A/N: not beta'd read at your own risk. :)
THE BAD DAY
Sherlock Holmes was having a bad day, he was out of tea. He turned to John's empty chair, and realization hit. John was gone, he was currently somewhere in Africa was it? Albania? Afghanistan-no not Afghanistan but some place that wasn't England, and it had a damned A in it. It didn't matter, he wasn't there to make the consulting detective tea.
The dark haired young man opened his mouth to yell for his landlady only to recall the blasted woman was visiting her sister in Liverpool. So Tea would not appear suddenly to refill his cup, the last refill had been from Mrs. Hudson before she had left him.
He thought of sending a text to Greg, but decided against that, recalling the last response to a similar text just yesterday. Or had it been last week?
Glancing at the picture on the mantle and then back to his empty cup the consulting detective heaved a heavy sigh. "Mary, this is your fault. If you were here I wouldn't even need to ask for the tea, you or John would have already refilled it. " The blond woman only continued to smile from her place next to the skull. He didn't need to talk to the skull anymore; he had replaced the skull with John years ago. And then later when John had married and moved out the younger man had dug the skull back out and picked up as if no break ever occurred.
The skull thankfully was fairly understanding and continued as a sounding bored even if Sherlock absentmindedly referred to him as John every now and again. The skull was used to Sherlock's ravings and odd hours, the old bleached head actually enjoyed the time spent as a sounding board. Even if he didn't have vocal cords to reply with.
Unfortunately ever since that picture of that blond smiling woman appeared Sherlock Holmes no longer conversed with the old skull but instead with the blond lady. Mary was her name, and her photograph arrived shortly before doctor Watson had moved back in. Now the consulting detective only spoke out loud to Mary when he had no other audience.
Today was one of those days, things had gone very sad in the flat since Mary arrived in the form of a picture.
"Don't worry Mary he wont be gone very long." Sherlock's melancholy voice hung in the dimly lit room. "I miss him too."
Then the lonely violin's song pierced the air sounding like the lapping waters of a faraway lake on an abandoned shore, or perhaps the quiet waters of some far away coast.
Sherlock paused in mid stroke, "This is Mycroft's fault, he took that gun off of me. I was about to hide it in John's luggage before he left. The airport security would have put him on a no fly list and would have detained him. I could have made an anonymous tip and well we know that it would take a month or two to get everything ironed out and until then John would be here. Home, not off running around with that silly organization. Doctors without borders indeed!"
The smiling woman continued to look on, forever captured in time, her eyes dancing and mouth grinning. Sherlock imagined Mary was shaking her head, "Yes, Mary I agree. John isn't one to let that deter him once his mind is set. We just have to wait it out. Mycroft assures me that he has very reliable men watching out for our dear doctor."
Sherlock continued on with his melody closing his eyes, his blue silk robe noiselessly moving against him as he stood swaying near the unopened curtains.
Sherlock wondered once more at what could have been, he understood the concept of never being able to change the past. Somehow his brain had forgotten the logic in this, and just thinking of John's wife and unborn child made the consulting detective's chest hurt.
He couldn't help but wonder what the child would have looked like. What kind of Uncle would Sherlock have been? The younger Holmes liked to think he would have taught the girl everything she needed to know about chemistry and bacterium. This would have helped fake illnesses on those days she didn't wish to attend classes. Maybe she would like to learn the violin.
John always fell into a restful sleep when Sherlock played his violin. The younger Holmes could teach a child to play as soon as she learned to walk maybe even before. Music was good for learning and development in infants, why hadn't he deleted that fact?
The violin's song followed the musician's thoughts slowly gaining pace and moving from leisurely sad and lonely into something faster, more chaotic and angry.
He had only just gotten used to the idea of being an Uncle when the opportunity was snatched from him. Snatched in the blink of an eye, the quick intake of breath all in one bad day.
The song's tune started to grow loud and raw, like the screech of tires against a sunny street, the laughter of a happy couple cut short and the slamming of breaks.
In the end Sherlock had no one to blame, no villain to chase after, and nobody to point fingers at. Only the simple malfunction of a traffic light during lunch hour traffic.
Mary had been on the phone pleading with Sherlock to come have lunch with her and John. Did he answer her? Was he going to go? Why was it frustrating that he didn't recall if he had said anything? It didn't matter now, none of it mattered now.
Sherlock would forever remember the warmth of her laughter and Johns mixed together. His mind sometimes paused and replayed those seconds just before the twisting of metal and breaking of glass.
And the violin's bow was chopping and short, like the sound of crunching and the rolling over of a smashed cab.
This cab carrying three of the four most important lives to Sherlock was about to run what should have been a red light, and it resulted in several lives being lost.
Among them one Mary Watson and the unborn child she carried. Sherlock hated the memories and how his mind palace stored some select details of that horribly bad day.
For example the way he clung to his mobile his hand going sweaty or how the line had gone dead. And his ears started to buzz and his heart along with his world all started to slow then speed up again.
More quick movements less angry, now more urgent with more pressure applied to the bow as it rolled over the strings sounding like a phone's ringing.
Mycroft had sounded out of breath? Hesitant? Though the voice on the other end had been steady and cool, thankfully grounding.
Sherlock had left the flat, so quick was his departure that he forgot to shut the door on his way out.
He arrived at the hospital with Mycroft, for once his brother's black car was greeted with welcomed relief. The hospital was filled with faces bruised and injured in this accident. Several injuries, too many for the consulting detective to catalog, it didn't matter they were strangers. None of them were John or Mary.
Then a doctor hailed them, pulling the brother's aside having been notified ahead of time that the two Holmes would be arriving. The hospital staff had moved one body into a private area before readying it for transport to the morgue. Another was rushed into surgery were several highly skilled surgeons worked tirelessly to save a life.
It was then Sherlock learned he would never be an Uncle, and he would never hear Mary's soft teasing laugh again. John, if he lived would need to be told and Sherlock knew it was best to be there when such news was delivered.
The music took on a slower pace like the lag of a heart beat on a monitor, like the forced breathing of a ventilator and like a man lingering between life and death.
Sherlock's phone was buzzing the ring tone broke through his dark musings and he halted in mid play. The detective put the instrument down gently and reached for his mobile on the music stand were the sheet music from a wedding still resided.
"What is it now?" he managed to sound dismissive of his caller, even when he was whipping the wetness from his cheeks and eyes. Mycroft was calling this indeed was a bad day.
~0~
Mycroft Holmes was having a very bad day, and his patience was wearing thin. It was turning into a rather long day one that would most definitely end with an expensive glass of brandy in front of a warming fire.
Then his day took a decidedly bad turn for the worst when the blaring scream of his security alarms suddenly sounded. The British Government quickly reached under his antique oak desk unstrapping a gun he kept hidden for these types of situations. Closing the computer he locked down the information, just as a tall man in an expensive gray suit pushed into his office.
Mycroft could see the corridor just behind the man through his open doors , he counted seven unconscious bodies of his security personnel. No one had been shot, the sound of gunfire was very distinct even in the sound proof areas like this.
The tall man in the expensive gray suit had piercing blue eyes and short military cropped hair. Mycroft Holmes knew the man, he just didn't know why such a man would be there in his office.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to barge in like this. I however thought it prudent to push through the usual red tape to gain audience with you." The apology was said with a touch of Scottish accent.
"Yes, well you Mr. Bond as your personal file states several times, you are far from reserved when it comes to matters you deem of great importance. Now how can I help you?" Mycroft couldn't hide his irritation and that blasted alarm was wearing on his last nerve.
"Well first off sir, you wont be needing that gun you're holding under your desk. As you can see I'm unarmed. Well rather I'm not brandishing a weapon at you. So I only ask you hear me out and not shoot me."
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, sitting back in his black leather chair, he sighed heavily.
"Please Mr. Holmes it will only take a minute of your time."
Mycroft waved off the Agents rushing to crowd his doorway, "Will someone shut off that blasted alarm. And shut my door." The Agent he addressed nodded without another word he did as he was directed. That was a credit to the way Mycroft trained his employees. It was but a second later the alarm had halted it's infernal screaming.
"Alright Mr. Bond, I'll give you two minutes before I have you collected and detained."
"Right." The MI6 agent didn't blink at the implied threat. "First here look at this. I've tried to speak to the head of my department but I was told it was nothing." The Scotsman held out a small thumb drive, "One of the minions-I mean techs in Q branch gave this to me."
Mycroft held out his hand for the thumb drive "And the information on this couldn't be shared with-"
"No, I suspect it's an inside job and the individual it pertains to is in the greatest of danger."
Again Mycroft's eye brow arched, sometimes these agents started to get burned out and a little paranoid. It was sad, some of the best MI6 agents England had were put down like stray dogs in the street after going rouge. There wasn't a high retirement rate for these loyal bodies, only an early grave or a firing squad.
"I'm not crazy dammit. Just look at the bloody file!"
Mycroft smiled politely, hitting the silent alarm under his desk, the small button would deliver a quick message to Anthea. Tranquilizers would be needed in Mr. Bond's case, it was the most humane, then perhaps after evaluation they could determine how far gone he was.
This was a bad day if they would be retiring one of her majesties finest, a sad day indeed.
Humoring the Agent Mycroft plugged in the thumb drive, CCTV footage blinked onto his screen. His observant gray eyes narrowed on a thin figure making his way down a somewhat crowded street. He held his breath almost recognizing the mop of dark curls, for a second he thought he was seeing his younger brother.
"He doesn't usually travel the busy streets. This is rare for him, he's usually so hyper vigilant. That and MI6 never lets him go anywhere without a security detail. His job ranks high enough that I'm surprised the dodgy bastards let him out to see the light of day. See look there!"
The agent pointed as a man in a dark hoodie seemed to bump into the thin figure wearing a sensible cardigan, perhaps beige it was hard to tell with the black and white grainy footage. The young man swayed briefly before a tall woman in heels smiled politely steadying him. To the untrained eye it looked as if she were chatting up a handsome young man, smiling invitingly. Her mannerisms could be mistaken for this, her hand lightly on the thin young man's arm as she hailed a cab, he seemed to lean into her. Seemed, being the operative word, because Mycroft Holmes was no ordinary person.
The older Holmes could see how the woman's lingering hand remained firmly on the young man's upper arm. She was guiding him, his feet were unsteady. The boy in the cardigan couldn't be more then twenty five, god but he still looked like a teenager. The unmarked cab that pulled up to the curb the woman pulled the younger man in with her, it appeared as if the two were engaging in some type of intimacy.
Mycroft knew this was impossible, because the young man in the footage was the Quartermaster of MI6 as well as his cousin. His young cousin was very much uninterested in female companionship as well as any companionship. Anyway Mycroft always thought the boy leaned more towards male company then female.
"Now, MI6 files show he is officially on a vacation, a scheduled vacation. I spoke to M about this but he's tied up in some kind of political talks something about budgets and what not. His second in command doesn't seem to be concerned, he told me Q requested the time off three days ago, this footage was from yesterday. Q never takes vacation and he would have told me. I returned from my mission last night and he left no messages no note not even a text. "
Mycroft was caught off guard by the Agents concern, it carried a degree of distress, one would assume the two were intimate in some way. If one were to assume and Mycroft Holmes never assumed.
"Don't look at me that way. We aren't in a relationship. He's a friend, my flatmate. Well sort of, I kip on his couch occasionally."
"Occasionally?"
"Alright, I haven't got around to renting a new flat after the whole Skyfall incident MI6 auctioned off and donated my things." Mycroft nodded politely with pretend understanding. "Oh, believe what you will. It is of no matter to me. What matters is Alcott would never have gone off with-"
"Alcott?" Mycroft couldn't hold back his shock, his cousin had given his real name. That was an interesting fact, what was Alcott's relationship to this Agent?
"Yes, he told me his name. And that's how I know about you. He's my friend."
"Alcott doesn't have friends."
This had the Agent's jaw tightening and his shoulder's going stiff, for a moment Mycroft was reminded of another ex soldier.
"He has one." Bond, frowned. "And right now he needs us to find him. I know Al- I mean Q, he would never disappear without leaving me some kind of message. After asking around one of the minions passed this to me. She thought it was confirmation that Q had found some female to go on holiday with. God knows he deserves some time out of the dungeons of Q branch but this wasn't right. He mentioned to me that you were his cousin and under no circumstances was I ever to let anyone know I knew that. Q trusts me, and he seems to hold you and his other cousin in high regard. That's why I've barged in, no one can know why I was here. "
"It will be handled and a very discreet internal investigation will transpire very soon, but for now you will have to forgive me."
"Forgive you?"
"Yes. I will ask you to trust me."
The Agent didn't have a chance to reply before a very soft stepping woman holding a tranquilizer gun as well as her blackberry entered releasing two well aimed shots into the Agent's expensively tailored shoulders.
"I apologize for the delay sir, there were a few bodies cluttering the path here. Shall I cancel your four o'clock?"
"Yes, have Mr. Bond taken to a holding cell. And get me M."
"Yes, sir."
Mycroft waved her off taking out his phone ignoring the bruised security officers coming in to cart away the sedated Agent.
"Brother mine, I hope I wasn't interrupting your melancholy musings."
Mycroft heard his brother's irritated hiss on the other line, well it was nice to see he wasn't the only one having a bad day.
~0~
John Watson was having a bad day. Of course a day that started out with a group of heavily armed men invade a MSF medical hospital taking all the Doctors hostage could be rightfully labeled as such. The seemingly quiet man appeared disgustingly calm, it was always the quiet ones, as the saying goes, and John was the quietest of the them all.
The good Doctor almost felt sorry for his captors were pressing him to make a phone call, they wanted him to call his family or a solicitor to arrange a monetary exchange for his safe return. Once he made that call he knew his bad day would soon become theirs.
