It was a rare sight to see Sherlock Holmes in a maniac frenzy. No one could keep up such a high degree of energy for any length of time. At least, that was what the uniformed John Watson's brain relayed to his mouth as he watched the tall, lean, well-dressed man race desperately about the flat, tearing apart everything and anything he could get his hands on before finally falling flat, exhausted, into his chair. Then again, his mind added after some consideration, 'no one,' was perhaps an apt description of the man.
"Is the house on fire?" he couldn't help but ask, one eyebrow raised slightly at the now-incessant moans emanating from the curled, depressed form of the great detective.
It took a moment for Sherlock to answer, but when he did, it was in true Holmesian style:
"Do you smell anything burning in this house? There is not the faintest scent of carbon being released from any form of flammable material, nor is there any change in the ambient light, as would doubtless occur if we were in the presence of such an inconstant light source. Nor, I think, is Mrs. Hudson screaming her head off down below, and as the fire is most obviously not here, it is just as obviously not there. Do, please, stop being such an idiot. It's annoying."
John shook his head, coming over and sitting down next to a man he had known for all of four days, a man who was a constant puzzle to the Afghanistan army doctor, a constant mystery he knew he had no hope of solving.
"Did you loose something?" he asked, deciding specifications could only help. It seemed metaphor was altogether lost on Sherlock.
"Yes!" Sherlock cried, bringing his head out from his hands for a moment to yell at the walls, "Damn it all, where is that microscope!"
Microscope? John raised one incredulous eyebrow. He had seen the state of the kitchen; he assumed his soon-to-be-flat-mate was somewhat inclined towards the sciences, but to tear apart their rooms in search of a microscope? More to the point, how exactly did one loose a microscope?
"Yes, a microscope," Sherlock continued in Johns general direction, seemingly carrying on a conversation with John's thoughts rather than his words, "And it's easier than you'd think, loosing on of them. What with Quinten popping in and out. Well, I say lost…" the rest of his diatribe was lost in the sort of incessant mumbling that seemed to occupy a ridiculously large fraction of Sherlock's waking hours.
"Who's Quinten?" John didn't mean to pry, but he hadn't seen a soul in or out of Sherlock's rooms in the past four days, and couldn't think who in the world would sneak in to steal a microscope of all things.
"You'll meet him in a moment," Sherlock answered, much to John's surprise, leaping up from the sofa and dragging the retired army doctor to the door, "come on, John. We're going to visit one of your old friends."
The meaning of this statement was left entirely up in the air for the next half hour or so, as Sherlock hailed one of the endless number of black cabs, hopped in, and directed it to an address John had never heard before in his life. He didn't even recognize the street. When he attempted to pose this, among other, questions to the brooding detective, he was met with obstinate silence. John sighed to himself, looking out the window of the cab and watching the streets of London flash by. He had missed this, the city, while he was away. What Stanford had said before was entirely too true. He couldn't bear to live anywhere else. Especially now that there was someone so…interesting to keep him company.
Almost against his will, John's eyes drifted towards Sherlock Holmes where he sat in pensive silence, leaning against the cab's window, cheek pressed to the glass, eyes far away. He had piercing eyes; they were the first thing John had noticed upon meting the man, like chips of aquamarine. Then there were his hands, a mirror image of the man himself: long, pale, thin and clever, and absolutely without regard for anything regarding society's protocol. Not that John was ever one for such things, but it was a bit disconcerting to find his flat mate behind him early one morning, tugging at Johns hair experimentally before running one hand down his back, making John jump a foot in his chair while the other man just muttered something under his breath, turning around to scribble down a few notes on a piece of butcher's paper with the abused end of a pencil stub.
John was most certainly not gay, but for some reason, though such touching was beyond his comfort zone normally, he had not found the heart to scold the man. Sherlock was a scientist, that was all. A scientist with a blatant disregard for social norms.
They pulled up outside what seemed to be a dingy, brick office complex by the docks, entirely unremarkable in its expected state of progressed disrepair. Sherlock threw some money at the cab driver which, judging by the speed at which the car took off as soon as John had disembarked, was more than sufficient to cover the trip.
"Keep up, John," were the only words Sherlock dared let fall as they approached the nearest door to the dilapidated building. John thought about responding, but decided against it. It wasn't worth it; he knew Sherlock meant no harm in his disrespect, it was merely that: unknowing disrespect. Sometimes genius had its faults, and consideration of others happened to be Sherlock's.
Beyond the first old, creaking, iron door, there was a second, this one odd enough to draw John's attention. It was set in a rather nicely finished white wall, the face of it made entirely of steel, with a complex-looking digit pad in the handle.
"Where are we, Sherlock? What did you mean by 'old friend of mine?'" The man hadn't been exactly forthcoming in the car over, but John hoped that perhaps the imminence of their situation would force an answer from Sherlock. He was right.
"I read up on you when you first came to look at the flat. You are friends with the agent named James Bond, aren't you?"
"Yes. Why does it matter?" John had been in the same training camp as Bond during his first years of military service. Bond was a good man, a great deal more skilled at field work that John had ever been, but then, John had never been the sort for gunshots and feats of gymnastics. He hadn't seen the man in years though, not since he'd left for Afghanistan.
"Quinten works with your Mr. Bond. I thought we might have a little reunion." And, without another word of explanation, Sherlock bent down, tapping a few digits into the number lock and enunciating his name low and clear into an invisible microphone. There was a mechanic click, and the door swung open.
The inside of the old building seemed not to pay the slightest bit of notice to its exterior. Frosted glass, chrome, steel, and white desks occupied every surface, the sheen of the overhead lights bathing the monochromatic scene in an eerily clean glow. Even the people seemed more inclined towards whites and greys and blacks than any other color, though there was the odd blue tie or red scarf in the bunch. John just stared. Above them, in block letters he was all too familiar with from time in military bases, were the words: MI6. Special agent division.
James Bond. Damn the man, John couldn't help but think, he'd gotten himself into MI6.
"Is…is Bond here?" he clarified at Sherlock's retreating back, following quickly as the taller man made his way through the desks and curious workers towards one of the many long, narrow doors lining the wide hall.
"I mentioned an old friend by the name of Bond. We are now within the British secret service. Your man was an excellent field officer even when you knew him. Please do try to think on your own, Doctor Watson," Sherlock snapped, the sweep of his elegant black coat entirely in sync with his atmosphere. John frowned,
"You don't have to keep doing that, you know," he called out.
"Doing what?""
"Proving you're cleverer than me. It does begin to wear on a man's nerves."
"But I am. Is that a problem?" the obvious confusion in Sherlock's voice almost made John laugh. Genius. Right.
"It's a problem when I can't bloody think straight over the sound of your deductions. A simple yes or no would do just fine in some circumstances, you know."
Silence. Sherlock didn't respond until they reached the second set of doors. Another key code, another click, and into another antechamber like the first, a small space with a door before them and behind.
"John," Sherlock began, "please forgive me if I am thoughtless occasionally. But it's not something I can turn on and off like some damned faucet. Learn to live with it or get far away from me." And with that lovely bit of advice, the man turned back to the door, enunciating his name clearly as he had before. The door didn't open. Sherlock let out a frustrated little growl, repeating his name. Still, nothing. The growl that left the detectives mouth was almost animalistic:
"Quinten!" he yelled at whatever hidden microphone was recording is voice, "enough with this! I thought Mycroft told you to behave!"
Mycroft? Who was Mycroft? John opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock waved the unformed question away:
"Fine. You won't talk to me? Bond, James Bond, hello again. Guess who I brought with me this time? You have a camera up there, don't you? In the top of the doorframe, I'm guessing. John, could you look at the top right edge of the door for me? That's it, thank you. John Watson says hello, Bond. Do you really want to keep him on your doorstep?" John glared at the camera briefly, as per instructions, then looked away, realizing why Sherlock had brought him along. He was bait. He needed someone to get him through that door, and that someone was John Watson.
"Sherlock, I-" he began, but Sherlock raised an impatient finger. John decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. For the moment, at least.
The door clicked. Sherlock smiled.
After the first room, this second chamber seemed almost dim; the lights overhead were of a softer, warmer variety, and the staff here, what few there were, wore more comfortable clothing in a wider range of colors. The walls were still white though, the particians still frosted glass, the tables still coldly metallic. John saw none of this. His gaze was riveted on the man who was leaning lazily against the far table, dressed in a suit that even his untrained eyes could tell at a glance was worth more than all the money in his bank account. Beside him was a slim, dark-haired youth with blue eyes that looked strangely familiar, but John ignored him, striding up through the aisle to where James Bond sat waiting for him. The two men embraced warmly, pulling away with a gigantic grin on John's face and a matching little smirk on Bond's.
"Bloody hell, Bond, what happened to you? MI6?"
"And you, shot in Afghanistan before being shipped back here. All this time I was wondering if you were dead!" Bond's voice was a light baritone, nicely suited to his bulky frame. It was just as John remembered.
"I think your record has ended out the more impressive, hasn't it?"
"And I ended up with a bullet to the heart while you, lucky bastard, got away with a shoulder."
John laughed,
"A shot to the heart and you're still here. Who's the lucky bastard in this pair, do you think?"
"John Watson, I presume?" cut in a third voice, a young voice, sharply arrogant and just a touch possessive. Bond's eyes flicked towards the lean, dark-haired man beside him, and John stepped back a moment to look as well. Hair so dark brown it looked almost black, curled in a crazy confection of dappled waves. Eyes like ice. Slim, wiry, and oh so very clever. John rocked back, looking from Sherlock to the man who must be Quinten.
"Your brother?" he stated. It wasn't a question.
"Half-brother," Quinten and Sherlock hastened to reply in the same moment. John raised an eyebrow. Bond laughed,
"Q, since when did you have a brother?" he asked the smaller man. Quinten, or Q, shrugged,
"I have two," he conceded, " You met Mycroft as well a while back. Must have neglected to introduce them as familial relations. I suppose Sherlock's the least annoying of the pair, in all truth."
"I haven't decided if I hate you or Mycroft more," Sherlock replied coldly, "although the return of my microscope would do wonders for your standing."
Quinten scoffed,
"If Bond can sneak into your place so easily, I don't think you even deserve to have it back."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John could almost see the wheels turning, the thoughts forming behind those clear, blue-green eyes. Quinten laughed,
"Sherlock, dear brother, there is absolutely no way you can possibly enter my rooms unnoticed. I can assure you of that much, at least. Believe me, your precious microscope shall be much better spent with me than you."
"You're a computer pet," Sherlock spat, "have you become so utterly dense that your eyes necessitate a microscope to see the screen?"
There followed another bout of intense staring, punctuated by the occasional seemingly non-connected remark from one or the other of the Holmes brothers. John watched, fascinated, for a moment or two before boredom at a conversation he could barely understand overtook him, and his interest began to fade.
"Come on," this was Bond, his head inclined towards a section of the room screened by a solid wall instead of the usual glass, "they'll be at it for some time. Just be glad Mycroft didn't decide to join them this time. That was a nightmare."
John cast one last glance towards the verbally dueling brothers before following Bond behind the patrician and into a space coated with computers of all sorts.
"Who's Mycroft?" he wanted to know. Bond smiled slightly,
"The British government."
"What?"
"Sorry. Sherlock and Q's older brother," Bond let one hand trail across the closets bank of computers, an image of the globe popping up on the largest screen, "he and Sherlock came in to talk to Q a few months ago. Two hours of comments that made no sense whatsoever, punctuated by periods of brooding silence during which it looked as if each of them wanted to stab the other. Wonderful family they've got there."
John laughed. The idea of three grown men standing in a circle, glaring at each other vehemently for such an extended period of time was an amusing one, to say the least.
"What's all this," he asked Bond, gesturing to the computers that hummed and whirred impatiently.
"This?" Bond looked up from the nearest screen, "oh, I wanted to show you. Thought an old army man might appreciate it. This, John, is the future of military technology."
The next hour or so was spent with James Bond flicking through an insurmountable number of breathtaking computer programs, everything from night vision satellite imaging to images sent from literal flies-on-walls: electronic bugs that were designed to look like, well, bugs.
"Bit different from my day," was all he could say. Bond laughed,
"You have no idea. Most of this is Q's stuff. He's good with computers."
John chuckled at the understatement,
"Yeah, well, I've got one at home too, mate. Except mine seems to have made it his business to read minds. Still don't know how he does it."
"You're living together?" Bond's face was unreadable. John answered without even considering the implications,
"Yeah, I moved in four days ago."
Silence. Then, as John's brain caught up with his words:
"Oh, no! Not…I didn't mean…we're just friends. Just acquaintances. I only met the man, for god's sake."
Bond's smirk was maddening,
"I thought you said you had one just like mine at home. I assumed…"
John shook his head smiling,
"I'm not gay, James. Surely you know. That…at the base camp…we all experiment a bit in our youth, don't we?"
The smirk remained firmly fixed to Bond's face.
"Hold on," John countered, thinking about Bond's smirking, 'just like mine at home,' and the implications thereof, "Quint – Q…I mean to say, I thought you were into girls, mate."
Bond laughed outright at this,
"I am, John. Most definitely am. That doesn't mean I can't be interested in Quinn too, does it?"
"Quinn. Well. I thought you just called him Q."
"Work is work, play is…play," Bond muttered, and John wondered if he should have just kept well away from the subject.
"That's great, really Bond. I'm happy for you. Just out of interest though, I've got his brother to deal with as a flat mate, and…" he trailed off, certain Bond would know what he meant.
James Bond roared with laughter,
"Oh, John. You don't deal with people like that. There's no dealing with the Holmes brothers."
"I know that," John said to himself, thinking of how absolutely infuriating Sherlock could be sometimes.
"No," Bond continued, "it's less of dealing and more of…well, controlling."
The wicked grin on his old army partner's face sent a slight shiver down John's spine,
"Oh. Oh. Um. Well, that's…that's interesting." Bond laughed again, quieter this time though,
"Such a dirty mind, old friend. I wasn't referring to that. Although…" he stopped to think for a moment, his eyes looking at something else entirely, before coming back to earth, "just show him you don't mean to be ignored. It works, surprisingly, if you make sure to leave them alone when they go and sulk. Useful to know, never approach a Holmes brother when he's sulking. Unless you want your head ripped off." A snort. John wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into, agreeing to stay with Sherlock.
"That's well enough for you to say," he said, realizing something, "but you're a bit of a big man, aren't you? In case you haven't realized, Sherlock's got about five inches on me, although probably not more than twenty pounds."
Bond shook his head,
"John, just let him know you don't want to be shoved out of the way for his little fancies. I've seen Sherlock and Mycroft with Quinn. They're all the same, all enormous egos fighting for attention. Let them know you won't be providing it, and they'll go off and sulk. Then again, sometimes paying them their attentions can be…interesting."
John remembered well what 'interesting' meant to James Bond. Plus, the last bout of innuendos had made him wary.
"How many times to I have to tell you, James, I'm not gay. When we were at base, it was fun. It was interesting. Didn't mean I was in love with you." He had thought the distinction perfectly clear at the time, but apparently…
Bond abandoned the computers completely, turning to John with piercing grey eyes, very much like those of the Holmes brothers, but with less ice.
"John," He began, his eyes serious, "I've seen the way you look at Sherlock. More importantly, I have a mirror. I see the way I look at Q. Quinn's one of the few people who makes me feel anything anymore. And Sherlock is the same for you. He makes you feel alive again, just being in the same room with his energy. And you love him. No, don't deny it. I know, I know, you don't fancy men, but think about it. Just think about it seriously for a moment and tell me if it's really something you would reject."
John opened his mouth, ready to deliver a scathing retort, a definite no, but something about Bond's gaze, steady and expectant, stopped him. He swallowed, actually allowing himself to think about it, think about being with Sherlock. Kissing him. He expected his mind to instantly reject it, to scream out that it wasn't right, it wasn't proper. But that feeling never came. It was odd, pleasant even. Not at all what he expected.
He realized that it had been over a minute since Bond had fallen silent, and yet he couldn't pull himself from the fascinating image of Sherlock…and him. It was intoxicating.
Bond grinned, staring at his old Base partner with something like regret, but mostly satisfaction. He leaned around the patrician, checking to see what the two brothers were up to. They were still engaged in their silent argument. He shook his head, making some excuse to John about a bathroom break or some such thing and slipping out to leave the man with his thoughts.
"No."
"It's not as if you were using it."
"Your computers are most definitely not of that sort."
"What's wrong with doing something logically for once?"
"Don't despise my cases. They do more good than this entire building."
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking. It's annoying."
"You know what's really annoying?"
"How do aesthetics come into play here?"
"Sometimes popular culture is worth knowing."
Bond allowed them five minutes, five minutes of his standing by listening to an argument he could only hear half of. Finally, though, he broke in:
"Excuse me," he raised a finger between the two of them, "but, tell me, could this whole thing not be solved a hell of a lot quicker with, perhaps, the return of this microscope?"
Two sets of frigid eyes rounded on him. Bond stood firm, gazing lazily at each until they dropped to the ground.
"It's not that simple, James," Quinten argued.
"I think it is," Bond shot back, "you sent me in there as a joke on your older brother. Fine. I get it. Now, however, you need to stop playing the child, ask M for a microscope of your own, and give your brother back the damned thing!" the last statement came out a bit louder than he meant, and the few tech supports who weren't already following the two genius's argument turned to look.
Sherlock looked triumphant. Q looked abashed. Finally, slowly but surely, the smaller man slunk off to his frosted glass cubical, returning with a complex microscope in a black case. Sherlock snatched it from him gleefully, his grin wider than a peeled orange, before turning back to Bond,
"Thank you Mr. Bond. You have concluded this unpleasantness quite effectively. Now, if I may ask, where is my companion?"
Bond jerked his head towards the computer stand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Bond responded with a close-mouthed grin and dancing eyes:
"Come on, Mr. Holmes. Surely you can understand a little innuendo. Or, even better, surely you know what you want. I'd expect that from you, at least. Don't tell me I, lowly MI6 agent, was quicker on the uptake than you. I've got your little brother as proof." Now it was Q's turn to smirk. He swung away from the cold metal desk, folding himself against Bond to kiss him lightly, but lastingly, on the mouth. Sherlock stared for a moment, eyes wide, brain obviously working through more possibilities than was possible for him to contain. Quinn laughed,
"Even you can't miss the way the poor thing looks at you. And it's not as if I'd miss the way you look at him."
There were very few things in life that could surprise Sherlock, but his younger brother's words were enough to do it. He swallowed briefly, then blinked rapidly, coming to terms with this new information before accepting it, cataloging it, and deciding on his next move. Quinn watched this all unfold behind his brother's chiseled features with a mixture of satisfaction and delight. Sherlock Holmes, shown up by his baby brother.
It was, by chance, at this exact moment that John decided to emerge from the computer room, looking for Bond.
"James! There you are!" he called, walking forward with quick, military-precision strides, all the while quite obviously avoiding Sherlock's face. Quinn cocked an eyebrow at his brother. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Bond stifled a snort. John caught only the last link of the chain,
"What's so funny?" he demanded of Bond. The British secret agent smiled, waving a hand to Sherlock,
"Ask him," he said. John turned, slowly, warily, towards Sherlock. Sherlock, seeing his reluctance, wondered with annoyance if he was really so terrifying. He glanced quickly at Quinn, out of habit, and saw on that young face such a challenge as would never hope to be leveled again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He set the microscope case on the ground, staring at John who would only return his gaze in quick little spurts before the ground seemed to draw his eyes again. Sherlock sighed.
"John," he began, "john, look at me." He did. He always did. Even in the four days he had known John, Sherlock had realized that, had he asked the man to throw himself off a cliff for him, the little army doctor would have to seriously consider his offer before saying no. You couldn't buy loyalty like that.
John, for his part, was trying his utmost not to look at Sherlock's face, not to let the fantasies Bond had drawn so evilly in his mind take over. How was he ever supposed to bear Sherlock again, what with images of what the detective looked like undressed kept popping before John's eyes, replacing the demons of Afghanistan that had haunted him for so long?
"John. John, look at me," Sherlock repeated, and John, without even thinking, complied, staring up into those icy eyes and a face that balanced strength and determination.
And then they were kissing. Sherlock's arms went around John's waist as his lips crashed into John's own, prying them apart gracefully to allow his tongue access. If ever John was close to fainting, it was then. When Sherlock finally let him go, setting him lightly on the ground, he felt his knees buckle, and only Bond's arms behind him caught him from falling absolutely helpless onto the ground.
Quinn smirked. Sherlock stared, open-mouthed, torn between desire that made his pupils inflate and that part of him that was iced over, the shield he had built around himself to protect that icy heart from breaking. Desire won.
"M?"
"What is it Q?"
"I believe Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson will need a car to take them back, if it's not too much trouble."
"I'll send one around."
"Call the one Bond and I hire. The driver that doesn't talk and the wide back seat."
"Of coarse. Are you and Bond returning with them?"
Q snorted,
"It would make for a bit of a wild evening, don't you think? I don't believe that many control freaks in the same room together would prove pleasant for anyone."
"Expect the car in ten. Oh, and Q?"
"Yes?"
"if you and Bond are moving in together, I suggest you agree on a residence. Fast. Much longer and you won't have time to get settled before he's out in the field again."
"Understood Ma'm. I believe I sent a possible address around to your office."
"You did. I deemed it too far away to be viable as a secure location."
"Check the other occupants of the building and then inform me if you still believe it to be unsafe."
"What's the address again? I tossed it into the fire when I called it a security risk."
"221C Baker's Street. I believe I see the car now. Thank you, M. I expect to hear from you soon."