Q hadn't smoked in ages. Years.

I'm not starting up again. Just one.

He shook a cigarette out of the pack, put it to his lips, looked down the alley to make sure no one was watching (except the security camera, but he would scramble the footage later), then flicked the cheap plastic lighter and inhaled deeply. Too deeply. He exploded in a fit of coughing.

The door to his right opened and he whipped his hands behind his back like he had when he was a schoolboy and his mum had caught him and his brother behind the shed.

"I can smell that." Bond let the door fall shut behind him and leant against the wall. His shoulder brushed Q's, and he held out a hand. "Give." Q put his still-smouldering cigarette back in his mouth and gave the pack to him. The older man lit up with his own sleek silver lighter. Q raised an eyebrow.

"I always have it on me. Just in case." He looked at it in his palm as he inhaled, then handed it to Q. He turned it around in his fingers, then shook it. Nothing rattled. It was exactly as it appeared to be.

Q handed it back, then took a second, and more careful, drag.

"I'd never have pegged you as a smoker." Bond nudged Q's foot with his.

"I'm just having one." He exhaled. "What are you doing here? You're not supposed to report until tomorrow."

"I just needed a breath of fresh air." They smoked in silence for a few more minutes. "I met the head of CNS on my way out. I've decided to call him C."

"Oh?" Q's fingers twitched.

"Something the matter?" Bond looked at him.

"I met him as well." Q was always a quiet one, but now his voice quavered a bit and Bond looked at him sharply.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"One could say that." Q ground out his cigarette on the pavement and pocketed the stub. Bond flicked his down the alley.

"Come. I'll show you."

They descended to the lab. Wooden crates lined the walls, and boxes of files and loose electronic parts were stacked on the floor. Nearly every horizontal surface was piled high with some sort of container.

"We're moving house," Q explained, then went straight to his desk and fired up his computer. The wall of monitors sprang to life and soon Max Denbigh's face popped up on the central screen. Bond snorted. A few seconds later, another screen lit up. Denbigh's face, mugging for the camera. An electronic voice parroted "did you miss me?" rapidly, at a high frequency. Q let the video loop play for a few seconds before freezing it.

"This is from a few years ago. He had been arrested and tried for breaking and entering. For the Crown Jewels, of all things." Q busied himself at his keyboard and soon another video began to play in slow motion on a different monitor. CCTV footage. Again the familiar face, dramatically scrawling "GET SHERLOCK" on the glass of the jewels' display case before smashing through it.

"Who is Sherlock?" Bond rewound the footage and paused it just before the glass shattered.

Q sighed, a small sound.

"My brother."

"You have a brother?"

"Two, actually."

"Hang on - Sherlock, Sherlock..." Bond repeated the name under his breath, staring vacantly at the ceiling, trying to jog his memory.

"I don't suppose you read the news much. He, um, died."

Bond closed his eyes.

"He's not really dead though, he's back in London now. MI6 kept an eye on him."

"He works for MI6?"

"No-o, not at all. Well, I mean, he's done some unofficial work, not that he's known about it." Q dropped into his chair and rubbed his temples. "To make a long story short, this other man - James Moriarty - shot himself on the roof of St Bart's, right before my brother jumped to his 'death.'"

"So who is Max Denbigh?" Bond pulled a second chair around and sat down.

"Exactly who he says he is, I'm afraid. All his documentation checks out. Hell, I've even dredged up childhood photographs."

"And James Moriarty?"

Q slumped in his chair. "Gone. Nothing." Bond put a hand on his shoulder, and Q rolled his head to the side. His cheek touched Bond's wrist and it was a long moment before Bond pulled away.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find something."

"Always do," said Q, his cheek tingling. Bond smiled at him.

"So, Sherlock isn't an agent?"

"He's an unofficial detective. Google him."

"Perhaps later. What about your other brother?"

Q fidgeted. "You know, Sherlock always maintained that James Moriarty was the centre of the largest criminal agency in the world. It's quite possible he wasn't wrong."

"Have you told M?"

"Mallory? No."

"You have more than one M in your life?" Bond hazarded a guess.

"I'm surprised you haven't met him."

"Him?"

Q's phone beeped. Incoming text. Q read the message twice, frowning.

"Family emergency," he said, after a moment. "I'll see you tomorrow, 007."

X

The least glamorous part of being a spy (and a detective, if one were to ask John Watson) is watching and waiting. Much to Bond's irritation, Q kept to his lab until late afternoon. It was growing dark when he finally left the building. He would make a terrible agent, thought Bond, and not for the first time. Q got on the tube and settled in, laptop open, absentmindedly typing away. Bond kept a respectful distance, half expecting he would look up and notice the shadow that had been following him, but apparently whatever was on the computer was more important than concern for one's surroundings.

A man sat down next to Q, who closed his laptop and stowed it in his knapsack. The man leant over and whispered something in his ear. Q's eyes widened and he jumped to his feet, his grip tightening on the straps of his bag. The man followed him to the door, and when it opened at the next stop both men made a quick exit, one after the other.

Shit.

Bond went after them, zig-zagging through the dwindling crowd of commuters. The man veered off in one direction, Q in another. Bond pursued Q, who jogged up the stairs of the station and into the back seat of a car waiting at the kerb. Bond slid in after him and slammed the door.

There was a long, drawn out sigh, and only then did Bond notice they were not alone in the back seat. A tall man sat on the passenger side. He tapped the window with the handle of an umbrella.

"Drive," the man said in a bored voice. The car pulled away.

"You didn't tell me you were bringing a date," the man said.

"Last minute plans," said Q, trying for levity and failing.

"Stand down, soldier." Bond was overcome with an intense desire to break his nose.

"007, my brother Mycroft Holmes." Q gently touched Bond's forearm. "I appreciate the rescue, but I'm afraid it was rather unnecessary."

"He was late for our meeting, so I sent someone to fetch him," Mycroft Holmes drawled, intensely annoyed. "Only a spy would have thought he was witnessing an abduction."

"I was in the area."

Mycroft laughed.

"Olivia used to say -"

"Don't you dare speak her name," growled Bond.

"Put the gun away," Q said, nudging Bond's knee with his own. Bond removed his hand from under his coat. "We've got a long ride."

"Where are we going?"

"Dinner party," Mycroft said, yawning politely behind his hand. "I hope you like pheasant."

Sherlock sulked in his chair, still wearing his overcoat. John sat opposite, sipping on his scotch, staring at him.

"You never mentioned a younger brother," he said.

"That particular sheep left the fold a long time ago."

"Just like you?"

The door behind them opened. John got to his feet. Sherlock stayed where he was. Mycroft entered first, followed by a very slim youth with messy brown hair. A third figure, dark and powerfully built, took up the rear.

"Well, if it isn't John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." The third figure pushed forward and John straightened.

"James Bond, Royal Navy. As I live and breathe." The two men stared at each other. The silence in the room was very loud. Bond extended his hand and John grasped it. What should have been a handshake was instead a firm clasp. Sherlock turned his chair and glared at everyone. Q, confused by the emotional undercurrent in the room, busied himself at the table, unloading his laptop and connecting it to a projector.

"Let's get started," he mumbled. Mycroft took his place at the head of the table and everyone sat down, Bond next to Sherlock, still staring at John.

"Aren't you going to say hello, Q?" Sherlock emphasised the letter.

"Hello, Sherlock. Hello, Doctor Watson." He connected his cables more forcefully than was necessary, unsettled by the look that had passed between Bond and Sherlock's companion. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Q?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, that's his spy name," mocked Sherlock. "They have those, apparently."

"Enough." Mycroft showed his authority. "Let's get started. Drink?"

Q declined and started the projector. Bond reached over and took John's glass, tossed the contents back neatly, and slid it back across the table.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

The stills from the two videos Q had shown to Bond lit up the wall.

"Right, then. I'm sure we are all familiar with this man?" No one responded, so Q moved on. "He is better known - at least to 007, and myself - as Max Denbigh. C, as we call him."

"God, what is with you people?"

"Sherlock..." John and Mycroft reprimanded simultaneously.

"As you can see, his appearance has changed slightly. He's had some work done around his nose, and he's showing his age."

"Aren't we all." John said. He glanced at Bond and fiddled with his empty glass.

"We are quite certain it is the same man, and not a twin or sibling, based on -"

"- his ears. Get on with it," Sherlock snapped.

"- physical comparisons." Q finished. He pressed a key. A much younger C stared back at them, along with a list of educational accomplishments complete with dates.

"Unless we are dealing with a major cover-up years in the planning, and over the course of the past two decades, I think it's safe to say Mr Moriarty is one of many aliases C has cultivated. He dropped the disguise when it was convenient."

"The man shot himself in the head, right in front of me." Sherlock's voice was flat.

"And you jumped off a building." John looked at him evenly.

Q adjusted his spectacles.

"I did a little quiet digging this afternoon. Into the Irene Adler files." He rubbed his hands together.

"'Bond Air is go?'" Sherlock stood and shrugged off his coat, then tossed it on an empty chair and resumed his seat. "Really, Mycroft?"

"It was just a code name." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry, what?" Bond sat at attention.

"You've dealt with Moriarty yourself, 007, though you weren't given details at the time," said Q. "A simple matter, really. Terrorists planning to blow up a plane. Intel you brought back from Budapest."

"Mycroft devised an ingenious solution. Fill the plane with dead people and let it blow up anyway." Sherlock huffed. "Brilliant."

Mycroft ignored him. "A blackmailer named Irene Adler brought some code to Sherlock, who cracked it for her. She sold the information to Moriarty. Familiar story to some, I'm sure." He looked pointedly at Bond, who got to his feet. His jaw clenched.

"James, don't." The words tumbled out of Q's mouth, his tone accidentally intimate. "He's always like this, it isn't worth it."

A light went on in Sherlock's eyes. "Oh, I see. Fancy the military men, do we?"

John coughed. Bond resumed his seat. Q's face was on fire.

"Apologies," purred Mycroft, not sorry at all.

"Um, where were we. The Irene Adler files. Right." His palms were sweaty. "I compared the official copy of the files with the one on your personal computer, and found an interesting discrepancy."

"How did you -"

"I'm an annoying little shit."

Bond snorted. Q busied himself at the keyboard. Two lists of files appeared on the screen. They were nearly identical. One of the lists was two items shorter than the other. Q straightened, focusing on his oldest brother.

"Irene Adler had information about James Moriarty's true identity, and I think it was you who decided to cover it up." Q exhaled slowly. "The other information she had in her possession was quite sensitive, of course, but it was of a more personal nature. But this particular folder -"

"Don't open it." Mycroft leant back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Q took his hand off the trackpad. "Are there any other accusations you'd like to make? Since we're all here having a little chat anyway?"

"Unbelievable." John ran his hands through his hair. "All that nonsense on the plan with Sherlock, Mary, and I - and you knew Moriarty was alive, this whole time. I suppose it only makes sense; you knew Sherlock was alive too and you didn't let anyone know that, either!"

"John, don't take it personally," Sherlock said. "We've talked about this."

"Why didn't you bring this to MI6?" Bond cut in, addressing Mycroft. "I don't exactly know what it is you do, but I'm relatively certain you've got an office somewhere in Whitehall. You should have gone straight to M."

Mycroft snorted.

"Oh look, someone's jealous." Sherlock smoothed imaginary papers on the table in front of him, smiling. "Mycroft starts with an M, in case you hadn't noticed. Wrong place, wrong time - eh, big brother?"

"Stop it." John's voice was brittle. Sherlock waved him away.

"You were playing a long game, Brother My, and it backfired spectacularly."

"You wanted her job?" Bond said, incredulous.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock faked a yawn.

"Everyone knew she was on the verge of mandatory retirement, even if she refused to acknowledge it. She was seventy five years old and blind in one eye, for chrissake." Mycroft slammed his hand on the table. "If Denbigh was going to reappear in some official capacity - which I thought was highly likely -"

"-bringing him in yourself would be a rather impressive addition to your resume?" Bond shook his head in disbelief. "That still doesn't explain why you still haven't come forward."

"It's too late now," Mycroft said.

"Now we've got the head of one of the largest criminal organisations in the world in control of our national security," John snarled.

"Fascinating family you've got, Q," said Bond. "Christmas dinner must be a treat."

Q began to pack up his equipment. "I'll be going to M with this information tomorrow." He glanced up, first at Mycroft and then at Sherlock. "I'm certain he will have questions for you."

"If I don't have to answer to the police, I don't have to answer to MI6," said Sherlock.

"That's true," admitted Q. "But I think that now, given the circumstances, you will."

"If he doesn't, I will." John stood up.

"Let's go, Q." Bond stood too, and straightened his coat. "We're getting nowhere here. Besides, I have a date."

"We'll keep in touch, won't we, Sherlock." John went to the door and held it open. Q shook his hand. Bond stood motionless and opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and nodded his goodbye instead.

"I'll send for the car," Mycroft called after them.

X

Bond opened the car door for Q and shut it behind him.

"What a waste of time," Bond said as he got in. He gave his address and the car merged into traffic.

"Seatbelt," said Q. Bond made a face. "Oh come on, 007, it's what normal people do."

"Since when have I been normal?" He snapped the belt in place. "You're coming to my place for a drink."

Q brightened.

"Moneypenny is coming over at nine, to drop off a few things."

"Oh. How nice." Q settled back in his seat and looked out the window.

"Now now. It's not like that."

"Like what?"

Bond smiled to himself.

X

"Nice place," said Q as they ascended the stairs. Bond fished a key from his pocket.

"M sold my old flat. St John's Wood was a little over the top, anyway. Killer commute."

The flat was nearly empty, almost sterile. Nothing on the walls, bare shelves. Q laid his coat on the back of the only chair in the room.

"St John's Wood, to this? Quite the downgrade, even for Chelsea."

"I don't spent much time at home." Bond pulled a bottle of scotch from a well stocked cupboard and poured two glasses. He handed one to Q and disappeared around a corner. When he returned he was without his jacket, shoulder holster plainly visible.

"I need to show you something. Hit play." He gestured to a remote control balanced on the armrest of Q's chair. Q complied, and a grainy image of M - old M, his M - appeared.

"Find a man named Marco Sciarra. Kill him, and don't miss the funeral."

Q played the video twice, then turned off the TV.

"So that's what you were doing in Mexico City."

"The funeral is in -"

"Don't." Q gulped from his glass. "I don't want to know."

"Yes you do." Bond drained his drink and got up to pour another.

"I really don't." Q had never been able to hold his liquor, and even this small amount was making him feel slightly warm. "I've put my career on the line at your request before. I've already crossed a line tonight." He swallowed the rest of his scotch and set the glass on the table in front of him. "You should probably stop drinking. You're to report for medical in the morning."

"I think you should have another. Relax." Bond poured another two fingers' worth and sat on the sofa. Q stared at it, then took a reluctant sip.

"Trying to get me drunk, are you?"

Bond laughed. "You're always so tightly wound. Drink up." He held his glass to the light and looked at Q through the amber liquid. "'Fancy the military men," he quoted. "What did your brother mean by that?"

"How do you know Captain Watson? He was army, you were navy." The flush rising to his hairline wasn't entirely due to the scotch.

"We crossed paths a few times. Shared a few tight places."

"Oh, for godssake." Q was really warm now. "I don't want to know about that either."

"It wasn't like that."

"No, it was 'like that.' I'm not an idiot."

"Fair enough. So, do you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Q's voice rose in anger.

"Calm down."

"You're mocking me. I'm not going to sit here and listen to it." Q set his glass down and shrugged into his jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow, 007." He made his way to the door.

"Stop." Bond tossed back the rest of his drink, then stepped neatly over the low table and caught Q by the arm. "Just answer the question."

Q twisted the doorknob and opened the door. Bond slammed it shut and his grip on Q's arm tightened. Q shook him off.

"Admitting it outright wouldn't make a difference. It's unprofessional."

Bond pushed him against the door and leant forward. His lips touched a place just below Q's ear, at the corner of his jaw, and slowly slid down until he could feel Q's pulse racing.

"James, don't."

"Why not," he murmured. He pulled the shirt out of the waistband of Q's trousers and touched bare skin.

Q grabbed him by the shoulders and held him at arm's length, groin throbbing.

"I'm not going to be another notch on your bedpost. Our working relationship is already awkward enough."

Bond hooked a thumb inside Q's belt buckle and pulled him forward. They kissed at last, deeply. Some remote part of Q's brain remarked on the odd fact he found the taste of alcohol on Bond's lips highly erotic.

"Stop it!" Bond let him go. "I'll see you tomorrow at eight. This will never happen again." He tucked his shirt in and picked his knapsack off the floor. "We will never speak of it. Ever." Bond held the door for him. "As far as I'm concerned, I was never even here."

Bond closed the door gently, then stood at the window and watched as Q exited the building and stepped onto the sidewalk. He went into the kitchen and poured another drink. When he got back to the window, Q was nowhere to be seen.

A few minutes later, Moneypenny's bright blue coat came into view.