Sherlock was staring intently at a photograph which was displayed on the sideboard. It didn’t seem to be of particular interest to John, simply a group photo of the family in question, taken probably about ten years before. Something, however, was fascinating Sherlock.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, “Twins.”

“I thought you said it was never twins.”

“Twins don’t have to share looks, but they do share a birthdate.” He pointed at a boy and girl who were standing together in the photo.

“The evidence based on date of birth pointed to Hereward, but if he had a twin sister ...”

“Precisely.”

I love this song!

And was thinking about using it for a prompt too.

Evan was a portrait painter by trade, and a traveling man by choice. Why set up a studio with the same view out the window when he could see something new every single day? He earned his way painting portraits and landscapes, enough to pay for his next meal and to keep his painting kit filled.

Sometimes he set up in whatever space was available in town, other times he stayed with families, offering them sketches in return for room and board. The family he was rooming with currently had commissioned him for a family portrait and put him up in the tack room in the barn, which had a cot and smelled of leather and hay and horses.

Getting them all to sit together had proved problematic, not the least because the two father figures – the logistics of the family makeup was none of Evan’s business, even if he was curious – were repeatedly called away for work, so Evan was doing his initial sketches of them individually.

“Can you draw a horse?” Grace asked, sitting atop a hay bale and doing her level best to stay still.

“I can draw anything,” Evan replied.

Nancy, who Evan understood to be the daughter of the nearest neighbor, was laundering clothes nearby, keeping an eye on the little girl.

“I don’t know when’s Danno’s birthday, but he’d like that.”

“That would make a nice gift,” Evan agreed.

“I don’t have money, but I can sew buttons.”

“That would be very nice of you, Miss Grace.” Evan didn’t have any loose buttons – he was handy with a needle and thread as well as a paintbrush – but it wouldn’t be any work to loosen a couple. “Does the horse have a name?”

“No. He already had one, but he didn’t tell Danno what it was.”

“Danno sounds like a smart man.”

Grace nodded her head just a tiny bit. “He is. He’s teaching me to read, and cook, and tie my shoes. And Daddy Steve is teaching me to make a fire and cut wood with a knife. When I’m older I can learn to shoot.”

“Ain’t nobody can teach you to stop talking,” Nancy grumbled, up to her elbows in wash water.

Evan bit back a grin. Grace was definitely not being raised on the seen-and-not-heard philosophy of child rearing. She seemed like a smart girl, and Evan wondered why she wasn’t in school. He’d seen one in town.

Grace twisted so she could talk to Nancy. “Danno says I have the right to be heard, Nancy.”

“Don’t see why I have to suffer for it,” Nancy replied.

“Sorry, Mr. Evan,” Grace said when she turned back around. “Did I mess it up?”

“Nope. Come and see.”

Grace scrambled off the hay bale and came around the other side of Evan’s easel. It was just a graphite sketch, but he thought he’d captured the essence of her pretty well.

“That’s me?” Grace asked, eyes wide. “You made me look pretty.”

“Because you are pretty. And when I leave this will all be painted in with a lot more detail.”

“Like a ferrotype?”

“Even better,” Evan said with conviction. He wasn’t opposed to photographs, generally speaking, but they didn’t come close to capturing the depth and nuance that one of his paintings did. “Mine will have every color you can see.”

“Grace, you need to help me hang these clothes,” Nancy called out.

“Thank you, Mr. Evan,” Grace said solemnly. “I’ll come back for the buttons.”

“It’s not official until we shake on it.”

Grace shook his hand enthusiastically before running off after Nancy.

Edited at 2019-07-26 05:59 pm (UTC)

It could have been an innocuous photo, Wes sitting on a chair, reading today’s newspaper. Only his ankles were taped to the legs of the chair and a masked figure was holding a gun to his head.

“Adam,” Ros said, “you have to sit this one out.”

Adam’s face was ashen. He shook his head.

Lucas curled a hand around his wrist. “We will get him back.”

“If they harm a single hair on his head -”

Lucas said, “I promise.”

Adam nodded woodenly.

Ros said, “I recognize that architecture.”

Lucas scooped up his pistol, and they headed off the Grid.

Abe had hung a new picture on the dining room wall. It had been taken recently and showed Henry and Abe laughing together. It replaced the previous photo, which was now in Abe’s bedroom. It had been taken seven or eight years ago, sufficient time to show that Abe had aged, but Henry hadn’t. Abe had several pictures in his bedroom of the two of them together, photos which no-one else could ever see, reminders of the happy times they’d had. They showed Abe growing from a small child and on into his adult life. And Henry always the same.

“This isn’t really what I was going for,” Stark said dubiously.

Steve knew the infamous billionaire playboy and head of Stark Innovations had been picturing something slicker, maybe with half-dressed girls and a Scotch in his hand, but if so he’d come to the wrong place. Steve didn’t do glamour shots.

“Trust me. This is the Tony Stark the world wants to see.”

Steve gestured to his assistant, Wanda, who adjusted the lighting and the reflectors just a little until he was happy with the results.

“Just act natural.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Stark still looked stiff and ill-at-ease.

“Tell me about the Kids First foundation,” Steve suggested.

Stark perked up. “We’re having our inaugural fundraiser next month. There are so many kids in this country who don’t have anyone to advocate for them, and it’s our goal to provide them with shelter, food, clothes, an education, and anything else they need to be successful. Everyone deserves a chance, right?”

“Sounds pretty amazing,” Steve said.

He’d started snapping shots as soon as Stark’s posture eased into something more natural and comfortable. As he’d hoped, Stark had also started picking up some of the tools and mechanical bits on the work table.

Everyone knew the splashy image Stark projected to the world. It was Steve’s goal to dig a little deeper, show the man who made specialized prosthetics for young children, who advanced the field of robotics by decades, who was a leader in green energy. That’s why he’d put Stark in a faded, comfortable t-shirt instead of a suit, and why he’d set up the work table. He wanted the man in his element.

Truth be told, Steve was glad to finally have a chance to meet Stark. He’d been admiring the man from afar for far too long.

When Steve finished up and passed the memory card to Wanda, Stark blinked up at him.

“Wait. We’re done already?”

“I’ll send you sample copies of the five best shots,” Steve explained. “You just tell me which ones you want me to send to the magazine.”

Stark pulled off the t-shirt, baring an admirably sculpted torso. As he got back into his suit, he gave Steve an appreciative once-over too.

“I’d love to talk more,” he said. “And not just about my humanitarian efforts. Drinks?”

Steve made a show of checking his appointments, but he knew he had the afternoon free. “Sounds good.”