I blame bootsnblossoms for the prompt and her partner-in-crime, Kryptaria for egging me on.
"Oooh, memes! "paint me" for either Sherlock, 00Q, or The Hobbit:)
Leave a "Paint Me" in my ask, and I'll write a drabble about one character drawing a picture of another."
1. Nothing is mine.
2. Nothing has been Brit-picked.
3. Nothing has been Beta-read.
4. I wrote this very quickly without a second read through.
5. See something wonky? Let me know.
6. I am so, so sorry.
Q loved his secrets. He had to if he wanted to continue working in MI6. But a person could only stare at a computer screen for a certain amount of time before going crazy. During those rare and precious moments where he could find the time, Q would secret himself away and settle in a small but hidden parklet outside the compound. There he would bring out his sketchbook and his colored pencils, watching the citizens of London pass him by unnoticed until something caught Q's eye causing him to bring pencil to paper.
Q relished the feeling of anticipation, the first mark of a pencil against that blank page, the look, smell and feel of it. It was electrifying, terrifying and oh so different than coding. Q loved and hated it at the same time. What were these drawings to him?
He carried the habit with him throughout his childhood, escaping the cold and vast Holmes mansion whenever it was too much for him. Most often, Sherlock would join him and suggested interesting things for his baby brother to sketch (diagrams of leaves, grass, insects, pieces of bark, etc). On very rare occasions, Mycroft would join his brothers, too weary and sad to prevent their parents from shredding each other to pieces. It was on these outings that Mycroft would suggest to sketch portraits of people. His first two portraits were naturally of his older brothers.
Other attempts at portraits included his parents: one while they were in the midst of another blow-up; another of their mother, sitting in her chair, eyes cast down, tears falling; one of their father, red-faced and angry. When their father found the sketchbook, he ripped it in half, threw it in Q's face and told him that only fairies engaged in such artistic endeavours.
Before their father could slap Q across the face, Sherlock and Mycroft had stepped in their father's path, arms crossed until the old man, drunk and bitter left them alone. It wasn't too long after that when their father left them for good. It was almost a sigh of relief for all of them when the police came to the manor to bring their mother in to identify their father. Mycroft went with her and at sixteen years old was now the man of the house.
Sherlock sat next to his baby brother, his thin arms around Q's bony shoulders. Q was trying very hard not to cry, thinking it was his fault that their father was dead. Sherlock could only comfort him with gestures, words were beyond him. When Mycroft and their mother came back, Henriette Holmes was a changed woman. She stood taller, straighter and held herself with a severeness that shot coldness through the younger Holmes' bodies. She barely acknowledged her sons presence and kept mostly to herself.
Before retreating to her rooms Henriette bestowed Q a new sketchbook with a set of colored pencils; Sherlock with a proper chemistry set; and Mycroft, his first properly fitting three piece suit. She patted each of her sons lightly and disappeared into her rooms. Mycroft looked at his younger brothers, trying not to let the defeat show in his eyes.
Q knew better and when he went to sleep later on that night, he drew Mycroft's expression down to a tee.
Nearly twenty years later, Q felt he had perfected his portraits. He filled many sketchbooks of just his brothers alone: Sherlock's ever-changing eyes fascinated him; Mycroft's almost-smile; he was able to draw their mother as well, severe expression and all. It gave him no comfort to do these drawings but Q felt it was in his best interest to draw her as well.
Q flipped through his sketchbooks and marveled at the changes that he and his brothers went through. Sherlock was no longer sneering and cold nor was Mycroft that haughty. Rough edges had been smoothed away when Sherlock forced himself into exile. A desperation over took his middle brother and a sadness, long since passed crept back into Mycroft's eyes.
It was harder for Q to sketch Dr. Watson. All the heartbreak was plainly etched on his face. When Sherlock came back from his war against Moriarty, Q showed him all the sketches with John, quietly admonishing him for lying to the good doctor. He wasn't surprised at all when John punched Sherlock before pulling him into a searing kiss.
Q, as a silent favor to Sherlock, had switched off all of Mycroft's cameras. He smirked when Mycroft came stomping into Q Branch demanding that they be switched back on. Q merely smiled at Mycroft's sputtering, eyes bright behind his thick glasses and reminded his eldest brother that some moments needed to remain private, even to the unofficial head of the British Government. Mycroft nodded curtly and excused himself, leaving a quaking trail of interns in his wake.
Q gave his brother a small salute before turning back to his computer screens, a smile on his pale face.
All should have gone back to normal but then James Bond "died" and Raoul Silva happened, M died and it all went to hell.
Thank you for reading.