It had all started with a simple family dinner.
Or as simple as one could be when it came to the Holmes family.
John had been invited over to the Holmes weekend family get together because if he didn't go then "really John what's the point in going? You're the one who talks to my family, not me." And for the most part that was true. If prompted John would admit that he spent a lot of time texting Mrs. Holmes because she was a wonderful woman and she worried about Sherlock as much as, or more than even, Mycroft. But John didn't know Mr. Holmes very well, only saw Mycroft on occasion and hadn't even met Quentin, the youngest of the Holmes brothers.
So when he sat down to dinner with the Holmes's he was glad to see that Gregory Lestrade was there, accompanying Mycroft presumably.
One of the seats remained empty as they all sat, belonging to Quentin who was running late. John wondered if he had gotten lost in the mansion, before disregarding the thought; after all he had grown up here. It couldn't be all that confusing once you got the hang of it. To be truthful John could probably have memorized the blueprints of the house before. He had wanted to but it would have been a pain hiding that from Sherlock so he hadn't.
Mycroft was working at his computer.
"Mycroft!" Mummy Holmes scolded. "No working at the table!"
"Would you prefer I let England run itself?"
"I'm sure it did before you came along and it will still stand after you go, so for goodness sakes you can put it down for an hour or two."
Mycroft hummed noncommittally and kept working before Greg reached out from where he was sitting and shut the laptop.
Just then Quentin walked in casually, caught sight of John, and froze. John stared.
Only one thought reached his mind. 'Fuck.'
"James? James Bond? 007?"
"Hello Q."