a moment. Murmurs, "Come on, let's get back. You can have a lie-down."
So they go back to the house and Sherlock lies down. John sits with him, scrolling through the internet on Sherlock's phone. Checks his blog (No new comments, probably because there are no new entries) and his email.
Looks up when there's suddenly a flash and Sherlock is laying there with the camera, smirking. Then he's up, rolling over to straddle John's legs and saying, "I see what your fascination with this thing is. Candid photos are hilarious." Flips the camera around and shows John the picture. He doesn't recall making the expression he is in the photo (Mouth open/eyes rolled back/nostrils flared) but apparently he was.
"What was I doing?"
"Stretching your face. You do it all the time." Sherlock flips to the next picture, and the next. Pictures of the scenery of Toulon and photos snapped of the French countryside, and every once in a while a picture of himself. Shakes his head. "Must you? I don't see why you need so many pictures of me. Wouldn't one suffice? I didn't change between five o'clock this morning and now."
"Well…you know how a picture's worth a thousand words?" He takes the camera back and settles it on his chest. Places his hands on Sherlock's waist.
"An overused expression, but yes."
"Well, a picture of you is like…an entire novel." Probably shouldn't be saying this. Entirely possible Sherlock will get a big head. Oh well. "You're just…I look at you sometimes and I wonder if you actually exist. You move so fast, you're always going somewhere. Sometimes I think you're my imagination. But I can take a picture of you and you're finally standing still for once, and I have a chance to actually look at you. And you're completely wrong to say that you haven't changed between now and then. You're changing all the time. Something's always different. That picture I took of you last night is different than the picture I took of you this morning."
"The picture from this morning was unflattering and I demand you delete it."
"But that's the thing. In pictures…you're human." He picks up the camera, flips them over. Gets up on his knees, hovering over Sherlock's stomach. Holds his eye to the viewfinder.
"Humor me. Smile." Another demented, maniacal smile. "No. A real smile. Please?" When Sherlock shows no inkling to form a decent expression, John sighs, puts the camera down, and leans their foreheads together. "Please?"
Kisses. Several kisses.
"Hey, guess what?"
"I don't guess."
Small smile. John seizes his chance. Sits up, gets the camera, snaps a picture. When he sets the camera down, Sherlock looks exasperated but amused. Still smiling.
"What were you going to say?"
"I love you."
Image: Sherlock, taken from above. His hair around him like a brunette halo. He's sleep-rumpled, just woken up. Eyes still a bit bleary. Unfocused. There's a small smile on his lips, bit enough to show some teeth but not to wrinkle his eyes. The gap between his two front teeth is showing. When John looks at this picture, he can almost hear the lisp Sherlock gets when he's just woken up. Can almost smell Sherlock's warm skin in the morning. All of the imperfections that make Sherlock perfect.
Notes: Okay, SO. I really hope you guys liked this. I wrote it in about four days, although altogether I think I only had about five hours. I'm actually really proud of it, though. It has a certain poetry to it. It was for the Johnlock Tumblr's Vacation challenge, although very little of this fic actually has to do with the vacation. Heh. Mostly it was an excuse for John to carry around the camera.
I don't know. I may do more with this, I may not. Most of all I hope you guys enjoy it.
I promise I'll start working on Peril. New chapter soon. Hopefully. Hopefully. I'm actually in discussions with a beta right now, so it may have to wait until we have everything sorted. It also may have to wait until the end of the school year, which for me will be June fourteenth. But another chapter is coming, I promise!
Thank you for reading! Every hit counts.