Sherlock: Promises

By: Shadow Chaser

Author's Notes:

Companion piece to "Legwork," "Skyfall," "Resurrection," "Perceptions," and "Responsibility," this continues to explore the crossover of the most recent James Bond movie "Skyfall" and BBC's "Sherlock." Sherlock and all characters do not belong to me, they belong to BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. James Bond and all characters do not belong to me, they belong to the Broccoli family, MGM, and Ian Fleming. I am only writing this for fan purposes and not for profit.

Story:

If the door slammed open with a little more force than was necessary that was not his problem. He could have claimed the files and folders in his hands were the cause of it, or perhaps that it was windy outside when they were perfectly several levels deep underground. The plain truth was that Q did not care who had jumped or had looked up, startled by the force of the door slamming around. His minions, all of them glad that he had returned roughly two weeks ago, went scurrying to their workstations, not wanting to face his wrath.

Many of them knew his bad mood was due to the fact that Q-branch's top priority was to send the great detective Sherlock Holmes on a suicide mission that would end in six months with his death. And like all bad moods, it percolated to the rest of the staff, even though there was some sign that it had been fermenting for a while. Sherlock was apparently admired by a majority of the branch, especially for taking down 001, James Moriarty. Q knew that his minions thought his anger was because he was a fan of Sherlock Holmes and not the fact that this was his older brother he was preparing to send to his death. And he was satisfied enough to let them think that way – after all he still knew that in the span of six months someone could figure out that he and Sherlock were related and so had to keep that fact buried until-

He viciously cut that thought off with a slam of the folders on his workstation, growling a little under his breath as he typed his password into his computer to unlock it.

"Ah, I had been wondering what the last alphanumeric string was at the end of your password," Sherlock's voice nearly startled Q from his momentary haze of anger as he glanced over to the chair next to his workstation, currently occupied by the consulting detective himself.

He blinked for a second, wondering how he did not see Sherlock practically sitting there when he realized that he really had not paid attention to his surroundings and had been wrapped up in his anger at the injustice of it all. Sherlock had killed Magnussen, yes, in full view of several police officers, John Watson, and Mycroft, but still...

"Hacked in did you?" he tried to keep his voice light, but inwardly winced at the edge in his tone. This was no time to get petty or annoyed at his brother, not when- He cut his thought off again as Sherlock grinned a little, seemingly unaffected by his bad mood.

"Nope," his older brother flipped his phone's face to show him that there had been at least twenty-seven tries, all of them failed under his log-in name. "Smart, Q, smart, nothing sentimental, nothing overt that could be discerned from your files, just a simple string of random alpha numeric coding."

"You read my files?" he asked, the red haze of anger that had been clouding him for the past two weeks slowly fading as his brother turned to stare at his phone once more, tapping it absently. He could not keep the anger around his brother each time he had seen him or had been near him in the two weeks Sherlock had been confined in MI6. It was not pity that filled that void of anger, but rather something that Q could not figure out.

"Was bored, Anthea let me in," Sherlock shrugged, "your file is quite interesting Q, especially the psychological section."

The unexpected bark of a laugh coming out of his lips, surprised Q himself, as he felt a bit of heat tinge his cheeks and stared at his screen. He brought up the files for the final briefing that they were to attend in a few minutes and sent them to the printer. He shook his head. "You're one to talk," was the only thing he could say to his brother.

"At least I'm the high-functioning sociopath," his brother shot back, "your attempts at normalcy is overrated."

"That it is," Q agreed before turning to his right as he saw Sherlock's eyes track that way and saw Anthea waiting near his workstation, a neutral expression on her face.

"Sorry sir, Mr. Holmes is due for his final briefing in about five minutes. Mr. Holmes senior asked me to escort him up there," 002's voice and posture was every hint of a respectable personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes, but Q easily read the fine-tuned hint of dismay and professionalism in her body language. He nodded once, before locking his workstation and headed towards the printers.

"He's all yours Anthea," since Anthea's true status as 002 was not publicized, he had always made it a point to call her by her codename whenever they were around people, even in the Quartermaster's branch.

Everyone knew that Mycroft Holmes was within MI6, the majority thinking that he was there to make sure his little brother Sherlock did not attempt to escape the confines of MI6 during his incarceration – instead of the real reason being that Mycroft was orchestrating the whole thing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother rise from his seat, an unreadable expression on his face, his lips flattened as if he wanted to say something sarcastic. But before Sherlock could say anything, Q turned away, not willing to listen. He could hear his brother's footsteps fade away a few seconds later as Sherlock got the message. Anything said could still be used against the two of them, anything familial was not for public ears and nothing needed to be said.

Q let out a quiet sigh as he reached the printers and took the sheaf of papers he had printed out, expertly putting them in their proper folders for M, Mycroft, and Sherlock to read at the final briefing. Mycroft was right in a way; incarcerating Sherlock was not the answer and riots would certainly break out throughout England, if not the world. But sending him on a suicide mission... He shook his head before a timid voice spoke up next to him.

"Um, sir," he turned to see one of his minions holding up a small black hardcase, "we've finished the preparations on it."

Q stared dumbly at the hardcase for a second before he remembered what it contained and took it, putting his stack of folders on top of it. "Thanks," he said and the minion nodded. He would have thought him to move away and saw the minion nervously play with his hands for a second before finally scurrying away back to his desk.

Q stared at the man's retreating back for a long second, wondering what that was all about before he realized that the minion had more than likely been nominated by the others to deliver the final product and at least try to show support to Sherlock by giving him the best equipment. They could not say anything because it would be completely hypocritical of what MI6 stood for. They were an intelligence agency, and their trade was not for justice or an injustice, but to see to the completion of the mission and national security of England. Any words of sentiment, of fairness could not be said by any employee because each of them knew it could be them in Sherlock's place.

"I want Bond's status when I return from the briefing. He should have figured out where Lord Moran's supplier is by now," he called to his minions as he headed out of the office and up to M's section of MI6.

A chorus of "yes sir!" followed him out and Q was glad that he was able to keep his minions occupied. Occupied minions meant less about thinking of Sherlock Holmes and this whole mess. It was the easiest way to head off any talk of resentment or of discontent.

He arrived at M's office in short order and was greeted with a kind smile by Moneypenny who buzzed him in. Anthea was waiting outside, seemingly occupied by her phone, but flicked a quick smile up at him as he walked by. Walking in, he managed to keep his expression neutral instead of pinning Mycroft to the wall with a glare. He knew that it was too late now, but still felt the childish urge to stamp his feet and stubbornly say 'no' until he was blue in the face. The amusing thought was that Sherlock was perhaps more than likely to join in if he did give into the childish urge – more than likely seeing it as an opportunity to rile Mycroft up a wall.

"Packets as follows," Q said instead, coolly nodding to Mycroft instead as he handed the folders to M who gave one to Mycroft and one to Sherlock who was now lounging in one of the arm chairs, ankles crossed. He stepped back, waiting near the door, as it was custom. The others would hash out the final details. It was the same briefing for any double-o's who were to go on a long-term mission that a member of Q-branch be present, but not contribute until the very end. More often than not, it was R who usually finalized all of the details, but Q had done many of them during his tenure as R before his promotion to head of Q-branch.

M started the final briefing without further ado and Q listened with half an ear at the recitation of details, confirmation of necessary resources, different objectives, and the like. He knew the briefing by heart and instead decided to watch his older brothers' body languages. It was a little different than most, not for familial presence in the room, but rather for the ultimate outcome – Sherlock would be dead in six months time after he stepped out of the office. Most agents usually returned alive...but this was one where the agent would not return alive.

As the three talked, Q could see the fine line of tension in Mycroft's stance by how hard he was leaning into his umbrella, occasionally tapping the tip of it onto the ground. The eldest of the Holmes brothers was not happy about this arrangement, but at the same time Q read that Mycroft could not do anything about it save handing over Sherlock to the justice system. And Q knew his brother well; Mycroft would never betray his brother like that...and it was not for the fact that he considered him above the law – it was just the opposite. Q understood it, but at the same time wished that it was not insisted that Sherlock go on a suicide mission of all things – just perhaps maybe keep his brother in MI6's employ and sent on missions...perhaps even made into a double-o.

But even as that thought crossed his mind, he glanced over to Sherlock and saw the acceptance in his brother's seemingly lazy posture. Making Sherlock into a double-o, even if he was good enough to be one, would eventually drain the life out of him, leaving him just a shell of his former self. Yes, his brother would be alive, but he would not be happy in the long run. He would want to somehow contact John and Mary and sweep them up into his adventures and in that effect, bring MI6 down upon them for involving outsiders – even if Dr. Watson was ex-military and his wife ex-CIA.

Q did not know much about Mary Watson except for what Mycroft had told him during the past two weeks – that she was ex-CIA, probable wetworker. Otherwise, there was no hits on the name she had taken for herself and Q respected Sherlock too much to pry into the details of Mary Watson. He knew that his brother would never want such a life for the Watsons now that Mary was heavily pregnant, a baby due in less than a month.

Q inwardly shook his head. His brother was happy, the happiest that he had seen him in a very long time even in the face of impending death. Sherlock would never see Mary and John's child grow up, would never be the doting godfather or uncle and something in Q threatened to break. Here they were, him and Mycroft, playing in the shadows while Sherlock was the one who had broken free of the shadows and showed the world what he was capable of. Sherlock made a difference in the lives of others – and it was something that neither he nor Mycroft could claim. The public needed its heroes, even if they were heavily flawed, and he was not one of them. He was just the Quartermaster of MI6, Mycroft the Government of England. Sherlock was the Hero, on the side of angels even if he was never going to be one himself.

"...and that about concludes it. Any questions, Holmes?" Q pulled himself out of his thoughts as Sherlock rose languidly from his seat and shook M's hand as he also stood up.

"None," his brother had a tight smile on his face before turning to face him, "and what gadgets might you be providing me with this time, Q?"

"No exploding pens," even though his mood had soured during the briefing, he could not help but smile at Sherlock's words. The fact that Sherlock had most likely been spending a little too much time with Anthea and the other double-o's, meant that he had picked up on their liking of Q-branch related technologies.

He held out the hardcase to his brother who took it and opened it, a slight canting of his head telling him that he had been expecting whatever was in the case. He picked the three objects. "Palm-print encoded gun, radio transmitter for location purposes, or for picking up my dead body, and...a pen..."

"Don't stare at it if you do click it," Q said and saw Sherlock's eyes light up as a crooked grin worked its way up his face. He could see him already trying to puzzle out what type of pen it was and what his warning was for him not to stare at it if he clicked it.

"Three clicks?"

"Hardly," Q scoffed as Mycroft cleared his throat.

"If you're done...?" Mycroft sounded mildly annoyed. Q knew that any other ordinary person would have lost it with Mycroft by now and perhaps physically retaliated against him. But Q was a Holmes and knew that his brother meant otherwise with his question. This was perhaps the most private setting a Holmes could get, aside from their parents' house, without compromising the other brothers. Granted M's office was also under surveillance, but it was cameras that Q had easy access to and could control how the footage was being used. Nothing of this briefing would ever be stored on the servers or locked away under encryption – Q would make certain of that after he returned to his workstation.

"I look forward to working with you on the field again, Sherlock," Q extended his hand and felt a bloom of affection fill him as his brother took the hand and shook it, grip firm and steady. Physical affection and touches were not the norm for any of them, seeing it as a big sign of sentimentality and weakness that they could not show the world. When a hand was gripped, taken, shaken, or even a pat on the shoulder – forceful shoving out the door not withstanding, or physical altercations that left one injured – it meant a lot and spoke the words that were unsaid.

It was also the only way Q knew how to say goodbye to his brother.

"Likewise, Q," Sherlock returned before they let go at the same time and he turned to leave, Mycroft following him.

The door closed behind him and M and Q turned to face his boss who had a somewhat wistful look about him. "Sir, if you'll excuse me," he made to move towards the door, "I'm expecting a status update from Bond regarding the Moran situation."

"Understood," M looked like he wanted to say more, but instead nodded and turned back down to his papers.

Q was about to leave when M spoke up again, "Oh, and Q?"

"Sir?"

"I trust you'll be as discreet as you were about the Adler situation?"

The anger that Q had been feeling immediately disappeared as he suppressed a smile towards M's words. Sherlock had been able to find Irene Adler and fake her death with his help and with M's full approval. Adler was now indebted to Sherlock, and through Sherlock, MI6 and Mycroft was none the wiser. He understood what M was asking – keep Sherlock Holmes alive at any cost, even against Mycroft's estimates and it was a promise that Q would fulfill to the best of his abilities. The situation with Magnussen and with him helping Sherlock after he had faked his death was different than the Adler situation. In those times, he had abused MI6's resources, re: agents, for personal use when in the Adler situation he had only used his hacking abilities instead of agents.

Q did not doubt that M wanted some leverage against Mycroft the next time the English Government came to comandeer MI6, but at the same time he also knew that M would abide by their agreement – that he would shield Q from Mycroft's influence as best as he could. A mutual win-win and one that Q fully approved.

"Yes sir," he left M's office with the solid promise of keeping his brother alive past the six-month period – after all, he would be damned if this was the end of Sherlock Holmes.

"And how is our new prisoners settling in?" Q asked as he brought up the security footage feeds of the two cells. One of them was slumped in the corner, having been roughed up a little by Bond as he apprehended both while chasing them through the Millenium Bridge and through St. Paul's Cathedral. Bond had been sent to his flat to get cleaned up after a short debriefing by M. The operation to find the rest of Moran's flunkies after his failed bombing of parliament a little over a year ago had resulted in success.

It had been several hours since Mycroft and Sherlock's departure from MI6 to the airfield which would take Sherlock into his first of many stops. Mycroft's microdot tracker showed him lingering at the airfield, which meant that Sherlock had not left yet – otherwise he would have already left. Anthea also had helpfully texted that Sherlock had started playing 'I Spy' with Mycroft in the last fifteen minutes or so as they waited for John and Mary Watson's arrival.

"Concussion and probable sprained wrist due to removal of weapon by 007 during his altercation," one of his minions replied and Q nodded absently.

"We'll wait at least twenty minutes before sending in the medical team to deal with the sprain," he brought up several other types of feeds and stared at the prisoners who were several levels below Q-branch in terms of MI6's new layout.

He turned his attention to the tablet that 007 had found on one of them and plugged it into an un-networked computer. He had learned his lesson after Silva's counter-hacking program had nearly compromised MI6. In hindsight, it had been a bit arrogant of him to think that he could outwit Silva when the former double-o had practically built himself a miniature empire with computers.

He absently fiddled with some of the settings when he frowned. His screen seemed to jolt and fizzle a little just then-

"Anyone else getting this?" R's voice spoke up from across the room and Q looked up to see him turn his monitor towards him, a wash of static before it normalized. He glanced over at the television screens in the corner and saw snow in them before the last face he expected to see materialized on the screens across Q-branch.

"Did you miss me?" Jim Moriarty asked.

~END~