Volatus Aquilae

Summary: Q comes from a special gene pool. And said gene pool just happens to be one of the most powerful families in England that just can't help but attract the world's most dangerous criminals. Q/Bond, Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Althea.

A/N: My muses thought it was completely hilarious how much Q looks like a mini-Sherlock and they nagged me horrendously until this. I don't know how often I'll be able to update this, but I will try my best. This will be a long multi-chaptered story, and with as much bad-assness as I can cram into it. Also, the title loosely translates from Latin into "Flight of the Eagles" which will also have a part to play eventually, so keep an eye out for that. This chapter is sort of in the middle of the story and all the action, but the next chapter will of course start from the beginning and get you up to speed very quickly.

Warnings: I don't plan to pull many punches with this story. It's including James Bond after all, so there will be plenty of action (of the romantic kind and non-romantic kind), some colorful language, and whatever else I need to give you guys appropriate warnings about.

Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond. I don't own Sherlock. Conan-Doyle created Sherlock. Ian Fleming created James Bond. Brilliant authors who have left a lasting impression on literature and old and modern culture with clearly unforgettable characters. I am nothing but envious.


Chapter One – Hacked

A loud incessant beeping woke Q in the middle of the night. It came from his laptop on the bureau across his bedroom. He groaned and spared a glance at the alarm clock by his bedside before shoving his glasses on his face. Two in the morning! What the hell could be happening at two in the bloody morning that needed his immediate attention that his otherwise self-designed security systems couldn't handle on their own? He continued to grumble to himself as he dragged his tired body out of bed and over to the computer. He didn't even bother to turn on a light, determined to make this as quick as possible. Just as he pulled the screen up, it went black. Then letters started appearing on the screen, typing out words.

WAKEY WAKEY, Q.

He frowned, briefly thinking that perhaps this was some strange dream and he should go back to bed. Back to bed in his dream. That made sense. That was logical. But his dreams weren't usually this logical because logically, he came to the conclusion that someone was hacking his computer, someone who thought they were smart, someone who didn't know who he or she was up against. Asleep or awake, Q did love to make those sorry little people out to be right idiots, so by the light of the city from his window, he let his fingers fly across the keyboard, shaking his head at the moderate inconvenience. He would need a double shot of espresso in the morning.

Nothing changed, except the letters.

TSK. TSK. TSK.

Q sighed and shook his head.

Definitely awake, then. How delightful.

Even in his dreams it only took a flick of the wrist to send them scurrying for cyber-cover. He tried back-hacking the user, but got another taunting message for his efforts.

NAUGHTY NAUGHTY, LITTLE BOY.

Q smiled. "We'll see who's naughty in a moment."

Perhaps a triple shot before his morning shift. He didn't like to indulge too often, but this time he would make an exception for himself.

This hack was going to be a memorable one. This time the clicking sound of computer keys sped up, making a nearly consistent and unbroken cacophony in the quiet of the night. As expected, the eerie words disappeared and the black screen reverted back to his desktop. Child's play, he thought as he began a system's check for any activity that went on beneath the surface. He was a little disappointed it didn't take him longer, but for someone roughly at his level of technological expertise, he supposed he couldn't be too let down. No one, after all, could do what he did. MI6 paid him specifically for what he could do that others could not.

He was about to turn his back and reclaim his bed, but not ten seconds had elapsed and the diagnostics screen came back up with a message.

AH, CLEVER BOY…

Q frowned. It had to have taken them less than five seconds to hack that diagnostics program. And it had to be multiple hackers. No one was that fast except for him.

FAMILY TRAIT, CLEVERNESS.

Something in the pit of his stomach started turning sour. Q never kept personal identifying information on his computer. Not his address. Not his name. Nothing that could be stolen and used as collateral or blackmail. Every government issued computer had a failsafe switch that would automatically activate the moment the tracker left the confines of the home network, erasing the entire memory of the hard drive without any capability for resurrection. It was Q's own idea that in recent years had saved a lot of lives and fragile information that could have potentially started international wars. The only place any such personal identifying information existed for Q was in the mainframe of MI6, tucked safely away where not even he could gain access.

I KNOW A SECRET…

I KNOW A SECRET…

A HOLMES KEPT SECRET.

His heart was not beginning to pound. This was not what fear felt like. But why wasn't he typing? Why couldn't he bring his fingers to move?

FEAR THE MOONRAKER.

XOXO–M&M.

"What," Q voiced, confused but with a strangely calm voice.

SAY HELLO...

Seconds later he couldn't say the same for his voice. When the words disappeared on the screen and were replaced by a video feed of the front of his apartment building, and of an eerily familiar man who didn't even make an effort to disguise himself, he cursed. Q watched as the video feeds changed once the intruder walked out of frame. The man walked into the main lobby and, without a missing a step, he shot the man at the front desk and continued on at the same casual pace toward he elevators.

But he walked right past them and chose the stairs.

Walking up, floor after floor after floor towards his floor-

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit," he cursed. Q fumbled for his phone in the dark and contacted the first person that came to mind. The line hadn't even rung once before a harsh beeping filled his ears. "I'm sorry, this call cannot be completed as dialed-"

He ripped the phone away from his ear and searched for another. "Damn you, 007. If you dropped that bloody cell phone into the Thames again!-"

He tried Mycroft.

It rang once, twice, three times, four, five...

Mycroft wasn't answering…

Mycroft wasn't answering.

Dread started to sink down from his gut to his knees.

Mycroft always answered his phone.

Q looked back to the video feed, which had suddenly gone dark. Acting on instinct, he threw open his bedside drawer and grabbed the government issued glock that he never had a single reason to touch before. Not until now. But his hands were steady as he slammed the ammo into place, flicked the safety off, and returned to his phone, calling his last chance before he was likely to be taken.

Or worse.

If this was all meant to be a message, this would go very badly indeed.

Sherlock answered on the second ring, gruff and annoyed. "What?"

"Mycroft isn't answering his phone," Q answered.

"And why is that my problem?"

"Sherlock, he's here."

"Well then what the bloody hell are you calling me for?!-"

"You twit," Q snapped, feeling the effects of panic begin to take hold. "I'm not talking about Mycroft!-"

Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.

Q's attention snapped from the phone to the front door, where the light from the hallway cast a shadow of a presence between the door and the floor. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, peering out like a child on the verge of darting into a dead-run.

Knock.

But he had nowhere to go.

Knock.

Not on the tenth floor of a high-rise.

Silence.

And the shadow was still there.

Quiet and waiting.

"Put me on speaker," Sherlock said in his ear, quiet and commanding.

Q wanted to ask him why, but found his mouth unable to move.

"He wants me to listen."

Q took a deep breath and did as Sherlock asked.

"Ohhhhhh Sherloooooock," the sing-song voice called. "Little brother go crying to you did he? Didn't get any attention from his bulldog? Or the real ruler of the Holmes roost? Bit tied up with other matters, were they both now?"

"Oh God," Q whispered, realizing why Mycroft hasn't answered. It was absolutely impossible, but it made sense why, as terrible as it was.

"He's bluffing," Sherlock said softly.

"Am I, Sherlock," the man at the door asked. "But I'm interested to know what our little Quartermaster thinks. Little Quincy Holmes. Didn't know you had a little brother. Locked away in MI6 where dear old big brother thought little brother would be safest while the big boys go playing with the grown-ups. But I hear tell big brother didn't invite you either, Sherlock. That wasn't very nice of him, was it?"

"Where is Mycroft," Sherlock demanded.

"Safe. For now."

Q glanced back at his computer. The screen hadn't changed, but the near constant blinking from the router betrayed what kind of activity was going on beneath the surface.

"What do you want," Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock," Q hissed. "There are proper channels for dealing with this-"

"Quincy, stay out of this-"

"He is a bloody terrorist!"

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

"Does Daddy need to come in there and separate you two?!"

Q took Sherlock off-speaker and pressed the device to his ear, bringing the gun aloft and aiming straight for the door, feeling anger unlike the which he had ever felt before. "Sherlock," Q whispered, harshly and with an unspoken ultimatum. "What do I do?"

"Are you armed?"

Q resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm a quartermaster for MI6, of course I am-What do I do?"

"Is no one coming?"

Q inched back to the window and looked out at the empty street below and took a deep breath. "…no."

"Call his bluff. If he wanted to take you, he would have done so by now."

Q turned back to the door, and found the shadow gone. Cautiously, he inched closer to the door and peered through the peephole. No one was there. Against his better judgment he unlocked the door and opened it slowly, gun in front. He looked down either direction of the hallway and found it deserted. And no other residents of the floor had come out to check either, which puzzled him. There weren't many of them per floor, as the flats were quite generous in terms of square footage, but he would have at the very least thought the rich old woman who always complained about noise would have voiced some grievances. And yet, nothing.

"Quincy? What's happening?"

Q raised the phone back to his ear and returned to his flat, double-locking his door behind him. "He's gone," he replied, in no small amount of relief. "I don't know where. And the computer's back.

"He hacked into your computer? What for?"

Q quickly shut all the shades after he put the gun down next to his computer. "Oh we had a lovely one-sided little chat. Very interesting fellow, your nemesis."

"Run systems diagnostics, see if he took anything."

"Thank you, Dr. Obvious. Let's see, he rooted around my network for a while and found nothing, of course. Then he jumped ship and…oh, he…he connected directly to MI6."

"You sound surprised."

"Even I can't do that from here. It's not a matter of clearance. MI6 operates on a completely separate network that's not public or accessible outside of the main hub, which I can assure you is quite small and contained since it works inside of a nest of block-long black spots. Even agents in the lobby have trouble finding enough reception."

"Hm. Good to know."

This time, Q did roll his eyes. "Do I need to sequester you, Sherlock?"

"I hardly think that's relevant-"

"I'm in the middle of damage control for a massive system hack and corruption and you're questioning my judgment on national security?"

"If you're worried about MI6 being compromised, they've likely been compromised for weeks. You on the other hand I can't say for how long, but not as long as those dolts that work under you or should be working under you."

"That's very reassuring. Does 'Moonraker' mean anything to you?"

"No, why?"

"They left a parting message, a codename for someone or something-"

"Obviously-And where the hell was your agent?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Q sighed, running a hand through his still bed-tousled hair.

"Don't you have a tracker on him like every other sensible quartermaster in MI6 does with their pets?"

"The tracker's silent and if Moriarty's words are any indication then he would have come when I called." Q didn't like the idea that Bond might be a casualty to this madman like Mycroft, but that was a terrible thought he had to consider moving forward. If it was true, then two of Britain's top soldiers were suddenly out of the game, and that made the prospect of fixing whatever this was very frightening. "Do you think Moriarty has Mycroft?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time. "Come to Baker Street. Lift a car if you have to, but don't take a cab. I'll expect you in half an hour-"

"Sherlock."

"I don't know. But if he does, we will get him back, Quincy. I promise."

Q let out some nervous laughter that sounded anything but happy. "Mummy's not going to be very happy about this."

"She'll skin me alive if you aren't secured either. Get moving. And keep me on the entire way."

Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to him. What if Mycroft and Bond weren't the targets? What if Sherlock wasn't either? There was only one common denominator between Mycroft and Bond… and if Q endangered their last best chance of eliminating this threat, he would never forgive himself.

"I don't hear you moving," Sherlock drawled.

"I'm thinking," Q said, steeling himself for the argument which was sure to follow.

"Why are you thinking? What is there to possibly think over in this?"

"Sherlock. I can't compromise you."

"Everyone's openly compromised as it already is! Me especially! Moriarty knows where I am and how I operate-It doesn't matter!"

"You don't believe that. The only way we can gain ground back is if I disappear completely, and you know it. I'm an MI6 agent. I can take care of myself-"

"We both didn't give a thought to Mycroft's security and look what's happened to him. It will be no different for you-it will be dangerous!"

"Mycroft's different."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"I'm attempting to give you leverage!"

"I will NOT sacrifice you to get a one up on Moriarty!"

"You'd do it if it were Mycroft."

"…not…willingly," Sherlock bit out. "And not like this. I know what Moriarty's capable of and if his game is to draw you out you will be doing exactly what he wants. By getting you he gets to me and he's won! I'm handicapped as it is without Mycroft and if I lose you-…"

Q pressed a shaking hand to his head, feeling his headache spike as he was finally hearing Sherlock openly admit that he cared. For so long Sherlock pretended and on occasion managed to convince them he didn't. Now, to hear it in all but the explicit words nearly undid all of Q's determination.

"Quincy. Please."

Q swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Losing one brother is enough for me. Keep a tight leash on John. I'll contact you when I'm safe-"

"No-No-Quincy, don't you dare!-"

Q ended the call. It didn't even take Sherlock two seconds before he was calling back. Q watched it ring, then go silent as the call was forwarded to voicemail. Two seconds elapsed and Sherlock was calling again. This time Q declined the call and turned the device completely off. The tracker still inside his phone would function, but Q had no intentions of taking it with him. His laptop would unfortunately have to suffer the same fate, but not before having its memory wiped for further security.

Sherlock had taught him from a young age that disguise had its uses. And though Q hated the feel and style, he donned some more street appropriate clothing in lieu of his normal collection of sweaters and trousers. As he inspected himself in the mirror he cringed at the overall appearance of someone much younger than himself, or perhaps who he was trying not to appear to be in the normal world of professional government cut throats and analysts. The jeans, sneakers, and hoodie made him look like a kid. He threw on the leather jacket to ward off the cold. Not to make himself look any less younger, though if it did, perhaps that would be a benefit.

At twenty-six, he could hardly call himself young, even if every agent and supervisor in MI6 continued to do so to his face and behind his back. The tech kid. The computer boy. The prodigy child. The latter had been tagged onto the list by none other than Bond himself in jest just because he knew how much Q despised it. Incessant inane chatter. That's all it was. And if they had a look at him now he'd prove them all right. Going out on his own like this made him feel a little small, more than a little young, and more than just a little out of his league. But he had the best hacking skills in all of Britain (until tonight, a part of his brain reminded him) and that had to count for something.

He knew where to go. He knew how to escape one of the most watched metropolises in the world. It wouldn't be easy, but it was possible. He took one last look around his flat. It had never been a home for him, not since he left the family home in the country. This has been nothing more than a necessary shell the past few years. No pictures, no good memories. Such was the life of a government employee, he thought to himself. With nothing left to do he shouldered a pre-packed backpack with every thing he could possibly need for an occasion like this. He had hoped he would never have to use it, but it appeared he finally would.

He put the loaded gun in one pocket and his inhaler in the other. He felt a little winded from the stress of rushing around his flat but he knew his limits and knew he could ignore it for a while longer. He had a limited supply of the medicine with him and couldn't chance a quick trip for more, so he had to conserve as much as he could. He took the back stairs and exited into the dark alley behind the complex. He took a look around before setting off into a maze of alleyways. The more time he spent off main roads, the better. Had he kept looking over his shoulder on public streets like he was now, he'd give himself away within seconds. It had been a little while since his field training, but some of the main principles were coming back to him.

But not fast enough.

The next time he looked over his shoulder, as he was pulling up a manhole behind a restaurant, he saw two men walking towards him, dressed in black. Q stopped, fear icing through his heart, immobilizing him for just a second. Then the men started running towards him. Q ignored the ladder and jumped down beneath the ground. He landed in a messy crouch-one of his ankles throbbing-, scrambled up, and started to run into the dark recesses of subterranean London. Distantly he heard the two men drop in after him, but he kept running, making turns with only half a mind to where he was going. As long as he lost them, he could find out where he ended up later.

But they were too fast.

They caught up with him on a catwalk and tripped him. He fell face first, but whipped around in enough time to kick one of the men right in the balls. He went down like a sack of flour, but the second man was right behind him. Q managed to dodge a punch, and swung his backpack around to catch the man in the back of the head. He stumbled long enough for Q to pull out his gun. His hand got kicked away by the first man, the gun lost, and the next thing he knew he was pressed up against a wall with a hand at his throat cutting off his air. He clawed at the hand trying to choke him, but it was unyielding. He tried kicking out, but his assailant simply pressed his body in a very uncomfortable way against his own. Q tried to struggle, make a noise, scream, do anything, but deep down he knew his body was acting on pure instinct instead of what was logical. What was logical was that they were so far beneath the ground that no one could possibly hear him even as he tried. What else was logical was that they weren't actively trying to kill him. If they were Q would have had a bullet in his head already.

They wanted him alive.

And that scared him more than imminent death.

Panic swept in, then. Darkness tunneling in around him from the lack of air. He could hear himself gasping, feel his face hot and red, and then like a rush of fresh air, he found himself on the ground coughing with fire in his lungs. He faintly registered sounds of a fight above him, but the blood rush in his ears made it impossible to distinguish anything else. Then, there were hands on him, hauling him up. He could feel himself struggling, but then there were hands on either side of his face. In his blurry vision-where has his glasses gotten to?-he made out familiar features. Features that promised safety and security, even if it was momentary.

"Whhhhere the…hhhhell haa-ave you…been, Bond," he gasped between coughs.

"Securing M," he replied, a bit winded himself. "Medicine?"

Q tried to speak, but could feel himself starting to lose consciousness. Instead he tried to fish it out of his pocket himself. Thankfully Bond got the hint and didn't waste a second.

"One," Bond counted, sounding like a professional physician. "Two, three."

Air thrust its way into his lungs, giving the fire a brief flare before it started to ease. Two more puffs later, Q collapsed back against the wall behind him, eyes closed and completely limp. He stayed there for a few minutes, trying desperately to get a hold of his own body. When he could drag his eyes open he found Bond placing his glasses back on him, a couple of cracks unfortunately in the lower right corner.

Bond put a finger against Q's neck and checked his pulse.

"M'fine…We should… get moving," Q whispered.

Bond pulled his hand away and set about reloading his gun. "We've got time."

"No, we don't… They have…Mycroft. I thought they had you."

"They almost got to M."

"How?"

"Victor Bolt," Bond spat.

"The new analyst," Q gasped. "Oh God."

Bond turned those sharp blue eyes to him. "What?"

"I hired him… This is…-my fault-"

"Blame yourself later, but right now you need to keep breathing. Neither of us have time to stop by hospital."

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, unable to keep the tears from welling up.

"No one knew," Bond said with finality. Not even me.

"What happened?"

"Airborne virus. But this one kills within seconds of breathing."

"How many dead?"

"They don't know. Most were from Q-branch."

"Lucy," he enquired about the redheaded secretary.

Bond shook his head.

Q shook his head, unable to keep the tears back any longer. "I'll kill him for this."

"That's my job."

"Not this time," Q promised. "And don't… ask me if I've ever killed anyone, Bond."

Bond gave him a cool calculating look with mild to moderate interest that Q had only ever seen him give an adversary before. Typically the female ones. "Put your arms around my neck."

Q glared. "Bond, I hardly think now's the time for-"

"Much as I'd enjoy that myself, if you want to get moving this is the only way we're doing it."

Q huffed, as much as a person recovering from another near asthma attack could, he supposed. Bond turned his back to him and somewhat reluctantly Q did as Bond asked, with Bond's arms snaking around his legs. It took the older man less than a second to shoulder Q's slight weight. Q wondered if he was much of a bother at all to Bond.

"I haven't been carried like this since I was a boy," he mumbled.

Bond scoffed. "You're still a boy, Q."

"Thank you very much for that confidence booster."

"Rest, Q. That is the whole point of this."

"You can't exactly carry me like this above ground unless you want attention. And with your track record-"

"Can you walk?"

"…maybe."

"That's good reassurance."

Bond adjusted his grip on Q and leaned a little more forward as he walked so Q could do less work to keep himself upright. Finally, Q thought. Finally he knew what those infamous muscles felt like. If he had the energy, he would have made a mental note to flaunt it to Eve's face when all this was said and done. But right now, he had no idea how whatever this was was going to play out. And to think this all had started with a bloody asthma attack…