Hello! I know, I know, it's been a while. Sorry, I guess?
Do I really have to try to convince you that I don't own Sherlock or James Bond?
PS- Reviews would be nice… (hint, hint)
The last (disgustingly sappy) song was played, final chord still ringing over the chapel's occupants. Moneypenny stood, and turned to Q.
"I have to offer my condolences to Director Holmes now- would you like to stay here or come with me?"
Q noted that her usually playful voice was softer, more somber, but barely processed the question.
"Hmm? Oh..."
He paused.
"I, uh, I think I'll stay. I'll come find you eventually."
Nodding and giving him one last squeeze, Moneypenny strode away, heels muffled on the worn carpet. She made a beeline for where Mycroft was standing surrounded by other mourners. Q could tell Eve didn't understand his lack of an emotional response, but that just wasn't how the Holmes family acted. People had called his brothers machines when they didn't shed a single tear between them at Siger's funeral. Q just didn't cry. His mind would whirl through an empty void of questions and nothingness, he would be shaken to the very core of his being, but he never cried.
Mycroft stood over by the closed casket, shaking hands with a group of men in uniform. Q didn't want to talk to Mycroft right now. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now.
Sherlock was dead.
Q had seen a fair amount of death, working in the position he did. A strangled yell from whatever soldier was at odds with 007. The strangled noises that 002 had made while bleeding out, which still kept him up at night. He had tried to protect the people under his command, but there was no way to save them all.
No way to save Sherlock.
Why had he jumped?
Q wondered if he had ever really known his brother. At least Mycroft, in his incredibly controlling way, had kept in touch. Q would occasionally text Sherlock to ask how he was and, on one memorable occasion, sneak him a case that had stumped MI6 for weeks. (Sherlock solved it in less than 10 minutes, so Q had fabricated some story about drawing connections using online sources, and thrown in some tech jargon and big words. M had listened to 30 seconds of his explanation before giving up on the possibility of understanding.) Other than that, he hadn't even tracked the news about Moriarty and the high profile cases. If he had paid attention, could he have stopped the systematic character assassination?
Q looked across the rows of pews to where Mycroft stood, and saw him shaking hands and giving people terse nods. At least Mycroft had been there for Sherlock.
No, stop that train of thought.
His mind kept swirling.
Stop.
He remembered nights spent wide awake, and the whispered conversations with a younger Sherlock. They shared a room after Siger's accident, because Mummy's house was too small and Mycroft was a less than ideal roommate. Despite the occasional dead animal dissections and the daily battles at bedtime, Sherlock made pretty good company. Sherlock was the first one to show him the world of hacking, by telling Q "I'll play with you if you hack the grade system and give Mycroft all terrible marks." They endured Mummy's punishment together, which only brought them closer together, veritable partners in crime. As Q grew more interested in hacking, he would show his brother some basic techniques. In return, Sherlock would cover the basics of deducing.
Q never voiced his deductions like his brothers, but he occasionally used the little bits of information he gathered to creep out his minions. (They called him overlord for a good reason, after all.)
He wished he had been a better brother. After all, good brothers don't leave and let their brother confront a smear campaign on their own.
A small group of children ran past his secluded spot, apparently playing tag in the pews. They skipped by with wide smiles.
Joy prevails, even among sorrow, thought Q. The contrast that the world provided was beautiful and terrible.
Suddenly, Q needed air. He slipped into a hallway that was lined with metal cubbies, decorated with names and displaying intricate urns. Walking among the indoor maloseum, he spotted a fire escape door that had been propped open with a trash can. Curious, he passed through the door, careful to make sure that the bin remained where it was.
The crisp air filled his lungs, and he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Turning, he caught sight of a man leaning against the short stone wall separating the walkway from long lines of gravestones. The man was wearing a worn black suit and had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was facing the graveyard, deep in thought. As Q looked at the man's face, he was struck by how weary he looked.
Q said the first thing that came to mind.
"Those things will kill you, you know."
The man glanced at him, did a double take, and then realized that he wasn't who he thought he was. With that realization came a small droop of his shoulders. He chuckled bitterly, wiping a weathered hand over his face.
"Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else for a second." The man had a rough voice, and his accent smeared the vowels. He collected himself quickly, stubbing out his cigarette and sticking one hand out.
"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. And you are?"
His hand was surprisingly warm in the chill air, and his grip was firm. Q mirrored his small smile.
"My name is Q. Were you a friend of Sherlock's?"
Q was being polite, but was surprised when the man bitterly chuckled.
"I'm not sure how many friends he actually had, but I'd like to think I'd be on the short list. It was hard to tell with him, though. Half the time he was an arse and the other half he was using you!"
Lestrade sighed.
"I'm sorry, I'm still really angry at the bastard. I don't mean to unload this all on you."
Q perched himself on the worn wall.
"I get it. I still think he's somehow going to jump around the corner and bemoan me for being an idiot, like usual." Q's voice was soft and quiet.
"When we were younger, he would always chase me around the garden clutching dissected animals and test the flammability of different fabrics using my wardrobe. I really shouldn't miss that, but I do somehow."
Lestrade chuckled, relating with Q's sentiment.
"Yeah. He would always break into my office and sit in the dark, just waiting to scare the bejesus out of me. When I first met him, he walked onto a crime scene while high, deduced the murderer, announced that two coppers were sleeping with each other, and ended up getting his sorry arse arrested!"
Q laughed, and Lestrade continued.
"We arrested him, of course, for possession or something of that sort, but then his filthy rich brother got him out."
"Yeah, Mycroft always did give Sherlock special treatment."
Lestrade tilted his head, curious.
"You sound like you know them both pretty well, though I've never heard either mention a 'Queue.' How do you know them?"
Q decided to lie, because it was easier than explaining the truth.
"I grew up near the Holmes household, and we were forced to play together as children. I was the only one in the area whose parents didn't object, so I spent a lot of time with him. A few years ago we reconnected and he helped me on a case, while being a total arse, of course."
"That's Sherlock for you," quipped Lestrade.
Lestrade stubbed out his cigarette and straightened out his clothing.
"It was nice talking with you, Queue, was it? I'm headed back in, Ms. Hudson will be wondering where I've gone to. Good day." With that he slipped back in the doors, leaving Q with only his thoughts and a bitterly cold wind.