Prepare for the War
„Myc, Myc!" – Shouted Q as he was running towards Holmes Manor, having just jumped out of 004's Ferrari he had used to race here as soon as possible. He'd worry about any rules he had broken with his frantic stunt driving later. – „Myc!" – He screamed again while rushing upstairs to Mycroft's bedroom.
Mycroft hurried to meet him at the top of the stairs in full panic mode.
"Jesus, Benedict, what happened? Is something wrong?"
"Yes!" – Panted the boy, holding his side in pain. – "Something is very wrong!"
"Are you feeling sick? Is it maybe your appendix?"
"My what?" – The boy was totally confused. What was his idiotic brother talking about?
"You're holding your side! I'll call an ambulance! I-"
"It's not me, it's Sherlock! He's been captured!"
The oldest brother stopped halfway back to his bedroom where he had most probably wanted to grab his cell from, and turned around towards the boy in alarm.
"Oh my God! How? Where? Tell me everything!"
"He… he… Oh, Myc!" – He burst out in tears but angrily wiped his eyes immediately afterwards. It was not the time for childish hysterical outbursts! He squared his shoulders and continued: – "He is in Serbia. He killed two members of Moriarty's web but three others came and he couldn't take them all at once… They got him, Myc!"
"Damn."
"I was in his ear the whole time. I tried to warn him but he wouldn't listen… Oh, God. They won't kill him for a while, that's sure, because they want to question him. They know he's had help but they don't know how… That's what they're asking him all the time. How he has done it all these last few months. They know about everything and seem to have been waiting for him. He has been set up, Myc."
"Can you still communicate with him?"
"No, I lost connection around a quarter of an hour ago. I think the equipment might be damaged by… water... they used to question him." – He explained with self-loathing. His gadgets had betrayed him!
"Benedict, listen to me. It's not your fault, you hear?"
"But I-" – Mycroft grabbed his narrow shoulders and shook him hard.
"No, silly little boy, pay attention to what I am saying: you have done more than anyone would ever have expected; more than anyone could have done or even hoped for. You helped Sherlock through 8 countries and countless missions for over four months. We always knew there was a risk and it's not your fault! But I'll need your help rescuing him and we can't afford for you to fall to pieces right now."
Q knew very well his brother was right. He was a professional for God's sake, what the hell was wrong with him? He was the Quartermaster of MI6, had done this numerous times and he needed to behave accordingly, damn it!
"Yes, yes, you're right of course, I'm sorry. I'll do anything in my power to help him. And you."
Mycroft nodded before releasing him then took a deep breath.
"Can we count on some help from the local authorities?"
"Yes, of course, it's no problem. I have contacts by their secret agency. I'll arrange it."
"I'm also going to travel there. I want to be the one bringing him out personally."
"What!? Why? Forget it, there are people trained for exactly that! I'll make a few calls right away…" – He wanted to leave but his brother grabbed his arm, jerking him back with one firm movement. Q was still small and light enough to be manhandled easily that way but that didn't mean he appreciated the treatment!
"You're not going to do any such thing right now. I'll need their help but only when I'm there too. It's a very delicate matter and still top secret. However much I may want to, we can't rush this. It would be dangerous. And I hope I don't have to remind you that MI6 absolutely can't know anything about this whole affair."
Q angrily pulled his arm out of Mycroft's hold.
"Oh, of course, it's so much better if I'll lose you too! Okay. Well, then I'm going with you!" – Declared the boy stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, indicating his determination not to budge on the matter whatever Mycroft said or did.
"I'm sorry; we don't have time to travel by train. I'm going to take my private plane there to be able to arrive as soon as possible. Sherlock's life could depend on it."
"I know that; I'm not stupid. I'll go with you on the plane."
Mycroft actually looked taken aback by that proposition.
"Benedict… you don't have to."
"I know. And yet I will. End of the story."
"But you can't even go near an airport! You're going to pass out."
"As a matter of fact, I have been training myself to be able to go near an airport for a while and I can watch planes from afar and listen to them by now without feeling sick. I'll be fine."
"You realize you'd actually need to get into the airplane and then spend over two hours in it in the air, don't you? It's not the same as watching them from the ground."
Q stomped his foot impatiently.
"Details! Mycroft, useless details! Come on, it's for Sherlock! Our brother! Family! I would let my legs be cut off for him; don't you think I'll manage getting on a plane?"
"It's also going to be very dangerous in Serbia." – Reminded him the oldest brother, desperate to talk the younger one out of the idea of following him into danger. If all of them died there, it would be over with the Holmes family forever.
Now the boy really rolled his eyes. Was Mycroft truly dense enough to try to explain to him, the Quartermaster, what a rescue mission meant and what risks it held?
"You don't need to tell me about it! Or should I maybe remind you that I am an agent with the rank of major, while you, brother, passionately hate any kind of legwork?"
"Major? I've never heard of any Quartermaster being referred to by rank." – How could a seventeen-year-old teenager be a major!? MI6 surely couldn't have sunk that low!
"That's because Old Boothroyd's real name was Major. We couldn't very well refer to him as 'Major Major', could we? That would have been too Catch-22. But I can assure you I'm more than capable of managing a field assignment even if I haven't had many chances to prove it. I have the same training as everyone else in the Secret Intelligence Service, except for the Double-Os of course." – Well, officially, at least. Mycroft really didn't need to know he had put his hacking abilities to good use in that area. To his defense: his promotion to Quartermaster had happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. M had only said: 'Take care of the paperwork as you see fit. I don't want to know about it at all, I have other things to focus on right now.' So he had done as he had been instructed. There was nothing wrong with taking desperate measures in desperate times. Nothing at all. Yeah, right. – "It's not a game and I'm very well aware of that. I have also prepared and directed ample operations and my marksmanship is the best in the whole MI6. And that's including Double-Os!" – At least that was really true. He was a legend when it came to shooting targets. On the training field. – "I'm not just a little kid playing with water pistol guarding a sand castle!"
"You don't speak Serbian." – Pointed out Mycroft, as a last resort, with not much hope in his voice, knowing very well he was fighting an already lost battle. The boy was simply too good.
"Neither do you. We can both learn it on the way there."
Mycroft sighed but accepted the inevitable. Besides, they really didn't have time to argue and Benedict was more than capable of the task. He knew that of course. As soon as he had learnt about the boy's position in Britain's Secret Intelligence Service, he had done his research and knew now what it really meant to be Quartermaster. There was nobody available more fitting to do what they had ahead of them. But it didn't mean he had to like it: now he would have to worry about both his little brothers!
"It's settled then?" – He wanted to make sure the courageous youngster knew exactly what he was getting himself into.
"I have already requested three days off from work. And two days before that I'm free anyway; so, I have five days to spare now. Let's make sure it's enough."
"It will be enough. In five days, the three of us will be home; safe and sound." – Promised Mycroft.
"Amen."
They agreed to meet at the airport the next morning. Q went home to pack a few things and prepare the assignment while Mycroft made a few calls to other high-ranking persons to explain his upcoming absence.
Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q
Two-year-old Benedict was very excited. His parents had promised to take him to Walt Disney World, Orlando, Florida, for his birthday! He had never even left England before and now he was traveling to the US! On an airplane none the less! It was just so very cool! They were also going to visit the Universal Studios and travel to the Kennedy Space Center and he'd see cars drive on the wrong side of the road! He couldn't wait to be there.
He had been afraid his parents would decide not to risk the journey to the United States due to the recent occurrences on September 11 that very year (just a bit over a month ago…), but fortunately, admittedly after much debate over the matter, they hadn't changed their plans in the end and now here they were: sitting in the aircraft, waiting for takeoff.
Benedict, of course, was very-very smart for his age and knew exactly what a terror attack meant, especially since his father was a journalist and had hardly slept for days afterwards, writing article after article about the sad happenings across the ocean. Benedict felt horribly guilty about being so happy right now after such a tragedy that had shaken the entire mankind but he couldn't help it: it was his birthday after all and he was traveling to the probably most exciting place in the whole world!
Although he wished his brothers could have been persuaded to come with them. He knew very well that, contrary to popular belief, they loved their little brother very much, but of course they certainly had a very unique way showing it. Or rather not showing it at all most of the time. Still, he felt they were the only people on Earth who really understood him and their absence would certainly take away some of the fun he could be having during the trip.
He knew his parents didn't have a clue about his mind's workings and would rather not know anything about it at all… They had wished for a normal baby after two geniuses and were, in Benedict's opinion, bitterly disappointed he didn't turn out that way. Not that they had said it like that out loud but the boy, clever as he was, was able to read between the lines.
Anyway, as it was, Mycroft had way more important things to do than 'parade around with cartoon figures in a park designed for small kids' and Sherlock… well, Sherlock was Sherlock and he had just simply said he wasn't interested in such 'ridiculously childish things'. They had both remembered his birthday five days ago though and he had gotten two very-very interesting books from them to read: Mycroft had bought him The Sorrows of Young Werther and other collected works by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (in original German of course) while Sherlock had presented him with De Profundis and other works of Oscar Wilde. He had already read the latter after having researched the history behind it and was going to continue with Goethe as soon as they'd be back. His parents had only been shaking their heads in confusion seeing his presents, claiming 'what is a two-year-old supposed to do with books, boys? And a German one at that…' – Benedict had tried to explain to them various times before that he had been reading classic literature in many languages for months already but they didn't believe him. It was a bit vexing but luckily he had his brothers to turn to. Funnily enough they had never had a problem believing anything about him. Quite the contrary: they seemed to expect nothing less of him. Sherlock had once said he would have been deeply disappointed and also offended if any brother of him had turned out to be an idiot. ('Idiot' meaning in Sherlock's interpretation the normal, everyday people like – his brother's words not Benedict's! – their parents.)
The plane was just taking off now and Benedict, waking from his daydreams, clutched his sock bunny in excitement, looking out the window, trying to take in everything that was happening. He smiled at Bibby Bunny and caressed his long blue ears. His mom had made similar sock toys for all of her boys just after they had been born: Mycroft had a teddy named Tudor, Sherlock a dog he called Redbeard and Benedict this little bunny. The two older brothers claimed of course to be too old to care about these anymore, though Benedict knew for a fact they both held their first toys in high esteem, tucked away safely in their respective rooms at Holmes Manor. Benedict, naturally, took his own furry friend everywhere he went with him. And now the rabbit was traveling as a family member to the US! He had even made him a passport and visa because he knew very well you couldn't travel without proper paperwork – especially these days. He didn't want the officer at the border to send back his friend all alone.
Sherlock had teased him about it, saying that playing with toys was for babies… Well, didn't mommy and daddy insist he was a baby? Anyway, Mycroft had told him once that Sherlock had played pirate with Redbeard and told everyone who would listen that he had a real dog. That hadn't been true of course: mommy and daddy would never in a million years have allowed a living pet into their household. They thought pets were far more trouble than they were worth. Benedict was a bit sad about it because he had always wished for a cat but knew he couldn't do anything about it. But Sherlock had pretended to have a real dog and he had already been 8-9 years old at that time; Mycroft had said so! Much older than Benedict was now, so Sherlock shouldn't make fun of him for playing with toys. It was different when you were only a hand old but when you already needed two hands to show your age, you were really old. Well, that's how Benedict saw it, anyway. He had decided to put his bunny up onto the shelf as soon as he'd reach six. But that was still far-far away. Two lifetimes. So he knew for certain it was all right to play with Bibby now.
"Isn't it marvelous, Bibby? Just a few hours and we'll be in a complete different world!" – He asked his contently smiling bunny in excitement, never knowing to what extent this was going to become true…
"Do you enjoy the journey, son?" – Asked his dad happily, tickling the little boy's nose teasingly. Benedict, as always, sneezed at that, causing great amusement to his father.
"Oh, yes, daddy! Just look at those beautiful clouds! Incredible! These reddish colors and shapes are absolutely amazing!"
"Benedict, two-year-olds don't use words like 'marvelous', 'incredible' or 'amazing'. – Chided him his mother gently, running her hand through his messy dark locks to show him she wasn't really angry. – "Didn't you mean 'bestest', or something like that?"
"Of course, mommy. Sorry."
His mom just sighed in resignation. His dad patted his head:
"You don't have to be sorry, son, it's all right. I know your brothers teach you things like that just to spite us."
Benedict felt a bit betrayed by that statement, but decided against explaining to his parents that he didn't need his brothers to teach him such terms since he read them all the time in his books… Weren't these normal English words? Well, they wouldn't understand anyway because in their opinion 'babies can't read!'. So he said instead:
"But it is in fact the best, really. I don't know about 'bestest' though, I think it might not be entirely correct grammatically…"
"Gramma-!? Oh, it's all right, son, just enjoy yourself."
"Okay!"
They had been flying for around an hour when Benedict felt a great jerk that nearly made him fall out of his seat. People looked around in fright while the warning sign for fastening seatbelts instantly became visible, flashing so that everyone would see it and know to obey. His dad reached over to strap him in securely while his mom took his hand to reassure him.
"It's all right, sunshine; it's just a small turbulence. Nothing to worry about, Benny."
He hated being called that but it was perhaps not the right time to mention it. Now they had more pressing matters.
"A small turbulence?" – He asked in disbelief, seeing people panic around them. – "Then why is everyone so afraid?"
"They're not. Just close your eyes if you feel a bit sick. It's fine." – Hurried to explain to him his dad as well.
He did as he had been told but soon discovered it didn't help much. If anything, it made him feel even more nauseous. Before the journey, he had read up everything he could find on airplanes using the internet on Mycroft's laptop. His older brother was usually willing to let the 'baby of the family' use his things without letting anyone know so that he could do research without further worrying his parents with his 'unnatural interests'. Like the laws of physics behind flying. That curiosity and the information he had gathered thanks to it made him certain in that moment that everything was most assuredly not all right. Not at all. He didn't know if his parents were that unaware or were simply trying to make him feel better by denying the truth, but he suspected the latter. They always insisted on treating him like a little baby he should be according to his biological age. A pity that at this precise moment, his far more mature brain was screaming at him to do something. But what?
He opened his eyes and found total chaos around him. People were trying to fasten oxygen masks on their faces. Some were crying, others screaming at the top of their lungs. Benedict couldn't see how any of the two activities could be of any help in a situation like that. He looked out of the window and saw-
"Fire!" – He exclaimed, pointing at the right wing they could clearly see from their seats. "Mommy, look!"
"It's okay, baby, just stay calm… here, your mask…" – His mother had tears running down her face and even his father was deadly pale. That scared the little boy more than anything else that was happening. His parents were never afraid. Never!
He also didn't think it was oxygen mask they needed right now. He quickly calculated their possibilities and diagnosed they were going to go down. There was just no chance this could end any other way. That knowledge nearly made him panic but then thought about what he had read about plane crashes. There had been a lot of research material these last weeks, given the sad actuality of the topic.
"Mommy, we need to find protection for when we'll crash!"
"What? Benny, stay where you are, what are you doing!?" – His mother tried to grab his arm but he was too quick for her. His father also made a grab for him but Benedict had such small and skinny arms; he could get out of any bind in just mere seconds.
The little boy hurriedly crawled in under his seat and hugged the life vest he found there to his chest, along with Bibby Bunny of course. Luckily, he was small enough to be entirely covered. He kept his finger on the button of the vest but didn't press it just yet. He knew they were going to end up in the ocean but first they had to survive the crash itself.
He didn't have to wait long for that – it seemed he had taken his refuge just in time. Soon there was a very big 'crack' to hear and the small boy felt like he had been hit by an enormous truck. He had of course never actually been hit by a truck but that was exactly how he had always imagined it to be.
How was still groggy when he began to feel ice-cold water seeping into his clothes. They were indeed in the ocean then. He very carefully climbed out from under the seat and pressed the life vest to blow it up. It was too big for him to wear like it had been designed to be worn so he bound it with a knot to his wrists, silently thanking Sherlock for teaching him 'pirate things'. The water level was rapidly growing and he knew he only had minutes to get out of the plane into open waters before the whole cabin would be filled.
He looked around in search for his parents and he saw something he would most likely never be able to forget ever: everyone around him seemed to be dying in terrible pain! His mommy was screaming and pleading with his daddy to help her. His daddy couldn't help though: his forehead was bleeding horrifyingly and he had great difficulty breathing! He was also crying and looking at Benedict with teary, glassy eyes.
"Son, help us! We need to get out! Help! You're the only one who is able to move now. You need to help us!"
"I'll try, daddy…" – And he did but he couldn't move either of them. His daddy was getting weaker and weaker, so he tried with his mommy. She screamed in pain as soon as he grabbed her arm to try to pull her up.
The water was still flowing into the plane and they were slowly but steadily sinking.
"We need to go, please! Mommy, daddy! We need to leave" – But they didn't listen, just cried and pleaded with him to help them. To do something. Anything. But what could he do?
In the end, he got very-very scared.
The little boy wanted to scream and rage. He wanted to cry. Most importantly: he wanted his brothers there and his parents healthy and well, and this whole thing to just have been nothing more than a cruel nightmare! He felt like running. Fleeing. So that's what he did. He ran to the nearest emergency exit careful not to damage the life vest, ignoring a moaning old man in one of the seats who seemed to have a piece of iron sticking out of his stomach (he had to look away very quickly for he felt like he would vomit), and – mentally saying thanks for the demonstration they'd had at the beginning of their flight – he could open the door at second try. It was a bit funny that a two-year-old 'baby' was able to do it. He would have expected it to be more difficult. Then again: he wasn't an ordinary two years old boy, was he?
Under them there was nothing but infinite water. The little boy had no clue what to do with only one life vest as support and not an adult to help him. How was he supposed to survive? Maybe he wasn't…
Just at that moment the plane sank deeper as it got filled with more water and the motion caused to thin and very light boy to lose his hold on the railing and fall. He lost consciousness at the same time he hit the freezing water.
The next time he woke, he was lying in a bed in a totally white room. Everything was frightening and he was alone. He wanted to call for someone but he couldn't. It felt as if there was something in his mouth preventing him from talking. Everything hurt and he couldn't move.
He did what everyone would have done in a situation like that: he panicked. Soon, he could hear a high-pitched shrilling sound that hurt his ears and he passed out again.
When he woke anew, he could instantly see Sherlock sitting next to him with red eyes, staring numbly into nothingness, unaware of his little brother being aware. He looked horrible, as if he hadn't slept for days but had been crying the whole time instead. Benedict could also hear Mycroft's voice from outside; demanding and angry. He was very glad he wasn't the one being talked to like that. Mycroft could be scary when he wanted to be, everyone knew that.
"We won't leave the hospital, Doctor Perry, so I suggest you quit trying to make us go home."
"Mister Holmes, please, try to understand: hospital regulations-"
"I don't care shit about your regulations! Our little brother woke yesterday and we weren't here! He panicked and passed out again! That is unacceptable! Where were you, anyway? He wakes from a coma and nobody realizes!?"
Coma…?
"Nobody thought he'd ever wake… We didn't…"
"And that's supposed to be your excuse as a professional? That you DIDN'T THINK? It's quite obvious, doctor, that you DON'T think at all and that says a lot about your hospital. Leave us alone! I have already arranged for him to be taken home first thing tomorrow. Until then: don't even think about speaking to us again unless we speak to you first. And yes: that was the last warning! The next time you bother us, it's going to be quite painful for you."
The door opened, and Mycroft stepped in, breathing heavily and not looking any better than Sherlock. He was the first to realize Benedict watching them.
"Oh my God! Benedict! Baby brother!" – He exclaimed and leaned down to the little boy's level to look him into the eyes.
Sherlock gave a yelp and grabbed the small and frail boy's hand.
"Benedict? Can you hear us?" – He asked, looking half-afraid of the answer which didn't seem logical to the boy. If he couldn't hear them, how would he be supposed to answer?
Benedict tried to say something. Anything. But he couldn't find the strength. Even though that something, that had been there the day before, had by now disappeared from his mouth. Thankfully, because that had been horrible. Still, he couldn't speak so he tried to nod. He managed it at third attempt, but it made his head spin horribly so he decided he wouldn't do that again either.
"Oh! Oh!" – Was all Sherlock could say to that.
Mycroft caressed his hair and it felt nice. His brothers were here with him! But where were his parents? If he was sick, shouldn't they be here as well?
Then it all came back to him suddenly. The crash! People bleeding and dying… mommy and daddy bleeding and dying and crying and asking him for help which he hadn't given to them! Tears sprang into his eyes and he started to sob violently.
"Benedict, it's okay!" – Said Mycroft. – "Please, you're going to make yourself sick. Hey, we're here, you're going to be all right. Please, listen to me…"
But Benedict couldn't. Their parents were dead! They had been in a plane crash and their parents had died! And it was all his fault: it was his birthday they had wanted to celebrate. The travel had been his birthday present… His brothers were never going to forgive him! Never ever! How could they after what he had done? He had killed their mommy and daddy!
He would never tell them.
Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q
Q woke with a silent scream and breathing very hard, feeling sick. He hadn't had this particular nightmare for a while. Well, it was more than a nightmare: it was a memory. The worst he had.
He quickly turned on the lights in his bedroom and – being glad he had left his kittens with Eve for the days he wouldn't be here – walked into the bathroom to wash his face with cold water.
Just like he had expected it upon looking around in the plane and finding that horrible-horrible scene: he could still vividly remember every detail about the crash itself and the months following it.
He had woken up in the hospital in pain and very confused. Later he had learnt that he had been the sole survivor of the crash. Actually, there had been three others who could be rescued from the wreckages still alive but all of them had died within the week afterwards of their injuries. Nobody understood how a small, seemingly undernourished, weak little boy of two years of age could manage to survive it without any lasting reminder. (Unless you counted having become an orphan and gaining a fear he hadn't been able to overcome for fifteen years…)
Not that the doctors had originally given him any credit, mind you: when he had been pulled out of the water by the rescue teams, he had been absolutely frozen and barely alive at all. The doctors had to use CPR to reanimate him two times in the hospital because he had stopped breathing and according to them the second time it took 'way too long' for someone so small not to become brain damaged.
Then he spent the next several weeks in a coma from which he hadn't been expected to wake anymore. The doctors had tried to persuade his brothers to look for a long-term solution for him – meaning putting him into an institute – but they had outright refused to even consider this possibility. In the end, arrangements had been made for him to be taken home to Holmes Manor. Mycroft had sorrowfully decided to leave his work and spend his life looking after his brother instead. Sherlock had offered to help and had not accepted 'no' as an answer, saying: 'He's my brother as well, you great moron, don't you dare play the martyr here!'
So, Mycroft and Sherlock had moved back into Holmes Manor and had been just about to take their sick little brother home when he had woken up and had seemed – to the doctors' utter disbelief – absolutely fine physically.
But he hadn't been talking for a very long time. Q was able to explain it to himself now, contrary to back then: he knew the guilt he had felt had made him unable to utter a word. He had been selfish and afraid his brothers would hate him if they knew he had left their pleading parents behind to save himself, so he had cowardly decided not to tell them. But he hadn't been able to lie either so he had become mute. Well, he would have thought they would hate him anyway just for surviving since he knew it all had happened because of him in the first place…
That opinion hadn't changed: he still felt responsible. That was the reason that until very recently he had absolutely refused to celebrate his birthday. His brothers weren't the types for parties so it hadn't been a problem ever. Most of the time they had just patted him on the shoulder and congratulated him on having become a year older again. It was a sad time of the year for their family after all. Later, Anthea would always get him a slice of cake and a small present which he had appreciated very much but hadn't found necessary. Both his and Mycroft's birthdays suffered the anniversary of their parents' death anyway and nothing could ever change that.
He had never been able to forget Bibby Bunny either: as ashamed as he had felt that he hadn't only missed his parents but his stuffed animal as well, he hadn't been able to help it: the rabbit had been his best friend since his birth after all. (And also the only one for a very long time to come.) He couldn't even begin to tell how ridiculously happy he was about the fact that Paddington Bear hadn't suffered the same fate when his flat had been blown up.
He was well aware of the fact that the accident and everything he had gone through made him the most likely candidate for becoming a psychopath out of the three brothers and most probably out of everyone in MI6. There was a reason he avoided having to talk to psychologists like a plague and was willing to go as far as falsifying reports of any obligatory psych evals. Or that he was still just as unable to really talk to his brothers as he had been before… He still hadn't told them that he could remember… that he had seen their parents dying…
He sat down onto the edge of the bathtub with a heavy sigh.
He really didn't wish to fly again. He had made himself a promise never to go near an airplane ever again. He was a menace, a bad omen; he brought misfortune! But you could say it was typical that things just wouldn't go the way he wanted them to. Now he really didn't have any other choice but to try to get over his fear. He sure as hell wouldn't let Sherlock down just because he was a whiny baby (at least according to James Bond) and too afraid to help him!
He would manage it. Somehow… Deciding there was no way he would sleep any more that night, he resigned himself to dedicate the time to studying some Serbian instead.