A/N: Bless you all for reading this right after I put it up! I know there's still several typos/grammatical errors, those will be fixed shortly. The inspiration for this fic came from late night marathons of Sherlock topped off with watching Skyfall for the first time (which was a-mazing!). This is my first Bondlock fic so please be gentle, but don't hesitate to let me know if you think something's OOC or could use a bit of tweaking. I hope you all like it and again, thank's for reading!
EDIT: I LOVE YOU ALL WHY ARE ANY OF YOU STILL FOLLOWING THIS IT HASN'T BEEN UPDATED IN MONTHS THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED AND FAVED I have the rest of the story plotted out so now I just have to put the metaphorical pen to paper and crank it out. Expect an update in the near future. (Hopefully.)
John Watson was having a bloody awful day. It wasn't normal awful; a colleague's backstabbing move at work, a patient's litany of complaints to his supervisor, because of course John Watson lived with Sherlock Holmes so Sherlock's problems were John's problems. And Sherlock's problems were bloody awful.
He slumped into the armchair that his flatmate had so kindly restored to it's original place and watched the other man type away at his laptop. Something to do with an international security breach. Apparently Mycroft had been too irritated with the "incompetent dunderheads" at work and had thought high enough of his little brother to give him a chance to show off his hacking skills. The elder Holmes hovered around the kitchen, chatting literally and figuratively over the head of their landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
John leaned forward, curiosity overruling that voice of reason that said not to bother Sherlock when he was working.
"Made any progress?" He asked in a level tone, like the way one would talk to an easily frightened animal.
"Mmn," Was the reply that came, the detective's eyes never moving from the computer screen.
"...anything I can do?"
"Nnm."
"Shall I just shut up then?"
"Mmn."
That was how it went with Sherlock. Either you contributed something useful or you practically didn't exist. John was surprised he'd gotten that much out of him. He sighed, looking around the flat for probably the hundredth time that afternoon. Everything was the way he remembered- the books, the skull, even the bloody bullet holes in the wall. Mycroft had gone to great lengths to preserve the space after Sherlock's "death", to the detective's grudging appreciation. John of course, had already found other living quarters by then, but after realizing that his just married wife was the would be murderer of his best friend, he quickly moved his things back to 221B. It was really quite simple after that. The divorce was quick and clean, allowing Mary to keep most of their things and her freedom in exchange for complete exclusion from John's life. With more concentrated time together, he and Sherlock had both been able to realize (despite John's many earlier affirmations of his heterosexuality) that there was something more than friendship that had formed between the two of them.
He smiled at the thought, and the quiet serenity of the flat...
John frowned, sitting upright in his chair, and tried to assess what exactly had changed in the past few minutes. Mycroft was still yapping away and Mrs. Husdon kept up the noise with her high-pitched tittering. His eyes went straight to Sherlock, who sat, rigid as a board, his fingers silent in their assault on the keyboard. Sherlock had stopped working. Which meant either he'd run out of nicotine patches or...
"Mycroft!" The consulting detective's voice boomed from the living room.
John looked up as a sour faced, ginger haired man entered the room.
"Did you really have to shout?" He asked, the words sharp and charged with whatever strange mix of sarcasm, wit and misanthropy was the Holmes's boys default emotion. "I was having the loveliest conversation with Mrs. Hudson,"
"Oh stop it, you," The puttering old woman who was their landlady (and occasionally their housekeeper) said with a grin. "I'm old enough to be your mother,"
"Would you were," Mycroft responded, cutting his eyes in the direction of his younger brother. This of course, allowed him a glance at Sherlock's computer, which was all the government savant needed to realize that something had been found.
"I think Sherlock's found something," John said, unfortunately and unknowingly always half a step behind the Holmes's brothers.
"Mmn," Again was the response, this time from the elder brother.
"It's him," Sherlock said, glaring at the computer as if it had done him some personal injury.
"Who?" John asked, leaning forward a bit. This always happened whenever the two of them were together; they operated in their own little genius world and everyone else was left scraping for bits of information.
"It can't be. He hasn't got the time-"
"Of course he's got the time. It's him." Sherlock shot his brother a look that clearly voiced his opinion on the latter's intellect.
"Again, who are we talking about?" John tried for a second time, to no avail.
"He must think this is some sort of practical joke," Sherlock said with disdain, "An early April Fools present,"
"People don't give presents on April Fools dear," Mrs. Hudson piped from the coffee table where she was cleaning a suspicious, redish green looking substance off the cedar wood top.
"A rather sadistic Happy Birthday then," Mycroft droned, looking like he'd just been told to draw up the eulogy for his favorite umbrella.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk, his gaze still trained on the computer. "He'll have something else up his sleeve, he never could resist theatrics,"
Resisting the urge to comment on the irony in that statement, John stood up to once again make his question heard. "Mind clueing me in on what's going on Sherlock?" He asked, then tone in his voice making it apparent that it was no longer an option for the detective to continue to leave him in the dark.
Sherlock looked quickly to John, as if just remembering her had been there the whole time and opened his mouth only to be cut off by a loud knock sounding from the computer speakers. His head snapped back to the screen where an animated 221 Baker Street's door knocker pounded against the entrance. Just then, the doorbell sounded and the real 221 Baker Street knocker rapped several times on the door.
"I'll get it!" Mrs. Hudson said just as the two Holmes exchanged a look of disbelief.
"No, Mrs. Hudson-" But it was too late. Quick and efficient as she was, Mrs. Hudson was down the stairs and at the door in ten seconds flat, greeting warmly some unknown, though by voice very youthful, guests.
While they chatted downstairs like old friends, John watched, still monumentally confused, as Sherlock and Mycroft discussed the plan of action.
"Do you think we could make a run for it?" The younger asked, his muscles tense and ready to spring at a moments notice.
"Not enough time," Mycroft said with face even more sour than his usual expression. He clutched his umbrella handle tightly and John wondered who it could possibly be that would make to two most powerful men he knew so on edge. "Subdue him?"
The detective shook his head, dismissing the idea. "He'll have the bulldog with him,"
By now John was at his wits end. He had waited patiently for a reply, and had almost got one before that blasted bell had rung, no thanks to their mystery guest who, surprise, he still didn't have a clue about. "Would someone please tell me who the bloody hell you're talking about!" He shouted, exasperated.
"I'm afraid, Dr. Watson, that would be me,"
John turned quickly to look at the stranger who had just entered and nearly did a double take. The man looked like skinnier, nerdier, 20-year old version of his flatmate, even down to the condescending smirk that seemed to be perpetually displayed on his face.
"And who are you?" John asked cautiously, sensing the tension in the room jump to radioactive levels.
"I didn't expect that my brothers would mention me, considering that I no longer legally exist," said the young man, smiling in the direction of the two men whose's colors were changing from pale to ruddy quite quickly.
John nodded, then paused, actually doing a double-take this time. "Hang on, did you say brothers?"
A satisfied grin spread along the bespectacled man's face at the emphasis put on the relation.
"Yes. I'm afraid I've been rather rude Dr. Watson. The current name I go by is Q, simply Q, but prior to my recent employment I had the misfortune of carrying the surname Holmes," The man, Q, looked directly at the two elder Holmes, who by now had become a nice shade of salmon.
"Hello brothers dear," Q said, the smugness practically rolling off him, "Did you miss me?"