(Just as a point of reference, Mycroft was 16 to Sherlock's 11 to Q's 9. I have no working knowledge of London. I don't know if there is an unused footbridge like the one I've written in here. Also, I sure wish I was an artist. I'd love to show y'all the sketches Q draws.)

You know the drill. Not picked over. Is something wrong? Let me know. Nothing belongs to me.


Q's mobile chimed gently. He opened his eyes, the world was dark and blurry as he fumbled first for his glasses and then his mobile.

Are you alright? - SH

Q blinked at the brightness of the text and then smiled, even after all this time, Sherlock insisted on signing off with his name.

Yes, I am. I little bruised and sore but otherwise fine. - QH

Sherlock's answering text came rapidly.

I was concerned after hearing that your predecessor had perished. - SH

Q frowned, remembering how he had found his boss under the rubble, blue eyes wide with fear and cloudy with death. He was in the midst of pulling out a file that held the most prominent projects when Silva's blast threw them all to the ground, whiting out their vision.

They were the staff who stayed behind while field agents were the ones who risked it all for Queen and Country. The danger was never supposed to come to them. A layer of protection and security blanketed them in relative safety. Q had never seen a dead body before. Sherlock would be so fascinated, Q thought. He would want samples. Slowly, his hearing - which hadn't noticed was a dull roar - came back at almost full volume. He heard the coughing, crying, the weak pleas for help. Mycroft would call them all weak. Q drew in a painful breath, his vision coloring at the edges. Mummy will be so upset at me, Q thought hysterical with pain and shock. That will be a first.

Q then pushed himself to his hands and knees, almost passing out again from the pain he felt. I have to get out. I have to save what I can. There might be another attack. It was that final thought that pushed Q into action. He pried the file out of his boss's hands, said a quiet prayer and apologized that he couldn't do more for the man as he limped to the exit. Q's mind was bright with trying to memorize which pieces of equipment could be salvaged and what couldn't.

The only saving grace was the timing of the attack. Even during the early morning most staff hadn't made it into their offices. Q and his boss, however, had once again pulled an all-nighter, giddy over a development that would improve their weapons that went out with their agents.

His mobile beeped again, bringing him out of his reverie.

Q? Do you need me to come over? I can bring John if you think you need him. - SH

To the outside world, Sherlock presented a cold facade, convinced that it was what protected him. John had changed his mind; it wasn't his fault that old habits died very hard.

No, no. I'm fine. - QH

Promise me. - SH

Q blinked. This was a new side that he hadn't seen from his middle brother. He swallowed thickly before texting.

I promise. - QH

Mummy would be so disappointed if she outlived us all. - SH

Q smiled grimly.

Indeed. Good morning, brother dear. - QH

Good morning. - SH

Q leaned against his headboard and watched as the sun slowly rose from the east, coloring the dark and inky London skyline in the barest shades of pinks and reds. He sat up and stretched, feeling muscles unknot and tendons pop. Q swung his legs over the bed and sat there looking at his wiggling toes. He sat there for several moments until he heard a faint knocking at his door. Puzzled, Q got up, wrapped his robe around him and slipped his mobile into his pocket, setting the distress signal in case he needed it.

He almost got to the door, when Q heard a faint crack and as the door slowed opened. Without thinking, Q slammed the door shut on the hand and bent it backwards. He heard a muffled groan from the other side of the door before hearing a clipped voice call out.

"Q. Let me in," James said.

Q instantly relaxed and opened the door, still cautious. After reassuring himself that no one was outside, he pulled the agent in and propelled him towards his couch. With a groan, James sunk into the dark chocolate leather cushions and leaned his head back.

"What are you doing here?" Q asked.

"I'm coming to check on you," James replied, eyes still closed.

"I don't need to be checked on," Q said drily, his hands on his skinny hips.

"Are your ears ringing? Are you confused or disoriented?" James shot back, ignoring the look.

"I'm disoriented because it seems to be bloody o'fuck in the morning. I'm confused as to why you are truly here in the first place and my ears aren't ringing, thank you very much," Q replied crisply. After a beat, he asked, "Would you like some tea and perhaps some Paracetamol?"

"Tea would be lovely," James said as Q puttered around his kitchen. It was only the second time Q and James had spoken.

***

Later that day, a sleek black car pulled up alongside Q has he waited for the light to change. Q sighed, rolling his eyes and stepped into the waiting car without so much as an invitation. Inside, he found not his elder brother but John Watson.

"Dr. Watson?" Q asked.

"Please, call me John," he said and shook his hand.

"What are you doing here?" he asked genuinely confused.

John gave him a look which told Q volumes. He must've learned it from Sherlock, he thought amused. Unlike his brothers however, John's own look wasn't calculating or cutting. John smiled as if reading Q's thoughts.

"It's okay," John said, "It happens all the time with them. Speaking of your brothers, they badgered me into making sure that you were truly better after the attack. Sherlock mentioned a concussion?"

Q sighed, wanting to bristle and snap at John but knew the futility of the situation. "I have been cleared by MI6's physicians," he said instead.

John smiled again, making the crinkles near his blue eyes appear. "Yes, I know. Mycroft had your file forwarded to me this afternoon. They mean well, you know," he said with a slight smile. "Though Mycroft could stand a thing or about asking instead of assuming." Q smirked as John sighed. "But thinking about it, I probably act the same way with my own sister. So, I'll try to keep this as quick as possible."

Q nodded, approvingly as John ran down the standard list of questions. He then examined his eyes and his reflexes.

"Okay, then. You seem to be doing well. Please don't hesitate to call me if you feel dizzy or nauseous but you should be back to normal rather quickly," John said as he put his stethoscope away.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Q said.

"Q, please. I told you, it's John," he said and then blushed. "We're practically family."

"Wait then, until you meet Mummy," Q dryly said.

"Oh, I can't wait," John said. "Well, this must be your place," he said, gesturing.

"Would you like some tea?" Q asked politely.

"Ah, no thank you. Sherlock's at a crime scene and that's where I'm heading towards next," John said.

"Well, then. Thank you for your concern and the check-up. Please let my brothers know how I'm doing," Q said, stepping out of the car.

"Will do," John said and smiled before the car drove away.

***

After M was buried and James truly reinstated as a field agent, Q was able to pause and take a breath. Since relocating MI6 Headquarters, Q searched high and low for another place to do his sketching. He found that particular place on a little used footbridge. It overlooked the Thames, had an excellent view of London and was a reasonable distance away.

Q was lost in his sketching to notice the shadow just out of his direct line of vision. It was only when he turned did he catch 007 standing nearby, smoking and watching him. Q sighed and began packing his things away when James said, "I'd like to see what you've drawn."

Q stopped. He was very reticent to show his sketches to anyone but his brothers. His mother never knew what her youngest son drew and she never asked. "Why," he asked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his sketchbook.

"You seem talented and I would like to see them," James said, looking away from him.

"I see," Q replied slowly. He thought for a few seconds, coming to a decision. Q stood up and approached James with his sketchbook open to his latest work. It is of a nondescript building off in the distance, grey stone, white trim and grimy windows. But Q, to James' untrained eye, transformed it into something miraculous, something unearthly, something surreal. Q watches him as something shifts in the agent's icy blue eyes. "We should get back," Q finally said and took his sketchbook back from James.

"Thank you. That was lovely. You should consider...nevermind," James said.

"I should consider what?" Q asked him as they walked side by side back to MI6.

"You should consider submitting something to an art gallery," James said.

"Why would I do that?" Q said, astonished. He stopped and lightly tugged on James' suit. Q felt ridiculous doing so as if he was a boy tugging on his father's suit jacket. He blushed mightily when the thought crossed his mind. Mycroft and Sherlock would have a field day with this, he thought. Q glanced up at a CCTV camera and much to his dismay, it was pointed straight at them. He grimaced at the camera, imagining as Mycroft watched. James glanced up to where Q was staring, an unasked question in his eyes.

"Bloody Big Brother," Q said, forgetting his original question.

James hummed an agreement, as the camera focused in on him.

***

Q dreamed in blurry sepia-tone, his subconscious, it seemed, needed glasses. He once asked his brothers how their dreams were.

"I can't be bothered to remember my dreams," Sherlock said dismissively. "It's neurons firing away sporadically, matching things and people we see in our day-to-day lives. Other people try to interject meaning into dreams, but they're useless."

Mycroft's answer wasn't much better.

"No, I don't remember my dreams nor do I wish to," he said and went back to scanning the newspaper.

While Sherlock may be right about dreams having no meaning, Q was interested in what his subconscious had in store for him night after night. Interestingly enough, Q's dreams of late featured one James Bond. Q awoke and sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. What is he becoming to me, Q thought, his mind quickening to the puzzle. Q had to admit that the man was starting to invade not just his dreams but his spare waking moments, taking to sketching the man in his sketchbook. Q shifted a little uncomfortably in his bed at the implications.

Q considered the man again. James' face was admittedly weathered than Q liked to admit; his ears stuck out just a bit much; the man's mouth was in a perpetual tight-lipped smirk; and his blond hair was cropped a little too short for Q's liking.

But his eyes, his blue, blue icy eyes. They drew a person to James and held them there while he decided whether or not to kill or seduce you. They pierced and pinned people into place while James moved with feline grace. His body was well hidden beneath his bespoke suits, belying the power underneath. He was silent moving into a room and only announced his presence until he was ready, which was most likely too late for his adversary.

Q thought long and hard about this agent, his hand moving in quick light strokes as James' portrait materialized on the page. He was deep in his sketch that he almost missed the tapping on his balcony window. Startled, Q looked up to find the man standing on the balcony, dressed all in black. Am I going to have to install a security system on my balcony? Q thought irritably.

"What?" he demanded as he let James in.

"I was in the neighborhood," James quipped.

"On my balcony. I have a mobile. You could've tried to pick the locks again," Q shot back.

"I have to keep up my skills," James said ignoring Q.

"Do you ever rest?"

"No, not really," James said before asking. "What were you sketching?"

"Nothing of importance to you," Q retorted as his mobile chimed with an incoming text. "Great, you've awakened Big Brother," he muttered as he read the message.

Do you require assistance? - MH

James didn't bother with a reply, looking instead around Q's bedroom. He picked up a photograph of Q and his two brothers.

"What exactly are you doing here again?" Q asked, trying to keep the agent on task as he fired off a text.

No, thank you. - QH

"I told you, i was in the neighborhood."

"At two in the morning?"

"I couldn't sleep," James said instead. "Are these your brothers?"

"Mmm, yes, good deductive reasoning there, 007. I can see why they made you a field agent," Q said.

He pointed at Sherlock, "Wasn't he the so-called fake genius? The one who supposedly committed suicide?"

"Yes," Q said, tersely and pulled the picture out of James' hands.

"Interesting," he said, giving Q a piercing look.

"Is there anything I can for you, Mr. Bond?"

"Tea would be lovely," James replied.

Q sighed and walked into the kitchen, gently placing the picture on the countertop.

"That seems to be the only picture you have in your flat," James said, lightly tapping the picture.

Q just hummed in response, not bothering with a proper reply.

***

Q's time was filled more and more by James Bond, his ridiculous icy blue eyes and James' tendency to make a mission go tits up. It's like he does this to me on purpose, Q thought miserably after one particularly harrowing mission.

"I think you're doing this to me on purpose," he said out loud the next time James came in.

The man in question merely smirked and handed back Q's equipment in a dozen neat pieces.

"How the fuck did you manage to break it into twelve pieces when there was only two pieces to begin with?" Q cried, outraged.

"Talent," James said and winked before leaving the Q department. Q turned to watch him leave and Q could've sworn that James put a bit of a wiggle in his walk. Q could do nothing but let the heat rise in his pale face.

"I'm going to kill him," Q said, slumping forward and resting his head in his hands.

I'm in trouble, he thought.

That night, Q dreamed in sharp, crisp colors. Blue dominated the theme of his dreams. He woke frustrated, his need sharp and painful. James' name was on his lips as he came in the shower.