James Bond sat across from John Watson in the living room of 221b Baker Street and tried to explain why everything was royally fucked up. Mercifully Sherlock was out for the afternoon and John had no locum work scheduled, so the two ex-military men could sit down face to face and hammer out the details of their fleeting relationship to a degree that would hopefully pacify a devastated MI6 Quartermaster and an unaware Consulting Detective.
"Q believes that I booked a hotel with the express purpose of shagging you senseless," Bond said conversationally. He liked John, enjoyed his company and was hoping the whole mess wasn't going to be the ruin of a perfectly good friendship. The nature of his work didn't allow for friends much outside of the service, so keeping this friendship intact was quite important to him.
"And you didn't?" John asked, sipping his tea, watching the attractive man opposite. He was still gorgeous, but some of the glitter had fallen off for John, and Bond's obvious misery left him looking a little shabby around the edges.
"We talked about it. In pornographic detail as I recall." John blushed remembering, and Bond smirked. It had been a good hours entertainment, Bond alone in 221b, John locked in the surgery office, each texting furiously with one hand while the other hand translated typed words into erotic sensation like a pair of horny teenagers. "But no, I didn't. Not for you anyway."
"Oh?"
"For Q and I. When we were staying here we were all living on top of each other, so I thought a night away might give us some space. I have a confession to make..."
He explained about Q's plan to make Sherlock jealous, keeping a careful eye on the shorter man for any sign he was going to leap from his chair, fists flying. John's face grew more incredulous as the story progressed, and gradually turned more crimson, but he remained remarkably static.
"I'm sorry," Bond finished, "it was a stupid thing to do."
John cleared his throat a couple of times; carefully setting his mug on the side table. "Um... I don't really know how to feel..." He said honestly. "Mortified that I was such an easy lay. Pathetically grateful that, however idiotic, it appears to have done the trick. The mere mention of your name has him incredibly attentive these days, which I know won't last but it's good right now. Insulted... Did you even... God this sounds self-centred, but... Did you find me attractive?"
Bond's blue eyes snapped to John's. "Yes of course I did... Do. I'm in a committed relationship; I didn't have my eyes removed. Had we both been single I might have pursued something with you, but I love Q very much and I need to put this right."
"I can't believe he's blaming you. Forcing you to seduce someone as gorgeous as me, what did he think would happen?" John chuckled and a moment later they were both laughing.
John made more tea as they chatted in the kitchen. "Do you know where he's staying?" Bond asked.
"No, I didn't even know he'd left until you told me."
"He's at Mycroft's," said a deep rumble from the door. "I assume you're here about Q?" Sherlock stalked towards them, eyes narrowed and focused completely on Bond who took an involuntary step backwards. "I don't know what you've done to upset my brother, he won't tell me and he's forbidden me from hurting you to find out, but if you don't fix this you will not enjoy the consequences. Do I make myself clear Bond?"
"Crystal," Bond said coolly.
Beside him John let out a breath, relieved that Sherlock at least was oblivious to the cause of the entire trauma. 00-agent or not, he didn't fancy Bond's chances of leaving the flat in one piece if Sherlock was to discover what had transpired.
"I need to see him."
"He doesn't want to speak to you." Sherlock scowled and thrust a card at him. "He'll be at this restaurant at eight tomorrow evening. Unfortunately I won't be able to join him as planned. Wear a suit, make an apology, treat him like a king." Sherlock walked to the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.
"Wow," sighed John, "I think we just witnessed Sherlock trying to do something good. Make the most of it James. Good luck."
Q huddled on the expensive leather sofa, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees, listlessly watching a group of amateur bakers attempting to make a Baked Alaska. Mycroft watched Q mostly, occasionally sneaking a glance at the beautiful man on the television with the sparkling blue eyes who seemed to be some kind of judge of the bakers' talents. In most aspects his younger siblings were polar opposites but in appearance and their ability to cause him concern they were irritatingly similar. True, it was normally Sherlock curled up in mess on his furniture as a result of his ludicrous lifestyle, so it was a refreshing change for it to be Q, who was altogether less dramatic in his approach to distressing events.
"I'm still unclear on why you thought your actions could ever be construed a 'good plan'. At best it was naive, at worst, cruel to all concerned. Sherlock, yes, he can be unspeakably cruel, but it is not your nature."
Q sighed and buried his face in his knees knocking his glasses off completely, ignoring them as they tumbled to the floor. Mycroft retrieved them, folding them carefully and setting them on the sofa arm.
"I warned you of Bond's reputation, but as ever you ignored me."
"I was trying to help Sherlock. He was ruining the best thing that ever happened to him."
"By destroying your own happiness? Tremendous plan, flawlessly executed. You are not generally so careless Q, however, hitting a vase with a hammer and blaming the hammer for the resulting wreckage is unfair."
Q glared at his blurred shape. "As a metaphor that is rubbish!"
"I'm sorry. These figures of speech are... I was attempting to communicate an idea in terms you would understand."
"Simple words Myc. I think I'll cope."
Mycroft sighed. In his acerbity Q and Sherlock were a matched pair. "Fine! You have behaved appallingly towards your brother, lover and friend. You interfered in a relationship that was none of your concern and did so in a childish manner, recruiting your lover, who apparently has less common sense than the village idiot and more hormones than he can handle, in a plan that could only end in hurt for someone. It is rather ironic that the one to suffer most is you, don't you think?"
"I hate you."
"Indeed. Truth is often uncomfortable to hear."
"What do I do?" Q wailed, rubbing at his red rimmed eyes. Mycroft was suddenly reminded of the skinny seventeen year old that crashed on his sofa following the breakup of his first proper love affair a decade and a half earlier. That Q had spent the best part of a week weeping, eating chocolate and playing mournful teenage music. Mycroft would allow some tears and confectionary this time, but if Joy Division or The Smiths even touched his stereo the boy would have to be sent home to Mummy.
"An apology to both John and James would be a start. I strongly suggest you speak with both of them and consider their opinion before deciding whether or not to salve your conscience by revealing anything to Sherlock. I personally would advise against it, given Sherlock's likely reaction, but I am under no illusions that my opinion on the matter would influence you. Do please warn me if you decide to do so, so I can make up the other spare bed."
"I don't think James will want to see me."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, missed completely by his youngest brother who still hadn't replaced his glasses. "It is clear that the idiot man would do anything for you. You need to talk to him soon before he tumbles into his own version of 'going off the rails'. I must remember to ensure he and Sherlock never decide to compete in that respect."
"Maybe in a week or so..."
"Two days maximum or I will interfere myself. Understood? You will join Sherlock for dinner tomorrow evening so he can impart his dubious wisdom, which I trust you will ignore, and the following day you will speak to James."
"Ok," Q agreed, still slightly terrified of his big brother when he spoke so sternly even though he was over thirty.
"Good. Now can you please explain to me why we are watching this dreadful cooking programme?"
"Paul Hollywood's eyes," Q said pathetically, as though that should explain everything, finally replacing his glasses to stare fondly at the television.
It had to be said, the man really did have beautiful eyes.