Title: Quod Erat Facendium (QEF)

Pairings: Lestrade/OFC. The rest is simply friendship unless you want to read between the lines.

Warnings: Rated M for dark themes. Violence, nonconsensual drug use, captivity and references to past abuse especially in even numbered chapters. If you have triggers for same you might want to avoid. Some language. Both Q and John tend to use obscure words. Unbeta'd and not Brit picked. I apologize in advance for any anachronisms, grammar errors and/or typos. Author's notes, if any, will appear at the end of each chapter.

Standard Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to their respective owners. I am merely playing with them for my own as well as your amusement. I own no rights. I make no profit.

Chapter 1 – Client

When I came down to breakfast that morning I immediately realized that my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, was mere hours away from that dangerous state he labeled boredom. A bored Sherlock is not something that anyone in his right mind needs to deal with. It's a good thing that I have been accused of not being in my right mind.

The great consulting detective was sprawled on the sofa ostensibly reading an article in some scientific journal. I could tell, however, from his posture and the twitching of his bare feet that it wasn't really doing anything to distract him. He was still in the clothes I had seen him in last night. Hmm. I'd need to come up with something relatively quickly then. Otherwise he just might take it upon himself to hunt up my Sig and add some new holes in the wall, scribble mathematical formula to determine bullet trajectories on the ceiling or do something even more bizarre and destructive. None of those activities would endear him to Mrs. Hudson our landlady.

"Have you checked the website?" I asked as I made for the kitchen to rustle up breakfast and tea.

"It was the estranged Aunt," He replied without looking up from the article. "Took me five minutes."

"The comments section of my Blog?"

"Nothing."

I decided to make some extra toast. In this mood Sherlock would eat if I put it in front of him. This was in direct contrast to when he was working on a case where I had to bully him into eating and sleeping. "Paper?"

"Mrs. Hudson left it on the landing."

Of course, he couldn't be bothered to bestir himself. He didn't even have to go downstairs thanks to Mrs. Hudson. All he had to do was walk to the door and open it. I plopped the toast on some plates, poured two mugs of tea and hauled the whole mess into the sitting room. "Eat," I said as I set things down on the coffee table. Sherlock dropped his scientific journal on the floor, sat up and reached for the toast while I went and retrieved the paper.

I settled and started to eat while I read. "Bank vault in Surry."

"Inside job. The jewelry was gone by the time the vault was locked. Assistant manager had nicked it the day before," Sherlock was matter of fact around a mouthful of toast. "Inspector Hanna called me about it last night."

I read for a bit more. "Another MP caught with his secretary."

"Mycroft's problem."

Sherlock got up and wandered around restlessly. I was a little surprised that he wasn't more agitated. Before he'd taken his now famous dive off the roof St. Bart's he would have been waiving his hands and yelling at me or frantically texting Lestrade for a case. Playing dead for a year hunting Moriaty's network seemed to have mellowed him. It also seemed to have taught him a bit more patience as well as some better social skills. However, even with the longer lead time he still became a regular terror when his mind did not have anything to feed its voracious analytical engine.

"Taliban spring offensive seems to have started."

"6 to 8 weeks then," Sherlock's voice floated out of the kitchen.

"Scuse me?" I was confused by the apparent non sequitur. What the heck did 6 to 8 weeks have to do with…Oh. The northern Afghan drug lords shipped their product out via Pakistan. Once the passes cleared in the spring there was an influx of fighters in one direction and drugs the other. We'd have an increase in drug related crime as the potent opiates hit British soil. "Never mind," I said as Sherlock reappeared from the kitchen with refilled mugs of tea. I stared as he placed mine on the coffee table.

Sherlock never ever did anything that was even remotely domestic unless he absolutely had to. In addition, he rarely did anything for anyone but himself without an ulterior motive of some sort. All part and parcel of the "high functioning sociopath" label he liked to apply to himself. What the heck was he up to? While I was absorbed in the paper he'd ferried the dishes to the sink and made tea not only for himself but also for me. That was completely anomalous behavior and I was just about to say something when the downstairs bell sounded.

"Firm pressure for three seconds," he commented.

"Client," was my response as I heard Mrs. Hudson go to answer the door. I folded the paper and listened carefully. Female voice.

"Go on up dear and just knock," Mrs Hudson advised our unknown caller.

I got up to open the door as Sherlock commented, "5'5", sensible shoes, wearing trousers, works out regularly."

I opened the door just as our erstwhile potential client was about to knock and was stunned at just who was standing in front of me. "Shirley!"

"Yes," she replied in a somewhat districted tone of voice.

I just stared at her for a second before ushering her in and shutting the door. She was Greg Lestrade's girlfriend of about eight months. I had met her once or twice. She had seemed nice enough. Worked for an export firm in their IT department dealing with computer network security among other things from what little she had said. From the serious look on her face I could tell it wasn't a social call.

She walked up to the end of the sofa, set her bag on the coffee table and looked at Sherlock. She didn't sit down or say anything. She stood there just looking at him. He didn't seem to notice the rudeness and just stared back. It dawned on me then that she was waiting. Lestrade had obviously warned her about Sherlock's propensity for blurting out his deductions upon first meetings. I glanced back and forth at each of them and wondered which one would break the silence first.

Sherlock suddenly smiled and looked smug, "So what can I do for MI6 this morning?" he asked her. "Although I will warn you that I will not intercede for you when Lestrade manages to figure it out."

"MI6?" I blurted, surprised.

Shirley glanced at me, nodded slightly then sat down. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a small box. She fiddled with something on its side and a small green light lit on its top.

"Really John," Sherlock said, "It was obvious. Her comment upon entering was not completely addressed to you. So to who was she speaking and how? That led me to look for the earpiece. It's small, compact and wireless. That's expensive and very high tech. Then there is the fact that she's armed with not only a firearm but also with at least one non-lethal weapon, most likely a Tazer of some sort. There's only one agency that routinely outfits their agents with that amount of expensive high tech equipment, ergo MI6." He paused and focused on the box on the table. "That just confirms my deductions as does the fact that your bodyguard has just picked the lock on the front door and is coming up the stairs."

It never fails to amaze me when Sherlock pulls one of his deductions seemingly out of thin air within moments of meeting someone. I hadn't realized that she was armed but I had noticed the box in her purse. I didn't know how Sherlock had figured out the bodyguard and the lock pick. I hadn't even heard the door open. Sherlock narrowed his eyes then. Uh oh, that meant he wasn't done yet.

"From your complexion you are inside a lot. Lines on your face are not, therefore, due to exposure to the elements. You work long hours with computers and its messing with your eyesight. You've told Lestrade you work in IT and that's only half true. You are comfortable with both guns and gadgets, therefore Q branch. You have a bodyguard and arrived in a government vehicle therefore you are one of Q's lieutenants." He paused for a moment. "So why are you here and why didn't I get a text informing me you were coming?" he mused.

I was a bit surprised by that also. It seemed to be genetic trait that Q, Quentin Holmes, shared with his two half siblings Mycroft and Sherlock. As far as any of the three were concerned the best and highest use of a mobile was to send text messages. Previously when MI6 had wanted Sherlock's help it had been preceded by a text and followed by an information dump onto my laptop all courtesy of Q. That left the question as what exactly was so important to warrant a personal visit but was not important enough to bring Quentin around himself?

I had barely finished that thought when the door opened and James Bond stepped into the room. He gave me a nod, Sherlock a glance, and focused on Shirley. "We're secure," was all he said to her before taking up a guard position by the closed door.

The situation was getting stranger by the moment. I'd seen this side of Bond before in Afganistan. This was the deadly 00 agent, ready and able to kill to further his mission and he was making it obvious his mission right now was the protection of Shirley. So just exactly who was she and why did she warrant the protection of one MI6's top agents?

As usual Sherlock beat me to it. "You are R!" he almost shouted sitting bolt upright. His face had drained of color. "What has happened? Tell me!" he ordered.

Shirley closed her eyes and said "Q was kidnapped at approximately 03:00 this morning from inside his apartment building." She opened her eyes and continued, "When he wasn't in contact by 08:30 I tried to ring him. His phone was off. It went straight to voice mail. Computer access was similarly unsuccessful."

"What makes you think he was taken rather than his deliberately going off line?" Sherlock asked.

"The driver dropped him off at 02:47 and watched him get into the lift. His home system never logged into to the main server. He has it programed to do that whenever he is in his flat. His phone went dark at 2:54. CCTV feeds have a white delivery lorry exiting the alley at 03:17. We are currently tracing it." Shirley rattled this information off in a calm, matter of fact tone that was completely at odds with her body language. Her body was tense and her fingers twitched minutely. It was taking considerable will power for her to just sit still. I wasn't sure what she thought she should be doing but there obviously was something.

Sherlock pulled out his phone. He glanced at it as he set it on the table. "So what have you gleaned in an hour and a half?"

"We've pulled all the CCTV feeds in the surrounding area as well as the ones on the lorry's route of travel. We are attempting to hack his phone and activate it remotely. NSY has been notified and they have dispatched an investigative team. They should be on site shortly. They think they are investigating the disappearance of the head of IT for Universal Exports until I can get there to brief them."

Ah. So that was why she was tense. Shirley wanted to kick NSY into high gear as soon as possible. But there was still something off about this whole thing. Why was she here asking for Sherlock's help? Even though it was his brother that appeared to be missing, MI6 was one of the most secretive agencies in the entire British government. They took care of their own. From what little I knew they treated all their activities like a foreign intelligence operation. Everything was compartmentalized with the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing in case someone was caught. So why was Shirley giving Sherlock this unprecedented amount of information?

Sherlock's thoughts had obviously veered in the same direction as mine had because he asked, "Why do you want me involved at this stage?"

Shirley looked like she'd bit a lemon but it was Bond who answered. "M thought that your involvement would forestall your elder brother's reaction when he finds out."

Oh my. Intergovernmental turf wars. Mycroft was technically in the Home Office. MI6 wanted us to keep MI5 and anyone else Mycroft could mobilize off their backs. Wonderful.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "I have no control over him. We barely speak."

"Well I suspect you are going to have to speak with him as soon as I turn that," Shirley indicated the box on the table, "off."

It was Sherlock's turn to look sour. "Go ahead then," he said grumpily.

Shirley did something to the box and the green light faded. Almost instantaneously Sherlock's phone on the table vibrated. A text. It vibrated two more times in quick succession. He looked at it as if it was a snake. My phone vibrated then. I glanced at it.

Sherlock needs to look at his phone. MH.

That was followed immediately thereafter by, Tell Sherlock to answer his phone NOW! MH.

Interesting. Mycroft had concluded that Sherlock was indulging in his normal behavior. He didn't seem to have any idea that we'd been under some sort of electronic jamming for the last few minutes. Thank heavens for small favors I thought.

Another text arrived on my phone. Tell him it involves Quentin. MH.

I looked up. "He knows," was my comment to the room at large. Bond didn't react, Shirley looked resigned and Sherlock merely reached for his phone as it started to ring.

I didn't see him glance at the number but since he answered with "I'm already on it," I assumed it was Mycroft. He listened for a moment then said "No, I'll handle it," followed shortly after by "Yes, I'll keep you informed." He listened a bit more then said in a resigned tone "If you must," and rang off.

I was shocked. That had been the most civil exchange between Sherlock and his brother that I had ever been privileged to witness. Apparently a threat to Quentin was enough to override whatever grudge Sherlock held against Mycroft. It was also enough to get him moving quickly because no sooner had he put down the phone then he was on his feet and heading for his bedroom at speed. On the way out of the room he commented almost off handedly, "Mycroft is sending a car. It should be here in five minutes."

That seemed to be everyone else's, myself included, cue to move. Shirley grabbed the box off the table and stowed it in her handbag. "That will expedite matters," she said then added apparently to someone on her earpiece, "I'll let you know when I'm ready to return to base." Bond had opened the door to the flat and was looking out onto the landing, securing the way for our departure. I headed for my room to put on shoes and grab my Sig Saur. I knew I would likely need it sooner or later and I didn't want to have to come back and get it.

It was almost exactly five minutes later when the four of us, Bond in the lead, exited 221. One of Mycroft's black cars was waiting for us at the curb with Mycroft's PA, Ms. Not-Anthea, was standing beside it dressed in a black trouser outfit her hair up under a cap and her blackberry nowhere in evidence. We all piled into the car, Not-Anthea driving, and were off.

Author's Note: Inspector Hanna is named after a character in NCIS Los Angeles.

Here we go. Off on another adventure. For those of you who came here from Brother's Three, welcome back. For those of you who are new, glad you are here. Constructive criticisim is always welcome. If you spot typos or other strangeness please PM. I'll fix the problem and give you credit for the help. Reviews feed my muse so please read and review.