Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

Q’s phone went off with the distinct combination of vibrations that was reserved for his brothers. Of course, hardly anyone else had this number and no one else would think to use it at this time. After all, Q had been dead for almost five weeks now.

Five weeks in which he had been hidden away from the rest of the world in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, working on destroying a non-governmental secret service organisation that operated internationally with main bases in England, Switzerland, and Austria. As far as clearance levels for top secret business went, this was a basically non-existent mission. It was off the MI6 records and more classified than anything Q had ever touched before.

He was pretty sure that the reasons for this level of caution were dirty enough. From what he could see in the databases he was hacking, this organisation seemed to have its routes in governmental operatives that had gone rouge.   

Since his disappearance, Sherlock and Mycroft were the only people he had spoken to – even though there certainly were more people involved on a lower level. Mycroft, because he was in charge, obviously. And Sherlock because he had some insight into the organisation due to his unfortunate past acquaintances.

Fake deaths were slowly becoming a family sport.

Q picked up his phone without taking his other hand from the keyboard. A quick glance revealed that it was a message from Sherlock in their private chat – not the family channel. Which usually meant it was not case related. Q rolled his eyes. Sherlock got bored rather frequently. He was about to put the phone away when it buzzed again. He saw the message when it popped up and something caught his eye.

He unlocked the screen and opened the messenger service that he had coded himself.

The first message was a combination of letters and figures that stood for one of Mycroft’s surveillance cameras. The second message was less cryptic.

3:26 [to Q]
William S: It’s Bond. SH

Q stared at it for a few seconds. Then, he opened the camera feed on his second screen.

It showed Mycroft’s official unofficial office. Q had never been there in person, but he was familiar with the layout of the room. There were two people. Mycroft and – as Sherlock had implied – James Bond.

The last time Q had seen the agent had been through a surveillance feed, too. On their last shared mission, on which Q had been Bond’s handler, the agent had cut the line to HQ in an unauthorised individual call. It was a sore spot for Q. Firstly, because Bond usually didn’t go death silence with him (though it was all but unheard of with other handlers). And secondly, because it had robbed Q of a chance to say goodbye – or at least to say something that the agent could understand as such in retrospect.

When James resurfaced three weeks later, mission accomplished, Q was dead. And as a dead man he was now watching Bond face off against what he and Sherlock referred to as the most dangerous man in England (half-sarcastically): their older brother, Mycroft.

“-follow you,” Mycroft said just as Q entered the conversation. His raised eyebrow and soft but determined tone betrayed irritation.

“I think you do, Mr. Holmes,” Bond said.

Q noticed that, though he sounded overly confident as always, he also sounded tired. He looked it too. But not the kind of tired he looked after rough missions – like he could black out any moment, nursing one or two minor to fatal injuries while he pretended to be fine. No, Bond looked the kind of worn out that came from deep within, not from the outside. Q frowned slightly.

Mycroft did not frown. He held Bond’s gaze for a while, then he raised his second brow as well.

“I do understand – and agree – that I owe you a favour, Mr. Bond. But I do not understand what gives you reason to believe that I can do anything for you in this situation.”

“I want the case to be reviewed,” said Bond immediately and it sounded like he was repeating himself, “I know you have the authority.”

“To what avail? It was a clear case.”

“Too clear. Too much of an innocent coincident, don’t you think?”

Mycroft leaned slightly forward in his seat his hand folded on the table surface.

“Yes, indeed. That is what I thought.”

Bond’s face twitched a bit. Maybe in surprise, maybe with hope, maybe with incredulity. Q couldn’t tell.

“That is why I had people look into it. Which, as you surely know, is MI6 standard procedure anyways. We don’t exactly trust unfortunate accidents when they happen to our highest-ranking personnel. However, we did not find anything. Of course, if you have a founded suspicion that something was off…?”

He looked at Bond expectantly.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” Bond said.

Mycroft raised his brows again, giving the agent a slightly patronising look.

“You don’t think, or you will not believe, Mr. Bond?”

Bond was quiet, just staring back at Mycroft as if he were determined to make the other man give him the information he was after with only the force of his gaze.

Q’s frown deepened.

After a while, Mycroft sighed and opened one of his drawers. Pulling out a file after some shuffling through paper. He placed it on the table in front of Bond.

Bond leaned forward to pick it up, paging through it. Q couldn’t see the contents of the file, but he saw Bond’s face turn stony.

“His name is blackened out.”

“Yes.”

Again, the silence stretched.

“How come you have this at hand?” Bond asked at length.

Mycroft flashed him a rare smile of appreciation.

“I have some personal interest in the case,” he admitted making his voice sound wistful, “It was me who suggested him for the position. I had a hard time believing that a man of this potential would die due to an overlooked traffic light. But then, I suppose that genius alone does not keep you from reckless behaviour. Or thoughtlessness. It is a big waste, really.”

Q could see how Bond’s fist clench at the last sentence before the agent rose from his chair. There was a short moment of alert in Mycroft’s posture, but Bond just nodded at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

He kept the file of Q’s accident as he walked out.

3:46 [family channel]
William S: Moving performance, Mycroft. SH

3:47
Queen of England: Is there something I should be aware of? M

3:47
William S: Guess the autopsy shots weren’t a waste after all. SH

3:48
Q: No.
Q: We were friends.

3:49
Queen of England: Not you too. M

In the morning, Q got the first text from Bond after his death.

6:14 [to Q]
Bond: I’m sorry, Q.

Q didn’t know what to think about it.

2.

Five days later, there is another message from Bond. And then another and another and another.

17:56 [to Q]
Bond: The new quartermaster is a jerk.

18:00
Bond: They’re okay. But they are not you.

23:47
Bond: I miss you.

0:04
James: Please say something.

3.

Being dead was quite enjoyable. Even the part where Q had to dismantle a whole network almost all by himself. Sure, he missed Q-branch. He was a person of habit after all. And he did hope that the new Q – who he had picked himself – would be smart enough to follow his extensive instructions. But at the end of the day, he enjoyed being able to work from a room that had windows. He enjoyed the challenge. And he even enjoyed working with his older brothers who, despite being annoying as fuck, were a delight to work with intellect-wise.

In the beginning, he even had the advantage of spending a lot more time with his cats. Nine months in, that changed as the risk level grew and Q was forced to keep on the move. He saw a lot of Europe in the months that followed. Places that he had otherwise just known from mission layouts and from postcards that had been send to him by Bond – back in the days.

And, yes, he missed Bond.

The agent texted him in random intervals. No sentimental messages like at the start. Rather, a row of profanities. Things like “Remember when you got mad at me for blowing up that mansion in Geneva?” or “Minsk is beautiful this time of year” or “004 hooked up with R at the Christmas party” or “I don’t think I’ll be able to call any other quartermaster Q”.

Despite his best efforts, Q always felt a wave of excitement wash over himself whenever the vibration of his mobile indicated a message that wasn’t from one of his brothers. It was stupid to be enamoured by the way Bond seemingly was convinced that Q was still alive despite his passivity. Still, he figured that a little indulgence on his part wouldn’t hurt anyone.

His perspective on that changed fractionally when Bond first tried to call him. Q had been dead for a bit over a year.

The phone rang on the bed beside him until the machine took over.

“If this is not important, please hang up. I’m very busy. Leave a message if you absolutely must.”

Q absently wondered whether this was how he sounded over headphones. He had a slight dislike for his recorded voice, but he figured it might as well be a slight dislike for five-years-ago Q who had recorded the message.

“Q.”

For some reason, Q had not been prepared to hear Bond’s voice, to hear him call him Q after all this time – because of course he would; it was the only name the other knew him by. It was so distracting, that he put away his notebook, concentrating solely on the sound of it.

“Q,” Bond repeated, his voice hoarse and raspy.

Q wonder whether Bond was drunk. It was always hard to tell with him – at least up to a certain degree of drunkenness.  

“I wouldn’t have thought I could still reach you on this line. Doesn’t seem like them to leave it open.”

Q winced. That was exactly why he should have disabled the line after the first time Bond had texted.

“Or didn’t they know about it?” Bond mused on the other end, “I did feel special when you gave me this number.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Q murmured fondly.

As if he had heard him, Bond chuckled a bit.

“Of course, if anyone can outsmart them it would be you. I always admired that about you. That you weren’t only able to outsmart them but also willing to do so, for the right cause.”

There was a pause. It sounded like the other was drinking but Q couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was just swallowing, looking for words.

“Q,” he started again, and his next words were like a punch to Q’s gut, “you’re dead…I should know how to deal with this. People die all the time. It’s our job. Risky line of work and all that. I should know.”

Another pause.

“But not like this. Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m doing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how you died whether it was a freak incident or an assassin. I should know how to deal with it, but the fact is – I don’t. Not when I first heard about it. And not now. Q, do you know that you’ve been dead for over a year? M threatened me with early retirement today if I don’t stop trying to hack into high level clearance files. It’s not like I’m much successful.”

Another chuckle – this time it sounded much more like sob.

“Q, I-“

Bond was cut off by the sound of the machine ending the message.

Q sat in silence.

It was crucial for this operation that what he was doing couldn’t be traced back to either him, Mycroft or MI6 – at least until their goal was accomplished. He needed to be dead to do this. For reasons of national security as well as his own.

Much like his brothers, Q considered his work to be his life. With his family knowing the truth, he hadn’t assumed that anyone would be mourning for him.

At least – not the way Bond seemingly was. 

Q sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, putting his glasses aside. He had to be rational here. If Bond was hurting because of him it wasn’t intended. National security had priority. And – though Q felt a bit spiteful for thinking it – Bond had left him in the dark about being alive for much less important reasons before. The man was a 00-agent, for God’s sake. He would survive.

4.

“Q…I think I might be dying this time.”

There was a pause in which only a suspicious crackling could be heard in the background. Like the sound wood makes when it burns.

“I am. I am dying. It’s alright. I always figured I’d die like this. It’s a good way to go.”

“I just…I suppose I always thought that you’d be here with me. A trusty voice in my ear. Someone who really – cares. Someone who’d tell me not to.”

“I know this is the kind of bullshit you would not tolerate, but – you aren’t here. So, I might as well say it. I-“

“It’s much easier to go knowing that I will see you soon.”

“I know they say that you were dead instantly. No time to feel much pain. No time to regret. I’m in a lot of pain, I have a lot to regret. I just wanted to hear your voice. And tell you – tell you that –“

“I’ll talk to you soo –“  

The connection was cut.

The noise of his own fingers on the keyboard seemed unbearably loud in combination with the dialling tone of the mobile.

“What is it?”

Mycroft sounded tired underneath his sharp alert.

There was no time for Q to wonder what was going on in England these days. They were in a critical phase that demanded all his attention. One misstep from his side and the consequences would be dire.

“I’m sending you coordinates as we speak. I need you to have MI6 send out a rescue team and fire containment to that location as soon as possible. Priority code gamma.”

There was only a short pause on the other end in which Mycroft pieced together the information and came to the correct conclusion.

To his credit and Q’s relief, he didn’t argue. He didn’t eve say that caring would have Q killed.

Q didn’t know whether it was a testament to his brother’s learning ability or to the tight situation they were in. He was grateful any way.

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

5.

“I should be over this by now, but I’m not.”

Q had just stepped out of the hotel room shower when he heard the beep of the answering machine through the open door of the bedroom.

It had been two years and six weeks since his death.

It had been fifty-two hours since his mission had ended for good. Most of this time, he had spent sleeping.

He listened to Bond’s voice as he carefully dried his hair with a very soft towel.

“The thing is, I lost people before, and I mourned people before. And still, this is completely new to me. I didn’t realise why for a long time.”

Q frowned from where he was wrapping himself into the biggest towel he could find. He had been very literally on the run through Austria in the end and the winter was reluctant to leave his bones. At the moment, however, it was Bond’s words that gave him a cold feeling, numbing the comfort the hot shower had given him.  

“When I woke up after what happened in June, I was disappointed when they told me I was saved just in time.”

Q’s head turned sharply. He had tried not to think too much over what Bond had expected to be his last words. There hadn’t been much time for him to think about it since then.

Only sometimes, when sleep wouldn’t come to him, he had allowed himself to re-play Bond’s messages, painful though they were. To find comfort in the other man’s voice if not a relief for his conscience.

“Q,” Bond’s voice was low and intimate, and Q simultaneously wanted him to continue and wanted to stop him, because he felt he had no business hearing this. He hadn’t had any business hearing or reading Bond’s messages in the first place. They weren’t meant for him – not really.  

Q was already halfway through the room, intending to close the call, when Bond continued, making him freeze in his tracks.

“I think I loved you. I think I still do. I won’t wait till I almost die again with saying it and–”

There was a pause and Q wondered whether it was because James’ throat felt as tied up as his.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this when you were still here. I will always regret that just as I will always keep missing your voice and your sharp tongue and your clever comebacks. So, yes.”

Bond’s voice sounded tight over the phone; the last words almost pressed out of him as if he had a hard time voicing himself.

In the short silence that ensued, Q found it in himself to finally reach for the phone, fingers, for once, trembling.

“I guess, this is goodbye for now.”  

“No,” Q hissed, his finger hovering over the call symbol.

“Goodbye, Q.”  

Bond hung up.

+1

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, with a look that was maybe meant to be apologetic. It didn’t appear as if the other put much effort into it.

The door opened to reveal the head of Mycroft’s assistant. James knew her briefly. She had the aura of a woman who would shoot him without as much as batting an eyelash.

“It’s your brother, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded and gestured for her to let him in.

James stood.

“Mr. Bond,” Mycroft acknowledged.

“You still owe me a favour, just so you know,” James said, mainly to distract himself as he put down Q’s file on the desk from which he had taken it so many months ago, leaving it there.

Mycroft’s small-lipped smile was almost genuine.

“Maybe I’m about to do you one,” he said cryptically.

Then, his eyes fixed on a point behind James.

“Why don’t you come on in, brother-dear? I was just about to bring the happy news.”

James knew Sherlock Holmes only from newspaper pictures. He didn’t have a particular interest in him beyond knowing that he was Mycroft Holmes’ brother. Sometimes, such knowledge could be beneficial in this line of work and the circles he tended to move in.

With a last look at the file, and a nod for Mycroft, he was about to turn when he heard the door closing. He frowned slightly, his fingers twitching for his gun on instinct as he turned around.

It was not Sherlock Holmes who stood at the door, glaring at Mycroft viciously.

“You complete idiot,” Q hissed.

 The familiarity of it almost made Bond smile, except this was Q. He was alive.

“Is that a way to talk to a friend?” Mycroft chided from behind his desk.

“I don’t mean him, you arse, I mean you!”

Bond managed to tear his eyes away from Q just in time to see Mycroft’s face re-arrange back into a neutral mask.

“I merely thought-“

“You merely thought wrong, Mycroft. For fuck’s sake, have you no regard of people’s feelings at all?”

Q came closer now, as he was talking himself into a proper fit.

James watched in awe.

“Or are you just that ignorant when it comes to people caring about each other? Have you thought for one moment about how this could make him feel? How this could make me feel? Your office is hardly the privacy I want for telling someone that I’m sorry that I lied to them about being dead for over two years.”

Q paused, closing his eyes briefly. Then, he turned to James, tone suddenly soft, gaze warm and apologetic behind unruly curls that had gotten long.

“James, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you; it was top-secret mission.”

James nodded, unable and unwilling to stop the smile on his face.

“Good to see you, Q.”

Q’s responding smile was brighter than anything James had seen from him before (though he couldn’t be certain whether that was true or just an exaggeration due to his joy to see his quartermaster).

“And you,” the younger man said, again in a soft tone that Bond couldn’t help but think he didn’t quite deserve.

Had Q missed him?

“Was there reason why you wanted to speak to me, Mycroft?” Q asked, tone still chilling, “Other than meddling with my private life?”

Bond scanned the two man, for the first time, recognising similarities between them. Nothing too obvious, just details. Like their chins having the same curve, their ears being almost identical. The shape of their lips, though Q’s had a different shade of pink to them.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and James thought that in the long years he had known the other, he had never seen him do that.

“Your position is reinstalled. MI6 is informed of your circumstances,” Mycroft said briskly.

“Thank you,” Q said, but still sounded put out. “Can we leave then, or do you want to first threaten him or try to blackmail him or anything? I know it must be hard for you to contain yourself.”

Mycroft raised a brow.

“Don’t try me,” he said with a sweet smile that made it obvious even to James, who was an only child, that these two were indeed siblings.  

Q huffed and then turned back to James with a questioning glance.

“Right behind you,” he said, and it must have been the right thing because there was another smile from Q and a sparkle of wit in his eyes that told James that he would be teased about that later.

He didn’t mind.

“So, you’re not dead,” James stated conversationally when they reached a relatively empty passage after walking side by side in silence for a while.

“Obviously,” Q retorted.

James hummed. There was a feeling of dread in his stomach. Or maybe anticipation.

“And I assume that is also why your number still worked,” he asked on, watching Q from the corner of his eyes.

Q grimaced.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

“So, you-“

“Yes,” Q interrupted and suddenly stood still, turning to look him into the eyes. “Yes, I got all your messages, and I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Not even when you were dying right next to me. And when you…the other day…”

James felt his stomach turn with the revelation.

“I had no right to hear that, I’m sorry I didn’t let you know as soon as I could.”

Q looked at him and James very suddenly realised that the other felt guilty.

“It was meant for you,” he said quietly, “I won’t take that back just because you are alive.”

Q’s expression shifted from guilt ridden to incredulous.

“If it makes you uncomfortable to know how I feel, I’m sorry. I promise this won’t change how I behave towards you.”

Q made a choked noise.                                                                                            

“Such a professional,” he said with a slight smile at James’ questioning look.

James chuckled; he couldn’t help himself.

“Brat.”

“James,” Q started in a serious tone that made James hope beyond reason, “I missed you.”

James nodded. Q knew he had missed him already. They were standing very close. As close as could be with out them touching.

“I want you to kiss me now,” Q said next quietly.

A weight was lifted off his shoulders.

“If you want to, I mean.”

James nodded again, leaning in.