As a quartermaster of MI6 Q knows a lot, and as a Holmes brother he knows more.

He knows that Jim Moriarty is as real as Sherlock Holmes is real, and he knows that Jim's people have targeted Sherlock's people. He knows why Sherlock died and he knows that Sherlock is not dead.

He knows Watson mourns.

Q knows about people who seem dead, lie low for awhile, only to turn up alive a few months later. He remembered the scandal Bond caused a few months ago by turning up in M's flat.

Q wasn't a fan of that trick then and he's not now.

Mostly because Mycroft has been bugging him for ages about how forlorn Watson looks, and Sherlock has been telling him about Watson nearly non-stop since he died, and Q has had to suffer Sherlock's presence in his apartment, and he never liked Sherlock's brand of violin playing at two in the morning, anyway.

Q has an actual job, and he can't be distracted by heads in the refrigerator and a bored Sherlock who can't solve cases. It reminds him of the time Bond was off-duty and bored enough to hand around Q Branch all day, and Q does not want a repeat of that.

This is why Q sits Sherlock down with two cups of Earl Grey and tells him in no uncertain terms that he has to put an end to all this. "It's been three months," he says, barely managing to keep his eye from twitching. "Tell Watson, or I'll pay him a visit myself. And you won't like that."

"Watson is in danger. They all are."

"Not anymore. Moriarty's men have moved on."

"They'll be back if they catch wind that I'm alive."

Q rolls his eyes. "You have two brothers working in the British secret service. Do you honestly think we aren't capable of capturing Moriarty's men?"

"No."

"You have three days."

Q doesn't want to talk to Watson. It would take precious time out of his day, and he's inventing a new multi-purpose watch for Bond to use as well as a tracking chip that can be injected into agents that would reveal their locations and vital signs.

He's also inventing contact lenses that can serve as cameras, complete with computer communications software. In short, he's far too busy to be dealing with Sherlock's personal problems.

But three days pass and Q is as good as his word, and when Sherlock doesn't contact Watson Q takes matters into his own hands. He heads over to 221 B Baker Street and lets himself in.

And waits.

John Watson comes home at 7:23pm and drops his bags of groceries when he sees a thin, pale young man with messy hair and glasses sitting in Sherlock's favorite chair.

It goes a little like this:

Watson stares at him for a moment and Q stares back, curious because he's never actually met this John Watson that Sherlock's so crazy about. He hasn't met any of Sherlock's friends; the Holmes brothers tend to stay out of each others' personal lives. Or rather, Q and Sherlock stay out of each others' personal lives and Mycroft digs and digs as an overbearing older brother would.

Then Watson managers to choke out, "What are you doing here?"

"Dr. Watson," Q says. "I have a message."

"Who are you?" Watson demands. He looks tired. Grief does that to people, Q supposes.

"A friend," Q says, standing. He pulls out a card and hands it to Watson. "Here's my address, and number. For when you're ready to talk."

"About what?"

"Sherlock is alive," Q says, and he brushes past Watson before the other man can react. Q was never good at dealing with the mess of emotions.

When Q gets home that evening Sherlock takes one look at him to know. "You told him," he says.

"I did," Q agrees. "Unlike you some of us have lives to be getting on with."

"And I don't?"

Q blinks at him. "No."

Sherlock's life revolves around solving mysteries and annoying Doctor Watson. With neither of these two things available he has no life. Sherlock is just smart enough and just disagreeable enough that he can't hold down a real job. It appears that all of the social skills, minimal as they are, were given to Mycroft and Q.

Not that Sherlock cares.

"Well, I've been looking at your work," Sherlock says, holding up a sleek device that resembles a phone, "and I've been talking to a certain 007."

Q crosses the room in a few quick strides and snatches the phone from his brother's hand. "Bond's information is strictly classified."

"I know," Sherlock says, and he leaves.

The next day Bond approaches Q and says, "Why were you asking me if reintegrating into society after death is easy? You're not planning something, are you?"

"I'm your quartermaster," Q says, not bothering to look up from his laptop. "I do nothing but plan."

"You're more useful behind the computer than dead," Bond says. "I doubt you even know how to shoot a bullet."

"My score in marksmanship was higher than yours, last I checked. I make your weapons, of course I know how to use them."

Bond stares at him. "You're lying."

Q gives him a bland look. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bond."

As Bond walks away Q adds, "What did you answer, about the reintegration?"

Bond gives him a strange look. "I said it's easy if no one knew you existed in the first place."

Bond walks away and Q rolls his eyes. Whatever Sherlock was searching for, he wasn't going to find it in an MI6 agent.

As predicted, Watson shows up at the address Q gave him that evening. 8:35pm.

Q didn't give Watson his real address, though it would have been amusing to see Sherlock's reaction to Watson knocking on his door. Q instead gave Watson the address of one of Mycroft's apartments (he has many, scattered around London), current vacant. When Watson knocks Q has already brewed some tea, complete with two cups and saucers sitting on a small table.

When he opens the door, Watson immediately asks, "What did you mean, Sherlock's alive?"

Q lets him in and closes the door. He guides Watson to a seat. Watson sits, though he doesn't look happy about it.

"I saw him die," Watson continues, sounding as though the words are being forced out of him. "I saw him jump, and I saw what it looked like after he…"

"I know," Q says, sparing Watson more description. "But sight can be deceptive."

"I know what I saw."

"You saw what Sherlock wanted you to see."

"And how do you know that? Who are you?"

Q offers him a hand. "I'm his younger brother. Q." Watson shakes his hand, a look of shock upon his face.

"I didn't know he had a younger brother."

"I'll hazard you wouldn't know he had an older one either had Mycroft not sought you out," Q tells him, "but here we are."

"So where is he?"

"At my flat," Q says. "He had to fake his death so that Moriarty's thugs wouldn't come after you and a few others who are close to Sherlock. I hope you understand—it was the only way."

"Why can't he tell me this himself?"

"Because he is an idiot, Dr. Watson."

Watson nods, almost as if agreeing.

"I'm afraid my telling you isn't completely out of good will," Q adds. "I want Sherlock out of my apartment, and you're the only one I know who will live with him. And maybe you can get him working again. He's impossible when bored."

"I know," Watson says. He looks almost numbed.

"It's a lot to take in," Q says.

Watson looks at him. "Is this…normal…for you? For your family?"

"Two of us work for the British secret service and one of us is a consulting detective used by London's finest police force," Q says. "What do you think?"

Watson nods. "So what do I do?"

Q slips him a piece of paper. "Sherlock's number. Send him a message." He stands up, straightens his sweater. "My work here is done."

"Thanks, Q," Watson says, also standing. As Q grabs his jacket Watson adds, "You're leaving too?"

"This isn't my flat," Q says.

"Why am I not surprised," Watson mutters, but he follows Q out.

Two days later Sherlock moves out of Q's apartment and back to Baker Street, and Watson is suitably pleased, and Q is suitably left alone to develop his gadgets and computer programs in piece.

"I thought you would have liked having your brother over," Bond says, as Q tests the camera contacts on him.

"My brother is impossible to live with," Q says. "I'd sooner have Her Majesty living with me than him."

Bond inserts the second contact and Q looks at himself on the computer screen. "Visuals are up," he tells Bond, handing him a mirror. "Now say something."

"You must have missed him when he was playing dead," Bond says to the mirror, and the appropriate words appear on Q's computer screen, just below the image of Bond.

Q frowns. Of course Bond looked up Sherlock's file. Of course Bond knows these things without telling him. He ought to be used to it; Mycroft and Sherlock both do it enough. He types back, "I rarely see Sherlock when he's alive. Why would I want to live with him when he's dead?"

Bond looks blankly ahead for a moment, eyes moving side to side in small motions, enough to tell Q that the text has popped up in his field of vision. Bond says, "You should put it a bit lower," and as Q types in the appropriate commands, adds, "You're one of the few MI6 employees with an actual family, you know."

"I don't dislike Sherlock," Q says. "I just don't want to live with him. We work better apart, you know."

Bond speaks to the mirror again. "It seems MI6 breeds dysfunctional families."

Q smirks and types in, "Or attracts them."

Bond's mouth tightens into a thin line. Q imagines he's thinking of Silva, at the moment, or perhaps of his own parents, dead.

"That's better," Bond says, after a moment.

"Besides," Q adds, out loud, "I tend to end up looking after you agents. What makes you think I have time for anything else?"

Bond puts the mirror down and glares at him. "You don't look after us," he says. "We're the ones making sure that you people behind your laptops don't get hurt. We're the ones pulling the triggers and doing the dirty work. You've got it easy."

"Keep telling yourself that," Q murmurs. "Your contacts are ready for the field."

Bond grudgingly removes the contacts, puts them in their case, and pockets them. "We could do this job without you, you know."

"An agent is nothing without his quartermaster," Q states.

Bond mumbles something incoherent and walks away.

Q rolls his eyes. Those incorrigible agents, always believing they can get the job done alone. Rather like a certain consulting detective.

Q types in a few lines of code and makes some adjustments to the programming of the microchips that will keep track of various field agents.

They learn, he muses. Eventually.