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Chapter Text

Q did have a mortgage and two cats to feed. Which honestly would put a rather large dent into his savings when he was suspended from his duties without pay for a whole year.

But, he was also a man with options and while a majority of them involved his skillset, they were also very much illegal in the conventional sense – even if the pay was at least triple what he was making on a government salary. Private sectors and the dark web were quite enticing for hackers both new and veterans.

Q primarily looked for new talent on the dark web to poach and give the opportunity for people to go straight whenever the budget allowed for recruitment.

He dared not go into other electronic-based work, the warning quite clear when M read out his suspension. He supposed he could go work and do something utterly mundane for a year like grocer or basic store employee – it was honest work and needed ones too. But the lack of stimuli would probably drive him crazy.

In the end, Q took once glance at his mobile – a version that had every single type of security feature Mycroft could think up and then some to keep track of him and whatever he decided to use it for – and accepted Sherlock's offer of joining him on one of his cases.

It also helped that Sherlock offered him a third of the stipend he usually got from New Scotland Yard to consult with them each time they had a baffling case on their hands. Which, judging by the frequency of the headlines, was averaging at least once a month. And that was also on top of the clients that came to Sherlock for more private detective reasons.

He supposed it was high time after all these years that he actually spent more time with his favorite brother instead of texting him random Scrabble words. Q had made a point not to meddle so much in Sherlock's life like Mycroft did in both of theirs.

“So...you're the sane one?”

“Hmm?” Q blinked out of his reverie as he realized Dr. John Watson had asked him a question. He tilted his head, staring at the other man who – for all intents and purposes – was Sherlock's partner in every sense of the word.

Dr. Watson and his daughter, Rosie, had moved back into Sherlock's flat after the untimely death of Mrs. Watson. It was a suitable arrangement, as Mrs. Hudson cared for the young girl whenever her father and Sherlock were out on a case, but also because it made raising Rosie a lot easier when her godfather and her father were nearby.

“I suppose I am,” Q shrugged, sipping his mug of Earl Grey and letting the warm liquid chase away the chill of London winter. They had spent the last few hours running around part of Hyde Park – slipping more often than not – on patches of ice while looking for a particular tracker that was attached to one of the local squirrels. It had not been pleasant, but with the captured squirrel, the thumb drive in the squirrel's stomach, the case could finally be cracked.

“I'm the youngest,” he clarified. “Living more...normally than Sherlock, Mycroft or even Eurus. Mortgage and even two cats and all...”

“As Quartermaster of MI6-”

“Suspended,” he shook his head, settling into Sherlock's squashy couch some more. It was quite plush, comfortable and warm. Sherlock was the only one of the three of them to not have been half-frozen to death in the chase and so had been volun-told by Dr. Watson to pick Rosie up from her school.

“Still...probably more normal than most people would think.”

“I suppose,” Q replied, watching as the doctor tightened the woolen blanket around his shoulders and tried to become more one with the armchair he sat in. It was Dr. Watson's usual spot whenever he and Sherlock interviewed clients or traded deductions. Q lifted his ankle a little, showing part of the tracker he was forced to wear twenty-four/seven. “I think this qualifies as not quite normal.”

“Well, considering the rest of the Holmes family...” Dr. Watson shrugged in return, “you've practically a job that isn't as mysterious as that of Sherlock's or Mycroft's so-called minor government official.”

“True. But mine does involve secrecy, spywork and assassinations,” Q pointed out. “Also, my title, or name.”

“I've noticed,” Dr. Watson's brow wrinkled. “Sherlock calls you Q too...and so does Mycroft...”

“Not curious about my other moniker?”

“Not curious enough to know that that particular moniker is probably off limits and judging by Sherlock's reaction each time it comes up...I know better than to ask.”

Q smiled behind his mug. “You would do well in our business.”

“Mary did teach me a few things before she...” Dr. Watson sighed and looked a little melancholy for a moment.

“She was a good woman. I'm glad that Moneypenny was able to talk to you more about her work.”

Dr. Watson hummed with a faint smile. “Stories for Rosie when she's older to know better...” The doctor shivered a little before looking back at him. “Sherlock's happy, you know. You, here, working cases with him. Happier than I've seen him in the last few weeks.”

Q sighed, looking away for a moment to study the bovine skull hanging on the wall of the flat. A pair of headphones hung around where technically the ears might have been. He wasn't sure what Sherlock had been thinking about to decorate his wall like that, but it did provide a nice distraction from the visual clutter of the room.

There was so many things he could use as a reply – deflection, self-depreciation, a comment about Sherlock and poor attempts to be a high-functioning sociopath, how his brother was doing well even before Q officially came back into his life, how Dr. Watson was a better person than Q was for sticking by him, etc. All of it empty platitudes, all of it feeling a little insincere and not enough to warrant a reply.

“Sentiment, I suppose...”

Dr. Watson snorted quietly in his blankets. “Yep...you're a Holmes.”

“Pardon?” Q glanced at the doctor.

“Enigmatic as shit,” the doctor raised an eyebrow at him and Q laughed.

“Sorry,” he apologized once he got his laughter under control. “I'm not...used to talking freely about my brothers, even with people around who know about us.”

“And you don't have to,” Dr. Watson replied kindly with a nod at him. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“You're not...” Q shook his head, taking another sip of his tea. He absently mouthed the rim for a second before lowering the mug. “I'm not the normal one so much as I'm the paranoid one if you really want to put a name to each of us. That I recognize each of our weak points, our pressure points and our own brilliance. Even to Eurus. How each of us can be used against the other, how each of us can be used against England and against the world. How each of us can easily turn to something like Eurus if we really want it to happen.

“It's why Mycroft took a job in the government in the first place. He wants to be able to exert some kind of control over his own fears – and thinks that if he can control us from his minor government position, well...all dangers would be able to be mitigated.”

Dr. Watson's brow wrinkled and Q smirked a little at the doubt-filled expression. They both thought of the things that Sherlock got up to while Mycroft had been hovering over him with 'concern'.

“Sherlock's openly rebellious, since he got the brunt of Mycroft's eye on him. I saw what happened to Sherlock and decided that I didn't want any of that. So I pretended to 'kill' myself at Uni and become a member of Her Majesty's Secret Service. Easier to fly under Mycroft's all-encompassing radar when your file is buttoned up tight and you have access to it to hide yourself under layers and layers of redaction. Sherlock being in his drug-high phase back then made him conveniently forget that I existed, especially when the drugs made him accidentally delete certain things in his mind palace – like Eurus, or Redbeard and so forth. When he remembered, or was reminded, I supposed he mourned.”

“But you came back.”

“And used MI6 as my shield against Mycroft's sword. Also, I had no choice. Mycroft accidentally blew my cover and found me. He tried his best to keep me under his thumb, but...”

“The most normal of the four Holmes siblings.”

“We try,” Q murmured with another sip of his tea.

Dr. Watson was silent for a moment, eyes wandering to the side before he turned back, his expression clearly indicating that he had a thought. “If you're the paranoid one, Mycroft had to be the controlling one.”

Q smiled a little and chuckled. “Go on.”

“Eurus is probably...”

“The brilliant one, though probably called the fragile one for her mental state more than anything else.”

“Sherlock's...well...Sherlock-”

“The smart one as he likes to call himself.”

“I am smart,” Sherlock's voice preceded his quick steps up the stairs before he entered with the winter smell of London hanging in the air. Q shivered and tightened his grip on his mug.

“You brought the cold, again,” he eyed his older brother with a frown.

“He's right,” Dr. Watson's grin was crooked.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes as the pattering of feet behind him indicated the arrival of young Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson.

“Daddy!” the five-year-old girl brushed past Sherlock and launched herself into her father's chest and seat, heedless of the 'oof' from Dr. Watson as he caught his daughter in her bear hug while wrapping the blanket around both of them. The girl proceeded to launch into a vivid description of what had happened in her kindergarten classes today along with an accounting of how snowflakes had weird patterns that were so random, but scientifically different in each one along with how her teacher had been quite surprised at her knowledge and usage of words-

Q tuned it out as he glanced up at Sherlock who had a proud smirk on his face. He shook his head slightly at his brother's glance at him. With a sigh, Q stood up and moved towards the kitchen as Rosie continued to regale her father about her adventures today – including defending one of her classmates from teasing by dressing the boy down with a withering recitation of the boy's faults and predicting what his future would entail should he continue to tease poor Deborah or whatever the girl's name was.

He sensed his brother following him, though Sherlock lingered closer to where Dr. Watson was asking all of the relevant questions to Rosie's day. Q set the mug in the sink, deftly ignoring what looked like a bag of eyeballs in clear solution wrapped in a basic sandwich bag in the corner. Even Q found himself baffled at his older brother's experiments from time to time.

“You're not being subtle, Sherlock,” he said conversationally as he pulled the tea bag out and squeezed the liquid out of it before discarding it in the nearby trash can. He took the rest of the mug and ran it under hot water to rinse it out.

“When was I ever?” Sherlock shot him a look that clearly indicated he was being an idiot.

“The day you successfully egged Mycroft into smoking in front of Mummy.”

Sherlock's face lit up as he nodded absently. “That was a good day...”

Q rolled his eyes and set the mug on the drying rack. “I still have 50 weeks left until the hearing. I'm not going to disappear that fast – or probably at all if they do sack me.”

“Which they would be idiots for doing so.”

Q sighed. “Sherlock-”

“Q-”

He shook his head at his brother's obstinate tone. “Even if they do sack me and I get placed in either Belmarsh or Sherrinford, I'm not hiding here. You and Dr. Watson have your own life and Rosie's going to need her parents. No need to endanger that.”

Sherlock's expression was mulishly stubborn, but the smallest shrug passed through his shoulders as he finally shed his overcoat and hung it up. He adjusted his sleeves underneath the suit jacket he wore. “We'll see...” he muttered almost in a low growl.

Q wanted to cradle his face in exasperation at his brother's mood. “Sherlock, this is what normal people do.”

“You're not normal. You're a Holmes.”

“And we're not above the law, contrary to what Mycroft thinks in his little kingdom seat in Westminster.” He sighed again and turned around, leaning against the sink so that he was facing his brother. Sherlock had taken two long strides to sit at what was supposed to be the dining table, but was currently filled with a ton of graduated cylinders, beakers and something possibly ready to be cooked judging by how it hung over a gas canister. He watched as his brother put on some goggles and absently fiddled with some of the smaller vials of liquid.

“Viscosity of various gel-like liquids. I'm currently testing the binding agents of human tears, spittle, plasma and certain discharges.”

Q nearly choked. He did not want to know where the last one came from and shook his head. “That's about the eyeballs?”

“Oh – no, that's a case that we've been working on for Lestrade. Someone dropped a bunch of eyeballs in a crime scene that was just a basic murder. The postman did it due to being in an affair with a man. He wants to know why the postman was delivering eyeballs that day to his paramour.”

“So the postman killed his lover?”

“Nope. The husband killed his husband. Basic murder, jealousy. Boring. Eyeballs are far more fascinating...”

Q caught himself in time from offering to run the eyeballs through MI6's database at his own apartment and let loose a very audible sigh. He did not miss the twitch in Sherlock's posture. However, he was also not annoyed enough to dismiss the way his brother was attempting to handle him at the moment. “All right...what do you need from me?”

“The non-killing part of 001 that made you a successful agent for a little over six years?”

“On whom...”

“Oh, and maybe hacking into the post computers to trace where the eyeballs come from-”

“The postmaster can handle that request-”

“But you can do it faster-”

Q coughed. “I can, but I have to clear it with M first.”

“Just M?”

Q let a small smile quirk up on his lips at his brother's raised eyebrow behind the goggles he wore. “Just M. He'll still be feeling generous after I pulled a fast one on Mycroft for my suspension.”

“I knew I liked him for some odd reason.”

“You don't like him Sherlock. You barely tolerate him.”

“If only because he's a good little shield. Bit of a fop, could use less politicking even if his heart is in the right place, but then again, if he can't control the double-o's, who can.”

Q did not dignify that comment with a rejoinder. As much as Sherlock barely interacted with M, his older brother at least understood why Q had gone to M and his predecessor to shield against Mycroft's meddling.

Instead, he said. “So whom...?”

“...The postman?”

Q sighed again and hung his head a little. “Fine...just because you're asking so nicely Sherlock.”

“Excellent, I'll-”

“No. Not yet. Research first. Let me go home, grab my laptop, ask M about the whole postmaster servers and also feed my cats before I spend more time here.”

“I have the postman's address...”

Q nodded absently as he walked over to the coat rack and slipped on his own jacket. He reached over and looped his scarf around his neck. “That's a start...though I know what you're trying to do Sherlock.”

His brother smiled while still looking through his microscope. Q shook his head and stepped back into the living room where little Rosie Watson was now perched on her father's lap at the work table and coloring quite intently on her homework. It was of a family tree and she had written extra lines to the side next to [Mother] and [Father] adding Sherlock in between her father and mother's name and then a few other branches for Mycroft and one for Mrs. Hudson, D.I. Lestrade. A special line was squiggled to the side to add Molly Hooper that said [doctor-auntie].

“Headed out so soon?” Dr. Watson looked up at the same time Rosie did too, blinking at him with bright brown eyes.

“Hello,” Q greeted the young girl with a soft smile and slight wave.

“...'lo...” the girl whispered shyly, before tilting her head. “...client?”

Q chuckled lightly as Dr. Watson turned a bit red. “No, just helping out Sherlock and your dad today.”

“Oh...Daddy says he was at the park today. He said there were lots of squirrels. Did you see them?”

“Yes, they were quite bushy-tailed, chubby and very fast.”

“Uncle Shirley calls them evolved rats.”

Q could not help but turn back to see the faintest tinge of pink on his brother's cheeks as his eyes were rooted upon the vials he was holding up now and examining against the light of the kitchen. The fact that Sherlock allowed little Rosie Watson to call him Shirley which was a name that only their mother had ever called them when they were children (until Sherlock insisted he be called Sherlock at the tender age of nine thank you very much).

It took a little more effort than Q realized to stifle his laughter. Instead he nodded at Rosie's colorful description. “Your uncle may be right. They'll eat anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Including me?”

“If you put peanut butter on yourself. They love that.”

Most children would be frightened, but Rosie Watson's eyes merely lit up and she glanced up at her father. “Can we?!”

Dr. Watson gave Q a rather impressive stink eye as he addressed his daughter's question. “Maybe some other time...and definitely not on yourself, Rosie. You don't need rabies shots yet.”

“Ra...babies?”

“I'll show you later-”

“No, you won't show her later, Sherlock.”

“I won't show her later...” Q glanced back to see Sherlock throw a covert wink to Rosie who giggled.

Q turned back to look at Dr. Watson. “I'll be back later...Sherlock's got it in his head that he wants to see my skillset. Probably trying to make sure I impress Scotland Yard for a possible job offer and poaching during my suspension. Maybe even get myself out of jail for free card in twelve months.”

“Irene Adler's praise of your skill did intrigue us, Q. I mean, she was The Woman...and so...” The other man had the decency to look a little embarrassed so Q forgave him.

“Not many people get one up on Ms. Adler,” he replied placating the other man before nodding at Dr. Watson. “See you in a few hours.”

“Thank you for your help, Q,” Dr. Watson said sincerely. “And I mean it, Sherlock's happier than I've seen him in a while.”

Q nodded and left, jamming his hands into his pocket as the cold winter air of London greeted him for his journey back to his own place. He knew the real reason why Sherlock had asked him to join him – his brother really did not want him disappearing again and for that, Q was grateful. It felt...nice, to have family to remind him that he could be something different, than a mere designation; that it was not all for Queen and Country.

Chapter Text

Q was not exactly surprise to find Moneypenny and Tanner loitering outside his door when he hopped out of the cab. As far as he knew, two people had access to his tracker's data – M and Mycroft. The fact that Moneypenny and Tanner accessed it via M seemed reasonable. There had been talk about injecting him with Smart Blood, but M had deemed it too much oversight and its usage would be better spared for the double-o programs whose data needed to be tracked on their missions.

The hefty price tag on each injection of Smart Blood also helped deter things.

“Been waiting long?” Q asked as he tapped in the code for his front door before tapping a different code for the main door. It buzzed and he opened the heavy door with a small grunt of effort and held it open for Moneypenny to step in. Tanner made a noise of surprise as he took the brunt of the door's swing onto his shoulder as it started to close.

“Sorry,” Q called back. “Security measures...”

“It's fine,” Tanner replied a little faintly before the door slammed shut behind him. A secondary click indicated the magnetic locks sliding into place.

“Not really,” M's assistant toed her shoes off as did Tanner and the two of them headed into the living room, discarding their jackets onto one of the loveseats.

One of Q's cats, Schrodinger, immediately pounced on the seat to sniff at the jackets before leaping off and wandering away. A curious chirrup from Nikola, his other cat, announced her presence before she twined between his legs – clearly looking for food.

“Yes, yes...food first,” Q didn't bother with his own jacket as he rummaged around his cabinets for the wet food and set it out to the cats' delight. They scrambled from where they were and devoured the food as he threw the tin into the recycling and washed his hands. Seeing that his cats were happily eating, he turned to his other two guests.

“I hope I don't have to feed either one of you,” he quipped with a raised eyebrow.

Tanner laughed quietly while Moneypenny smiled broadly.

“Dr. Taylor managed to modify to the cure to ease symptoms at night. A couple of others who've taken the new cure showed improvement sleep.” Moneypenny held up a small hard case. “Want to try it?”

“I have a choice?”

“No, but it's the illusion of one,” the double-o known as 008 replied blithely.

Q sighed and shed his jacket, hanging it up with his scarf. Nikola chirruped and eyed the scarf's tassels as it dangled enticingly near her bowl. After a few seconds, she turned back and continued to eat – hunger was a great motivator.

Q rolled up his sleeves and bared his forearm to Moneypenny who quickly injected him with the modified cocktail. Q grimaced and rubbed the spot where the needle went in. The initial injection of the replicated cure had been given to those identified as caught in the anthrax cloud from the explosion. It was a temporary measure as Dr. Taylor worked on its modifications.

The initial injection was enough to block some of the more severe side effects of anthrax and to let conventional antibiotics do their work – but it was not perfect. Q's own injuries had compounded some of his body's ability to fight off the infection as did the course of antibiotics he had been force-fed by Lyutsifer Safin when he was at the facility.

He had been given a second dose of the temporary cure right before he was discharged by Medical with instructions to not to exert himself since his ribs were still healing.

At the same time it had been the start of his official suspension. Since then, he spent the last two weeks suffering from the very unpleasant side effect of nightmarish and vivid dreams. Moneypenny was the one to discover him huddled on his loveseat, wild-eyed and jumping at shadows three days after he was discharged with the cats vocally meowing their displeasure at not being fed for those days. She claimed it was for a quick welfare check because his tracker did not report him moving a single inch in that time period. He vaguely remembered her calling in a report to M and Medical.

He did not know what else they had given him, but it at least calmed some part of his mind that made him jump at shadows – but definitely did not remove the nightmares he had.

“You're my keeper for tonight?”

“Unless you had plans of staying elsewhere?”

“Actually...sort of,” Q rolled his sleeves down. “Sherlock's flat. Was going to ask M if I have permission to use my laptop for some freelance work I've picked up for Scotland Yard.” It was not exactly the truth, but neither was it a lie.

“You know, anything hacked may not be able to entered into evidence for the courts...” Moneypenny raised an eyebrow.

“But it can nudge and given hints so that the evidence can be found,” Q shrugged.

“Let me ask M,” Tanner did not seem too bothered and stepped away to call their superior.

Moneypenny snapped the case shut, bringing Q's eyes on her. She smiled at him in a manner that would have been conversational except Q saw the familiar shark's glint that was in every double-o's eye whenever they found something interesting to latch onto. “Bond's due to return to London later tonight...”

He blinked at her and raised an eyebrow – the universal sign for: 'so?'

“Is there something going on between the two of you?”

He wrinkled his brow. “Should there be? I think he's aware that I'm suspended this time around instead of bursting into my flat...”

Moneypenny made a humming noise in the back of her throat. “He seemed...different...after he visited you three weeks ago.”

Bond had been gone when Q had woken up the next day after their rather revelatory conversation. The agent had not returned or lurked nearby even after Q had been discharged, leading him to believe that M had sent Bond on another mission.

Q shook his head just as Tanner came back, saving him from answering her question. “Tanner...”

“As long as you keep the keystroke logger and screen capture program running, M is allowing it. Who knows, maybe the Yarders can get off of our backs for all the times we get involved in London proper.”

Scotland Yard had really not been happy to be involved in the CNS Building fiasco along with dealing with Blofeld's helicopter and crime scene. Though national security agencies had taken over most of the investigation, it had involved a lot of the Yard's resources to make sure personnel who worked on the Joint Intelligence Taskforce transition between MI5, MI6 and Nine Eyes were not masquerading as terrorists or members of a secret international organization.

There was also the whole Max Denbigh, Richard Brook and James Moriarty connection to deal with – the Yard's own black eye for their faulty investigation into Sherlock and discrediting. Sherlock had discreetly texted Q some of the more...kinder things the Yarders were talking about MI6 and the double-o program's penchant for blowing up things even in home base.

“I'll text if there are any symptoms,” Q replied as he moved over to the desk that was his home office. Most of it had been stripped of Q branch technology, per his suspension, but he still had his personal laptop and one to sandbox. All of the gadgets he had been tinkering with for Q branch at home had been taken away. Gathering the laptop and power cable along with a bag that he carried them in, including some of the needed drives and sundry items he used for hacking, he was packed in short order.

“You're really taking to this whole suspension thing, aren't you?” Moneypenny murmured and he glanced at her.

“I'd rather not go to Belmarsh or Sherrinford,” he replied calmly and saw a dusting of pink tinge her cheeks.

“Sorry, that was thoughtless-”

“No harm 008,” he replied lightly and saw her purse her lips a little, still embarrassed by her faux pas.

Tanner cleared his throat, trying to defuse the awkward tension. “Well then, I think we're all done here. Let us know if there are any symptoms, would you, Q?”

“I will,” Q nodded before walking the short distance to his front door and pressing a button built into the frame to unlock the magnetic locks.

He watched with a bit of faint amusement as Tanner pushed heavily on the inner door to open it before Moneypenny followed him out.

“Moneypenny,” he called out, making her and Tanner pause and turn as the outer door opened. “You pick the lunch spot for this Saturday. Text me.”

The smile that flashed across the woman's face was brilliant and she clearly looked relieved that she had been forgiven. She waved the case at him and headed out the door with Tanner.

Q was left alone for a moment as he heard the distant sounds of London filter into his flat. He shook himself out of his blank thoughts and moved back into the kitchen area, swiping the bottle of antibiotics that he still had to take. It was a two month course and Q made a mental note to perhaps pick up some packaged sandwiches from the local Tescos before returning to Sherlock's flat. It was bad enough that he had to take antibiotics to clear the anthrax's spores completely from his system, but for two months and knowing that his brother barely had any decent food in his fridge except for experiments...

He supposed Dr. Watson and little Rosie got their nutrition from Mrs. Hudson who was clearly the more sensible one.

Chapter Text

If one really looked at all three Holmes brothers, there were perhaps three features that would link them as brothers. One was obvious: height. All three were quite slim in build (though Mycroft tended to yo-yo the most on his diets). The second was: dark brown hair; Sherlock's the unruliest with curls, Mycroft's with some curls but thinned with age, and Q's more shaggy than anything else. The last feature was subtle: their facial structure. Since Mycroft's weight gave his facial structure more meat than bone, his features was not as sharp. Sherlock's was the one with sharply defined cheekbones – inherited from their mother. Q's was mostly from their father – somewhat defined, but softer edges.

But they look different enough that only Sherlock and Mycroft could resemble each other and Q could have a passing resemblance. The glasses perched on his nose usually did the trick to deflect close observations. His poor eyesight was from their father's father, the only one to inherit such a trait.

Still...

“Who is this?” Sergeant Sally Donovan's sharp tone stopped the three of them from crossing the police barrier and Q saw the woman's sharp gaze flicker between Sherlock and himself.

“A friend...” Sherlock's expression was peevish.

An eyebrow raised and the detective-sergeant barked a laugh of disbelief. “A friend? You actually made a friend? Not a colleague this time?”

“Please, can we not get into this-” Dr. Watson stopped talking at the gesture from Sherlock.

Q took the opportunity given to step up and extend his hand, the most charming smile on his face. “Hello, Ian Scott at your service, Sergeant...”

“...Donovan...” the detective-sergeant stared at him with no small amount of suspicion but gingerly shook his hand. She looked at him before glancing at Sherlock. “A friend?”

“Actually more of a consultant,” Q replied, consciously relaxing himself and putting a hint of sheepishness in his tone. He could see the detective-sergeant slowly follow his lead, though she still kept a high amount of suspicion. He let his smile drop a little and affected a sigh. “Mr. Holmes here helped me a short time ago with problem I had and asked if I could help with a computer issue. I, um, didn't realize it was a Yarder scene-”

Donovan snorted and rolled her eyes.

“-So perhaps I could work with your IT folks?”

“Nope,” Sherlock reached over to hold up the tape. “You're coming in.”

“Wait you can't-”

“Lestrade asked and here I am,” Sherlock shrugged, looking rather indifferent.

“Um...” Q affected a slightly bewildered look, shooting a glance between Donovan and Sherlock and saw the faintest curl of a smile on his brother's lips at the same time Donovan threw up her hands and huffed an annoyed sound.

“Ugh, fine.” She keyed her radio. “Freak's here. Bringing in the usual suspects and a plus one. Says he's IT help. We got Priya on site for IT support?” She walked ahead of them, her footsteps clearly indicating her annoyance.

“I've never seen Donovan cave that fast unless it was an order from Lestrade,” Dr. Watson murmured as he slid up next to Q. Walking slightly in front of them, Q could see Sherlock with the proudest smirk on his expression.

“Something's been frustrating their IT on site,” Q replied just as quietly.

Dr. Watson had a rueful look on his face. “Of course you read that from her. All of you lot...”

“Her body language was less tense once I mentioned computer issue. And as much as she detests Sherlock, she knows deep down that anyone he brings onto a crime scene is very competent.”

The doctor gave him a look before tilting his head. “You didn't read that from her...”

Q waited two heartbeats-

“You hacked into her files...” the doctor finished mostly to himself and Q smiled at him. Dr. Watson sighed and rubbed his brow. “Well, thanks for the compliment, I think...also, I think I now see the resemblance between the two of you. No regards for privacy, but utterly amazing.”

Q laughed a little, dropping some of the smoothness he had affected for Ian Scott's newest role as a meek IT consultant. “Why thank you, doctor.”

To his infinite amusement, he saw the doctor blink, clearly not expecting the thanks before Dr. Watson cleared his throat roughly and took a half-step away from him. Q resisted the urge to smirk a little at the way the doctor was apparently thrown off by the smallest compliment. Clearly Dr. Watson knew he was a Holmes, but was not Sherlock with his cutting comments and brevity in appreciation for any praise given – more prone to preening and basking in the silence of it all like he owned the place.

“I take back what I said earlier... You're your own brand of menace,” the doctor shook his head at him.

Q smirked again and saw his brother's profile shake a little in mutual laughter.

“Something funny, freak?” Donovan had turned to escort them further into the postman's house.

“Yep.” Sherlock popped the last letter of the word as he breezed past Donovan with Dr. Watson and Q following.

Q trailed after the two, taking in the environs with a practiced eye. It was no bunker for nefarious purposes, factory or even a villa that he and Q branch usually scoped out if they knew where the target was for a double-o, but he eyed it all the same. The postman that lived in the house was rather meticulous for his wiring as he noted staples and cable lines expertly hugging corners of ceiling and wall along with door frames and flooring.

He absently stopped and tapped his foot onto the hardwood floor, bringing up Donovan short before she ran into him.

“Something the matter?”

“Floor's hollow...and spongy...” he tapped the toe of his shoe again.

“Spongy?”

“Not quite noticeable when it comes to regular flooring and those used for IT infrastructure, but it's quite professional grade. Very high end and expensive.”

“On a postman's salary, no doubt,” Sherlock rumbled from where he stood near the door frame.

“Sherlock, Dr. Watson,” D.I. Greg Lestrade stepped out from the room with a brief 'excuse me' as he slid past Sherlock. “And you are...?”

“Ian Scott,” Q extended his hand and shook it. He saw the faint puzzled frown on Lestrade's face.

“Aren't you-”

“He's with me,” Sherlock suddenly interjected and Q briefly remembered that he and Lestrade sort of did meet...a few years ago at the CNS building after Max Denbigh died by gunshot to his head.

Lestrade's brows furrowed for a second as he let go of Q's hand and glanced back at Sherlock before turning back and shrugging. Q did not miss Donovan's narrowing of her eyes at her superior's shrug of assent.

“Floor is hollow?”

“I'm sure you'll find some cabling down there,” Q replied.

“Hmm...our Mr. Westley gets more interesting by the minute then,” Lestrade rubbed his chin before gesturing with a hand towards the room. “Selene Priya is our IT forensic specialist on site. May I ask what you need her for?”

“Sherlock asked me to be an IT consultant,” Q replied.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow before nodding and waved for him to head in. He moved past the detective-inspector and Sherlock to enter a rather bland-looking room. A woman with long black hair tied up in a messy ponytail sat in front of the single computer in the room.

Q glanced down to see that it was a common-looking tower with the requisite wires running from it, hooking up to a monitor, internet connection and with mouse and keyboard. There was nothing on the outside to indicate that it was special, which made Q very suspicious. He walked forward and saw the forensic analyst look up from her typing.

“You are...?”

“Ian Scott,” he introduced himself with another handshake. “Sherlock Holmes' acquaintance. I work in the IT field.”

“Selene Priya,” the woman was young, perhaps in her late twenties. “IT forensics specialist with the Yard. I go by the handle Magdelena with an at-sign on first 'a'.”

Q recognized the challenge and test she had thrown out. It meant she had been a white or black hat hacker who had been recruited by Scotland Yard for some thing or another. However, she was also well aware of Sherlock Holmes and decided that whomever he brought was someone to be tested.

“Barclays group, right?”

She flashed him a smile. “You know your hacks.”

“Shoddy infrastructure. You set them to rights?”

“$1.5 million.”

“That's it?”

“Gave it to some charities...”

“Fair,” he returned with a grin. The amount was quite small considering it was a large and embarrassing hack. The amount also told Q that Selene Priya had a conscience and wanted to only make a point instead of stealing money like a criminal. It also meant, she had deliberate left a trail for someone to find her and recruit her. “Why Yard?”

She shrugged. “Why you still freelancing...”

“Delahaye,” he replied and saw her expression change.

“You're shitting me...”

“Nope,” he felt the curl of a genuine smile appear on the corner of his lips.

“No...” she shook her head in disbelief. “You can't be that Delahaye...” She quickly narrowed her eyes. “Prove it.”

“At 05:23 local, a note was posted to the dark web along with a site address. Only those who cracked the code were able to access the information within. One of which was that a certain group of oligarchs were involved in the child sex trade ring deep in Albania. The info got public, but what no one knew was that Delahaye deliberately set a trap in that code and gave the key to MI6 and Interpol to bring down those oligarchs and those that could hack into the note and site address – thereby trapping them in two illegal activities – sex trafficking for the oligarchs and illegal hacking and viewership of child pornography for the hackers who realized what they've stumbled upon and decided to use.”

Priya's eyes were wide. “You took down Minx, R33dy and so many others-”

“Competition,” he replied and she laughed.

“Ruthless is what you are.”

“I don't tolerate hackers who black hat hack and try to hold information for blackmail or additional money.”

“I...and some of my friends, always thought Delahaye was a girl...you know, for the ruthless sex trafficking takedown...”

Q shrugged. “Gender isn't everything.”

“Nope,” she moved away from the chair and gestured for him to sit. “I can't believe Sherlock Holmes found you.”

Q did not answer as he sat down and placed his bag on the side. He glanced at the screen, noting that Priya connected her own laptop to the desktop and was running a few programs to sift through hidden files.

“Looks ordinary, right?”

He nodded at her comment. “Too ordinary.”

“That's what I thought when it was processed through evidence. I had them bring it back here and hook it back up exactly like what they photographed and then started running my programs to see if there are hidden files or something here...can't shake the feeling.”

“Floor is hollow,” Q commented absently as he reached over for his bag and pulled out his laptop and a cable to connect the two together.

“What?”

“Really expensive materials,” he replied as he hooked everything up.

“Shit...” Priya swore quietly. “Bastard is hiding something.”

Q snorted quietly as he booted on and with a flourish of keys, began to run his background programs. He sensed Priya leaning in a little closer to look at his laptop and work and moved slightly over to give her a better view while he pulled his bag close to him. He dug around and pulled out a flat tablet of sorts and activated it. It powered on and he glanced up to see Sherlock crouched near the floor where the door and hallway met, examining the ground with a pocket magnifying glass.

“Sherlock,” he called out. “Can you find the circuit breaker and install this next to it?”

Silence answered him and Q rolled his eyes continuing to hold the tablet aloft. He counted silently in his head and even before he got to the number three, Dr. Watson sighed loudly and stomped in.

“Hey-”

Q hid his smile as he heard his brother squawk, disgruntled at the deliberate step that the doctor had taken in the middle of Sherlock's examination of the floor. The weight lifted from Q's hand and he looked up to see Dr. Watson tilt his head, hefting the tablet in his hand.

“Circuit breaker?”

“Yes, please,” he replied.

The doctor blinked a little, clearly not used to be asked politely, before turning around and stepping out. Q turned back to his screens, running a couple of programs in conjunction with Priya's laptop.

“What was that?” the forensic analyst asked.

“Hopefully something to juice whatever is running through the hollow flooring,” Q replied as he glanced at the screens still running their searches. He activated another program and typed in a few lines of code before letting the program run. “Everything has to be legal for evidence, but if there is a way-”

The distinct faint hum of something activating reverberated through the ground and all who felt it glanced down while Sherlock's eyes gleamed and he stood up. Q met his brother's gaze with a wolfish smile of his own.

“Sherlock!”

Dr. Watson's distant voice called out and Q nodded to his brother who left, trailed by the Yarders. Only Priya stayed as her computer beeped, having suddenly found a bunch of hidden files. Q glanced at his own laptop to see that it was quickly latching onto the encryptions and breaking through it.

“Scramble program?” Priya asked, staring at his computer too.

“Encrypted server. You didn't see this.”

“I didn't see this unless deliberately asked under oath,” she replied.

He smiled as he tapped a few keys and a window with the same program popped up on her laptop.

“Uh...”

“Consider it a thanks,” he replied breezily as he reached over to pull a scrap of paper and pen. “It's technically legal, but if your bosses ask about it, tell them to contact this extension. Mention my name and you should be in the clear.” He scribbled the number to Moneypenny and gave it to her. Moneypenny would be able to get word to M and Q knew that even if he was sent to jail, the program would at least allow Priya to use it with impunity.

He closed out of his own program and shut his laptop down, stuffing it back into his bag and contentedly looked at Priya's laptop as it continued to run the program. There was a few minutes of silence, punctuated by a few people walking back and forth in the rooms beyond them with a deliberate fast gait. Q's curiosity was piqued, but not enough to pull him from staring at the program as it did its work and chewed through the encrypted layers.

“You doing anything tonight?”

“Hmm?”

“Wanted to see if you are interested in getting drinks, maybe spend some time getting to know each other?” Priya had a small smile on her face, her tone hopeful. Q realized what she was asking.

He hesitated. There was once a time, perhaps not long ago, even when he was not a double-o where he would have accepted her offer. Not only to deflect and hide himself, but because he was currently Ian Scott. He had to remind himself that this was a different version of Ian Scott. That this Ian Scott was not 001 and instead was closer to Delahaye than Q or 001. “Uh...drinks may be fine, but, sorry...”

To her credit Priya did not blush, but took it in stride with a nod. “Pity. You do have really nice eyes and fluffy hair. But drinks tonight then? It's not every day like meets like.”

“True,” Q paused for a few seconds, considering her offer before nodding. “Celebratory drinks once we crack this?”

“I'm game.”

They fell into an amicable silence as the program continued to eat away at the encryption. The pattering of feet made them glance up occasionally, but no one thought to stop. After at least ten or so minutes, the abrupt stopping of feet him and look up to see D.I. Lestrade standing there.

He looked worried.

“Sir?” Priya stood up, taking a few steps away from the computer and addressing her superior.

“Please tell me you got into the files?” There was a quaver of something in the detective-inspector's voice that Q immediately latched onto. He stood up, though he did not move to stand next to Priya.

“It's still-”

“Not done yet,” Q answered Priya' glance at him.

“Shit...okay. Whatever you did to goose the circuit breaker revealed an underground room. We mean, deep underground. Probably a bunker built during the war.”

“Home made?” Priya asked. “Pretty common.”

“No. Not as elaborate as Churchill's bunkers, but it's pretty large. Might even be old SIS if we can get Records down here or something.”

Q raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. But before he could say anything Lestrade ran a hand down his face and shook his head. He looked back at them. “Let me know the minute you get in-”

The window that was running the decryption program was suddenly replaced with another window and Q glanced down. “We're in,” he called back as he sat down and commandeered the mouse on the desktop's screen. He heard, more than saw Lestrade and Priya round the table and peer over his shoulder as he clicked around. “Hidden files, at least several gigs of them...”

“What's that?” Priya pointed with a finger towards a file called [Homebrew]. Q clicked on it and saw that it was composed of folders with names. Not any type of names, but what looked like first names. Both female and male names.

He decided to sort it by [Date Modified] and clicked on the one labeled [William]. Icons denoting image files and a few video clips populated into the opened file folder. He clicked on one of the images and immediately felt a chill run down his spine.

Priya cursed and made a gagging sound. “Is-is...t-that- Oh God...” She moved away and grabbed the nearest bin and heaved into it.

“That isn't what I think...” Lestrade sounded faint.

Q didn't answer as he clicked through the other images. It was horrific, but he forced himself to look through at the images of a male – probably named William – clearly being sodomized against his will – by more than one person judging by the images and floating hands and body parts.

However, that was not the real horror. It was that of blood and wounds inflicted upon the poor young man's body in various images. Some with slash marks down the body, others around the face. What was worse was an image showing a vertical slash mark on the face followed by bloody implements clearly scooping an eye out...

“The eyeballs given to Sherlock...” Q murmured as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly...

Lestrade heaved an equally deep sigh before waving a hand at him. “Close out of it, please.”

Q obeyed, closing the images and going back one file folder to the main ones with the names. “Postman's been busy...”

“We found...jars with body parts in a room below. Operating table too. Cleaning implements and various chemicals,” Lestrade sounded like he was barely keeping himself together from being sick. Priya was still throwing up near them. “I have to... I have to ask, how did you-”

“The tablet has current that forces an overload of the circuit breakers. It was supposed to help with the hack. The fact that it also forced the hidden room to activate...” Q glanced up to see Lestrade nod absently and run a hand down his face.

“Bloody hell...this...”

“S-Sir...”

They both turned to see Priya with an ashen look on her face. Lestrade nodded and gestured for the younger woman to take some leave. “Go, get some fresh air...”

“T-Thank you s-sir...sorry sir...” Priya swallowed and went out, taking the bin she had thrown up into with her.

Lestrade sighed again, long and loud and Q did not envy the detective-inspector. What had to be a simple case was apparently a lot more complicated. He stood up, making the older man step back a few steps as he gathered his bag and material. There was nothing else he could do even though a strong part of him wanted to see the case through – wanted to figure out why the postman had a killing ground set up in his basement and who else was involved in what was now becoming a clear indication of a child sex trafficking ring.

“You're remarkably calm,” Lestrade murmured though his gaze seemed a little far away. It seemed the man was half-thinking of other things.

“In my line of business, you have to be. Otherwise, you don't survive long,” Q replied.

“Can I ask if you're either five or six?”

“You can,” Q replied with a faint smile, but left it at that and watched as the detective-inspector nod again. It seemed the detective perhaps recognized M or even Tanner when Scotland Yard had arrived at the CNS building that night they confronted Max Denbigh.

“Sherlock's lucky to have someone of your caliber as his friend.”

“Oh, we're not friends,” Q did not know what compelled him to correct the older man as they walked out of the room, brushing past the other officers who were now securing the scene. They headed out of the postman's home where Sherlock and Dr. Watson were waiting. Q noted that his brother's eyes were gleaming – probably excited that the eyeballs now had a lead. Dr. Watson looked grim.

They passed by Donovan who was patting Priya on the back in an effort to calm and comfort her. She nodded at him as they walked past, her expression still suspicious, but less so.

Lestrade chuckled lightly before extending his hand out to him. Q shook it, admiring the firm, sure grip. “Well, whatever you are, thank you for your help.”

“Good luck, Detective-Inspector,” Q returned as he let go of the hand. “And please, tell Priya I'm sorry that we probably won't be able to get that drink any time soon.”

Lestrade's eyebrow rose as he glanced back and forth between the two of them, but Q walked off before the other man could say a thing. Sometimes it was good to at least leave a bit of mystery and build Ian Scott's new cover.

“You okay?” Dr. Watson asked as they headed away from the crime scene and Sherlock raised a hand to hail a cab for them.

“The postman's involved in a child pornography ring. That much is certain. There's others involved. I saw the footage and images,” Q replied.

“Shit...” Dr. Watson's brow wrinkled.

“That's not all,” Q continued. “High probability that after the children are used up in whatever fantasies are involved, they are mutilated-”

“And killed, certain organs preserved like trophies,” Sherlock interjected. “Pickling jars.”

“So becomes the question of why the postman was delivering eyeballs.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock sighed as a cab pulled up and they piled in. “You see but do not understand as usual.”

“No, I just prompt so you can have an audience to regale us with your brilliance,” Dr. Watson shot back and Sherlock grinned – a teeth-filled shark smile. Q rolled his eyes, but was grateful for the dark humor. It definitely lessened some of the tension and uncomfortable feeling at their discovery.

“The eyeballs are either a trophy to be delivered to the paramour or paramour's lover as a warning, or the paramour requested the trophy. Clearly they know something or have involvement in some fashion.”

“Why eyeballs?”

“Most likely either fetish or a statement. Keeping an 'eye' on someone,” Sherlock shrugged and Dr. Watson groaned.

“Really?”

“Serial killers do like odd-ball statements,” Q replied. “So do international megalomaniacs. It's their symbol of power. Destroy it and they may be diminished, but they do get a little angry when it happens. They get focused on the target of one who interfered.”

“So the postman's underground lair is-”

“-Where a lot of the victims are killed and their organs preserved. The postman then delivers.” Sherlock suddenly pulled out his mobile and texted quickly. “His route or at the distribution center where he picks up the mail on his route or otherwise.”

“Just how big...”

“The one I took down had at least eighty users that were entrapped, both oligarchs and those involved. There were probably more, but they were scattered through Europe and the Baltics,” Q offered.

Dr. Watson breathed out a curse and Q did not miss the sharp look Sherlock shot at him. He shrugged in return and saw his brother's frown grow a little deeper.

Delahaye's brilliant entrapment and dismantling of the child pornography ring had been right before his university years, lazily bored in his gap year – and ultimately one of the things that got him onto MI6's radar. He had been approached and recruited while he was a few weeks into his first semester at university. His recruitment landed him as an analyst in Q branch – the irony was not lost on him – and in scant weeks he was there, he managed to figure out where two of the ringleaders were located.

He had been called into M's office then and she asked him what needed to be done to take down the two ringleaders. He gave her different options – most of them long term and costly, but told her that the easiest solution was to create a honeypot and lure the two before killing them. He made his opinion on child traffickers clear with her.

She had considered the idea before handing him a gun and telling him that she would agree to his conditions to hide him from Mycroft Holmes' interference. There need not be any other word said and in that moment Alleyne Stewart Quinn Holmes became Ian Scott – the first of many aliases.

After he had seduced the two ringleaders and killed them – he was given the designation of 001 and celebrated his twentieth birthday a few weeks late. He faked Alleyne Stewart Quinn Holmes' death with M's full support and began working as a double-o agent in the European theatre – using his skills as a hacker and as a Holmes to bring about the goals of Queen and Country.

“The question becomes,” he stared at his brother, “if the postman is the serial killer, who's helping him find these victims and who's pulling his strings.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock's frown turned up into a mirthless smile. Q returned it with equal aplomb. As his brother occasionally said – the game was on.

Chapter Text

There was not much else Q could do when they returned to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock immediately commandeered Dr. Watson's laptop and started to read through the analysis and photos being processed by Scotland Yard in real time. Dr. Watson muttered about getting food for all them since there was nothing edible in the refrigerator. He picked Rosie up from Mrs. Hudson and asked if Q wanted to come.

Q politely declined. It was about time he got home, not only to take care of his cats, but to actually attempt to sleep. If there were nightmares that resulted from the new formula, it would be easy to just text Tanner instead of having him come over to keep an eye on him.

However, he never got the chance as he found himself picked up by Mycroft's government car – a sleek, beautiful black Jaguar – and Anthea rolling down the windows with a slightly apologetic look on her face.

“Somehow, this makes me glad that I'm not the only one Mycroft does this to,” Dr. Watson muttered as Rosie waved a cheerful, but silent hello to Anthea.

“Hello Rosie,” Anthea returned with a genuine smile before turning to look at the two of them. “Not you this time, Doctor, just Q here.”

Q sighed and waved away Dr. Watson's slight frown of concern. “Tell Sherlock that it was an enjoyable, if not interesting outing today. I expect part of that stipend he owes me by end of the week.”

Dr. Watson nodded and Q got into the car and closed the door. They pulled away quickly and he glanced at Anthea.

“Mycroft really needs to stop hovering.”

She hummed and looked at her mobile, texting a few words before shooting him a look. He rolled his eyes in return.

“I really wish I can bribe you with gadgets to stop his hovering,” he knew she would not listen to him if only because he didn't have gadgets he could let her play with, but also for the fact that she was technically not answerable to him since he was suspended from MI6.

Her eyes flicked up and she smiled slightly before looking back down and texting some more. He sighed again and resigned himself to meeting his older brother this late at night.

“There better be food,” he grumbled.

“Diver scallops with saffron risotto, peas, peashoot tendrils and charcoal dust tuile,” she replied. “Your cats have also been fed.”

Q let the involuntary smile grace his lips. “Thank you.”

She hummed again, but seemed happy. The times that Anthea, which honestly seemed to be the name she stuck to the most, had visited him during his first suspension years ago, she had developed a rapport with his cats. She was also the only double-o agent who knew how to get past his security systems and into his flat; feeding his cats whenever MI6 operations ran long.

It also helped that the cats absolutely adored her.

They arrived at the Diogenes Club and were let in after Anthea gave the password to the front. She brought him to a secluded room where Mycroft was waiting with the aforementioned meal set out on a pristine dining table for two. Q could not help but feel his mouth water a little at the sight and smell – having barely eaten anything all day.

“Thank you Anthea,” Mycroft dismissed his assistant who inclined her head and stepped back out, closing the door behind her. Anthea would stand by the door, ready to assist, but also guard it against any intruder.

“The workers did an excellent job patching up the bullet holes,” Q commented as he dug into his dinner and declined the pour of wine from his older brother.

Mycroft made a noise of agreement as he poured himself some wine and proceeded to eat. “The repairs were generously donated by other patrons too when they realized things could have been a lot worse with the late Mr. Ashleigh.”

Q coughed a laugh into his forkful of risotto and scallop. He felt a twinge of pain run through him at the movement. His ribs were mostly healed – though it would take about two and a half more weeks before the doctor said he could resume strenuous activities like exercising. For now, he had been limited to walking and everyday tasks like cooking or light cleaning.

He felt his brother's appraising eye on him and leveled him with a look as they continued to eat in relative silence. Mycroft was the first to look back down at his plate. The tinkling of silverware echoed in the room for a few minutes before his brother set his fork and knife down and took a sip of the wine.

“If you had let me-”

“I don't need you, Mycroft,” Q nipped the excuse in the bud with another look at his brother. He set his own fork and knife down. “I never needed you.”

His brother frowned. There was no hurt in Mycroft's eyes or posture, but it was not a stretch to think that something within the eldest of the Holmes brothers bristled at the frank and blunt words.

“Sherlock might have tolerated your interference, smothering and ways to control his life. He might even have been grateful for you to get him off of the drugs and keep him occupied. I can't claim to know Eurus' mindset since you keep her locked up in Sherrinford, but you never learned that not everyone in your life needs to be controlled; needs to be watched over and kept safe from the harms of the world.”

“The world is not kind to people like us,” Mycroft pointed out with a thin, brittle smile.

“Nor should it be,” Q shot back. “The world is as it is. Your interference and overprotective instincts stunts growth.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Mycroft arched an eyebrow and took another sip of wine.

“Yes,” Q replied with a look at his brother. “And I am warning you in advance that if you do anything to interfere with the Inquiry in less than a year's time; if you decide bribing the board to let me go back to MI6, I will know about it.”

“And what can you do?” Mycroft challenged.

Q frowned. “It's not what I can do, it's what I'm willing to do. And you know what I am capable of doing.

“I'm tolerating dinner with you today because I know you Mycroft. I'm indulging in your whims of having your littlest brother back in your fold because I will not tolerate you interfering in the lives of my colleagues and acquaintances. They are not yours to manipulate, no matter how much you want to do so just to keep an eye on me in the coming year. You've got access to my ankle monitor. You already know where I will be at all times along with CCTV footage to back that up.”

Mycroft stayed silent and Q continued.

“I am asking you to trust me that I won't disappear anymore. I have no reason to; not after everything.”

“Your record on speaking the truth regarding your disappearances and abilities to disappear is hardly the measure in which to trust you, brother dear.”

“Then trust in the person you decided long ago was the right person to keep an eye on me.”

The eldest of the Holmes brothers rolled his eyes. “A double-o is hardly loyal to a person. They are loyal to Queen and Country.”

“You and I don't believe that for one second.”

Mycroft scoffed but stayed silent. Q met him look for look.

It was broken as Mycroft pushed some of the risotto around his plate. The tension his brother's tone was lessened with the touch of concern. “Do you need someone to stay with you tonight?”

“No,” Q replied, breathing out slowly as he let his annoyance abate. “Thank you,” he added haltingly. He took a few more bites from his plate before pushing it away and abruptly standing up. He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Compliments to the chef.”

Mycroft smiled thinly, but didn't meet his gaze as Q turned and left, nodding to Anthea as he headed out of the Diogenes Club.

The cold air of the night made Q hug his jacket closer to him as he walked down the street instead of hailing a cab. It would be an imposition to a certain double-o for breaking into his flat this time of night, but Q was feeling a little more than petty to needle Mycroft on his point.

That even with the metaphoric shield M had put up for him years ago was now gone; it did not mean that Q would automatically return to the fold of his brothers' smothering embrace – both of them. Q was a Holmes, but of his whole family, he was the most independent of all of them.

Chapter Text

It took Q years to train himself out of the habit of sleeping lightly; the edge between wakefulness and restful sleep ingrained into him during his years as a double-o. Even in the brief days he had become 001, the habit had returned full force and the last few weeks of utter nightmares from the cure racing in his body did nothing to break the habit.

So when the softest tread of feet just outside the door to Bond's flat was heard, Q was already awake, though he did not bother opening his eyes. He had left the same clue he had done once, long ago, the first and only time he had visited and broken into Bond's flat. The fact that there was the slightest pause of feet outside made Q smile involuntarily before the door opened.

“Comfortable?” Bond's drawl sounded a little tired and rough from travel, but the faintest lilt of amusement tinged his tone.

“Still no tea in your cabinets, Bond, but I doubt you know what to look for at the corner Tescos,” Q replied as he heard the agent step completely in and close the door shut behind him.

The smell of winter air hung in the air, quickly chased by the smell of leather and perhaps a bit of gunpowder. Q tightened his arms a little around him and pulled the woolen blanket closer to his body at the bit of cold that had slipped in. He curled his toes a little as he stretched out on Bond's plush, leather couch. The man did have good taste in furniture and the couch was far more comfortable than it had looked.

“I'm surprised you did not get any yourself before you came,” Bond replied softly as the sounds of him walking further in and shedding his coat, gloves and other sundry items was heard.

Q could hear the squeak of the leather shoulder holster along with the soft clink of metal on metal move further away as Bond walked towards his kitchen area. The sound of a cabinet being opened and something ceramic being set down onto the granite countertop piqued his curiosity. Just what was the double-o doing?

He cracked open his eyes and saw the blurred form of the agent moving about in the kitchen, ducking down to grab something from the island's shelf before popping back up. The agent moved to the sink with something in his hand before the sound of water ran and tinkled against metal. Q realized it was a kettle full of water before the gas stove was activated with a hissing spark. He blinked again, coming more awake and sat up, letting the blanket he had absconded with pool down to his legs and reached over to shove his glasses back onto his face.

“Bond?”

“I thought I told you to call me James,” was the agent's reply as he continued to move around the kitchen.

Q could now see that a teapot was set onto the countertop and two cups and saucers were being brought down. It was a matching set and next to the teapot was a small tin of what had to be tea leaves.

“Where-”

“Bourbon seems to be the best when combined with Earl Grey,” Bond reached down to another cabinet and pulled out an amber bottle and set it on the counter.

Q could not hide his surprise at the revelation. “You started to get tea and drink it, specifically, Earl Grey, after I broke into your flat that day?”

“The investment paid off,” Bond shrugged as the kettle whistled with boiling water. He shut the stove off and poured the water into the pot to let the leaves steep. The aromatic smell of rich bergamot and black tea filled the air and Q felt himself come more awake.

“Bond...James...” Q shook his head and saw the double-o bringing over the teapot and setting it on the island counter before bringing over both tea cups. One was empty, the other was filled with a splash of bourbon, waiting for the Earl Grey to complement it.

The agent looked exhausted, but his icy blue eyes were bright with the faint hint of mirth. He did not look like he had visible injuries, so Q supposed that whatever mission Bond had been sent on was not too taxing or perhaps was just basic intelligence gathering. Q sighed and shed the rest of the blanket to the end of the couch before padding over in his socks to the island to wait for a fresh cup of tea.

“Trouble?” Bond asked, gaze sharpening at his approach. Q let him study his form, knowing that the agent could tell how far along he was healing since they had last seen each other.

“Needling a point to Mycroft,” Q replied as he reached over to pour the tea into his own cup and some of it into Bond's. He set the pot down and ran a finger along the handle. “This is a very beautiful piece of craftware.”

“It came recommended by 002,” Bond replied with a slight quirk of his lips.

Q snorted, bringing his cup to his lips and sipping the tea. He let the strong flavor melt in his mouth for a few seconds, closing his eyes briefly to enjoy it as a whole before swallowing. Normally he would have complemented with a splash of milk and some sugar, but he did not mind it straight. He opened his eyes and glanced down at the pot. “The leaves too?”

Bond inclined his head a little, sipping his own tea, eyes never leaving Q's face. Q didn't look at the agent, instead focusing on nothing in particular. He could feel the agent studying him and wondered what he saw with his own brand of observational skills. The silence stretched between them before the clink of the cup hitting the saucer echoed loudly in the flat.

“Ms. Adler is back in the States,” Bond's words were carefully picked and Q knew that the agent was testing him for his reaction.

“She called herself Irina Norton back then,” he replied idly tilting his cup of tea in a circular manner and watching the small amount of leaves at the bottom swirl. “Probably for the best that you were the one to escort her back. Sherlock would have fought Mycroft on the particulars of saving a condemned woman...again.”

He flicked his eyes up and smiled grimly. “I'll tell you the story one day...James...just...not now.”

The agent silently inclined his head, gaze softening a little. “...Q...Quinn...”

Q ducked his head and let his grim smile turn into one of sheepishness. He hid it with another sip of his tea before setting the cup back down. “I'll freely admit, it's disconcerting to hear my real name spoken out loud by anyone for the last seventeen or so years of my life.”

“Who were you when not Q?” Bond asked, clearly curious.

“Briefly, Adrian Shaw,” Q pursed his lips for a moment, thinking back on the first name he had adopted after returning to MI6. “When I returned to MI6, M and Q assigned me as R, so I went by R and got into my files to erase any trace of Ian Scott or Adrian Shaw. HR, Medical, all those people knew me as just R, an IT expert that the Quartermaster had recruited to help upgrade MI6's infrastructure. There might have been some hints that perhaps I was a blackhat hacker. Not many people had seen me as 001 since there might have been some concerns about the ethics of having a young twenty-something with a license to kill.”

“Soldiers are recruited and sent into war zones at that age,” Bond's voice was gravely with the barest hint of sarcasm.

Q smiled slightly and sipped his tea in answer. The agent was correct in that sense, but society saw things differently between a single lone assassin versus soldiers operating in an military unit. It was quite odd...

Q watched as Bond's eyes lost focus for a second, clearly in thought and composing his next question with care. He let the brief moment of silence stretch, enjoying the calmness of a late night drink. Though he felt tired, especially from the horrific discovery today at the postman's house, he was not particularly sleepy. He wondered if it was a side effect of the updated cure injected into him earlier in the day or perhaps it was because he was sort of anticipating this conversation with Bond.

It was clear Bond was both curious and unsure of how to proceed in such a relationship. The agent was clearly interested in him – Q knew that from the start – and time away had not tempered that interest. The three weeks since they had last seen each other had given Bond ample time to think, but not ask the questions he wanted to ask. Bond had definitely realized his usual repertoire of skill and ability to seduce his targets or harmlessly flirt with friends and colleagues would not quite work here.

Whether they would work on Q was another question – but Q had to admit; he did find Bond's apparently internal flustering amusing. 007 was seriously considering an actual relationship instead of treating it like one of his usual conquests or seduction targets. It warmed Q in the sense that he both had a true friend, but also someone who not only understood him, but was willing to get to know him – the real him.

“What did you mean when you said you could not give me the things I needed later?” Bond finally asked.

Q nodded absently and set his cup down, though he did not remove his hand from it. Instead, he reached over and poured himself some more of the tea.

“Sherlock was correct in saying there are certain things I consider tools in my...arsenal for the lack of a better word, and only that, tools.” Q stared at the double-o before him with a frank look. “Seduction and romance is one of them. I know the mechanics, I know the responses, I am able to evaluate and respond accordingly to whom I end up seducing when I am operating as an agent. But to me, it's a tool; something I can switch on and off and not care about if I am with friends, family or acquaintances.

“It would be poor form to say I don't feel or experience attraction, sexual or not. Most of society today equate attraction with sexual experience and so seduction or what have you. But if someone was to come up to me and ask to have sex or even kiss, I would not be opposed, but neither would I be inclined to reciprocate. To me, it is a tool – a means to an end. Their end or mine depending on their goals or mine is up in the air.”

He absently toyed with the rim of his teacup. “I prefer emotional connection rather than physical.”

He saw Bond open his mouth for a second and threw him a slightly withering look. The agent closed his mouth and tilted his head, considering him with his blue eyes.

“James, I've worked with you for years. Even though you could make a case regarding those you've taken to your bed or otherwise during your missions as just mere tools to get information, we both know that is not the case. Don't consider that I am asking you to change yourself just because I am telling you this. My expectations for you are just you. I have none. I have been attracted to you all these years because you were you.”

Q took another breath and let it out slowly. “The way you operate as an agent to gather information is to exploit an emotional connection and also to encourage your target to defect or even get to safety. You care for those you get information from, you give them a second chance, the chance you were given in your life.

“The way I operate as an agent and as a person is to cut out that emotional connection. To twist and use it as a means to an end. I could care less if they died, but only after I got what I wanted. Even my brothers were not immune, though they did not bear the brunt of my psychopathy and sociopathy.” He tapped his teacup. “Until certain things...”

Bond's eyes sharpened for a second before he nodded once. “Safin. Adler.”

“Sentiment,” Q replied with a simple look.

“And this?”

Q smiled mirthlessly. “What do you think?”

Bond returned it with an equally mirthless one of his own. “I don't have a good record of maintaining relationships.”

“Which is why I am telling you that this does not have to be like what you think any relationship should be. You can say this is not for you and walk away with knowing that I will not feel guilt nor would I condemn or change what is currently between us.”

Something flickered in Bond's eyes. “And what if I decide that it is what I want?” his voice was low, and could have been seductive if not for the slight tremor of uncertainty in the question.

“Then we'd build a future together,” Q replied.

Bond's eyes widened slightly, his tone wry with humor. “Don't you think it's a little fast to be jumping to that type of union?”

Q chuckled lightly. “Not that type, James, maybe...not yet. More of the fact for you that you don't have to hide yourself underneath your armor of barbs, quips and innuendos. You don't have to show to me that you are all right if you are hurting inside. That I am here if you want to talk and nothing will be used against you or for you. I am still here even if you do not want to talk.”

His expression grew serious. “That if you feel you need to remember Vesper in some way, you can do that without incurring jealousy or lack of understanding. If you want to consider perhaps what kind of life you wished with Dr. Swann, you could without judgment.”

Bond snorted quietly and stared at him. “For someone who considers himself closed to all emotion, this feels rather open.”

“I could say the same to you. For someone who feels deeply and openly wears his emotions on his sleeve, you do act like you're closed to it.”

The double-o's lips quirked up a little in the rejoinder. It sobered quickly as Bond's brows knitted slightly. “Most people get jealous when they see their lovers or significant others sleeping with others.”

“I'd rather not be a voyeur, but it did come with the job. I'm also not most people,” he shrugged. “Sherlock was right – I'm not keen on sex, but neither am I against it – to me, it just is. It's not my cup of tea, so to speak. But he's also a little bit wrong about kissing and romantic gestures. Only an idiot can't look at James Bond and not see...well...the appeal.” He added a little flourishing gesture at the double-o. Double-o agents were both men and women who either had the ability to blend into a crowd like any other ordinary person, or turn on the sex appeal when necessary for more high-profiled assignments.

Bond had the lucky ability to be both. 002 came close, but she was more valued for her uncanny methods of being in the shadows of an ordinary secretary. Q rather not think of his own looks and ability – preferring to focus on his hacking skills.

“You've noticed,” Bond's tone was very amused.

Q rolled his eyes and sighed. “You can kiss me. You've been staring at me this whole time-”

His mouth was suddenly covered by a pair of slightly chapped, but warm, thin lips. Bond was surprisingly gentle in his first kiss, barely coaxing Q's open with a little added pressure and movement of his own mouth. However, unlike many first kisses Q had in his life, there was no feel of tongue or a demand of entry into his mouth for a wet and messy one. Instead, it felt like the double-o was content with letting both of them get used to the sensation; the taste of both bourbon and Earl Grey that passed between them. He felt the light pressure of finger tips on the hollow of his cheeks, tilting his face just so to deepen the kiss without much effort.

It ended just as quickly as Bond pulled back, fingers dropping at the same time. Q flicked open eyes that he had not realized he had closed to see the agent's piercing blues bright. They held a bit of fondness that reminded him of the time that they had talked after the whole thing with Thomas Ashleigh.

Bond's eyes also had a slight glint of humor in them. “You taste lovely...Quinn,” the older man murmured.

Q stifled the groan of exasperation. “I should be immune to that charm of yours. I should be.”

“But you aren't,” Bond replied with a crooked smile.

Q sighed and nodded, conceding the point before he pushed back a little to stop himself from childishly retaliating with his own skillset cultivated as a double-o agent. There had been sincerity in the kiss and he did not want to ruin the mood between the two of them by turning it into something that he did not want or liked – no matter how infuriating Bond had been with his comment.

“I'm going back to sleep,” he announced as he let go of his cup and stepped away from the island counter. “Thank you for the tea.”

The double-o merely nodded once as he collected the cups and pot and put it into the sink. Out of the corner of his eyes, Q watched as the agent bustled about with the aplomb of someone used to efficiency in their own kitchen before Bond headed into his own bedroom. The door closed and Q settled back into the couch, pulling the woolen blanket over him as he stretched out

On impulse, he reached over and tapped the bulldog that M had willed to 007 and watched its head bobble up and down. Q took his glasses off and closed his eyes, feeling a little more content and perhaps a little happier with the footing he and the agent had found themselves at. He absently nibbled his lower lip, tasting the remnant bittersweet of the bourbon Bond had mixed into his tea. He stopped nibbling and turned over so that his back was pressed against the couch's cushions. As far as first kisses went, it was perhaps one of the sweetest...

He felt and heard, the movement of the double-o agent entering the living room once more before the squeak of leather indicated he had sat in the nearby loveseat. But Q was too sleepy to crack open his eyes again and merely grunted quietly.

“002 texted me...” Bond's voice was quietly warm with concern.

“Updated cure...no nightmares...maybe...” Q mumbled sleepily. He could almost imagine an eyebrow raised in surprise at that revelation. He turned a little to adjust the throw pillow underneath his head and curled tighter into the blankets. They smelled fresh and clean – recently laundered. “No need to stay awake...will be fine...”

Bond was silent, but Q could sense that the agent was still awake, sitting near him. But just before he was pulled into the land of dreams, he heard Bond murmur quietly.

“She's buried in Matera...”

And Q smiled as sleep overtook him. “I'm glad you took the time to visit...”

“Good night, Quinn...”

Chapter Text

[Come at once if convenient.]

[If inconvenient, come all the same.]

Q knew that particular text was a lure to mostly summon Dr. Watson from whatever he was doing to be by Sherlock's side, but he never expected it to be sent to him. He knew he could ignore it, most of his obligation to Sherlock finished yesterday after cracking the postman and eyeballs case wide open for Scotland Yard and Sherlock to follow up on their own.

But since the night before, with Mycroft's overbearing dinner and then the kiss with Bond, Q could feel something in him squirm – like an itch he could not scratch. He knew what it was, long aware of his own vices and whatever virtue he had forced himself to learn to operate in polite society.

If there was just one thing that could define all of the Holmes siblings aside from their shared last names and penchant for manipulation, it was the fact that all of them – all of them – were addicts.

Addicts for physical comforts like drugs, mental comforts like complex and unusual cases, politics of the world, or even for the rush of adrenaline when it came to hacking and so forth. Addicts for doing right for Queen and Country – addicts to uphold justice, uphold law as much as they broke it.

All Holmes siblings had a form of addiction.

And boredom was the worse thing for a Holmes to go through.

Boredom meant destructive behavior – be it Mycroft starting an underground resistance cell to overthrow a corrupt government, heedless of the civilian casualties; or Sherlock finding himself in a drug den for allegedly research into a case; or in Q's case, hacking into random entities and leaving scathing messages about how shit their digital security was while boasting in the dark web forums how billion and trillionaires' monies could be used to both destabilize any corrupt elements within their governments or for charities.

Q knew it was the chief reason why Mycroft had tried to be lenient on his punishment as a rogue agent in the aftermath of Safin's death. His older brother knew what boredom would do to Q. It was also why Q resisted and demanded M not give in. He knew he would get bored – and it was also why he accepted Sherlock's offer to consult on a case. His brother also had the same exactly knowledge as Mycroft, but Sherlock was determined to be less overbearing than their eldest brother while giving Q the opportunity to explore options outside of MI6 while he waited out his suspension.

The itch to wreck digital havoc might have been scratched a little when he helped Selene Priya hack into the postman's computer; but it was still an itch that needed to be scratch.

And Q could feel it lurking underneath his skin.

Which was why he answered his brother's summons readily in the morning; leaving Bond's flat before the double-o woke with only a short note thanking him for the tea, conversation and a string of numbers.

He would readily admit that it would be a pleasant surprise to find a new double-o in his flat besides Anthea one of these days.

Q let himself into 221B with a brief knock and headed upstairs even before Mrs. Hudson had the opportunity to unlock her own door. He heard the rumbling of two voices – one of which was Sherlock's the other, the scratchy tones of D.I. Lestrade.

“-at least an assessment, Sherlock...” Lestrade was saying as Q entered.

“Mmm...no,” Sherlock's face was scrunched up in a grimace as he sat in his familiar chair, glancing up at the harried-looking detective-inspector. However, the grimace turned into one of anticipation. “Ah! Well, he may be able to give it to you.”

Lestrade turned and Q lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello again, Detective-Inspector.”

“Mr. Scott,” Lestrade greeted with a neutral look before turning back to Sherlock, “what do you mean? This is the Mr. Westley we're talking about-”

“And,” Sherlock tilted his head, interrupting Lestrade's thought, “I'm telling you he would be the best one to do it.”

“Do what?” Q asked, glancing at his brother who only shot him a mirthless smile. “Sherlock-”

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand down his face before turning and planting his hands on his hips. “Selene Priya didn't report to work this morning. Her flatmate got back this morning after spending the evening out and reported that the place was trashed and all of the computers in the flat gone, including the flatmate's own. Traces of blood was found at the scene. We're currently setting up a cordon and launching an investigation into it.”

Q immediately latched onto the key bits of information. “You think the postman or rather, whomever is pulling the postman's strings or working with him may be involved and somehow targeted Ms. Priya.”

“Well, her computer was the only one that was hooked up to the postman's original one back at the crime scene.”

“See, even you can have your moments of insight, Lestrade,” Sherlock airily said as Lestrade threw him a dirty look.

“So was mine,” Q held up his bag. He frowned and looked at the detective-inspector. “When the computer was first brought to the Yard, it was sandboxed, right?”

“Sandboxed?”

Q groaned quietly and rolled his eyes. “Sandboxed as in isolated, not on network and so forth?”

“I...I think so? I don't know. That's our IT forensics' expertise...”

Q waved an absent hand as he set his bag down onto Sherlock's sofa and thought quickly. “Let's assume that Scotland Yard knows sandbox protocols. But then in their investigation realized there's something that's hidden inside it. However, because they don't want to compromise any of the Yard's networks, Ms. Priya requests they move it back to the original crime scene. She hooks her laptop up to it, sandboxing her own, and it did what it did yesterday. Then she would take her own laptop home and go through the same protocols. However, since the postman's computer files were hidden and we found them through jumping the circuits, it might have also triggered a hidden protocol that latched onto both her computer and mine. Undetected, hidden, even if we sandbox our computers. It would broadcast a signal that might alert someone else of basics like location or even plant worm of sorts.”

He looked at his brother to see him staring back with a critical, but proud eye. Q would have once been happy to see such an expression, but right now, he needed more data, more information. “Did you look at the scene yet? I need the time which Priya arrived at home and when she disappeared.”

“Estimate?”

“Whatever you can give me.”

“Hang on, a minute-” Lestrade started.

Q shut him up with a look. “It would be able to tell me if it is a location tracer they planted onto her computers, a worm designed to pull information, or if she was involved in this.”

Lestrade blinked. “W-wait...what? If she was involved-”

“She might have claimed to have been a whitehat hacker once, Detective-Inspector, but we all fall into that temptation once in a while. Destructive habits, addiction, that sort of thing. She also stole money before she was recruited.” Q raised an eyebrow and leveled the older man with a look.

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish for two seconds before he nodded shakily. “All right...I'll allow it. Um...” Q saw Lestrade blink a couple of times before glancing at his bag. “Hang on,” the detective-inspector gestured towards the bag. “Why can't you-”

“I never turned my laptop back on since leaving the crime scene. And frankly, I don't want to turn it on until we're absolutely sure. Call it an ace-in-the-hole or perhaps a mode of self-preservation. Perhaps it can confirm that Ms. Priya was kidnapped by the members of whatever ring this is, or perhaps it has something in there Ms. Priya or her alleged cohorts are looking into. If location tracking is on the laptops, it proves our theory correct.”

“Even if you had turned it on last night, I'm sure a certain someone would have stopped any potential intruders,” Sherlock drawled from his seat, a smirk on his lips.

Q shot his brother a look. He knew his brother had instantly read the state of his slightly wrinkled slept-in clothing, the messiness of his hair and more than likely the fact that James Bond had definitely kissed him the previous night.

“Uh...”

“Ignore my brother, Detective-Inspector,” Q waved his hand absently at Sherlock who snorted in return before pushing himself up from his chair and straightening his jacket and sleeves. “Shall we?”

“Wait, wait...wait,” Lestrade's eyes widened as he took in what Q had said. “Brother?” The other man's eyes shot back and forth between Sherlock who was walking to the coat rack to put on his familiar jacket and scarf combination. Lestrade pinned Q with an astonished look. “Y-You're a-”

“Holmes, yes,” Q shrugged. “The youngest and you can still call me Ian Scott. I do have a name, but in interests of Her Majesty's Secret Service, I cannot tell you. Because Sherlock considers you a close friend, I've deemed it more beneficial for you to be privy to my existence instead of harboring suspicions about me.”

“Her Majesty's...Secret...” Lestrade paled, blinking owlishly at him. “You're...Six?”

Q shrugged, still a non-answer, but it would allay the detective-inspector's natural curious nature. He reached over and slung his bag over his shoulder before looking at Lestrade who was still gaping between them like a fish out of water. “Shall we?”

“Lestrade, do try to comprehend the notion that there are more than one of us later,” Sherlock added with a shark-like smile before heading out of his flat. Q followed and heard Lestrade's footsteps a half-a-heartbeat later follow them down the stairs. He did not miss the light chuckle from Sherlock in front of him at the fact that they had flummoxed the Detective-Inspector so early in the morning.

Q smiled a little, but then sobered as they got into Lestrade's car and headed off. He saw Sherlock pull out his mobile – probably to text Dr. Watson their location after he dropped Rosie off at school. Q turned away and focused on the passing streets. Selene Priya's disappearance worried him. He was mostly sure she was not involved in whatever the postman – Mr. Westley's – pedophile, organ and murder ring – but more for the fact that her disappearance meant there were other hackers involved.

And he did not have MI6's resources at his disposal.

Chapter Text

[Status?]

[No nightmares. Sleep seems normal]

Q closed his mobile with a brief click as he half paid attention to his brother wandering around Selene Priya's flat. Things at MI6 have been busy that morning with a mission for Tanner to text him in an abrupt manner. Q pushed the thought to the side and the slight yearning to be in the heart of it; in Q branch readying or going over reams of data and so forth.

He had roughly eleven or so months left. Then the hearing, then the hope of reinstatement.

He did not dwell on the possibility that he would not be reinstated and instead, remanded into maximum security or isolated custody.

Positive thoughts and all of that rubbish nonsense people were peddling these days.

Q preferred to be a realist and look at the cold, hard facts and numbers. His record with MI6 was not spotless, but all were in the interest of Queen and Country – even if he did break a few rules to help Sherlock. He would leverage those incidents as Sherlock being valuable to the country in disposing of Jim Moriarty, Augustus Magnussen, Culverton Smith and so many others. He was mostly sure whomever was chosen to be on his inquiry panel would have either been helped by Sherlock or knew of his exploits.

It was pragmatic for him to utilize such a connection to Sherlock Holmes without exposing his own familial relationship. If anything, he could plead Sherlock's fame as the reason. But that was the future, months away.

He blinked hard to focus himself back on the crime scene before him; noting Dr. Watson hurrying in with heavy footsteps. He looked out of breath and it seemed he had just finish sending his daughter to school considering the time. It seemed Dr. Watson told the cabbie to hurry with an extra tip.

“Sherlock? Er...I-Ian...” the doctor stumbled over his name and Q grimaced. He ignored the suspicious look from Detective-Sergeant Donovan from where she stood next to Lestrade. The Detective-Inspector was too distracted watching Sherlock wander and examine various objects.

“Ah, good, John, you're here. What do you make of this?” Sherlock gestured towards where Selene had been sitting and ambushed. The chair was broken in several pieces. Rips and tears marked the couch couch next to the makeshift desk. Her area to sandbox was torn apart – someone having taken a bat to it.

“Uh,” Dr. Watson blinked a few times before hurrying forward and studying the carnage. Q had already done so at first glance, and so had humored his brother as they waited for the doctor to arrive. The confirmation he needed for Selene Priya's innocence was already there, but he didn't tell Lestrade yet – this was Sherlock's domain and he respected his brother too much to make waves in his playground.

“Judging by the angle the chair was broken, she did not see her attacker until it was too late,” Dr. Watson crouched down next to the broken pieces of the chair and frowned. “Is that blood?”

“We found traces,” Lestrade confirmed. “It's hers.”

“Probably a blow to the head then, but...what I don't get is why so violent?” The doctor grimaced. He pointed to the pieces of the chair scattered around the area. “They hit her on the head and all they have to do is carry her off. The chair was broken in pieces. It looks like they might have taken her and slammed her backwards into the ground.”

“Adequate,” Sherlock murmured before John huffed and rolled his eyes as he stood up and stepped away to let him provide his deduction.

However, Sherlock merely canted his head in Q's direction and Q sighed. He adjusted his grip over his bag still slung over his shoulder. “Can we clear the room, Detective-Inspector?”

Lestrade looked at him with a puzzled expression but slowly nodded. He saw Detective-Sergeant Donovan frown at him before huffing and started to dismiss the others examining and cataloging the crime scene. Finally, she merely waited at the door and leveled him with a glare that she was not going to move.

It was fine by him.

Q pointed to the sandboxing area. “Ms. Priya is not involved, Detective-Inspector. However, she more than likely discovered what the jump had done to her laptop and so was about to sandbox it when they ambushed her.” Moving his finger, he pointed towards the chair debris. “Two professionals, two hits. One to daze her and the other to damage the sandbox so we'd dismiss it out of hand. There is evidence on that sandbox. Maybe a different case she was working on while helping out with this one, but they were after it too. Hard drive is there there, so probably a thumb drive taken. They were looking to just damage it to distract us.”

“They?”

Q gave the Detective-Inspector a frank look. “You've got a mole in New Scotland Yard that's been feeding the mastermind behind this case. Someone who was at the crime scene yesterday.”

Lestrade's expression became mulish and he held up a hand. “Wait, wait, do you have any proof?”

“No, but I can get you it,” Q challenged. He was glad that Sherlock's Detective-Inspector was not as stupid as Sherlock was always muttering about him to be. Then again, he also knew that Gregory Lestrade was a divorced father of two with estranged children whom he paid child support, but did not really see much of. They were twins, about to graduate secondary school and thus the support would end. The other man was also a heavy smoker – a side effect of the job Q supposed – but was very dedicated to getting justice for victims. He also was one of the very few who took Sherlock at his word, even if his hands were tied at times. One of the angels as his brother alluded to in a world full of devils.

And Q could see the same trust extend out towards him, even if Lestrade was protesting. His second-in-command, Sergeant Donovan however, was more suspicious.

“How do we know you're not pulling our leg?”

Q held up a hand to stop his brother and even Dr. Watson from saying anything and turned to the Detective-Sergeant. “Once long ago, there was an Interpol case involving sex traffickers. A little different than one dealing with murders and eyeballs, but the way the files have been collated are similar. The mole was eventually discovered in Interpol and dealt with. There are different methods of filing, but most of the British government follow a somewhat uniform method.

“The postman certainly had his way, government-style, but there is a notation within that indicates New Scotland Yard principles.” He glanced at Lestrade and inclined his head slightly. “That was why I initially suspected Ms. Priya until I saw the crime scene.”

“H-How...” Donovan stuttered.

“Hacker,” Sherlock's tone and roll of his eyes indicated Donovan should have been smarter in picking up the fact that Q's identity as Ian Scott right now was a hacker that Sherlock had brought into the fold of this case.

“So what do you propose to find this mole?”

“Let me question the postman?” Q could see Sherlock gleeful expression out of the corner of his eye at Q's request. Dr. Watson rolled his eyes next to Sherlock and huffed a little. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock before looking back to Q.

Donovan was the only one to put up the protest. “Sir, are we really going to-”

Her superior held up his hand to silence her as he stared at Q for a long moment. Q did not know how much Lestrade could figure out who or how he was involved in MI6, but considering the fact that Lestrade knew he was Six – albeit under unknown circumstances and related to Sherlock Holmes, it seemed it was enough to convince the detective as he reluctantly nodded.

“Sir!”

“It will be outright inadmissible in court, but I'm sure you have methods involving Sherlock and Dr. Watson's help from time to time.” Q pointed out helpfully.

“We do,” Lestrade pursed his lips for a moment. “God, I hope you're right. If there is a mole on the case-”

“Carry on as normal, Detective-Inspector. It's the only way to catch them,” Q offered.

A grimace was returned before Lestrade glanced back at Sherlock. “Do we need to do more here?”

“Nope,” Sherlock's lips popped on the last syllable and Q could practically feel his brother vibrating with excitement. At least one of them was going to be happy.

Q pulled out his mobile and typed in it. [Requesting permission to do some light interrogation for Yarders]

The dots for a reply paused for a few seconds before Tanner's reply came back. [Inadmissible] It was definitely a mission of concern if Tanner was still being curt with his replies. But, considering he was able to reply quickly meant it was under control at the moment. Tough, but under control.

[Already explained]

[Standby]

Q absently noted Lestrade, Donovan, Sherlock and Dr. Watson leaving the apartment as he waited for Tanner's reply. He did not have to wait long as his phone rang and he immediately accepted the Unknown Number call.

“Sir,” he said quietly. Even though the four were already outside, Q knew Sherlock was probably listening in as much as he could. At least his brother would keep much of the knowledge from Lestrade and Donovan.

“Might I remind you, Q, that you are under suspension. And with a tracker.”

“Yes, sir,” Q could not help the slight involuntary smile. M sounded a little annoyed. Whatever mission was making Tanner curt was not bad enough to have M dismiss his request out of hand. “It may also require usage of the tracker.”

There was a pregnant pause from M.

“Six does not get involve on domestic soil unless it is of national security, Quartermaster.”

“I understand. I believe there would be interest from other parties if it does come to that,” Q replied.

There was another pause from M, but not as long as the first one. “You are also still healing, Q. Please do not do anything rash. You have permission.”

Q's grin brightened and he nodded, even though he knew M would not be able to see his face. “Thank you, sir.” He hung up and not even two seconds later, a text popped up from Tanner.

[Good luck]

Q closed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He had thirty-six hours to help Sherlock solve the case and apprehend the hackers involved. Otherwise, there was a very good chance Selene Priya would be dead. And he had no intention of letting a bright young hacker that had been clever enough to leave behind such clues die in the hands of sex traffickers.

Chapter Text

“Give us a moment, will you?” Q asked with a tilt of his head towards Sherlock who paused mid-step. His brother turned to look at him.

“Sherlock?” Dr. Watson glanced between the two of them.

“I'll see you inside,” Sherlock was surprisingly conciliatory. Dr. Watson nodded and headed into the observation room with Lestrade and Donovan.

“Gimme your scarf,” Q said, unwrapping his own and handing it over. He saw Sherlock's brow wrinkle as he undid his and reluctantly handed it over. Q put it on and opened his military-style coat so that it hung loosely like Sherlock's before he popped the collar over the scarf.

“Glasses,” Sherlock added with a point of his gloved fingers.

“Oh, gloves please,” Q held out his hand.

Sherlock frowned and reluctantly pulling them off and handing them over. Q pull them over his own, flexing his fingers within to find them a bit looser than he liked. His brother had slightly thicker fingers than him, but it would do for what he needed it to do.

“Glasses,” his brother pointed out again.

Q shrugged and shook his head, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket over the newly acquired gloves. “Won't matter. Besides, I don't have contacts with me.” He caught the frown growing deeper in the corner of his eyes before Sherlock's head canted slightly. He knew his brother was trying to puzzle out how he was going to approach this interrogation.

“Sherlock, don't try. This is what I've perfected for years. Though I guess if you want to borrow it after for future cases, you could imitate a facsimile of it,” Q smiled ruefully at him before smoothing out his own expression and letting hints of how he operated 001 seep into him. Even though it was mere weeks ago, it still felt so natural after all this time.

He noted Sherlock's frown further deepening as he saw the minute changes before his brother turned on his heel and gripped the doorknob that would take him into the observation room. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Q replied with just a touch of fond coldness in it.

Sherlock entered and closed the door behind him, leaving Q in the hallway for a moment. He closed his eyes, centering himself before opening them. His expression was neutral, not completely 001 with his disdainful mien and sociopathic tendencies, but neither was he fully Q with the warmth, genuine smiles and curiosity for what he liked. Ian Scott opened the door to the interrogation room and swept in, laptop bag at his side.

He immediately zeroed in on Mr. Eric Westley, former postman, alleged murderer of several trafficked victims and deliverer of body parts to clients. Westley was a fit man underneath the worn, but practical suit. A moderately expensive tie and pressed shirt – thread count indicating good cotton fibers. Suit jacket of tweed and cotton blend, it was worn to many places including most recently jury duty. Westley's hands were not cuffed and Ian immediately deduced that Mr. Westley was classified as a person of interest instead of a suspect even though Sherlock said otherwise.

Lestrade was trying to be careful with this considering there was a mole on the investigation team.

No representation if it was just basic questioning. But, with the warrant and the look inside his home, Mr. Westley had been staying elsewhere. He had been tipped off by someone on the force then if he was staying elsewhere. Lestrade had done the best job he could under circumstances without outright putting Westley under arrest.

“W-Who are you?” Westley frowned, his ruddy complexion blooming a bit red with nervousness as he tracked Ian's movements. He set his laptop bag down next to the metal chair and sat down in it.

He merely looked up at Westley, read him with an eye towards certain details related to the man's sexual habits from his clothes to how he held himself. Satsified with his cursory look, Ian folded his hands onto the table and leaned forward.

“You Sherlock Holmes? That it?”

Ian did not answer, keeping his expression neutral as he blinked once.

“Nah, you ain't him. Good attempt though, trying to intimidate me by looking like bloody Sherlock Holmes; detective with the funny hat, but no you're not-”

Ian had unfolded his fingers and turned his right palm upwards in a slow motion before absently picking at his glove-covered index finger. He looked back up at the postman who had stopped short, staring at the movement for a long moment. The man pressed his lips together tightly.

“Who are you? Huh? Can't stay silent all this time!”

Ian picked at his gloved finger again before tugging on it; noting out of the corner of his eye that the postman had reverted to staring at his gloved hand once more. The man's complexion looked a little redder. Ian kept his expression utterly neutral, breath even and let a little more of 001's tactics into his demeanor.

He did not need to look at the postman to know it rattled him, but the audible swallow the man gave was quite pleasing. Ian moved to pulling the glove a little bit off of his middle finger, wriggling his thumb just so-

“T-They'll arrest you, r-right here, right n-now, i-if you kill me...” The postman stuttered and Ian felt a swell of triumph in him. They were finally getting somewhere. “You, uh, you know that, right? Huh? That whatcha got in the bag?”

Ian looked back up at the postman, meeting his fearful gaze with a neutral one of his own. He saw the other man's eyes flick towards where he had put his laptop bag before looking back at him. Ian dismissed his gaze by looking down at his covered ring finger, pulling the glove up a few centimeters.

“Did he send you? Huh? That it? I w-won't flip! Y-You go back, tell him I-I won't flip. Won't say a damn thing! I'm fucking loyal! That's what I am. He trusted me to do it and I did it. I delivered-”

Ian looked back up and tilted his head. The postman swallowed heavily. His breath was harsh against the silence of the room, broken by the tinkling buzz of the fluorescent lights.

“Come on!” The man suddenly roared, leaning towards Ian. His ruddy complexion turning heavily red as his breath a loud wheeze. He slammed his hands onto the table, a feeble attempt to scare him into a reaction, but Ian merely stared with a slightly dead-eye gaze at Mr. Westley. “I did everything you wanted me to! I delivered and then some more! You can't say that I wasn't doing his work! What he wanted and ordered!”

It was the last word that Ian finally reacted. He narrowed his eyes a little and the postman sat back down, complexion paling just as fast as it had turned red. He began to shake his head back and forth, mouth open, but no sound coming out. “Nuh uh, no, no, no, no. Everything went as planned. I-I swear, I wouldn't have-”

001 finally spoke, allowing the familiar disdainful mien fully into his composure. “Selene Priya.”

“Fuck that bitch! I told him who they were looking for and he said he personally made sure she got assigned! They wanted her for the B-Barclays job! It was what they wanted in payment for-for all of w-what they're doing...”

Ian knew the postman had alighted when he had loosened his hold on the 001 persona and let his normal demeanor show to the other man; his expression became apoplectic.

“Y-You-!”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Westley. I am sure the Crown Prosecution and detectives at Scotland Yard will enjoy questioning you further,” Ian let a chilling smile appear on his lips as he stood up. He leaned over to grab his laptop bag and tossed a jaunty salute at the postman who turned purple with rage. He heard the muffled bang of a door opening in the room next door just as Mr. Westley lunged over the table in a furious scramble to get him.

However, Ian saw it coming a mile away and neatly side stepped the postman's attempt to throttle him. Westley went crashing to the other side of the table and Ian heard the jangle of the interrogation room door opening as two officers ran in and instantly subdued the postman with tasers drawn.

Westley grunts were muffled as he thrashed around the floor. The taser was let up and the man's breath came in gasps. “I'll kill you!” Westley screamed at him, trying feebily to break free as he was cuffed.

Ian kept his cold stare as he looked down at the enraged man. “You can try. I have no doubt of your abilities, Mr. Westley. William certainly didn't when you sodomized and ended his life. But, that's for our legal system to decide.” He let his smile turned unkind. “On the off chance you do get released in a certain amount of years, feel free to try.”

The postman roared and tried to fight back before Ian side stepped the two officers still struggling to contain Mr. Westley.

He walked out of the door, pulling off Sherlock's gloves and loosened the scarf around his neck as he tucked the remnants of 001 deep within himself. Q saw his brother and Dr. Watson emerge from the observation room. Sherlock had a gleam in his eyes while Dr. Watson was staring at him a little wide-eyed with a mixture of both awe and of trepidation.

Shouts for arrest and detainment echoed down the hall and Q glanced towards the sound.

“Lestrade knows who it is,” Sherlock murmured, stepping up and accepting his scarf and gloves. Q took his own back and wrapped it around his neck as he buttoned up his coat and smoothed down his collar. “Good job, Ian,” Sherlock looked pleased.

“You...” Dr. Watson breathed out a gusty breath before shaking his head in bewilderment as the three of them took their leave of New Scotland Yard, leaving Lestrade and Donovan to deal with the fallout of the mole or moles on the force.

Q sensed that the doctor had more to say, but didn't exactly want to say it until they had more privacy. It was only until they were in the cab headed back to 221B Baker Street that the doctor seemed to marshal his courage and stare at Q who sat across from both of them in the cab.

“Double-o, huh?”

“Former,” Q replied with a small shrug. “I don't do that work anymore.”

“Didn't really believe it until I saw it, but hard to break the habit though,” the doctor's fear and awe in his gaze had disappeared, leaving a glint that looked critical and analytical. It seemed Dr. Watson had definitely picked up a lot of habits from the years of friendship with Sherlock.

“A little, but in this case, it was useful.” Q admitted. He liked Dr. Watson and found him to be a very good friend and partner to his older brother. Q knew that whatever he and Bond made of their own relationship, it would probably never be as close as Sherlock and Dr. Watson, but perhaps it was something to consider. For one thing, Q was happy no matter what Bond wanted to do with his love life. Q knew Sherlock tried to be happy for Dr. Watson and Mrs. Watson, but he had struggled for a long time to try to figure out where he belonged in the marriage and subsequently when Rosie was born. The point was moot now considering Mrs. Watson's untimely death, but Q knew his brother always struggled to share anything he deemed his own and was very protective about it.

Q knew he had to share Bond, no matter what. They both were too loyal to their country to be selfish with anything else.

“I can see the resemblance,” Dr. Watson looked rueful, glancing back between Sherlock who audibly scoffed and Q who snickered.

“Still think I'm the sane one?” Q teased.

“Relatively speaking, yeah,” the doctor grinned, “compared to high-functioning sociopath here and...Mycroft.”

Q laughed. He liked that Mycroft had his own special designation. After a few seconds Sherlock chuckled too.

“I do have to ask since I'm at a loss here, but how did you get him to crack?”

Q glanced at his brother who grinned sharply at him before he lifted one of his re-gloved hands.

“Q obviously read Mr. Westley here and adjusted his mannerisms to fit the profile of an assassin whose under the employ of Serbian-”

“-Albanian-”

“-Albanian-based traffickers. Gloves are a big communication thing among the families and gangs involved. Stitched gloves are a big thing and so it's a wonder the postman didn't fold so quickly. I liked the bit where he thought you were there to silence him.”

“But how did you know?” Dr. Watson looked back and forth between both of them.

“Personal experience,” Q left it at that and saw the smile slip away from Sherlock's expression and even Dr. Watson's brow wrinkling. Sherlock understood what he was referencing. His first two kills gaining him double-o status. “There are similar patterns. It was a bit of a guess, but after reading Mr. Westley, it was the right way to proceed.”

“So, what now?”

Q shifted in his seat as the familiar streets leading to 221B Baker Street passed by. He opened his laptop bag and pulled out his laptop. He gave his brother a look. “Mycroft will know what to do. Give about eight to ten hours. That's when they'll probably find it. We have nearly twenty-four hours left.”

Sherlock's expression did not betray his unhappiness, but his brother did tent his fingers together in a pensive gesture. Q's look turned into one of a silent warning. There was nothing that could be done. This was the most expedited way and they both knew it.

“Lestrade should have the mole or moles in custody by now,” his brother stared at him with steady grey-blue eyes.

“That's the saving grace.”

“I can't stop him.”

“You mean, you won't stop him.”

“You picked him,” Sherlock nearly sneered.

“Anthea should have it handled. She'll ensure he's reminded of operational status.”

Sherlock snorted and Q could see Dr. Watson looking back and forth at them again, curiosity openly displayed on his face, but knowledgeable enough to not interrupt their conversation.

The cab pulled up to 221B and Sherlock opened the door with a little more force than necessary. He was definitely unhappy as he and Dr. Watson stepped out.

“Uh, you're not coming?”

“Not at the moment, Dr. Watson. However, please do give Rosie my best,” Q smiled at the older man. He flipped open his laptop, but did not power it on. His gesture was not missed by the doctor who opened his mouth a couple of times.

“H-Hang on-”

Q reached over and closed the door before the doctor could say anything else. He nodded once at the two of them before reaching behind him to knock on the window separating the front from the passenger section. “St. Paul's Cathedral,” he requested.

“Gonna cost you,” the cabbie looked surprised.

Q handed over a credit card and watched him swipe it for the current fare before starting a new one. His card was given back and Q pocketed it.

“St. Paul's it is,” the driver replied before pulling away and headed back into London traffic.

Q powered on the laptop and settled himself as he begun to type. The Barclays hacking group would be stopped first. And then, the rest would fall like dominos. The trap was about to be sprung.

Chapter Text

Q never did arrive at St. Paul's Cathedral. The fact that he was abducted in the middle of Trafalgar Square gave him valuable intelligence that this group of sex-murder-organ traffickers had been operating with near impunity. He was taken from the cab with minimal trouble, the cabbie thankfully let go with a growling warning. Then they had kicked and punched Q into submission before stuffing him into boot of the car. A bag was placed over his head and his hands bound. It was only after an hour of driving – half of it aimless according to the sway of the car – that he found himself hauled to a room with low humidity and acrid, metallic smell.

Blood.

Q gingerly licked his lips, mouthing the bleeding cut on the corner. He grimaced as they threw him painfully against the wall, his aching ribs protesting the movement. Sliding down, he found himself sitting in a wet puddle as the bag was ripped off of his head. He blinked owlishly, automatically reaching up to adjust his glasses as the world came into focus before him.

Q considered himself resilient and not that squeamish towards blood – one had to be when dealing with international terrorists and other sorts of bad people – but even he felt slightly ill as he realized he had slid down into a puddle of blood.

Fresh blood.

He grimaced as he looked around him, ignoring the laughter of his captors who stood a few feet away, leering at him. The grime covered wall was slick with darkened red stains and bits of purple-pink matter that Q knew was either rotten organs or brain matter. Old graffiti painted other parts, but it was clear that he was definitely in the heart of where the actual operation happened to the victims.

It made the footage of the postman's hidden basement tame.

His captors made comments and though Q's Slavic and Albanian language was a little rusty since he had not had much practice with it for years, he recognized bits and pieces of what his captors were snickering about. He frowned and shied back against the wall as one approached before the man stepped back and laughed, pointing at him and making a comment on how shy and skittish he was.

Q knew he could probably take out every single person in this room, albeit with some injury since he was still far removed from his double-o days. He already read that at least three of the five men had floating livers and were well on their way towards permanent cirrhosis. The other two had weakened hearts from a little too much drugs in their systems. If they were not eliminated by the boss of the organization soon, they would find bullets in their heads within a week – they were stealing from the drugs given to the victims of the ring.

But he was not a double-o and he was under strict supervision. He could not interfere. Disobeying M at this juncture was a one-way ticket to prison, Board of Inquiry or not.

There was also the matter of actually finding Selene Priya somewhere in the facility. So, he shied away from them, his self-preservation instincts kicking into gear at the leers and comments the men gave.

One was saying he was older than the type the boss and the others of the organization went for, but perhaps a little more seasoned would do. The others chuckled and another boldly reached out to run a rough hand through his hair. Q resisted the urge to flinch and managed to just shrink himself against the wall. The smell of rotten flesh and copper blood was making him a little nauseous.

The hand was removed and the pejorative for twink was thrown at Q. He kept his expression neutral finding it distasteful. It was not the first time he had been wrongly assumed to be gay or otherwise. It was also not the first time such words were directed at him – both as Q and as 001. Still, it had been a while since he had heard such derogatory comments directed at him. Mycroft would say he had gotten soft in his age, having earned the respect of others so much that he forgot what it was like out among the goldfish.

His captors laughed again before a sound made them turn and their laughter die a little. Q saw someone else enter the room. She was a little heavyset, but wore a smart-looking, tailored outfit of dark blue jacket, dress pants paired with a cream-colored blouse. She had small hooped earrings and her hands were lacquered and painted with expert French tips.

Q realized that unlike the trafficking rings in the Slavic countries and in Eastern Europe, this particular vicious one was run by a woman. Highly unusual, but the deference the five others showed to her as she walked in with her wedge-heeled boots showed that she was definitely in charge.

“So you're the miscreant who helped Ms. Priya,” her English was lightly accented and almost pitch perfect Received Pronunciation. She had worked hard to eliminate almost all traces of a foreign accent in an effort to blend in or even rise to her high position. Q read that she had Oxford or Cambridge education which meant she had connections into the British government. That explained the postman and the mole within New Scotland Yard. How she had come about to running a sex-organ-trafficking ring was even beyond him at the moment.

He pushed his glasses up his nose out of reflex, but also in an attempt to look brave with his hands bound and clothes soaking in organic matter. The coat that Bond gave to him years ago would not be salvaged at this rate and he quietly mourned its destruction as it hung off of his shoulders.

“Commendable, what both of you found,” the woman reached back and Q's laptop, slightly scuffed from the abduction, was put into her hand. It still held the screen of the DOS prompt he had been typing in when he left 221B Baker Street.

“Here's where you think you have a choice and you may be brave, but know you are not. You do not have a choice. You will help us either way. With your body-” The woman gave him an unsubtle look, boldly reaching down and squeezed him in between his legs before he could even kick out in reaction, “-as your last act on this earth, which then you'll be promptly shot dead and dismembered like the others or with your capabilities as a hacker.”

“What guarantees I won't be dead if I use my abilities?” Q knew the answer was most likely pointless, but he was compelled to ask – if not for information.

The woman smiled unkindly as she stood back up. “Nothing. Live a few more hours or die in ten minutes after your body's been used.”

Q privately thought she had a little too much of a wannabe megalomaniac, especially for someone of her station and means, but he was wise enough not to say the thought out loud. He had encountered far worse than she as he schooled his expression to a neutral one. He still had not found Ms. Priya yet. Some light legwork would be in order.

“I'd rather live then,” Q said.

The woman smirked at him and snapped the laptop close. “Good boy. I'll keep this for safe keeping. See to it he's comfortable.”

Q winced as he was ignominiously hauled up from the refuse and organic matter and marched through two doors. He was thrown into a room where several folding tables covered in monitors and cabling were arrayed. A few folding chairs were set out, one occupied by a curtain of tattered clothes, bluish-hued skin from the monitors and stringy long hair.

“Selene,” Q breathed out, realizing who was sitting in front of the monitors.

The mass startled and wide brown eyes shot up to meet his own. Selene Priya looked frightened and Q growled out in anger at the state of the young hacker. She clearly had been abused and beaten in the scant twenty-four hours since she was reported missing. From the looks of her split and chapped lips, they barely gave her water and he suspected they probably did not feed her.

“Ian...what-”

“Sit,” one of his captors punched Q in the ribs, making him gasp and groan in pain at the bruising. They had just barely healed from his sojourn in the South China Sea and Q could feel the draw of his own breath sending sharp shooting splinters up and down his body. Hairline fractures. He was forced down into a chair across from Selene and saw her eyes grow fearful as she shook her head – trying to warn him not to provoke them.

“Work, or we shoot-”

“I need her, she needs me,” Q quickly stated, earning a back-hand for his trouble. He tasted blood as his lip split further. He grimaced and spoke past it. “Whatever you've got her doing, she needs to continue. It's clear you want me to help, so shooting us won't do you any good.”

One of the men glared at him before chambering a round and pointing the gun to Q's head. “Work.”

“All right, all right,” Q knew when to back off and lifted his hands to let them cut the tie binding them together. They did, scraping the edges of the sharp knife in a superficial wound across the edges of his skin. He hissed in pain, but turned back and stared at the screen he was placed in front.

It took him a moment to orient himself and he felt the barrel of the gun dig into his head, but resolutely ignored it. “What's happening here, Selene? Talk to me,” he said, keeping his voice soothing and steady.

“M-My o-old group...Barclays hack,” Selene's voice was the barest of whispers as she typed haltingly on her keyboard.

Q studied the prompt window to see it scroll through with several different lines of codes. “I see, but what am I seeing?”

“A-Attempts to get into MI5's s-servers. N-Need to e-erase data,” Selene replied.

Q resisted the urge to groan. They were never going to get in. He had upgraded the security around the servers after Mrs. Watson had hacked her way through them with her mobile of all things. Mycroft had come to him with the utmost reluctance. But, it did tell him that this operation was very domestically entrenched if they were going to go through the trouble of erasing their existence.

“Have you tried the Elsp methods?”

“Y-Yeah...” Selene made a small noise of fear and Q saw that one of the other gunman had approached her, gun drawn.

“Hey-” The barrel dug deep into his hair and he turned his head slightly to see his own captor shaking his head.

“Work.”

“All right, all right,” Q typed listlessly on the prompt screen. A few lines of junk code. He had no doubts that these computers were monitored by the hacking group Selene used to be part of that was responsible for the Barclays hack.

The harsh shrill of a mobile ringing made both of them jump to see the captor that had been drawing his gun against Selene pause and pick it up. “Got it,” the man said after a few seconds and hung up. He immediately pointed his gun at Selene and flicked the safety off.

She screamed a short sharp one and lifted her hands away from the keyboard, trying to shield herself.

“They said you typed in junk code,” the man glared at Q and he realized that this group was sharp enough to know what he was doing.

“Just testing things out. I'll get right to it,” Q murmured, “just...put the gun down, okay? Selene, you'll be all right. Just tell me what you all went through so I don't try to re-tread a few things.”

The safety was flicked back on and the gun pointed downwards as Selene inched back to her computer. She started typing in a halting manner again. “Rumsford style, Janus and we're on Yggdrasil.”

“You need a very powerful server for Yggdrasil,” Q was surprised, but nonetheless, started to type again. He put in a few lines of coding that he knew worked with the Yggdrasil manner and flicked a look at the captor standing next to Selene. There was no shrill ring of the mobile which meant the ones on the computer approved of what he was doing.

“They're probably still using the old one at Ascent. Left doors vulnerable,” Selene muttered mostly to herself.

Q ran through a list of known computer server locations within domestic U.K. that could provide such capabilities and didn't quite come up with much. There were too many variables and he knew he could not pry at the moment – not until he got more data or if more time passed. Instead absently licked his lips, tasting blood and settled himself into his chair some more.

“Any chance we could get a little more juice? Yggdrasil does take a lot of power and codes.”

Selene laughed, a watery and bitter sound before settling into typing lines of code. Q mirrored her, but went about it more slowly. He had to buy Scotland Yard time...and if he really was thinking about it, more than likely a certain double-o who was currently in a mission-mandated leave for the next forty-eight hours. Anthea would certainly remind Bond that MI6 had not jurisdiction on domestic cases, but he would not put it past the stubborn double-o to standby idly if he knew what was going on.

He could only hope that there would be enough time before the woman who ran this operation was curious enough to plug in his laptop to their network, or when they found his tracker on his ankle.

Chapter Text

In the end, it took New Scotland Yard roughly four hours and forty-five minutes to breach the facility that Q and Selene Priya had been kidnapped to. Q suspected it took them this long to scope the place and determine the entry point in which to breach. The entry of the police force might have also been determined when the leader of the operation had gotten curious enough and plugged his laptop into their network – shutting it down immediately with its viral payload and inserting tracer worms across all other connections.

MI5 would have a very fun day sifting through that data to find the rest of the Barclays hacking group. Scotland Yard would join them and there would be a row about who got jurisdiction, but Q didn't care at the moment.

The first inkling of the raid by the authorities came when the power suddenly cut out. But Q had been ready since he was thrown into the computer room. He sprung into action, kicking his folding chair back with his leg, knocking his captor to the ground. He dove to the side and rolled on top of the other man, punching him once in his floating liver as Selene's captor tracked them with his gun and fired several shots.

Two pinged off of the concrete ground before Q managed to roll the body of his captor over him to catch three more bullets, the man dying with a groaning sound. He wrest the gun from the man's limp hands, but didn't fire it and instead, threw it at Selene's captor.

The other man shouted and ducked from the projectile, but Q was already moving again, dashing up and ripping a keyboard from its place and smashing it across the other man's face, making him scream and drop his gun as he fell across several monitors.

“Bolt the door!” Q shouted to Selene as he raised the keyboard again. She scrambled past him and hurried to the door, scrabbling with it just as Q smashed his improvised weapon into the man's head, knocking him unconscious with his blow. He turned to see Selene shakily step away from the door, looking at him with wide eyes among the flickering remnants of light from the monitors and computer towers plugged into UPS packs.

“H-How...” she started before she collapsed, sobbing into her hands.

Q glanced over to see the UPS units giving warning beeps. They were five-minute ones and would soon be drained of their power. From the monitors, he could see automatic lines of code executing the program he had written wrecking havoc on the networked servers. It destroyed whatever connection and progress the Barclays group had made with the Yggdrasil methods into MI5 servers and was already sending incriminating geolocation markers and files to the MI5 and Scotland Yard servers themselves. The hackers themselves, wherever they were located were probably trying to disconnect their own networks.

Q set the keyboard down and went over to relieve the knocked-out man of his gun. He picked up the spare one and shoved both into his pant pockets after checking to make sure the safety was on. He shed his coat, grimacing at the stale, sour smell of it as he approached Selene carefully.

“Hey...it's me, Ian...I'm coming over with a coat for you, okay?” he said carefully.

Selene continued to cry.

Q knelt down next to her and saw her flinch as he gingerly put the coat over her shoulders. He sat down next to her, tentatively taking one of her hands into his own. She suddenly clung onto him, sobbing into his shoulder.

He made a small soothing noise as he patted her hand. “It's going to be all right...it's over now...okay?” He could feel her nod against his shoulder, soaking his clothes with tears.

The last of the backup power went out, plunging them into darkness. It was also then that Selene finally relaxed against his shoulder. With his free hand, he drew out one of the guns he had put into his pocket and held it loosely in front, finger flicking the safety off, ready to pull the trigger should anyone unwanted breached the room. The muffled shouts and one or two pops of gunfire rattled the door beyond their room.

It was breached ten minutes later and Q took a deep breath as the doors were forced open.

He lowered his hand from the trigger, flicking the safety back on and slid the gun away as he saw the heavily armored figure peer in. He was dressed head-to-toe in gear that denoted MI5's tactical unit with balaclava and goggles masking his features. The man's flashlight and gun swept around before they slid to him and Selene.

“Assets acquired,” the voice was muffled, but its undeniable tone wanted to make Q smile.

Instead, he settled for a fond look at the masked figure and reached over with his other hand to pull out the second gun and slid it away from him. He saw Bond, disguised as a member of the MI5 assault team look towards where he slid the guns.

“One of them is still alive for questioning,” Q stated as more beams of light approached. Lestrade along with Sergeant Donovan rushed in.

“Mr. Scott, Ms. Priya,” Lestrade stated and Q grimaced as he pushed himself up from the floor. He bent to pull Selene up, but stopped with a sharp indrawn breath as his ribs protested. Bond immediately came over to help lift her up. Q's coat fell to the floor and the disguised agent glanced down at it.

“Leave it. They destroyed it with blood and gore,” Q said tiredly. He could almost imagine the slight flicker of concern from Bond judging by the way the double-o was carrying Selene with one arm slung around his shoulder. Q turned and nodded at Lestrade. “Detective-Inspector. I see Sherlock made good use of certain information.”

“Dangerous is what it was, absolutely nutter and dangerous,” Lestrade huffed before looking around at the darkened monitors. His frown fixated on the bloody keyboard Q had used as an improvised weapon. “Should have warned us first. You're just as crazy as he is.”

Q snickered before wincing at the twinge his ribs gave. “One doesn't just become friends with Sherlock Holmes, Detective-Inspector.”

“Yeah, sure. Take them to the medical unit. We'll catch up in a second.”

“One of them is alive for questioning,” Q added.

“Oh, generous of you,” Lestrade looked mollified.

Q briefly wondered if he and M ever met considering it was something M might have said if he was a double-o. With that, Q followed Bond and Selene out, noting both Yarders and MI5 personnel were starting to canvas the space. He did not see any sign of the other captors or of the woman, but it was clearly out of his hands.

Q soon found himself sitting in the back of one of the ambulances while Selene was lying within it, attended to by the medics. He himself had an orange shock blanket around him, his injuries deemed not so serious as Selene's who look practically catatonic with tears still streaming silently down her face. Bond hung out nearby, pretending he was guarding them from any enterprising person aside from Lestrade who wanted to question them.

Q had whispered to one of the medics to discreetly give Selene the option of a rape kit. He had no doubts that twenty-four hours in this ring's care she would have definitely been assaulted in some fashion. It was something he wished he could have prevented, but he knew he could not dwell on it. What was done was done and all he could offer now was his sympathies and hope that the judicial system gave justice to her.

“You don't look too bad,” Sherlock's drawl made him look up from where he had all but huddled into his blanket to see his brother and Dr. Watson approach. Both looked relaxed and Q could easily deduce that both had watched the operation go down from whatever tactical vehicle they had been secreted in before they were allowed to wander the crime scene.

“Split lip, probably need stitches. Maybe some binding around the ribs. Got kicked for my troubles,” Q admitted. “Hopefully won't affect the cure.” He lifted his ankle against the lift of the ambulance. “They didn't find this at all, so I can't run away.”

“Or get a limb cut off for your trouble,” Sherlock had jammed his hands deep into his coat's pockets, but Q could tell he was itching to fiddle with something or to reach out to examine him.

“I'm fine, Sherlock,” he reassured his brother. “I'm fine,” he added a touch louder to make sure Bond could hear from where he was still pretending to stand guard.

He saw Sherlock turn his head to stare at the nearby armored MI5 agent before rolling his eyes and audibly scoffing. Dr. Watson looked a little confused before shrugging and deciding whatever Sherlock was being annoyed about, he was not going to care.

“Lestrade shouldn't have taken so long-”

“It was within the parameters we discussed. He breached earlier than I expected though.”

“No thanks to Mycroft's...reassurances,” Sherlock growled with a touch of annoyance.

“Persistence,” Dr. Watson interjected. “I think your brother threatened to remove the pension plan for Yarders in the next budget should Lestrade delay any longer.”

“Then the plan worked as expected,” Q shrugged.

“Yeah, about that...” Lestrade's voice piped up before the man jogged up to them. There was no Sergeant Donovan to shadow him and Q suspected the woman was probably in charge of directing others. “I did make mention that you were an associate of Sherlock's, so you won't be pulled in for questioning or have your name appear on reports for Mr. Westley's...questioning, but this...this is going to be harder to explain. Especially with Five involved.”

“Still an associate of Sherlock's,” Q wanted to take a deep breath, but the twinge in his ribs stopped him. Instead, he pulled his blanket closer around him. The shock blankets were quite warm if not stiff in fabric and polymers designed to retain heat. “And you can say Ms. Priya's laptop was the one to breach through their firewalls and dump their systems to Yards and Five. After all, I only mimicked her hacking style to write programs. My laptop is definitely destroyed in all of that, pre-programmed to since it is Six's property, but hers is also still hooked up to whatever is left of their network and can stand as evidence.”

“They saw you leave this place,” Lestrade frowned, but did not protest his plan of action to ensure Ian Scott would never show up on this report.

“Did they...?” Q gestured with his chin towards a sleek black Jaguar that pulled up in a rather timely manner.

Tanner got out, head swiveling around, clearly looking for him before the other man spotted him. Q slipped out of his blankets and climbed off of the back of the ambulance.

Lestrade looked bemused, rubbing his chin while his other hand was on his hip. He could clearly see that the detective-inspector was clearly thinking that this was perhaps a little too much cloak and dagger for himself. Q briefly wondered what the detective would think of an actual double-o infiltrating the MI5 response team. Bond would eventually ex-filtrate himself out without any issues, but it still amused Q that his friend had thought of the most clever way to circumvent the rules preventing any MI6 employee from disrupting domestic cases. The thought was filed away as he held out his hand towards Lestrade.

“Lestrade,” he stated, shaking hands with him.

“Mr. Scott,” the older man returned.

Q glanced at Sherlock and Dr. Watson, giving them a silent nod before he headed towards Tanner and the car that was sent to get him. As he approached, he greeted his friend with a tired smile.

“Heeded M's warning as much as possible, but I've bruised my ribs. Don't know if that'll set the cure back,” Q replied as he slipped into the back of the car. Tanner got into the front. “Probably best to head to Medical.”

“Medical it is,” Tanner replied sagely and they drove off.

Chapter Text

Moneypenny decided that if Q could not come out for their normal Saturday dinner, then she and Tanner would bring the dinner to his place. His friends brought takeout from a local soup dumpling place along with heapings of delicious rice porridge that could easily double as breakfast and a lot of soft foods. Q did appreciate his friends' efforts to work around his lip injury by plying him with soft foods or soups.

The night was also passed with two rounds of Scrabble with Q beating them soundly and one round of 'Ticket to Ride' which Tanner beat both of them by making some long convoluted rail line that netted him the bonus in the end. Moneypenny came a close second, off by two points while Q had found himself blocked and boxed in, scraping only the barest points to actually go from destination to destination.

Tanner left shortly after that, owing to an early Sunday morning where he had to gather reports together for M to brief the PM on Monday for an operation they had dealt with the past week.

“005 had a spot of trouble in her mission. Required us to consider sending out 006 to eliminate her. Morale's not too good right now, what with all of the rumors regarding your suspension and some suspecting Bond was sent after you,” Moneypenny sighed into her wine glass. It was her fourth one of the evening and she was definitely on the verge of being drunk if not heavily tipsy.

Q was on his second, but it was only on doctor's orders that he not drink anymore than two glasses every other night. He had been sent home with tape around his ribs and stitches on his lips as well as painkillers. Q forwent the painkillers, finding them bad for his brain when he tried to code. He was also issued a new laptop to use since the remnants of his old one was considered evidence by New Scotland Yard.

“Ms. Richards is exceedingly loyal,” Q frowned. “She'd be one of the last ones I think would turn.”

“That's what we thought for a while until there was evidence otherwise. She discovered an old flame working as a CIA mole during her operation and had to eliminate him. Didn't so much as resign as more like gone scorched earth with the whole mission.”

Q tilted his head and stared at Moneypenny as the former 008 looked listlessly at her wine glass. “Q branch then discovered that the old flame was still alive, was still in the CIA and was definitely not a mole. In fact, he saved her life during her rampage and our friends on the other side of the pond showed her that someone had come up with some sophisticated technology that could make someone look almost like another person. Granted, some cosmetic surgery needed to be done before they used this face-changer or whatever it is, but it's creepy.”

“And 005?”

“Leave of absence for the next two weeks. Officially.” Moneypenny turned her glass in her hand, “Unofficially, spending some time with her old flame.”

“It could compromise her,” Q warned quietly.

“Yeah. But I think she's knows better. Sharon is a smart woman. I liked her back when I was running around. She knows how to keep things discreet. I have half a mind to spread that rumor so morale maybe would improve. But I like my job a little too much. All double-o's are drama queens.”

Q hummed in agreement. Of all the double-o agents, 005 was one of the best at discretion and undercover work. She was in ways, opposite of Bond, but held her own in her own way. However, her destruction of Q branch equipment rivaled that of Bond's. The only thing that did not make her the enemy of the branch was that she kept her equipment for a long as humanly possible, and even beyond, before having it destroyed.

He sipped his own wine, his other hand absently scratching Nikola underneath her chin. She purred and continued to let him pet her. He itched to get his hands on that face-changing technology. If the Americans had created something like that, it would be such a marvel to send into the field with a double-o.

“The technology was destroyed,” Moneypenny suddenly said.

“Blueprints,” Q interjected.

She shook her head. “Apparently not found, according to the head of their Research and Development department.”

Q blinked, surprised at the boldness of his American counterpart. Though he still itched to get his hands on the technology, he understood why his counterpart did that. It was the same exact reasoning he had destroyed years and years worth of research into virulent diseases and transmission vectors when he infiltrated Safin's base.

Hopefully the CIA gave his American counterpart a little more leeway than he had been given for destroyed technology that valuable. He sipped his wine again and fell into an amicable silence for a while.

It was broken when Moneypenny set her glass down and stared at him from across the love seat she sat in. “So...”

“Hmm?”

“Speaking of discretion, are you sure nothing's going on between you and Bond?”

Q tilted his head and stared at Moneypenny. “Are you sure that something is going on between the two of us? From what you told me a few days ago, he's returned from London after his mission and I'm assuming going about his usual post-mission leave of absence, right?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Moneypenny looked thoughtful. “He's already been by headquarters, but doesn't seem to have been his usual self. And like I told you earlier in the week, he's seemed different after he visited you about a month ago.”

“Usual self?”

“Bond's always come in looking for his next mission if he's not assigned one. He doesn't take the full mandatory leave. Tanner's been pulling his hair out trying to get Bond to take the mandatory leave because it is a technical violation of the regulations we have in place. The last time Bond actually did that was when went on his unauthorized mission in Mexico City. And even then, it was a forced leave and he was already assigning himself the follow-up mission in Rome.”

“Ah, so that's how it started,” Q had been wondering why Bond had come in a little more manic than usual when he was outfitted with the Smart Blood and the explosive watch.

“Never mind that. A day after he returned to London, he just came in, saw us going about 005's mission and handed in his paperwork – paperwork mind you – before leaving like nothing had happened. Bond also never does paperwork unless it's overdue. He got these on-time! He was relaxed, he was...calm, collected, something that wasn't his usual self!”

Q stared at Moneypenny like she had grown another head. He had to concede that she did have a point regarding Bond and paperwork, so to hear that he had submitted his after action reports for his mission in escorting Irene Adler back to the states already was rather unheard of. But, Q also knew it was probably the most mundane mission one had to give a double-o.

“Scared half of your minions when he walked out. Nomi was giving him odd looks.”

“So...why would you think I'd be somehow involved?”

“I don't know! Your minions always says he's animated in a subdued way, interested in the technology by fiddling with it, and curiously loitering. He did none of that! You're not there! You're involved!” Moneypenny threw her hands up in frustration before wincing, “Shite, I'm drunk aren't I?”

“That is your fourth glass...” Q pointed out unhelpfully.

“Get me a cab. I need to go home and throw up,” his friend threw a hand over her eyes and Q chuckled lightly. He obliged her request and had her shortly out of the door and into the cab, already paid for so she could just stagger up to her flat once she got out.

“Goodnight, Eve,” he called out as her cab drove away.

Q cleaned up the glasses and put the cork back into the wine bottle before heading upstairs himself to get some sleep.

He did think it was odd that Bond was calm of all moods when he was not there. But the way Moneypenny had described Bond whenever he was present in Q branch made it seem he was quite manic when literally it was the opposite. Bond was focused, intent on the technology and though he occasionally did poke and prod at things he really had no business touching in Q branch, he had paid careful attention whenever he was outfitted.

The only thing Moneypenny probably described correctly was Bond scaring the minions. They were quite jumpy...even the senior ones like Arthur, Geoff, Judith and Vanya.

Q sighed and turned over in his blankets before closing his eyes to sleep.

It came restlessly and he spent the night dreaming about a shadowy figure waiting for him on a beach. But the figure would not turn, even as he tried to call to the person. Their name was stuck in his throat and he knew it was a clandestine meeting of sorts. Q woke up with a shiver and sense of exhaustion as if he had shouted himself hoarse. He wondered if it was because he was healing from his wounds with the updated cure that the nightmares would still continue.

He reached over to his nightstand and texted Tanner. [Nightmares]

[Noted. Let us know if it happens again tonight. Your dose was adjusted to accommodate for new injuries]

Q dropped his mobile back onto the end table and scrubbed roughly at his eyes. Maybe Bond wouldn't mind him dropping in again tonight. If not to have someone at least watch over and wake him should nightmares start happening again. He did not want a repeat of an endless loop that left him for three days without a sense of coherency.

But, before he could continue to contemplate it, his doorbell rang and Q blinked in puzzlement. Who would be calling or ringing him this early in the Sunday morning? The doorbell rang again and one of the cats, Schrodinger who hated early mornings, meowed as the pitter-patter of feet indicated they were headed downstairs.

“Coming,” Q groaned as he hauled himself out of his bed, putting on his robe before shoving his feet into his slippers. “Coming!” he shouted in irritation as the doorbell rang again.

He padded downstairs, ignoring his cats who were winding their way across his feet, meowing and demanding to be fed now that he was up earlier than their usual feeding time. He looked at the doorbell camera and saw that it was a delivery person holding a parcel that looked suspiciously like a garment bag.

Q buzzed open the first door and pushed open the second one, shivering at the chill winter air.

“Good morning, sir. Sorry for the early delivery, but we were told to deliver at this exact time. If you could sign here?” the delivery person handed him a tablet and Q scrawled an approximation of the alias registered to his flat before handing the tablet back.

“Here you go sir,” the garment back was handed over to him and the delivery person left.

Q closed the door behind him and stared at the bag before unzipping the top. A tag hung from what definitely looked like another copy of the military-style coat he had lost in the raid a few days ago. Q felt a smile creep up his face as he picked at the tag and read its short and succinct note.

[Dinner on me, 1830.]

“Well then...” Q murmured. If Bond was inviting him over, then who was he to refuse. Maybe there were benefits to being suspended. After all, Q knew he had almost a year to get to know James Bond outside of work and let James Bond know him. This present...this was a start.

~END~