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‘Dr Watson, please ask my brother to stop acting childish and contact me. MH’
John sighed as the phone chimed, the message from Mycroft indicating that Sherlock was ignoring his older brother’s messages and that the older Holmes brother was once again trying to get through using John as the middleman. An occurrence which John Watson was learning was unsettlingly common.
The detective in question was sprawled on the sofa in nothing but his dark blue dressing gown, staring at the ceiling as if the answers to the universe were hidden on its light surface. Even from here, John could see the cream coloured shape on the detectives arm which indicated Sherlock was enjoying the effects of his nicotine patch a little too much.
It had been like this for the last few days, the lack of a decent case leaving Sherlock in his trademark melancholy.
Or, maybe, it was the demanding tone of Mycroft’s message.
Placing the phone on the arm rest, John steadied his laptop before it fell to the ground. He glanced over the open window of his blog and at the other man.
“Would you mind telling your brother to stop messaging me?” He asked, not 100% sure his comment would make it into that amazing brain Sherlock prided himself on.
Sherlock grunted, indicating that he was listening closely enough to know he was being addressed but not interested enough in the conversation to answer the question.
“And, while we are at it, ask him how he managed to get my number so quickly? I only changed it last week.”
Still Sherlock remained silent, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. John followed the detectives gaze. Someone had taken a black pen to the ceiling and written out a series of numbers, all of them multiples of 14.
“Just why did you decide to draw on the ceiling?” John demanded. “Mrs Hudson has already told you no more.”
“She said no more writing on the walls.” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.
“I’m fairly sure she also meant the ceiling.” John replied, reaching for the cup of tea balanced on the table beside him. He took a sip of Earl Grey before lowering the mug back to its spot.
“Why did you do it?” The Doctor asked.
“Bored.” Sherlock muttered.
On the arm rest, John’s phone chimed again.
Reaching over absentmindedly, John took the phone and opened the message.
‘This is a matter of some urgency Dr Watson. MH’
John sighed again.
“Well, maybe you should look into Mycroft’s case. It might help ease your boredom.” He replied.
“Ugh! No.” Sherlock replied.
John grabbed the laptop once more, holding it steady as he shifted in his seat.
“Sherlock, you haven’t had a case in weeks. You yourself told me that you need something.”
Sherlock snorted and rolled over on the sofa, showing his back to John.
The phone vibrated in John’s hands. Dropping his head in defeat, John looked down at the screen, intent on turning the phone off.
‘Tell him it involves Quentin. MH’
John blinked.
Quentin? Who or what was Quentin?
John hadn’t realised he had voiced his thoughts until the sudden sound of movement reached his ears. Sherlock had thrown himself off the sofa and snatched the phone from John’s grip, dislodging John’s laptop from its perch.
Turning his back on his friend, the Consulting Detective ignored the crash as the computer hit the ground and began to type at the tiny keyboard.
Reaching down, John gathered up his laptop, praying that it hadn’t been damaged.
In front of him, Sherlock stated to pace, eyes glued to the phone. The device chimed again. Sherlock froze, staring at the screen.
With surprising force, the phone was thrown onto the sofa as Sherlock bolted out of the room, already stripping off the dressing gown.
With a sigh, John locked his (relatively unscathed) laptop and placed it to the side. Reaching for his tea, he drained the cup before rising to his feet, collecting the phone and opening the last message.
Sherlock’s demand of ‘Tell Me’ was answered with an address. Nothing more, nothing less.
Really, John shouldn’t have been surprised.
Collecting his keys, John turned as Sherlock re-appeared, this time fully dressed. The detective reached for his own phone and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket before turning and racing down the stairs.
John leant against the table, crossing his arms as he waited for the inevitable.
“Come on John!” Sherlock shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
John rolled his eyes before pushing away from the table, following Sherlock down the stairs.
------
“So, why are we here?” John finally asked an hour later.
He was seated by the window in a poorly lit café in the middle of London. Sherlock was seated opposite him, staring out the window to the apartment building across the street.
“Looking for someone.” The detective muttered.
John nodded.
“Right. Very good…Who?” He asked.
Sherlock shrugged, not looking away.
“Not sure.”
John stared at him, raising an eyebrow in question of his friend. Sherlock glanced over at John.
“I will know him when I see him.” The detective muttered in his own defence.
John nodded. He knew better than to try and understand how Sherlock’s mind worked.
“Well, I don’t suppose there is time for a drink.” The doctor muttered, standing up. He didn’t bother to ask if Sherlock wanted anything, already knowing that the detective's ‘No Food during a Case’ Rule was already in effect.
As he had expected, by the time he returned to the table, Sherlock was completely engrossed in watching the street.
Sliding back into his seat, John cleared his throat.
“Who’s Quentin?” He asked.
“Hmmm?” Sherlock replied, choosing to ignore his friends question.
John shook his head and rubbed a hand across his face. Suddenly, Sherlock straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing.
“There.” He muttered softly.
John turned. Across the street, a man had stepped out of the apartment. He was tall and well built, with icy blue eyes and short, blond hair. His body was covered by a black suit. But what surprised John the most was the man’s face. John may be a doctor, but he was also a soldier; a man who had laid down his very life to save others. He could recognise his own kind. This man had fought for his country, had almost died for it. That haunted look was all too familiar to Doctor John Watson.
The man paused as he pulled the door closed, his blue eyes scanning the street carefully. Quickly, John looked away, noting that Sherlock did the same.
“Is that Quentin?” The Doctor asked.
Sherlock shook his head.
“No. That is someone much worse.” The detective glanced out the window again as the man turned and began walking down the street, away from the café.
“That’s a Double O.” Sherlock said.
------
It took all of John’s will power to remain silent on the journey home.
As soon as the man had disappeared from view, Sherlock had been on his feet, moving to the door in silence. At first John had thought Sherlock meant to follow the man but instead the detective had hailed a taxi and climbed in, giving the driver directions back to Baker Street. John had joined his friend inside, waiting for Sherlock to start answering his silent questions but the other man didn’t. Instead, he reached for his phone, sent a text and then put the device away, choosing to stare out the window instead.
Unnerved by this erratic behaviour, John had decided not to break the silence, at least not until they were both safely back in 221B.
What he didn't expect was for Mrs Hudson to met them at the door.
“Oh Sherlock,” She said, “Why didn’t you tell me you had family coming to visit? I would have cleaned up if I had known.”
John blinked.
“Family?” He asked. Mycroft had visited 221B Bakers Street several times and Mrs Hudson had never been this tense before.
“Now, I showed him in and made him a cup of tea. He is waiting in the living room. The poor dear is a skinny little thing, isn’t he? Well, nothing that a cuppa and a few biscuits won’t solve.” She commented.
Sherlock was looking up the stairs at the closed door to the apartment.
“Thank you Mrs Hudson.” The detective said.
The Landlady nodded and bustled off back into her own apartment as the two men stood at the foot of the stairs, Sherlock seemingly incapable of moving and John incapable of getting past him.
“Sherlock? Are we in trouble here?” John asked. The doctor hadn’t realised it, but he had sensed the tension in the air, lowing his voice accordingly.
Beside him, Sherlock shrugged.
“Not sure.” The other man replied.
Grabbing hold of the banister, Sherlock pulled himself up the first few steps, letting the momentum drive him forward to continue his journey. Glancing around, John slowly followed, catchintania friend at the door of their apartment. Sherlock had a hand on the door knob and was silent, listening for any sounds. A series of clicks was coming from behind the door. Whoever was inside clearly doing something odd.
Slowly, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The tapping stopped for a moment as John entered the apartment behind Sherlock. A young man was seated on the sofa, a laptop on his knees. The young man glanced up, glasses flashing in the dim light before turning and continuing to type on the computer. He was, as Mrs Hudson claimed, skinny, with dark curls resting in a chaotic state atop his head and surprisingly familiar blue eyes. He was wearing a dark green fitted jumper over a white shirt and black tie and had the look of a young, hip maths teacher.
“Sherlock.” The younger man greeted.
Sherlock nodded.
“Quentin.” The detective replied. “To what do I own this unexpected visit?”
The younger man smiled, his fingers flying across the keyboard as John blinked.
“Quentin?” He asked Sherlock.
The detective remained silent, a sour look on his face as the younger man pressed a final key and closed the laptop. The younger man rose to his feet, placing the computer safely down on his chair before stepping closer to the two.
“Quentin Holmes.” The man introduced, holding out his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Watson. I am a fan of your blog.”
John couldn’t hide the stunned look as the man, Quentin Holmes, took his hand and shook it.
“I’m sorry...Did you say Holmes?” He asked.
Suddenly, Sherlock stepped forward, dragging John away from Quentin. The younger man smiled again in amusement. It was the same condescending smile which John had seen on both Sherlock and Mycroft’s faces.
“Yes John. This is my younger brother Quentin. Oh, I’m sorry. Am I allowed to use that name or has the government decided that is an arrestable offence?”
Quentin rolled his eyes.
“Technically, it is Sherlock, but I am sure my bosses would find other ways to deal with you rather then incarcerate you. They are very good at making people disappear. Well, that is if Mycroft will let them. Stranger things have happened.”
John gasped at the loosely veiled threat.
“I’m sorry, but what?” He asked.
“Quentin here works in an area of the British Secret Service even Mycroft doesn’t have access to. Hence the sudden fascination in Quentin’s job. Or should I call you the Quartermaster now? Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.” Sherlock explained, the last part of the statement directed at his younger brother.
Quentin nodded.
“Thank you. And I go by the designation Q now.”
Sherlock snorted.
“Of course you do.” The detective muttered, half to himself.
“But enough of this Sherlock. I know Mycroft asked you to check up on me. I know you pretended to ignore his request. But I also know you have been watching me yourself, if your trip to my apartment this morning was anything to go by. I am here to ask you to stop.”
“And why would I do that?” Sherlock asked.
Q smiled.
“Because there are some things in this world that even our dear brother Mycroft doesn’t need to know. And neither do you.”
Sherlock stepped forward until he was almost chest to chest with Q.
“What was a Double O doing in your apartment this morning?” He asked, fixing his younger brother with an intense stare.
Turning his back to his brother, Q reached for the laptop and picked it up. He held it out to John with one hand.
“I took the liberty of upgrading your security and installing a new firewall, Doctor Watson. It should help prevent any unfortunate breaches.”
Only then did John realise the laptop Q had been playing with all this time was his own. Taking the computer and placing it on the table, John couldn’t help but mutter a curse at both Holmes brothers for being unable to respect his privacy as he turned the device on, intent on seeing what sort of damage had been done to his beloved computer.
“Quentin.” Sherlock growled, aware that Q was trying to steer the conversation away from his question.
Q sighed, a hand reaching to his glasses and removing them. Using the handful of his jumper, he carefully polished the lenses before pressing the glasses back onto his face.
“Sherlock, I have always respected your privacy. I have always refrained from asking about your cases. I know it is not in your nature but I am asking you, for once, to respect my own privacy and let my associations with the Double O you saw be. Tell Mycroft whatever lie you think he will believe but leave the truth alone. Or, do I need to have a talk with Mummy?”
Sherlock visibly paled. Q nodded.
“I think that is settled. I will see myself out. Until next time Sherlock.”
Q turned and opened the door, stepping out and carefully closing it behind him. Both men heard the footsteps as the younger man made his way down the stairs and out the door.
John’s laptop chimed, indicating it was now ready for the doctor to use. John turned to glance at the screen and started. Instead of his normal screen, showing the Royal Army Medical Coat of Arms, there was a picture of a painting, an oil piece showing a grand old warship being towed away by a small tugboat.
Wordlessly, John showed this new development to Sherlock. The detective rolled his eyes and with a muttered reply of ‘Childish’, and threw himself onto the sofa Q had vacated.
Putting the laptop down, John looked over at Sherlock.
“So what do we do now?” He asked.
Sherlock glanced over at John.
“Oh, nothing. Q is perfectly capable of handling himself and Mycroft is just being annoying. No reason to get involved.”
“And what is a Double O?” John asked. It had been a burning question since they had seen the man on the street.
“Not something we need to worry about. That is Quentin’s job.” Sherlock replied.
John sat down, still looking at Sherlock. The detective was far too calm for someone who had just lost his case.
“Are we really dropping this?” He asked, half expecting Sherlock to pull a face, rise from his seat and demand that they follow Q.
Sherlock glanced over.
“Believe me John. It is far better that we do.”
--------
The taxi pulled up at the corner of the street, the dark haired man slowly climbing out and handing over the correct fair to the driver. He looked around the street and sighed as the door closed and the taxi pulled away. Making his way to the correct door, he quickly climbed the steps and slid his key into the lock. The door opened and a hand reached out, grabbing his jumper and pulling him through the door, almost sending him crashing into a wall. Q only just managed to muffle his shout of surprise as the door was closed behind him and a pair of blue eyes turned to study him.
After a few seconds of silence, his attacker released him and took a step back, allowing Q room to breathe while still being close enough to crowd the hacker against the wall. Agent 007, James Bond to his friends and peers, was regarding the Quartermaster with interest.
“Why did you stop me tailing those two men who were watching your apartment this morning?” The spy finally asked.
Q sighed.
For the last two months, since the incident at Skyfall, Bond had been living in his Quartermasters apartment. At first, it had been convenience for Bond, given that all his personal effects had been destroyed or sold in the previous months. But, as time went on and Bond failed to find a new residence, Q started to suspect it was more than that. In fact, he was starting to suspect that Bond didn’t want to leave. The secret agent had become comfortable living with Q. Possibly more so than he had ever been before. He seemed to trust his Quartermaster and was even becoming friendly and open (but only when the two were alone), little gifts of things Bond had found were being left on Q's bedside table and most days, Bond found an excuse to cook a meal for the hacker. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence to now walk in after a hard day of work, to find the spy hovering somewhere in the house in a state of undress. In fact, Q was starting to suspect the agent may be trying to seduce him. It was a lovely, if somewhat worrying thought if it was true.
Unfortunatly, there was the flip side to this coin. With Bond on forced mental leave for stress, it was becoming difficult to remember the nice things over the mindnumbing terror of some of the spy's other activities. The Double O had clearly reached the end of his leash while waiting for M’s orders to return to work and (when not finding places to hide his clothing) had been seemingly doing more insane things to gain his Quartermasters attention, from suddenly dissapearing to somewhere in Europe for no reason to throwing his pens at several different walls in the faint hope that one of them would explode (And no, Q was certainly not planning to swap one of the pens with the real deal just to try and prank the spy. Knowing his luck, the pen would probably destroy one of his walls.)
The possibility of being watched by unknowns would have been like Christmas come early for the spy.
Q was just thankful that Bond’s first thought (Ok, maybe not his first, since the agent had already re-assembled his gun, holstered said gun, thrown on a suit, hidden several weapons around his body and plotted out several escape routes) was to call his Quartermaster.
The young genius had been in his lab when he had received the call asking for advice on the situation. Q was actually rather proud of Bond for choosing this method instead of his normal routine of shoot first, ask questions later.
Bond’s description of the men had made Q wary and a quick hack into the CCTV system had confirmed the identity of the two would be assailants as Q’s dear older brother and his friend.
Q had immediately jumped into action, telling the trigger happy agent to stand down (And suggesting he do something productive with the day, like go and buy some milk. They were always running out for some reason) before leaving his work in the capable hands of his interns and retreating from the lab, heading towards Baker Street and Sherlock’s apartment. Charming Mrs Hudson had been a breeze and soon the young Quartermaster had found himself in the apartment, Dr Watson’s computer on his lap and half an hour until the pair was due back. He had send a text to Bond suggesting a few more things they needed before the other man left the shops and upgraded a few of the good Doctor's out-dated anti-virus software before his brother had barged into the apartment and the confrontation had begun, much to the mutual satisfaction of both parties at the annoyance they had caused to their oldest brother.
Realising he had zoned out and Bond was giving him an odd look, Q cleared his throat.
He gave the agent a little smile.
“Let’s just say, I had it all under control and leave it at that.” He replied, much to the annoyance of the spy.