Work Text:
1989
Quentin Holmes, ten years of age, collapsed onto the root of a maple tree in Hyde Park, having run at least two blocks away from his house. He had done it out of defiance and rage, for one of his older brothers had thrown his copy of “The Velveteen Rabbit” into the fire. All I did was to topple his card deck tower, he thought. And, it wasn’t even his favourite deck of cards. He brought his knees to his chest and sobbed, staring at fallen maple leaves that collected at his feet. People did not seem to notice the poor boy crying by the tree, Quentin even saw a man wearing blue track pants jog by. That’s right, ignore me. Partly, he escaped the house because he wanted to wallow in his sadness alone, yet apparently he was looking for somebody to tell his troubles to. At his young age, he had to admit that he did not really feel for his family; parents busy working for Her Majesty, eldest brother being groomed for public service as well and another older brother who basically did not care about his welfare. He was feeling his eyes get warm and heavy when he saw the man with blue track pants approach.
“Lad, are you lost?” The man said.
He nonchalantly looked up to the man and shook his head.
Quentin studied the man now. He had never seen such a burly man as this; his blond hair cropped short, broad shoulders, raggedly dressed unlike his parents’ colleagues who visited their house, who seemed to wear posh suits and combed hair. But, what struck him most about the man were his icy blue eyes, which appeared to see even his insides. Also, he noticed that the man was wearing one silver, or was it platinum, tag attached to a chain around his neck. He tried reading what was on them, but he could only recognize the letter J.
“Well, there must be something that vexes you.” The man spoke again, and to Quentin’s surprise sat cross-legged in front of him, head cradled on both hands. He could feel the blue gaze radiate through him, trying to search for the reason why he was crying. For some strange reason, he felt compelled to say it. Biting first his lower lip trying to hold back sobs, Quentin finally answered.
“M’ brother Sh’rlock threw my fav’rite book into the fireplace.”
He saw that the man merely nodded. Was he waiting for something else? Was his statement not enough?
“My mum and dad said they’d get me another copy, but of course it isn’t the same book…” He remembered the scene all over again: Quentin was running into the living room from the kitchen, wanting to call his brother for cupcakes, in the process bumps the table where Sherlock had placed the cards. Horror washed over him as he watched the cards come toppling.
Sherlock’s face turns red; he starts shouting at Quentin for being a “careless, little prat”.
He stomps his way to the bookshelves and gets the copy of “The Velveteen Rabbit”.
‘Do you want to know how I feel?’
The book goes flying into the fire, and then it starts to lick the edges of the book.
‘I hate you!’
Their mother emerges from the kitchen, troubled and barely managing the strife.
The first tears came falling from Quentin’s eyes as he shoved Sherlock aside and ran for the front door into the cold afternoon.
The man, in a swift motion, got his crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and handed them over to Quentin, who immediately obliged and snatched it. After a hefty blow of the nose, he continued rambling.
“I wrote Newton’s laws of motion in them, and I just memorized them by heart.”
He was about to say more when the man suddenly replied, “You know what, get that new book. Write again those laws of motion. Heck, even write the Pythagorean theorem in it.” For the first time in his life, it wasn’t the “you-poor-darling-don’t-worry” litany he had heard over and over again for consolation over spilt milk. Quentin was given a choice, a decision he can make. It may seem as a rather irritated adult answer, but for him it was something new.
“I actually could?”
“Yes, as long as you know them by heart, you could.”
Quentin’s eyes lit up at the man’s words, and actually asked permission from the man if he could recite the laws of motion, to which the man readily agreed to. With it, he stood, and started to mutter the first law.
“With no outside forces, this object will never move.” He pointed to the single maple leaf that had landed on the man’s lap. Carefully, he picked up the leaf and waved it about. “And, with no outside forces, this object will never stop.” After flailing about, he placed again the leaf where it had started. A sense of pride welled up from Quentin as he continued with the other laws. Thankfully, the man had stuck with him and listened with a bemused look on his face as he followed him about with his eyes. Later on, he and the man devised a forces game, in which Quentin ran away from the man upon touch, and upon being caught, he stops. Depending on the touch, he will either run or walk or trudge or stride. This went on for what seemed like ages, with the man exhibiting no signs of tiring as he chased after him. That was when Quentin realized that the man wearing such a tag was indeed from the armed forces, and he was at marvel on how such soldier like him would actually pay attention to a child like he was.
As the sun started casting shadows on the park, and they sat cross-legged facing each other, Quentin blurted out sheepishly.
“Sir, when I grow up, I want to be like you.”
Then man looked obviously taken aback, as if taking it to offence, and made him follow up, “but I guess Her Majesty might not need a scrawny little git like me.”
Somehow, the look on the man’s face softened and turned into a smile. In return, the man gave him a mighty ruffle of his hair, revealing the curls straightened out by forceful combing. “Of course she does have a use for an intelligent boy like you are!” Quentin grinned from ear to ear, thinking that someone had finally acknowledged his talent, other than his parents, other than his tutors. This man was a stranger from the start, but it felt to him that he will eventually follow the man’s footsteps, and find him again somewhere, someday. He was about to say something when he heard a familiar voice ring.
“Quentin!”
He whipped his head immediately to where the voice came from, and it was from Mycroft, his oldest brother. “My!” He called back as he ran from the soldier’s presence. Mycroft stooped down as Quentin approached, and held out his arms toward his little brother, feeling relieved that he had finally found him.
“Oh, mother and Sherlock and I were so worried about you! Don’t go running out like that again!” He whispered as he smoothed Quentin’s ruffled hair.
“Sherlock, worried? But he was mighty mad at me, My.” The younger one whispered back as he broke off from his brother’s embrace. Mycroft held Quentin at arm’s length and levelled his face to the other. “Look, Sherlock is sorry for what he did, and I know you are, too. So, I’m here to take you home and we’ll sort this over cupcakes and tea, yes?” Quentin giggled contentedly and nodded towards Mycroft, and replied “Let me thank him first, please? He’s very kind to stay with me while I’m here.” He pointed towards the man wearing blue track pants who looked at the direction of the Big Ben as it sounded seven times.
“Alright, and mind your manners.” The older brother gently reminded, and then Quentin darted off to the man.
“Thank you, sir.” He started, and the man turned around to face him. He had held out the handkerchief given to him earlier, but the man coaxed him to keep it. As he said it, he felt that the man was trying to call him by name, and he was compelled to do so.
“Quentin, Quentin Alexander Holmes!”
That night, before he lay to sleep, he studied the white satin handkerchief. It looked rather expensive but poorly kept, and had the monogram “JB” on one corner. Silly Quentin did forget to ask for the soldier’s name, but at least he had a start on how to find him.
---
2012
Q, newly-appointed quartermaster to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, was plotting several trajectories of prototype rockets, overlapping them and comparing which is most efficient. He was in his element, reciting formulae in his head and putting them into lines and lines of code onto his keyboard as the diagrams presented themselves on the screen in front of him. Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind him.
“I wonder if you could still do that when you’re old and greying.”
It was James Bond, double-O agent provocateur, walking towards a nearby chair. By the time he had sat down, Q had starting running the diagram for quantitative comparison.
“Someone once told me that if I knew them by heart, I could.” He answered coolly. As he pondered at the numbers, the thought of the soldier ran across his mind. He recalled how he given him a token of remembrance, and what memories went with it. Sadly, he had forgotten how the man looked like except for the icy blue eyes, and the handkerchief was destroyed, coincidentally, in a fire which took with it his parents’ lives. Q smiled bitter sweetly, and wondered where the man was now. His reverie was cut short when Bond asked.
“By chance, is your name actually Quentin Alexander Holmes?”
Shivers ran down his spine as the agent mentioned his real name. Q looked at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
It seems like he had found his soldier.