James snorted. He might have not dealt with real crime scenes, but he'd dealt with the press before. "It doesn't work that way. They always find the time and the way to get to you even when they shouldn't."
He followed Peakes, eager to get to work, but as soon as he took in the scene, he couldn't move. Peakes' voice drowned against the drumming in his ears. He closed his eyes. He wouldn't throw up, he wouldn't get sick, his father went after Voldemort at eleven, he wouldn't embarrass him by getting sick on his first scene.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes again. He saw Peakes was handing the camera. He didn't know how long the man had been trying to get his attention. He grabbed the camera. "Pictures, I got it." Not that he would need pictures to remember this. It'd be forever stuck in his head.