Q looked with disbelief at the photos in the newspaper. He had worked a night shift, returning early this morning, just in time to see the lurid headlines of the tabloids spread all over the newsstands. He had walked by several booths before he realised that people turned their heads looking after him. A bit upset, he decided to buy the Daily Mail, only to be treated with the utmost rudeness by the seller.
Safely back home, Q made himself a nice cup of tea before sitting down at the kitchen table with the paper in front of him. His cats had made themselve scarce once he had greeted and fed them properly. Opening the paper, almost had Q dropping his mug. A picture of him was looking back at him.
And then he actually dropped the mug. The hot tea spilled all over the paper. Q cursed, trying to salvage the dripping paper from further destruction, before he started to clean up the table and the floor underneath. His mind was racing, trying to make any sense of the photos in the article.
He decided on a new cup of tea, before he dared to take another look at the paper. Once more his eyes roamed the page and found the black and white picture of another young man at the bottom of the article. Q's breath hitched and he covered his mouth with his hand.
No, no, no, no. His mind was screaming at him. This had to be fake. How could this be real?
Tears welled up in his eyes, while he read the blurry lines in front of him. The pictures and drawings provided a far too vivid explanation of what seemed to have transpired between the two men. He read and reread the article several times, before he eventually sat back and took off his glasses to rub his eyes.
He cleaned his mug and made yet another cup of tea, walking to the kitchen window and looking out at a rainy, grey London. He could just make out the headquarters on the other side of the river. A bit further down, out of sight, would be the building in which 'Alistair Turner' had met his fate. Viciously, he provided the quotes in his mind. He refused to call his babybrother anything but Alexander.
He sipped his tea, thinking back. Back to a childhood characterised by an absent father and a mother who was unable to provide a safe and loving environment for her two children, both too bright for their own good. When Frances came into their life, Q had trusted her, believed like only a six year old child could believe that everything would turn out for the better. That Frances would help Mum, would watch over them like some kind of good fairy.
Q huffed. How wrong, how very wrong he had been. Frances managed to take Alexander away from them. And only a few weeks later, Q would be taken as well. Not to Frances' house. Oh no, she had no interest in the scrawny, black haired kid, who would fight back whenever his brother was treated unfairly.
Q's hands curled into fists and he had to put down the mug, overwhelmed by the memories. No, he was not reunited with his brother. He was taken away from his family, his home. Kicking and screaming, two social workers were needed to get him into the back of a car, taking him far away from everything he knew and loved.
He would spend ten years in the children's home. As much as he would miss his mother, the loss of his brother was the worst part. It would keep him awake at night, wondering what had happened to him. He would wake in the middle of the night, crying out his name.
But despite his misery, he later realised how lucky he had been. Ms Forger, the undisputed head of the institution, was able to provide a truly supportive and loving environment for the orphans and displaced children given in her custody. She would listen, observe, and gently assess every new member of her small congregation until she knew how to best provide new challenges and tender care for each of them. Her unending patience was put to a test when Q arrived. It took three long weeks, before she was able to tease out the first tentative smile from him. Another two weeks, before he would start to answer with more than one or two word sentences. When he started out in the new school, Ms Forger would walk with him and the other children in the morning and collect them in the afternoon. Over several cups of tea, they would tell each other about their day, laugh and cry, tease and play.
Q swallowed. He had been fond of Ms Forger, had loved his new brothers and sisters. Together, they had been a family who would help and support each other. Most of the children were too old to be adoptable, which meant that the bond between them would become a strong one. Guided by Ms Forger, Q was able to attend college and later the university.
In the end, it was Eve, one of his friends from the home, who would help him start out in a minor position at MI6 as a technical support analyst. His advancement to quartermaster followed soon after. During all these years, he had never given up on finding Alexander. But Frances had erased every possible trace back to her and their mother. He learned from Ms Forger that he literally had been dumped in front of the home with barely any information on him or his family. It would take years before Q found out about his last name being 'Wimsey'. By then, no record of Alexander's or his birth could be found.
He never had known Frances last name. Not until now. Turner. Alistair Turner. Q shuddered and wiped away the new tears. He took the mug and turned back towards the article. He needed to get into contact with this other guy, this Daniel Holt. And he needed more information on what really had transpired in that attic. There were a couple of things that didn't add up. And, god, he needed Bond to get home and be held by him, have him help with this. Q could not believe that his brother was dead. He didn't want to believe it.
First things first. Daniel Holt should be easy enough to find. And Bond should be back tomorrow evening. Enough time to get basic intel on the case and the people involved. Q could feel a new kind of energy blossoming inside of him. He had known that becoming quartermaster would one day prove to be very helpful in finding his brother.
