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Q’s breath hitched slightly as Bond rounded the corner, gunshots sparking off a round of static in the Quartermaster’s ear.
“Bond!” He shouted into the agent’s earpiece, not sure if the double-0 could hear him over the roar of handguns.
“Q,” the bigger man grunted, “if you want your gun back, I suggest you wait to distract me until…” another grunt, “until there’s no one shooting at me!”
Q held his breath, deciding to give the agent ten seconds. If it took any longer, both Bond and whoever had the audaciousness to stop him would face the twenty-seven year-Old’s full wrath. He closed his eyes, and counted.
10.
More gunshots. Screaming. Much too high for Bond, thank god.
9.
A quick reprieve from the rapid firing Q could hear Bond’s rapid breathing fill his mind, but he held his tongue. He wanted his gun back. More importantly, he wanted the man attached to it back safe and sound.
8.
More gunfire, less frequent this time, so Bond had at least managed to take out a few of the aggressors
7. A few scattered shots, then, finally, a quick, sure squeeze of the trigger. A strangled cry.
6.
“Q?”
“That was faster than expected,” Q responded smoothly, trying to hide the relief in his voice and very, very glad there was no visual on Bond’s end. It wouldn’t do for 007 to see his quartermaster smiling.
“I aim to please,” Bond smirked, rounding yet another corner in the building’s endless maze, coming out into a large, white-washed room filled with an assortment of boxes and computer screens that stood out in harsh juxtaposition. In the very center of this chaos, beneath the glare of a solitary hanging light there lay a man tied to a kitchen chair, black-haired head thrown back as if he was simply sleeping, though the blood that dripped almost silently from his bound hands told otherwise.
“Instructions?” Bond asked, “I’m passing him by unless he’s someone of value. We need to get that disk.”
“Well I can’t well tell you if he’s of value from here,” Q snapped. He had never liked blood and gore; it made him feel a bit sick, in all honesty. Sherlock had always laughed at him, and Mycroft treated it like a breech of his brother’s otherwise rather brilliant intellect.
“Easy there. This isn’t one of your computer games. Any traps visible?” Bond asked, scanning around with his ice-blue eyes. Q’s stomach flip-flopped and he forced all visions of the man’s face out of his mind. Instead, he pulled up one of his specially modified camera programs, attaching it to the feed from Bond’s eyepiece, turning the image blue-black, with anything metallic shining out a light grey.
“Not that I can see,” he told Bond, examining each metallic hint in turn, “if there is, it’s not metallic.”
“Very comforting,” Bond grunted, striding forward as lightly as a cat, ready to spring back at any moment.
“I thought so,” Q shrugged, taking a sip of Earl Grey, perfectly brewed, from his special Q mug.
Despite Bond’s misgivings, he reached the bound prisoner without incident, circling around to the man’s face, which was swathed in a dark blindfold that covered not just the man’s eyes, but his entire head, like a mummy’s bandage.
“Why is he bound like that?” Bond muttered, searching across the prisoner’s cheekbones, then chin, looking for a knot. The man moaned beneath his fingers, jerking his head away with a sharp turn, a muffled cry escaping from the cloth, surprisingly soft and indistinct.
Q, watching from the MI6 lab, leaned in closer, staring at the screen intently,
“Bond, that blindfold. It’s not just a blindfold, it’s a gag. For whatever reason, the man’s captors needed to gag him, and gag him with a greater application of force, impeding any of the jaw’s impetus. That configuration attaches to the chin, allowing for a stronger force exerted on the mouth and, by proxy, a practically nonexistent ability to speak.”
Bond, finding the knot and working on it with firm, steady hands, snorted, not even trying to decipher the younger man’s speech,
“Q, speak English or shut up.”
Q blinked. It was rare for anyone, much less a double-0 to say anything to him besides the absolute minimum necessary for communication. Then again, James Bond wasn’t just anyone, as clichéd as it may sound, but Q appreciated it. It was nice to have someone to spar with whom he might actually stand a chance against when it came to a battle of wits. Between Sherlock and Mycroft, eh was always hopelessly outmatched. It was not a nice feeling but, Q supposed, it might have been why he had turned out so much more humble than either Sherlock or Mycroft. He had known what it was to loose.
“Fine, double-0. For some reason, your targets were very keen to get this man to stop talking. I’d advise caution.”
“Caution,” Bond repeated the phrase with something akin to sarcasm, “tried that once.” Q saw, or rather, the camera saw, Bond begin to unwrap the man’s head, revealing a pale face, dark hair, ridiculously statuesque cheekbones, piercing blue-green eyes, and a deep, sonorous voice that awoke with a roar like a firecracker quickly cut off as Bond shoved one hand over the man’s mouth, stifling what sounded like a French oath. Q swore.
“They wanted him to stop talking. I see why, now,” the agent growled, “any way to shut him up again, Q?”
Q didn’t answer. A French curse to match the bound man’s own flew from his lips. Bond cocked his head, not sure if he had heard his quartermaster right,
“Q? Did you…French?”
“Bond, get that man out,” Q finally managed to croak out, sounding as though someone had strangled him half to death.
“Q?” Bond asked again, more urgent this time, “What’s wrong?”
Q looked again at the face bared by the black cloth that had covered him, the ironic set to the jaw, the steel behind those eyes, and, Q knew, if Bond lifted his hand, those lips would hold determination firm enough to circle the world over.
“Bond, this is an order,” he nearly shouted, “Get that man out, now. The disk can wait.”
Bond got to work immediately on the ropes that bound the man’s hands, after first re-securing the black gag across the man’s mouth to stop any new outbursts. His mouth, however, was less quick to accept the change of plans,
“Q, you had better have a damn good excuse for this. I won’t be backing you up when M comes calling.”
“Understood, 007,” Q said quickly, “now please, Bond, go. There is nothing more valuable to me in that building than that man’s life, do you understand.”
The ropes were undone in a moment, courtesy of Bond’s ever-present knives, but Q noticed the agent kept the prisoner’s hands bound tightly, pulling him along behind him like a dog on a leash. The man followed along intuitively, almost anticipating his leader’s steps. He was lean and lanky once he straightened up out of his chair, and his eyes, like ice and fire in one, roamed about the room like roulette balls, never standing still for a moment.
“Q,” Bond warned, straight back the way he came, at first leading his silent follower by touch then, as he realized the dark-haired prisoner kept pace easily, led solely by his movements alone, “Q, if this is becoming personal…” he trailed off. It seemed utterly impossible, his quartermaster showing emotion, but from what the young man had said… ‘More valuable to me,’ emotional attachment was precisely what Q was afflicted with.
“Enough, Bond,” Q’s voice was sharp, cutting, not to be argued with. On most occasions, Bond wouldn’t have balked at the fury of the slim, dark-haired almost-boy who was the constant voice in his ear, but that French oath, the depth of emotion that had shown itself briefly in the quartermaster’s voice, it reminded Bond that he really didn’t know Q. He knew a voice and a faced, a man who was what MI6 had asked him to be. And, in all honesty, he didn’t really know if Q’s fury was something to be scared of or not.
The hallway stretched out before him, as long physically as when he came through the first time, but it seemed infinitely longer on the way back. He was sure the man’s initial roar must have alerted someone. There was also a niggling hunch at the back of Bond’s head, a wonder about the man he was leading through a Korean bank lord’s private house, about who he was and, more mysterious still, who he was to Q. the way Q had sworn at the sight of him…it left an odd feeling in Bond’s gut. Something akin to the discomfort he felt at the whole dammed situation.
“Q,” Bond whispered, “we’re nearing the end. I’m going to need some help. You know our getaway plan is for one and one only. I don’t know who this man is or what he means to you, but if you want to get both me and him out of here alive, you’re going to need to come p with something, and best do it fast. You’ve got two minutes, Q.”
“Working on it,” the familiar sound of fingers flying over a keyboard calmed Bond to a degree he would not have thought possible considering the circumstance. He was all for improvising on the job, but to ignore the mission’s goal entirely? It was a bit of a stretch. Even for him. At last Q would be the one taking the blame.
“Oh, and Bond?” Q quipped, “Take the gag off of that man. He could be useful while I’m busy with this.”
Bond hesitated, looking his rescued prisoner over carefully, even going so far as to stop in his tracks to examine every inch of him. The raise of one onyx eyebrow told Bond the man knew precisely what he was doing, and the twinkle in those cold eyes said it amused him. At last, Bond sighed, reaching forward and first untying the man’s hands, then undoing the gag, warning first:
“Make any noise louder than a whisper, and they wake up to find you back in your chair and me long gone, do you understand?
A roll of the eyes and an ironic nod. Bond decided he didn’t much like this man.
As soon as the gag was off, the man breathed a sigh. Then, he began to talk, letting out the words in a single, continuous stream, soft like steam out of a pot, but more distinct, the man’s tone clipped and precise,
“Thank god. Is that Q in your ear? Yes, must be. Tell him you could have untied me ages ago. Now, you’re MI6, aren’t you? Yes. From your banter with Q, probably 007, James Bond, as he’s perhaps the only one who is of that certain disposition necessary to turn to banter as their weapon in times of stress. And where am I? Oh, of course, this is Mr. Hzou Tong’s residence, isn’t it? He’s the only one of m current adversaries who also currently occupies a spot on Q’s ‘to-be-dealt-with’ list. So, then, going by the plan of the building, we’re close to the door, correct? The last main hallway before we have to branch out into the residential areas that line the entrance to the house. Why in hell did Q tell you to go this way? Didn’t he read the schematics? The way the house is laid out, the servants must go through here to reach their master’s study. I’m amazed we haven’t met anyone yet. Do you have a gun on you? Of course you do. And a spare. Give the spare to me, and get into the recess of the door. Mr. Hzou Tong takes his lunch at Noon precisely. It’s 11:30 now. The servers will be swarming around this area in a few minutes, we need to hurry. Silencers? Of course. I can see their shape in your jacket. You’ll need those as well. And, as for Q, please-“
Bond clapped a hand over the infuriating man’s mouth, hissing,
“Enough. If you have anything important, say it slowly, clearly, with a few words. If not, shut up. Q, are you there?” he directed his voice into the earpiece, listening for the young man’s voice.
“Bond? Hm, yes, that’s Sherlock for you. Do as he asks. Why? Because he’s a genius. Give him his gun, and hurry up. Now. I’m arranging for a car to meet you and take you to a larger helipad that can support a helicopter for both of you. The one I had in mind is too small for a three-man, and you can’t fly a helicopter well enough for a quick escape, so you’ll need the pilot too. And do watch out, I would like you both back unharmed, if at all possible.”
Bond nodded to himself, not aware Sherlock was watching him intently. He reached into his coat, pulling out his personalized gun and checking for the light to turn green, before reaching in and taking out his spare, tossing it to Sherlock, who caught it deftly, turning around in his hand and holding it before his eyes to check it. Apparently satisfied, he nodded, opening his mouth, smirking, then revising:
“Mr. Bond. Now would be as good a time as any to make a run for it. Q will take care of the outside. Shall we tackle the interior?”
Bond rolled his eyes. Sherlock. Whoever Sherlock was, he was damned annoying.
“Let’s go then,” he jerked his head towards the end of the hall. Sherlock nodded.
“Q?” 007 whispered into his earpiece.
“Yes, Bond?”
“We’re on our way our. This friend of yours could use some manners though.”
The barking laugh Q gave bond was hollow, but full of some hidden jest, and Bond thought briefly of just how much he liked Q’s laugh.
“Understood, Bond. I don’t disagree. Just, please, listen to him until you get back. In between the sarcasm and ego, there’s a good mind. And he might just save your life, depending on how things go. He’s saved mine.”
Bond nodded again, gesturing for Sherlock to follow as he made a break down the corridor. The other man’s longer legs soon outpaced the agent as they rounded the first corner, guns first, to find it still as the grave. One corner left to go. A bell sounded somewhere, making Sherlock jump. Bond was too well trained for that, taking it instead as a warning for caution, and his grip tightened fractionally on his personalized firearm.
“They’re coming,” he muttered, “Sherlock, stay behind me.” The sound of footfalls broke the silence, and Bond backed up to the corner, preferring cover to the veritable plane of the hallway.
“The door’s just there,” Sherlock hissed, stepping out from behind the agent before he had a chance tor grab him back, sprinting down the corridor until he reached the corner just past the door, farther than he needed to go, his gun pointed in front of him as he rounded it. Bond made to follow, but an urgent murmur from Q kept him back,
“Bond! Sherlock is an idiot, that doesn’t mean you should be! Now get to the door! Wait for him there, and if he doesn’t come back soon, shout for him to hurry up. I will not risk you for the sake of his petty demonstrations of pride! Now go!”
Bond went. If there was anything he had learned over the past few months being alive again, it was that trusting the quartermaster was almost always a good idea. Especially when one’s life was on the line.
He would give Sherlock ten seconds. Ten seconds to get back to the door. It would be the ten longest seconds of his life.
10.
He heard a shout, and a muffled thump.
9. Another shot.
8. He didn’t know if he could wait much longer.
7. Fuck this man, he didn’t care what Q thought of him, he was a bastard.
6. Was that return fire? It sounded louder than Bond’s gun.
5. Damn it all. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
4. M was going to kill him for this. Properly, this time.
3. “Q” he muttered,
2. “Bond.”
1. That dammed man came swinging around the corner, the slightest drop of blood on the cuff of his snow-white undershirt, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“Go,” Sherlock said, “let Q handle the details. Mr. Hzou is not far behind, and I doubt he’ll be pleased with the medical bill for his servants. No, don’t worry,” he added, catching Bond’s murderous face, “None of them are dead. Merely unable to walk any distance. Not military men, those.” He scoffed, but Bond just shook his head, not even bothering to answer.
The pair was out the door and into the Hong Kong evening, setting a fair pace as jagged towards the set meeting place Q had given him in their briefing earlier. Just as the quartermaster said, there was a car waiting en rout, black, with tinted windows and a driver that didn’t once look at the pair as he flew out of the driveway. Only when Bond had checked the interior of the car and made sure his gun was in easy reach if the driver turned on them, did he allow himself to relax a minute.
“Q, you bastard,” he laughed, “I’ll kill you for this.”
“I think M will be more than happy to do the honors,” Q muttered back, the clicking of his keyboard silent, “although I always thought this mission was a bit below you, 007. They could have sent in agent 22 just as easily, seeing as he just got back from holiday. He’s chewing at the bit for something to do.”
“Fair point,” Bond agreed, “but would 22 have been willing to drop everything to save a hostage he doesn’t know, much less care enough about to forsake hiss mission for?”
“Uh…no,” Q giggled, “thanks again, Bond. I owe you one.”
“More than one,” Bond corrected, “I think I get extra points for putting up with him once I got him out.”
“Is he with you now?”
Bond turned to look at the back seat of the car, where Sherlock’s pale face was turned to the window in listless thought, the pane of glass separating the driver from his passenger thick enough to block Bond’s conversation. Or, at least he hoped.
“Yes. Looks like he’s sulking.”
Q snorted,
“In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised, although at the moment I think it more likely he’s just caught up in thought. Happens a lot with him.”
The quartermaster and agent sat in radio silence for a moment, before Bond brought up the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing his mind since Q’s oath:
“Q. Who is he? To you, I mean.”
Silence.
“Q,” Bond repeated, “I just gave up priceless information for this man. I think I have a right to know who he is.”
Q sighed, taking his time answering: “he’s my brother, Bond. Sherlock. A consulting detective. If a crime is committed within England’s boundaries that the police cannot solve, they turn to him. He’s a genius, but he’s also a word class prick, so please try your best not to punch him.”
Bond rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, exhaling quietly,
“You owe me a drink, Q. A large drink. Whisky, preferably.”
“Make it home in one piece, and we’ll see. I have a wonderful port from my other brother in a cupboard somewhere. I’ll dig it out sometime.”
Bond raised a solitary eyebrow. Well. It was an interesting proposition, if nothing else.
“Offer gladly accepted. If I make it home, that is. Where’s the helicopter?”
“Another two miles. Relax, Bond. You need it. Sherlock will look after the driver, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not that you should be, but I know you.”
Bond looked back at the pale, almost emaciated-looking face of Sherlock, his quartermaster’s brother, at his far-away eyes and hand hanging lazily across one knee.
“I don’t think I’ll be trusting my life to his attention span, thanks Q,” he murmured, fixing his eyes on the road ahead and resigning himself to a long, arduous journey back to London.
They arrived at the MI6 helipad at just after three the next afternoon. The helicopter had taken them first to the major airport, where a private jet was ferried out to meet them. The luxurious little airplane flew them to France, where they stopped to re-fuel, then to Heathrow rom which they caught another chopper to MI6’s private helipad. It had been just as long and nerve-wracking a journey as Bond had anticipated, with his stuck-up companion giving into fatigue and what seemed to be a slight breathing problem, becoming more taciturn with each connecting flight. By the time he disembarked at MI6, he was in such a mood that he sent Eve Moneypenny out crying as he read a painful past with a single look.
Q had warned him of Sherlock’s little divination quirk, and, while the man had obviously found a great deal in Bond, he had refrained from commenting. Probably because of the glare Bond treated him to whenever he tried. Somewhere between glacial and downright dangerous.
Nevertheless, it had been a tense day or so, and it was with immeasurable relief that Bond stepped off the helipad and into the normalcy (relatively) of MI6 headquarters, not the mention the comforting presence of his quartermaster.
“Sherlock!” Q ran out to meet them, hugging his older brother as Sherlock, to Bond’s utter astonishment, hugged him back warmly, his face lighting up and his ice-eyes melting for the first time since he had seen the man, his chest stuttering strangely and face screwing up as the shorter man wrapped his arms around him.
“Bond,” Q’s greeting for Bond was much more subdued, a simple handshake, but Bond fancied himself it was a bit harder, and a bit longer than was strictly necessary, and the smile Q treated him to when Sherlock’s back was turned was enough to make the grizzled secret service agent grin himself.
He did feel just a tiny bit cheated that Q had greeted Sherlock first though.
M, of course, called the trio into her office immediately after they had landed. From the look on the terrified assistant’s face ashen came to fetch them, it was as bad as Bond had feared. Indeed, as they trooped into the oak-paneled room with a view overlooking the channel, Bond was hard-pressed to think of a time he had seen her look more furious. Well, that was a lie. His faked death and subsequent re-appearance had caused quite a stir in the old woman.
“Bond. I’ll start with you, as it seems I have the least to shout about there,” M started the moment they walked in. Bond took a seat, throwing one arm lazily over the back of the chair and staring at M as if daring her to do her worst. In this situation, at least, he knew that the blame did not lie with him. True, he could have disregarded Q’s instructions, could have argued, but in the end, the Quartermaster is the highest decision-making authority. And M knew it.
“Bond, why exactly, did you see fit to disregard all previous orders in favor of a crackpot scheme to rescue a prisoner you didn’t even recognize?”
“Ma’am,” Bond began, “Q instructed me to do so. I followed his orders, as is my duty.”
“Did you object to he sudden change in plans?”
“Of course Ma’am. But the quartermaster’s word is law on missions. I hold the gun, but he tells me where to shoot.”
“Damn you, James, you know as well as I you happily disregard any and all orders if they don’t suit your liking. Why couldn’t you disregard the one I would have thanked you for forgetting!” for just a moment, M’s cool mask slipped, and the worry, anger, and confusion of Bond’s mistress were released in full force. Then she breathed in. and out. And M was back, cool and calm and utterly in control.
“That will be all, Bond,” she said quietly. Then she turned to Q.
Bond almost felt bad for the quartermaster.
“Q.”
“Yes?”
“You know what I’m going to ask.”
“And I believe you already know my answer Ma’am,” Q replied blithely, “Though we both know you don’t like it.”
“Say it, quartermaster.”
“Sherlock’s my brother. I, as is my license on such excursions, and given my prior knowledge of the subject at hand, deemed the greatest priority to rescue Sherlock from his captivity. That is all.”
“You know as well as I this is an issue of sentiment, Q.”
“It is an issue of intrinsic value and of time. In my opinion, Sherlock is worth more than a disk. And even if he were not, we can retrieve the disk at any time within the next month. As you can see by the scratches on my brother’s face, and the way his breathing’s been something of a bother, if we’d left Sherlock there for another month, I doubt he would have come out as well mentally of physically as he went in. my logic is sound.”
“Be that as it may, you still lost us a valuable bitt of information. Your antics have put Mr. Hzou on guard. Who knows where he’ll be in another month? Rescue your brother, fine, but loosing the disk is unacceptable, Q.”
Q’s eyes narrowed. He glanced over towards his brother who, until now, had stood virtually silent in the back of the room, arms and legs crossed protectively. Bond saw a smirk cross Sherlock’s face, a matching mischievous light dance into Q’s eyes. An understanding passed between them, leaving Bond feeling he had missed an entire conversation in the silence. M, it seemed, felt the same.
“Don’t look at your brother, Q, I’m talking to you.”
“Of course, Ma’am,” Q said graciously, “just confirming something. Am I right in that your main grievance is with Bond and my’s failure to retrieve the disk?”
“You’re damned right on that. I give you orders for a reason, Q. I expect you to follow them.”
Q cleared his throat, “and if I could get you the disk today, would I be forgiven? No foul, no harm?”
M’s eyes narrowed, “that’s a bit of a lofty goal even for you, Q. don’t toy with me, I know your limits, even if you don’t.”
Q spread his arms wide, “alright, I can’t get it today, but, theoretically, if I handed you the disk now, would you be satisfied?”
“That was the point of this conversation, Q.”
“Good,” again, that mischievous smile, “Sherlock?”
“At your service, Q,” Sherlock smiled, coming forward, reaching into his breast pocket and drawing out a tiny mini disk, which he waved before M’s face before setting it on her desk, right next too the ceramic bull dog. Bond stared. Sherlock grinned,
“No harm no foul?”
“Sherlock, you need to get someone to look at you. You’re a mess. What did they do to you?” Q fussed. As he had hugged his brother goodbye, the taller man had coughed, spitting up what looked suspiciously like spit tinted pink-ish with blood. Sherlock had a notorious disregard for personal comfort and physical necessity, as Q was well aware. If the man were on the edge of death, he wouldn’t dare show it until his work was done.
“Nonsense, Q. I’m absolutely fine. Besides, you know I hate hospitals.”
Q sighed at his brother’s stubbornness, making a judicious decision,
“Bond!” he called, looking over his shoulder to where the hulking man stood in his customary prim shirt, lazing away by his unused desk.
“What do you want?” the agent called over.
“Are you free this afternoon? I owe you a drink, don’t I?”
Bond’s mouth quirked up in a half-grin, and he padded over to the two brothers, the short, lanky quartermaster and the dark, intense detective, obviously in need of medical attention and just as obviously not willing to accept that fact. He knew the type. He also knew the real reason Q had called him over.
“I have a feeling you’ll owe me a lot more than that by the time this is over,”
He mused, judging Sherlock up and down, trying to figure out what the best way to throw the smaller man over his shoulder would be. Q smiled,
“Well, I’ll leave the method of my repayment up to you, How’s that?”
Bond was only too happy to hit the babbling detective over the head, just hard enough to render him unable to fight back effectively, escorting him out of MI6 in the wake of Q’s straight-backed frame, his mind occupied with thoughts of just what form his repayment might take.
Q’s flat was a surprise, but at the same time, Bond wouldn’t have imagined it any other way. There were books everywhere, at least three computers, scattered hard drives, abandoned mugs perched upon every available surface, a plethora of Doctor Who, Star Trek, The Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter memorabilia. Despite all that, it was actually rather neat. Yes, there were books strewn across shelves everywhere, but they were confined mostly to the shelves, and the geek memorabilia was displayed tastefully about the sitting room. The mugs, there was no saving, as they seemed to be left every which where including, Bond soon found, on the bathroom counter. It was another Q mug, he realized, when they carried Sherlock into the bathroom, depositing him on Q’s ridiculously squashy mat. The detective’s breathing was relatively normal, labored, but the rhythm was fine, so Bond hadn’t done any lasting damage with his blow. The man was still out cold though, which was so much the better, for as Q began peeling off his brother’s shirt, a little hiss escaped the quartermaster’s lips. Sherlock’s chest was criss crossed with shallow knife wounds, the occasional whip mark, and a rather impressive array of bruises. Bond’s opinion of the man rose a few notches as he realized the pain he must have gone through, just getting to London.
“No wonder he wasn’t breathing right,” Q whispered, “the bastard. What was he going to do, try and let a possibly bruised lung, cracked rib, multiple lacerations and bruises just heal on their own? Bloody fool.”
Bond watched as Q rooted through a surprisingly extensive medical cabinet, pulling out what he needed before kneeling before Sherlock again, getting to work stitching the two cuts deep enough to require such attention. His hands shook.
“Q. You’re quivering,” Bond remarked quietly.
“Shut it,” Q replied, “I’m doing my best. It’s just…blood. I never liked the macabre as my brother does.” The needle hit Sherlock’s skin an inch away from the cut as Q’s fingers shivered suddenly. Bond reached out, covering Q’s hand with his own and looking at the younger man seriously,
“Q.”
Q stared at his agent for a moment, his face unreadable, before nodding. Bond took the needle and Q shifted around to begin applying antiseptic to the rest of Sherlock’s cuts.
Bond finished his task in a minute or two, using his knife to cut the thread and laying the needle on the counter next to Q’s mug.
“Bond…” Q piped up from somewhere around Sherlock’s head, “I never said. Thank you. What you told me about 22. You were right. Had that been any other agent, they would have told me to fuck myself and left Sherlock in that room. I’m sure Mycroft would have gotten him out eventually, but…well, like I said, who knows what he would have been like after another month of that? Anyways, I just wanted you to know…I appreciate it. What you did.” It was awkward, heartfelt, proper, just like Q himself.
“I trust you, Q,” was all Bond said in return, waiting until Q was done with the antiseptic and sticking plasters before lifting Sherlock up again, “Now, what do you say we put your brother somewhere until he wakes up and enjoy that drink you promised me in the meantime?”
Q smiled, nodding heartily before leading the way to his bedroom. Bond deposited Sherlock’s lanky form on the sheets before following Q into the kitchen, which housed an even higher population of mugs than the sitting room. Bond picked up one, staring at it,
“How many tea mugs do you have?” he asked in fascination. Q shrugged,
“I don’t know. Enough that last month I ran the dishwasher and found I didn’t have enough space for them all.”
Bond laughed, setting the mug down again and joining Q as he rummaged through a dusty cupboard filled with old bottles, jumping slightly as he attempted to reach one above his stature’s limits.
“Which one?” he asked. Q pointed to one just out of his reach,
“That. Mycroft brought it by last Christmas. My eldest brother. He does love good port.”
“So there are three of you?” Bond asked, slightly shocked, reaching up past Q, who didn’t back up quite far enough. Bond’s muscular arm brushed against Q’s chest, and he felt the quartermaster jump slightly before slipping back in a flash. Bond grinned, bringing the bottle down as Q brought out glasses.
“And does genius run in the family, or is it just you and Sherlock?” Bond added on as Q poured. Q snorted,
“Must be a family thing. Mycroft holds ‘a minor position in the British government.”
“Which means?”
“You don’t want to know,” Q finished with a dark chuckle. Bond shrugged. He lifted his glass to his nose, sniffing at the dark red liquid. He sighed in appreciation,
“God, Q, what is this stuff? It smells amazing.”
Q looked dully at his own glass, swirling the wine round nonchalantly before taking a healthy swig,
“Don’t know. Don’t really care,” he conceded, “Mycroft bought it, which means it’s bound to be overly expensive and much too classy for me. Thought you might appreciate it though.”
Bond did. It had been a while since ha had last indulged himself in a good port, and this was excellent. Probably a good 1,000 pounds worth, he thought.
“Well, please thank your brother for me, this is superb.”
“Is it?” Q reflected, downing the rest of his glass in another gulp, “I never know.”
Bond just stared at him.
“What?” Q narrowed his eyes. Bond smirked,
“Oh, nothing. Just, that was a rather large glass for someone of your size, isn’t it?”
Q rolled his eyes,
“Don’t mother me, Bond. I’m not as young as I look.”
Bond grinned into his glass. He had wondered what Q was like drunk. It seemed he was about to find out.