BONDLOCK

A BIT NOT GOOD & STOP WITH THE KIDNAPPING

Author's Note:

Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade, James Bond/Q

Note: The third story in the "Bondlock: Little Brother" series. The full list can be found on my profile page.

Warnings: Mild language

Disclaimers: James Bond belongs to Ian Fleming and various other publishers/studios worldwide. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

Break into James' flat again and 221B will NEVER be safe– Q

Sherlock pouted at the iPhone and tossed it onto the coffee table. He then curled up on the sofa, long limbs folding in, until he was wrapped up in his long dressing gown.

'Serves you right,' John commented from his armchair.

Sherlock scowled, but didn't say anything. It had only been a few months since John had been informed that Sherlock had another sibling. Sherlock hadn't seen any point in bringing up Quillan until it was necessary; his younger brother contacting him and Mycroft to say his boyfriend had disappeared, well... Sherlock certainly saw that as necessary.

John was still a bit ticked off that Sherlock hadn't felt the need to inform him that there was another Holmes running around. Sherlock, wisely, didn't bring up the two cousins he had. Martin was hardly as intelligent as the Holmes brothers, and Anthony's father had made his mother cut herself off from the Holmes branch of her family, resulting in absolutely zero contact since Anthony and Mycroft were five. It was before Sherlock was even born, so he didn't bother himself with that side of the family.

He was sure there were some other Holmes relatives out there, but he didn't care enough to look for them. Mycroft and Quillan probably knew.

'Honestly,' John said, and Sherlock looked at him, 'breaking into a secret agent's flat.' He glared at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt himself wilt slightly. He didn't like it when John was mad at him. It made his insides go all twisty. Mycroft called it love. It made Sherlock want to slap his brother more than usual. 'You could have been shot, Sherlock,' John said.

'Bond's not an idiot, he wasn't about to kill me in his own flat,' Sherlock argued. 'He'll always wait for answers when the other person doesn't have a weapon.'

'Oh, you deduced that, did you?' John demanded.

Sherlock blinked. 'No, it was in his file; the one Mycroft gave me.'

John rolled his eyes and snapped his laptop shut with a sharp click. 'Fucking Holmeses,' he muttered as he stood, going into the kitchen.

Sherlock had heard that before; from John, Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, practically everyone he met who stuck around, really. He was aware that he and his siblings were odd, but he didn't see how it was his fault; most of his family was odd. A Holmes trait, it seemed.

'Are you eating dinner tonight?' John called from the kitchen.

Knowing his answer would affect his sleeping arrangements, Sherlock said, 'Yes, John.'

'Well, it's either tomato soup, the meatball-rice thing Mrs Hudson brought over, or takeaway.'

'I don't care,' Sherlock said and put his chin on his knees. He didn't understand why John was so upset. He broke into plenty of flats on a monthly basis. And John knew that Sherlock was going to confront James Bond about his treatment of Quillan. He hadn't been upset until Sherlock had got home and told him what happened...

Sherlock's frown deepened. He usually understood most things, but the inner workings of John Watson's mind continued to be a mystery. Then again, he didn't really want to understand; John's mind was one of the things that had attracted Sherlock to him.

'Meatballs it is, then,' John said, and busied himself dishing up a large amount into a bowl. Sherlock barely ate, even when he wasn't on a case, but he had no qualms about stealing food from John's bowl or plate or takeaway container. John had found it easier just to share with the genius.

Silence fell as John heated up their dinner, and Sherlock continued to stare vaguely at the television as he tried to work out why John was so upset. He thought of and dismissed a number of theories, all getting more and more ridiculous as the minutes passed. Eventually he shook the thoughts from his mind and tilted his head to watch John bustle about the kitchen.

His eyes were still trained on John when the doctor entered the sitting room, nudging at Sherlock to get him to move over. Sherlock did, and John sat with a large bowl of what looked like meatballs in a chunky sauce with rice. Sherlock scooted a bit closer as John turned the TV on, and obediently opened his mouth when John raised a forkful of food to him.

Sherlock chewed absently, still staring at John, and the doctor didn't say anything until the bowl was half-empty.

'What?' he asked.

'I don't understand why you're mad at me,' Sherlock said. He was loathe to admit when something perplexed him, but with John it was okay; John loved him.

John raised an eyebrow, turning to look at the consulting detective. After a few seconds, he said, 'You really don't, do you?'

Sherlock shook his head.

Sighing, John made Sherlock eat another mouthful of food. 'I'm pissed off,' he said, 'because you broke into a flat that's owned by a dangerous man.'

'But you knew he was dangerous when I told you that he was an MI6 agent,' Sherlock said. 'You didn't seem annoyed then.'

'That was before I knew that he'd greet you with a fucking gun!' John snapped.

Sherlock frowned. 'I don't understand.'

'Yeah, I got that,' John grumbled. He sighed and dropped the fork into the bowl, hand rising to rub his eyes. 'Sherlock... you get guns pointed at you on a fairly regular basis.'

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded.

'But usually I'm there, with my own gun,' John continued. He turned to look at Sherlock again, dark blue eyes narrowed. 'Usually I'm there to protect you. But you went there, to a fucking double-oh's flat, and got a gun pointed at you, and you were alone.'

He stressed the last word, still staring at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back. The cogs in his mind were whirring, shifting, clunking together as Sherlock tried to work out just what John was saying, what he was angry about. Finally, it all clicked together, and he breathed out a soft, 'Oh.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Figured it out, have you?'

'You're mad because...' Sherlock wet his lips, 'because I was in danger, and you weren't there to protect me.'

'I love you, Sherlock,' John said without looking at him. 'And you're my best friend. It's up to me to protect you.'

Sherlock frowned. 'No it's not. That's Mycroft's job.'

John huffed a laugh. 'Bet you wouldn't say that to his face.'

'No, I wouldn't,' Sherlock smiled.

'It is my job, Sherlock,' John said, serious again. 'It's been my job since we first met, remember?'

Sherlock nodded; he'd never forget the cabbie, the way John had killed someone to save Sherlock from his own mind.

'I don't care what you say- what anyone says,' John continued. 'I need to protect you, okay? And you running into fucking flats where men point guns at you is just not on. So next time you decide to stalk your brother's boyfriend, you fucking tell me so I can tag along.'

Sherlock nodded and said, 'Of course,' as quickly as he could. So John wasn't mad, per se... just annoyed that Sherlock had got into danger without back-up; without John. 'I promise,' he added.

'Good,' John said, apparently satisfied. 'Now eat.'

Sherlock took the bowl without complain and ate a few mouthfuls, smiling inwardly when John smiled at him.

'Oh, and don't break into secret agents' flats again, okay?' John added. 'Not only is it dangerous, but your brother called and threatened to set up cameras in the bedroom. Not even Mycroft's that evil.'

Sherlock smirked as he shoved another forkful of rice into his mouth. He loved Quillan's devious side.

{oOo}

If you meet with James again without my knowledge, I'll stalk Gregory via Scotland Yard's computers– Q

Mycroft sighed as he slid his BlackBerry back into his pocket. He'd expected the text, of course; both Sherlock and Quillan were rather fond of it. Mycroft preferred calling his siblings, but there wasn't much he could do when they ignored his calls. He tried to visit them at least once a month- Sherlock more often because of his fondness for getting into danger every three days- and most of those meetings were thinly veiled threats and words of hate being thrown back and forth. Mycroft couldn't really blame his siblings; he didn't help by rubbing their noses in his higher IQ and position in the government. Mycroft Holmes wasn't above pettiness.

He still liked to believe that he was the most mature out of the three.

The car pulled up in front of Mycroft's building, and he went over his schedule one last time with A- she was going by Anthea, again- before stepping from the vehicle and closing the door. He headed inside, using a key-card and code once in the elevator so he'd be taken to the top-most floor.

Mycroft let some of his wariness show as he stepped into the corridor, heading for the only door on this floor. He'd bought all the flats years ago, and converted the entire floor into his personal London residence. Gregory had been gobsmacked the first time he'd come up, as had John when he'd come over for dinner.

Sherlock, of course, continued to sneer and call Mycroft a pompous arse, while Quillan usually busied himself updating Mycroft's security and tinkering with his appliances. Mycroft still wasn't sure what his youngest brother had done to the microwave, but now it defrosted frozen steak in less than twenty seconds.

'You're home early!' Mycroft heard as soon as he'd shut the door. He smiled as he divested himself of his coat and umbrella, leaving both by the door as he walked down the hall and into the spacious living room/kitchen.

Gregory was standing before the stove, cooking what smelt like pasta, and Mycroft's smile widened. James Bond had a lot in common with certain men Mycroft knew.

'Yes, one of my meetings was cancelled,' Mycroft said and walked closer to his partner.

'Oh yeah?' Gregory asked, turning and offering Mycroft a quick kiss when the younger man got closer. 'Didn't have anything to do with you kidnapping your brother's boyfriend, then?'

Mycroft froze, before sighing. 'Sherlock or my assistant?'

'Neither,' Gregory smiled. 'Quillan called about ten minutes ago. He wanted to make sure I punished you properly for interfering in his life.'

'He wanted me to interfere two months ago,' Mycroft muttered. 'And why is it that he'll call you,but I only get a bloody text?'

''Cause I'm charming,' Greg winked, 'and I don't go on about his life choices and how much smarter I am and how-'

'Yes, I get it,' Mycroft interrupted, scowling when Greg's smirk widened. 'How upset was he?'

'Not much, he probably expected it after he called you for help,' Greg said and went back to stirring the pot of pasta sauce he had on the stove. 'It doesn't mean he liked it, though,' Gregory continued. 'I think Sherlock breaking into this James bloke's flat annoyed him more.'

'I told Sherlock not to,' Mycroft said. He pulled at his tie, at the same time tugging his jacket off, and left the kitchen to head for the bedroom.

'Since when has Sherlock ever listened to anyone?' Greg called.

'He listens to John bloody Watson,' Mycroft muttered to himself.

The hallway was long, with doors either side that led to bathrooms, guest rooms, a music room, a library, and two studies that he and Gregory used for work. Of course, they always ended up invading each other's personal space. They had just moved in together, and were still in a sort of "honeymoon phase". No doubt they would stop wanting to spend so much time together once they grew accustomed to co-habitating.

'Sometimes,' Mycroft amended when he thought of all the times Sherlock had ignored Doctor Watson and run head-first into danger. There were just some things Sherlock couldn't be talked out of, making sure his younger brother was safe being one of them.

Mycroft changed into comfortable, well-worn jeans, as well as a shirt and sweater. He always wore comfortable clothes at home, despite Sherlock and Quillan's theory that he lived in three-piece suits.

When he re-joined Gregory in the main living space, the DI was pouring sauce into two steaming bowls of pasta, and Mycroft felt his stomach rumble. He hadn't eaten since lunch, and it was currently eight. He pressed a kiss to Gregory's stubbled cheek and carried the bowls to the dining room, Greg following after him with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

They sat themselves at right angles so they could talk without having to raise their voices- Mycroft's dining room table was rather large- and also so Gregory could run his foot up and down Mycroft's leg and thigh during dinner; it was a favourite hobby of his, seeing how long Mycroft could remain calm and collected before snapping and throwing the police officer over the table.

'So, I think we have to have a chat,' Greg said when they'd got themselves comfortable.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he poured them both a glass of wine. 'Oh?'

'Mm, about this whole "kidnapping your brother's boyfriend" thing,' Greg said.

'I see,' Mycroft hummed. He put the bottle down, picked up his glass, and leaned back. 'Proceed,' he said and took a sip.

'Now see, Mycroft, people don't like being kidnapped,' Greg said, 'and you really, seriously, have to stop it... like, right now.'

Mycroft smiled. 'James Bond has been kidnapped before.'

Gregory blinked. 'Yeah, uh... that's really not the point.'

'I didn't even harm him, either physically or emotionally,' Mycroft said. 'I'm fairly certain it was the safest kidnapping he's ever gone through.'

Greg groaned and rubbed his eyes. 'Yeah, okay, I get that. But still, you can't just go around kidnapping people.' Mycroft's eyebrow went back up. 'Okay, I know you can, technically,' Greg huffed. 'But you shouldn't.'

'He hurt my brother, Gregory,' Mycroft reminded the older man. 'You know how protective I am of my siblings.'

'Yes, I know- God, do I know,' Greg muttered. Mycroft smiled, remembering the day he'd kidnapped Gregory. A fair bit of flirting had happened, as well as threats. It was a good day. 'But, just... you know why Quillan's upset, right?'

'I kidnapped his boyfriend, which is a "bit not good", as Sherlock would say,' Mycroft said. 'And I invaded his privacy, which he really does hate.'

'Right,' Greg nodded. 'Well, at least you understand that what you did was wrong.'

'Of course I do,' Mycroft said. 'But I didn't get into the position I'm currently in by always doing the right thing, Gregory.'

Greg groaned and stabbed viciously at his bowl. 'It's like talking to a brick wall,' he commented.

'I understand what you're saying,' Mycroft said, putting his wine down, 'but I don't regret doing it. James Bond had to know that Quillan has people watching out for him; people who don't care about his double-oh status; people who will hurt him if he disappears on Quillan again, or in any way deliberately hurts him.'

Greg sighed, staring at Mycroft across the table. 'Okay,' he eventually said, throwing his hands up in surrender. 'I know I'm not gonna win, not when it comes to your brothers.' He knew how over-protective Mycroft was- it was stalking, plain and simple- and no amount of arguing would make Mycroft change his mind, or his behaviour. His brothers were the most important thing to him, not including Greg himself, and Mycroft, as the eldest, saw it as his duty to protect them.

Greg had learned that, when Siger Holmes had died, it fell to Mycroft to be the man of the family. The fact that he had been fourteen-years-old didn't seem to annoy anyone as much as it annoyed Greg. Like, seriously. Mycroft had barely been a teenager, and suddenly he'd had to take care of his two younger brothers. Sherlock had only been four, Quillan one. Mycroft shouldn't have had to be a dad at such a young age. Mummy Holmes had apparently taken her husband's death rather hard, and hadn't been a proper parent-figure in the brothers' lives until Sherlock was thirteen.

Greg was brought out of his thoughts by Mycroft's hand on his. He turned his palm up, linking their fingers, and squeezed.

'You know I had to do this, Gregory,' Mycroft said, his voice soft. 'And I won't interfere as often now; I can easily keep an eye on both Quillan and James through MI6.'

Greg huffed. 'I'm still not sure it's a good idea for a Holmes to be the Quartermaster of the Secret Service.'

Mycroft offered him a smile. 'Out of the three of us, Quillan's the most well-adjusted. He understands society, and people, a lot better than Sherlock and I ever will.'

'That's good to know,' Greg nodded.

'I had to make sure Bond knew,' Mycroft repeated.

'I know,' Greg said, squeezing Mycroft's hand again. 'I know, Myc.' He offered Mycroft a smile, and Mycroft smiled in return, knowing that Gregory wasn't really annoyed at him. He just felt the need to remind Mycroft that people had real feelings, something Mycroft tended to forget when he was carrying out his own little plans. He and Sherlock shared that trait.

Mycroft closed the gap between them to kiss Greg softly, and when they broke apart they started eating.

'You've still gotta apologise to Quillan, or he'll never turn up for your monthly visit,' Greg said, slurping noodles from his spoon.

Mycroft sighed. 'I'll call him after dinner.' He frowned. 'Or text him; he probably won't answer my call.'

Greg shook his head. 'I've said it before, and I'll say it again.' He pointed his fork at Mycroft. 'You Holmeses are fucking insane.'

Mycroft just smirked.

{oOo}

'Feeling better?' James asked as he sat on the sofa, a glass tumbler of scotch in one hand, Q's Earl Grey tea in the other.

'Much,' Q smirked, swapping his mobile for the mug. 'I've threatened them both, which is always satisfying.'

James rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. 'Should I expect more break-ins and kidnappings in my future?' he queried.

'No, Mycroft only ever kidnaps someone the one time,' Q said, 'and Sherlock won't break-in twice; they'd both find repeating previous actions dull.'

'Good to know,' the double-oh commented.

'What you should be afraid of,' Q continued, 'is Mycroft wanting to meet with you on more socially acceptable terms, and Sherlock following you around London.'

James blinked. 'Oh, joy,' he drawled, and took a larger swig of alcohol.

'Don't worry, it won't happen any time soon,' the younger man assured, patting James' arm for good measure. 'Mycroft won't want me stalking his boyfriend, and Sherlock would rather his and John's personal activities stay personal.'

Turning to look at him, James asked, 'Just what exactly did you threaten them with?' He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that someone could threaten Mycroft Holmes and get away with it. It was difficult to wrap his head around the British Government being Q's older brother. And Sherlock Holmes just scared James... just a little bit.

Q smirked, pulling his legs up onto the sofa and gripping his mug of tea in both hands. He breathed in the aroma and said, 'Oh, just a little spying, is all.'

'Of course,' James muttered. 'Have I mentioned how odd your family is?'

'Insane is the word you used earlier,' Q said.

'Of course,' James repeated. 'Well...'

'Oh, yes, we're definitely insane,' Q nodded. 'Mycroft and Sherlock would both agree to that.'

James snorted and wrapped an arm around Q, pulling the genius against him. 'But I still love you,' he said.

'Of course you do,' Q smirked. 'I'm adorable.'

James shook his head. Adorable, yes. But Q was also devious... and slightly insane.

At least Q could acknowledge it.

{THE END}

Author's Note: Yes, I wrote more after coffee and many, many cigarettes. I get tired of saying it, but it's true; my muse be crazy. And yes, I will definitely be writing a story where James meets Mummy Holmes. Also, I put in more Holmeses! Anyone care to guess just who Martin and Anthony are? I shall give you virtual cookies if you guess correctly.

Also, I realise that this could all be one story, with each one-shot being a chapter, but it's too late for that now, isn't it? MWAHAHAHA!

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}