James Bond returns from a post-Skyfall mission with a concussion and a degree of memory loss. As he recovers, his legendary skills, charisma, and libido appear to be undamaged but there's a great deal he simply can't remember. 007's colleagues at MI6—most specifically Tanner, Moneypenny, and Q—are encouraged to jog his slowly returning memory and help fill in the gaps in his knowledge. What Q can't quite understand is why Bond, with his past conquests of countless women, now seems to be pursuing him. Slow-ish build and shifting POVs.

Chapter 1: Who's Who?

"Agent down," said Tanner in a strained voice, eyes on the blurred and grainy satellite image, and Moneypenny gave an involuntary start, twisting both hands in her lap. Q shot a look in M's direction and saw the man's lips press together tightly although his face showed no particular change of emotion.

"Wait," Tanner continued, very quietly, and the tension in the room was thick enough, Q thought, to be cut with the proverbial knife.

"Please," whispered Moneypenny, almost inaudibly, and a few glances flickered in her direction from the Q Branch staff. Of course everybody knew about James Bond's near brush with death, from Moneypenny's bullet, roughly one year earlier, and how she had been the one, that time, to say "Agent down," through the comm link. And now somebody else—Bond's intended target—had brought him down again.

This time it had been an ambush. Had it been otherwise—a hand-to-hand, one-on-one fight—there was no doubt in anybody's mind that Bond would have emerged the winner and his opponent would be lying where he was now.

"Send medical evac," M muttered sharply, and Moneypenny nodded before speaking rapidly into her own headset. He narrowed his eyes with displeasure when Moneypenny, of her own accord, snapped into her mouthpiece, "Regardless of his condition," but made no effort to contradict her.

"He's moving," Tanner said, still in a low voice, but his cautious relief was plain to hear. "He's alive."

Q's fingers were flying across his keyboard, sending precise coordinates to the recovery team. He, Tanner, Moneypenny, and M were crowded round one of the workstation monitors in what most MI6 employees referred to as "The Bunker," their harsh, anxious breathing all but drowned out by the clatter of Q's subordinates on their computer keyboards. They had lost visual contact now, but the image had been so poor it had been impossible to make out the nature or extent of their agent's injuries.

Neither Tanner nor Moneypenny—nor M for that matter—made a move to return to their usual station in the monolithic ziggurat at Vauxhall Cross, official home of the Secret Intelligence Service. As long as Q Branch was still ensconced in the underground bunker, there was still a great deal of traffic between the two venues. Q hoped the rumors were true, that his unit and staff were to be moved above ground, to the main building, in the near future.

"The new sub-dermal micro-tracker worked well," Tanner muttered in a subdued voice as Q continued to monitor the progress of the recovery team. "And it's virtually undetectable." He essayed a hint of a congratulatory nod in Q's direction and Q dipped his head in acknowledgement. He had been with MI6 for a year and had won the grudging approval of virtually all of the Service's upper level staff and old timers, not to mention the glowing admiration of the younger employees. And as unaccustomed as they were to taking orders from a department head who looked more like a twenty-something student than anything else, the senior members of Q Branch were now far more comfortable with him than they had been in his first few weeks at the job. They were even accepting of the new, youthful computer techs and hackers he had brought into the fold since his arrival.

Somewhat to his surprise he had also been approached, rather slyly, by several MI6 employees at least fifteen to twenty years his senior, for reasons that had nothing to do with espionage. Their overtures had been politely turned down. Perhaps they had been under the impression that because of his youth, his slim, delicate frame, boyish features, and even more boyish head of wayward dark hair, he might be open to extracurricular activities of the carnal sort. Which was certainly not the case. Q had no intention of mixing business with any sort of sexual adventure.

He was, at least, on good terms with Tanner, and had a friendly rapport with M's assistant, Eve Moneypenny. Even more importantly—at least in terms of his career—M appeared to think well of him, in spite of his rocky initiation during the Skyfall affair of the previous year. And the field agents, the Double Os in particular, had come to rely on the information he relayed to them via the comm link, and for the devices with which he kept them supplied. A few—not 007 of course—had even thanked him for his efforts on their behalf.

"Retrieval completed," came a tinny voice over the amplified comm link, and everybody started. "En route to medical facility. Subject stabilized. Sending stats now. Over."

Q cast a quick glance at his colleagues. Tanner had located a handkerchief and was wiping at his brow, beneath his thinning hairline, and Moneypenny, looking strained but bright-eyed with relief, was leaning on Q's workstation.

"Well done," Mallory said quietly, his voice slightly less tense. "Carry on." He headed for the door but Tanner and Moneypenny barely raised their heads, still focused on the graphs and numbers coming up on Q's monitor…Bond's vital signs.

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James Bond lay still with his eyes closed, his face a deliberate blank. This trick seemed to work with the nurses; they left him alone, stopped nattering at him about names and dates and places, few of which had rung any bells. It was, in fact, only a day since he had remembered his own name.

"Mr Bond," a doctor had said to him, breaking into the blissful, pain-free cocoon of solitude in which he had been floating for…for how long? He didn't know. But the name. Yes, that was his name. And little fragments of memory nagged at him. An irate headmaster, addressing him sharply by his surname. Recollections of childhood flooded slowly back. The vast sky beyond the stone walls of his home, and the scent of dew on grass beneath the old stone wall. The dogs. Kincaid, teaching him to load a rifle. Then, bringing with it a sense of peace and warmth, the memory of his mother's face.

"James." A familiar voice, not a doctor's, echoed above his bed.

His mother had called him James. And sometimes Jamie. But this voice didn't belong to his mother. Bond kept his eyes stubbornly closed, but he could hear the rustle of bedclothes and stiff white uniforms, the clatter of metal instruments somewhere, the soft padding of rubber-soled shoes. There was the sharp smell of alcohol, and then, unexpectedly, the jab of a needle. Bond grunted.

"He's awake, doctor."

"No," Bond heard himself say with surprising clarity, eyes still closed. "I'm not."

Some time later—a day later, he was told—a face appeared, hovering above his bed. He had seen it before; he was certain he knew this man, but couldn't come up with a name.

"Bond," said the man. He had a pale, serious face, keen, narrow eyes and a footballer's neck. "It's Tanner."

"Tanner," replied Bond, squinting against the hospital lighting. "Right. Tanner, I don't suppose I might have a drink?"

"There's a glass of water on your tray table—"

"No," Bond murmured, lips turning downward. "I meant, a drink."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The neurosurgeon stood nervously before the desk in M's office, shifting from foot to foot. It was highly unlikely, Q thought, that he had ever been summoned to the offices of MI6 before, and M's cool, unreadable expression was not making things any easier.

"Well?" M asked briskly, handing a sheaf of signed documents to Tanner and turning his attention fully to the man facing him. The doctor wiped his brow, and Tanner and Q—who had come to report on the success of 007's new subdermal tracker—exchanged glances of mild sympathy.

"There's no excessive swelling, no inflammation that we can see," said the doctor, consulting his notes. "Trauma, certainly, but concussion only, no fractures."

"Concussion only," M said, wrinkling his brow. The doctor was mumbling into his notes and M's lips twitched with impatience before he pointedly cleared his throat.

"And no serious damage to the brain that we're able to detect," the doctor continued, still under his breath. "The memory loss…well, no one can be sure. Memory should return to him over time; hopefully within weeks, or possibly months. He's already recalled…"—his face twisted a little wryly—"a fondness for dry martinis and a certain brand of whisky."

M frowned, and Tanner and Q exchanged glances for a second time. It wasn't difficult to guess what M might be concerned about, or why he had summoned the neurologist for a private consultation. He would be wondering whether or not 007 represented a security risk. Whether Bond, in his present condition, might inadvertently reveal sensitive information to an enemy agent. Or to anybody, really, who lacked the proper clearance.

It was difficult to think of Bond as being clueless in this regard. 007, the field operative of whom so many stories were told, and on whose exploits so many MI6 legends were based. The agent with keen instincts, intelligence (even by Q's standards) and lightning-fast reflexes; the cold-eyed, irresistible seducer. A good percentage of the women—not to mention some of the men—at Headquarters patently worshiped him. Q sniffed with disapproval; as impressed as he was with Bond's abilities, he found this starry-eyed adoration rather distasteful. Although for months now he had been able to admit to himself that he, like so many of his colleagues, found James Bond attractive, the man was certainly not the only MI6 employee Q considered glance-worthy. And the mildly sardonic manner with which he addressed his young Quartermaster had always been frustra…er, irritating.

"When he's been discharged," M was saying, looking from his Assistant to his Quartermaster, "I think both of you should see what you can do with him. You know, jog the memory a bit. If that's possible."

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Less than two weeks later, Q raised his eyes from his keyboard to find Moneypenny standing in front of his work station.

"M wants to see you," she said without any preamble, pressing neatly lacquered fingertips against her brow as though attempting to eradicate a headache. "It's 007. He's been discharged from hospital. I've been chatting with him," she added with a quizzical half-smile. "As has Tanner. Now M would like you to have a word with him, at once, if you don't mind."

Q sighed and stood up, rotating his shoulder blades to ease the stiffness there.

"Right," he sighed, gesturing to Nasser and Michaels, two of his top-ranked programmers, to take over for him. "I'm with you. Where is it we're meeting?"

The meeting place, as it transpired, was a small conference room down the hall from M's office. Entering silently, Q found Bond seated in an armchair by the window, looking out at the London dusk. He was as usual, impeccably, if somewhat casually, dressed, in dark grey trousers and a white shirt with no tie. A half-empty glass of clear liquid—Q hoped it was water or seltzer—stood on the table beside him.

To Q's eye, Bond looked much as he always did, his expression neutral, or faintly sardonic but not hostile, his body relaxed but his mental faculties clearly alert. The way his head snapped round, eyes focusing instantly on his visitor the moment Q stepped into the room, indicated that his senses and reflexes were quite possibly as keen as ever. It was the lack of instant recognition, followed by a look of guarded puzzlement, that startled the MI6 Quartermaster, as much as he had prepared himself for it.

"007," he said calmly, in a matter-of-fact voice, as he had been told to do. Bond, he had been informed, would pick up on an anxious tone, or nervousness, right away. "It's good to see you're recovering so well."

Bond ran one hand though his close-cropped fair hair and cleared his throat. After a moment's pause, he said, "I know you."

"Oh?" said Q with surprise, realizing, belatedly, that he must sound like an idiot. "That's good."

"I meant, I know you…don't I?"

"Er," said Q, his ordinarily self-assured and brisk delivery faltering a little. "You…do, yes you do, 007. Excellent."

"That is, I know I've seen you before. And the voice is familiar. But I don't recall your name."

"I," Q began, looking round helplessly for Tanner, who, fortunately for him, had entered the room just behind him.

"This is our Head of Q Branch," Tanner murmured in a level voice. "And yes, you do know him."

"I don't seem to recall your name, Head of Q Branch."

"Oh," Q replied, realizing that 007, were he in his normal frame of mind, would have been grinning ironically at the hesitancy in his Quartermaster's voice. "You, um, know me as Q. That's all."

"Really," said Bond flatly, eying him. "A bit young, aren't you, to be at the helm of an MI6 section?"

"Most advances in technology are being made by the young, 007," Q retorted coolly, recalling their acerbic exchange at the National Gallery, a year earlier. Tanner made vague diplomatic noises in the background, but Bond did not appear to have taken offense.

"Point taken," Bond said in a faintly amused tone of voice, and Q forced himself to smile, until Bond wrinkled his brow and continued, "Yes, I know I've seen your face before. But as I remember it—hazily, I'll admit—the Head of Q Branch was an older fellow. That is to say…he was hardly a pretty university student."

"Q isn't," Tanner said hastily, watching the Quartermaster's expression harden. "A student, that is. And you're thinking of this Q's predecessor."

"'Pretty' is hardly a word I'd use to describe myself, 007," Q added, effectively hiding the indignation Bond's words had roused in him. "And I don't know that there's anything about me that would lead you to believe I'm a student."

"Rubbish," Bond retorted, just as calmly. "You're wearing a Cambridge tie."

"Well," Tanner said after a moment of silence. "It's clear a good part of your memory is still intact. I'll leave you three to get acquainted, that is, reacquainted, shall I? Back in an hour or so. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to show 007 round your section, Q, it might…might help with the memory, so…"

"Of course," Q muttered, turning towards the door. "If you'll follow me, 007…"

"I'll join you in a moment," Moneypenny said brightly. She had been hovering by Bond's chair; now she moved deliberately in the direction of M's office. "You two go on, I'll be along after I've spoken with—" She gestured surreptitiously in the direction of the baize door.

"Right," Q replied, one hand on the doorknob, and then watched, without surprise as Bond's eyes dwelt on Moneypenny's retreating back and neatly swinging backside. There was a certain degree of appreciation in his lifted eyebrows as he turned to Q and asked, in a low voice and confidential tone, angling his chin in Moneypenny's direction, "Is she…are we sleeping together?"

For perhaps a split second Q's lips curved upwards, before he pressed them together. "I think you had best ask the lady herself, 007. I don't know the answer to your question, and if I did, it would not be my place to say."

Of course he was fairly certain—as was everybody else—that whatever intimate shenanigans Bond and Moneypenny had got up to during the Skyfall affair, they were now no more than colleagues and good friends. But he didn't think it appropriate to say another word on the subject.

"I am duly rebuked, Head of Q Branch," Bond said with a hint of his old insouciance, turning his sharp blue gaze from M's door to Q's face. "Lead on, then. I'm curious to see what sort of lair you preside over."

Q sighed with exasperation and ran both of his hands through his hair. Looking up, he found Bond eyeing his unruly locks, and then his face, with the same kind of interested curiosity he had directed at Moneypenny. Therefore, it should not have come as a shock to him when 007 raised an eyebrow and addressed him in the same confidential undertone he had used earlier.

"Q…are we sleeping together?"

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Replaying this moment later, in his mind, Q attempted to amuse himself by wondering what would have happened if he had said, "Yes. We are."

That would have been entirely unethical, as well as being untrue, and as entertaining as it might be to imagine the aftermath to such a comment, Q wouldn't have dreamed of, well…

"It looks," Moneypenny was murmuring, somewhat dejectedly, "as though we'll be babysitting 007 for the rest of the week. Or longer."

Q raised his head. "Oh?" He had given Bond a brief tour through the various offices and laboratories of Q Branch, turned him over to a nurse from Medical, and was now sitting in M's anteroom, fiddling aimlessly with a (non-exploding) pen, a sheaf of printouts in his other hand. He was recalling, with a touch of embarrassment and a peculiar sense of gratification, how Bond's eyes had scanned his face, focusing on his eyes and then his mouth, before making a rapid, sly sweep of the rest of him. That had been completely unexpected, but he had taken a vague satisfaction in the thought that 007 found him worth looking at, at all.

Bond's memory loss must be more grave than medical reports had indicated, Q said to himself wryly. That he had given Moneypenny an approving once-over was to be expected, but the very thought of this particular field agent expressing erotic interest in a thin, bespectacled boffin like himself made Q roll his eyes and stifle the desire to snort with derision.

Not that such an interest would mean anything, naturally. James Bond, Agent 007, had a well-established reputation as a man of generally promiscuous tendencies and numerous sexual escapades, even if one didn't count the people he seduced out of necessity, for purely work-related reasons. There had been only a few men among the many marks he had slept with while on missions, and it was Q's opinion—as well as everybody else's—that those male-on-male encounters, a mere handful when compared to his bevy of female conquests, had been undertaken in the line of duty rather than out of any sort of preference. It was common knowledge, as well, that he steered clear of anything resembling commitment or romantic entanglements. "A bit of a cold fish," Michaels, Q's most accomplished hacker, had called him, but Tanner, who had known him from the earliest days of his work for MI6, appeared to think otherwise. Moneypenny clearly had a genuine fondness for him as well, stemming less from any brief intimacy than from their playful, ongoing verbal exchanges and genuine ease in each other's company.

"It's not that I mind looking after him," Moneypenny was saying now, biting her lower lip. "I mean, I get on well with him, always have, in spite of our…unfortunate first assignment together. But this is, um, awkward. We can't guess at how much he's remembered and how much he hasn't, so it's impossible to know how much we can actually tell him."

"Do you mean to say," Q replied, frowning, "that M really views him as a security risk, at present? Thinks he might say or do something to compromise MI6?"

"Not exactly," Moneypenny said, frowning even more mightily than Q. "Not deliberately, anyway. That is, we know he would never do anything—intentionally—to jeopardize staff or operations."

"It's what he could do unintentionally that concerns us," Q said drily. "Oh well! I walked him through Q Branch this morning and in no time at all he had my female staff at high alert. That was entirely intentional, I believe, and something he has not forgotten how to do."