Chapter 4: Contacts and Connections

John stares at the screen in the unnatural silence amidst the running computers and the deafening visual. A fourth explosion rocks the building they're watching, and, this time, one wall caves and crumbles.

John's vision darkens, and only then does he realise that he hasn't been breathing. He gasps and can now hear that there has been sound around him all along. Bustling, running, typing, people barking orders and others answering. And among that…

"John!"

John startles at the firm hands on his shoulders and stares into Q's eyes right in front of his. Once there is recognition in his own, Q pushes him to the side.

"I need this computer," Q just says, hurriedly, already typing furiously. "This is a… personalised program."

John notices M standing on Q's other side, his eyes darting to the devastating screen, again.

"Personalised?" M asks.

Q fidgets as much as his busy typing allows. "Bond's had a bad experience with a biometric implant, and none of the other agents would have let me tag them unless the order came directly from you."

M doesn't look like he knows what to make of that. "You tagged Bond without his knowledge."

Q scowls. "Of course not. I couldn't have sneaked that past him, and he agreed. With conditions." He accesses a program on his laptop. "It had to be hidden where it couldn't easily be removed, and I was to be the only one who has access to it." He releases a shuddering breath when he receives the signal.
"Bond is alive. We are going to assume that my brother is with him," he states, not allowing protest – be that from people or the universe at large.

M is impressed, but his thoughts are already covering a different angle. "Why is this signal working but the communicators are down?"

"We're working on the communicators," Q bites out, sounding annoyed at himself. "They were active when the connection was broken. The tracker is different. It needs to be activated from here." He relays the signal of Bond's scanner to one of the main screens, showing an elevated but normal heart rate, and moves on to the next task.
"But, yes, they clearly jammed a specific type of signal, or I couldn't have got through. Working on it," he repeated.
He enters the process of recovering the lost signal from one of his programmers, coding in tandem.

John tries to follow the strings of codes and images and eventually rubs his eyes that are hurting from the strain of trying to see something in the numbers that would ease his worry. He listens to the beep of Bond's heartbeat and imagines Sherlock's to beat in time with it, like Q working with his team. One supporting and complementing the other.

"Captain?" M asks. He doesn't ask if the other man is alright or if he would like to be brought out, but he thinks that engaging him might keep him at the task at hand (even if there is nothing currently for John to do).

John's lips tighten and he nods, sharply. "After everything I've gone through with Sherlock, and everything he must have gone through on his own since, this isn't going to kill him," he states, not a speck of doubt entering his voice, no matter how much of it was coursing through his mind. He is going with Q's assessment here.

M keeps his eyes firmly on the screens but continues: "Bond disappeared once after an explosion, before he had that… implant. He remained MIA for days afterwards."

John nods, distractedly. "Must have been hard on Q."

"Oh, yes," M says airily. "Then he proceeded to complete one of the finest pieces of programming this department has apparently ever seen, and when there was a kidnapping attempt on him two days later, he took out all four assailants."

John can't help it, he grins, his eyes seeking out Q who is deeply engrossed in his work. He releases a deep breath.
"They all like to… make people think they have more in common with machines than humans." He sighs. "Not unlike Bond I imagine."

"Perhaps," M allows, though he's not sure that truly applies. From what he knows of Sherlock Holmes, the man knows everything about the humans he reads like an open book from an outside perspective. Bond, though he analyses another person's motivations and weak points within a second as well, doesn't read, he knows. What makes him such an exceptional agent is that he does not have to mimic what he assumes will get him the reaction he wants, he can simply be that. A talent that makes him as emotionally detached as Holmes when he needs to deal with the situation at large, because he would break under his own emotions if he didn't.

"Perhaps a polar opposite," he adds after a moment.

John nods, slowly. He remembers bits about Bond – which admittedly isn't much – and he remembers someone who very much enjoyed interpersonal interactions. So very unlike Sherlock.
"Let's hope they met in the middle, then."

They don't get to deepen their not-so-small talk. Kinsinger walks up to them with an analyst, both looking urgent.

"Sir, I believe we found Moran."

M takes the pad that is being held out to him. "He left the country?"

"We believe so, sir. He is disguised, but…" he enlarges the image, "but we have to assume it is him."

"When was this?"

"Six hours ago."

John stares at the screen, darkly. "Where are Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson?"

"Martha Hudson was brought to France. Detective Inspector Lestrade is still in London in case we needed him."

John stares at M instead. "Bring him in. There is no way he'd be safe in a 'safe house' or the likes."

M almost imperceptively peeks at Kinsinger and the analyst still standing there. "Captain, you will come with me." Then he raises his voice. "Q, Moran is almost halfway across to Europe. Keep trying to get back the signal and let me know when your contact has reached the site or anything else major changes." He doesn't say, 'if the signs of life stop,' he doesn't have to.

Q looks up from his monitor, temporarily distracted, then nods and continues his work.

M rushes out, John right with him.

"So what was it you didn't want to say in front of your own people?" John wants to know.

M looks focused and… ever so slightly perturbed. "Mycroft Holmes has arranged it that you have the highest possible clearance level. He assured me that the necessary paperwork has been signed." He raises an eyebrow at John's snort. "Yes, I thought that might not have been quite true."

"Are you having me kicked out where Q can't see it?" John sounds calm, despite his accusing words.

"I'd rather not end up on all three Holmes' bad sides." He smirks. "No, I just need you to speak to Lestrade. He is currently with one of my agents, and I've been told that he might not follow orders unquestionably and indefinitely if he isn't given the reasons."

John blinks, not quite sure what is supposed to be so secret about that that M would even mistrust his own analysts buried in Q-Branch.

"He's with an agent who technically doesn't exist. She completes tasks I need to keep a personal eye on."

They enter the outer room to M's office where a young man is seated.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Mister Wilkes. Has Miss Moneypenny not returned yet?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you. Let me know if she does."

"Yes, sir."

M leads John into his office and closes the door.

John tilts his head. "Your secretary is your agent?"

M walks straight up to his desk and behind it and grins slightly at John. "You are aware, of course, Captain, that it takes quite the résumé to become the secretary to the head of MI6."

"Former field agent?"

"She shot Bond, once."

John snorts, amused. Still… "Could you hurry up?"

"Of course." He makes a call.

It is being answered on the first ring. "Yes?"

"Miss Moneypenny, I need you to bring in our guest. Moran is on the way to England."

She breathes in sharply on the other end. "The Detective Inspector is not quite as cooperative as we would have hoped. He has made clear in the past hours that he will not remain here for longer than the end of the day, and that he will not agree to be moved, unless he is briefed on the situation." She sounds distinctly amused.

M, in reaction, looks somewhat amused, as well. "Could you please put him on, agent?"

"I've had it up to here with all this secrecy!" an audibly frustrated Detective Inspector yells at the phone without hesitation. "All I know is that a friend killed himself for me and not a damned thing else! If you don't tell me what the hell is going on, I'm out of here!"

M waves John closer to the speaker and gestures him to take over the conversation.

"Greg?"

The rant on the other end stops, immediately. "… John?"

"Yeah, listen… I…" He breathes out and starts anew. "I'd rather not have this conversation on the phone. Just go with the agent, she'll bring you here."

"No. Absolutely not." There clearly will be no complacency from Lestrade, anymore, even if John is asking, though he sounds calmer. It only shows how rattled he is about the news... "What the hell is going on, John? They showed me the recording on that bloody phone. Sherlock fucking died to protect us! So why am I being cashiered away because one of the contractors has suddenly decided to kill us anyway? He…" Suddenly, he stops.

John smiles, ruefully. "Sounds different when you say it out loud, doesn't it?"

"No," Lestrade breathes out. "You… No. You knew?"

John, seeing anger brewing his way, interrupts that thought. "Since yesterday morning when his… younger brother popped by." He can almost hear Lestrade rub his face.

"Don't! I don't care about brothers and… I… Just say it!"

John licks his lips and looks at M, as if to confirm that the line was truly secure (or as secure as lines would ever get). M nods, once.
"Yeah, he's… he's alive. Though we've lost communication, earlier. I…" he licks his lips again and clears his throat, "… I could really use you here, Greg."

"Yeah, I… uhm. You… You've spoken to him, then?"

"Yes," John breathes out, the reality of the situation still too absurd to truly sink in. Sherlock has been dead for a year. He's been back for a day. He's been silent again for almost an hour. "Yes, I've spoken to him."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. Just…" John has to bite back tears, again. But Greg knows. Greg has been there. Greg has lost Sherlock like he has. "Please, come in, Greg."

"On our way," he confirms.

The woman takes over. "I'm bringing him in, sir."

"Yes, thank you," M says before closing the connection.

John rubs his stinging eyes.

"I apologise, Captain," M says, apparently having anticipated the emotional reaction. "I believed it to be the fastest way."

"Yeah, no. No, it's fine. Let's just go back down."

M's mobile phone makes a dinging sound and he looks at the message.
"Q's contact is about to enter the compound."

John's eyes clear and harden. "Good."

Bond and Sherlock stare at the upper corner on the other side of the high storage room they're in as it caves and begins covering the large cargo entrance. People are screaming and running for doors and exits, only Sherlock remains standing, his eyes sharp, scanning the ceiling.

"Sherlock!" Bond is about to grab his arm and drag him back into the hallway they came from, but Sherlock darts off out of reach and towards the still falling pieces of concrete and plaster.

"This way!"

Bond, going against every instinct he's ever possessed, goes after the crazy detective and hopes with every fibre of his being that Q didn't overestimate his big brother.

Turns out, Q (and Sherlock) was right. Behind them, the corridor collapses under the second explosion, a quickly followed third bringing the whole ceiling of the cargo area to crumble around them.

Sherlock is quick, but Bond manages to grab and pull him against a wall just before a large falling piece of concrete can hit him, then they're off again towards… the office.

Bond scowls. What the bloody fuck is so important about that fucking office? But he follows the man, nonetheless.

The fourth explosion brings down the outer wall closest to them. This time, a piece of the ceiling hits Sherlock on the head, just as they want to enter the office, and he drops. Bond drags him inside, coughing and wheezing, a cloud of dust and rubble following them. The light flickers but doesn't go out completely for some reason.

Bond turns around. They're trapped in quite neatly. He lays Sherlock on the ground and checks him for injuries.

Apart from the bleeding above his temple, there is no visible damage, and Bond carries him into a corner further from the door, in case there are more explosions, and rolls him onto his side before he stands to scan the room for something useful. Not that there is anything.

Eventually, he sits next to the silently breathing body. It's not like he could move the walls himself. It's a long shot, even with a second man to help.

It takes almost fifteen minutes for Sherlock to stir and groan.

"Alright?" Bond asks.

Sherlock groans some more and moves first into a sitting position, his eyes moving back and forth as if following the trains of thought in his head that analyse his status. Then he stands and runs a hand through his hair to get the dust and small pieces of plaster sticking to it out, so that they stop falling into his eyes.
He looks around the sealed-off room and his eyes clear some more.

"Easy," Bond says, though he regrets it when Sherlock shoots him a burning look. Bond holds up his hands.

"We weren't meant to die," Sherlock says, his voice rough. "We were meant to stay here locked in, and know that he beat us." He scowls, grabs the nearest object which happens to be a stapler and throws it into the corner of the window where a piece of glass still sticks out of the frame. (No serious brain injury, then, Bond thinks. Not with that aim.) "Stupid, stupid. He left hours ago, and we can't warn MI6 and John."

Bond rubs his collar bone (thinking of what neatly lies beneath it). "They know I'm alive," he says, confidently. "We'll get out."

"Yes! But not before Moran gets to London, going after John!"

Bond straightens. "Watson is military and at MI6."

"Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, then." Sherlock starts pacing among the scattered papers, taking in every detail. None of the computers work.

Bond sees the sheet of paper that Sherlock has looked at and discarded after a moment. It's a confirmation for a charter plane.
"This is no longer a one man show, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffs. "Oh, really, James? Just because you have fallen prey to my brother's numerous charms, that doesn't make you a team player. I wouldn't trust your 'M' any more than I'd trust Mycroft, nor do I trust your intelligence gathering service to find its way out of a matchbox without setting fire to the whole building including all the intelligence – however sparse it may have been."

Bond seems entirely unimpressed. "You're a ray of sunshine, even more so than Mycroft."

Sherlock scowls some more for being compared to his older brother.

"And neither are you a team player," Bond continues. "Though for some reason there appears to be a gap in that inability that includes Captain Watson." He raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock deflates visibly and breathes out. "John is John."

Bond nods. "Move that bony Holmes arse and help me find out if we can move some of the debris."

Sherlock huffs. "Some of those concrete plates?" He paces again. "No. We're meant to stay here until one of your MI6 colleagues comes here to get us out. I wouldn't even be surprised if Moran knew where the nearest one would be." He mutters 'stupid, stupid' some more.

"He couldn't have known we would survive these explosions."

"Doesn't matter. I doubt he cared enough. I know the type. Hunter or not, he's worked for Moriarty too long. Now, he's a hunter with a taste forthe game." There's clear distaste in his voice when he speaks of 'the game', and it might very well be that it is the first time that Sherlock... tires of it. The game is no longer truly enjoyable. Engaging, but not enjoyable. Not without John.

They both stiffen when some of the concrete groans.

Sherlock's eyes follow the sound. "This isn't the sound of more walls giving in to pressure. Local rescue teams?" he asks, more himself than Bond.

"No. They'd take care of the injured outside, first."

The sound returns, clearly closer, this time, and they move to the opposite wall.

When one piece of the wall caves and lets in the first morning twilight, they both take a hold of their guns.

"¿Es esta la oficina?" someone yells in Spanish, and Bond perks up.

"¡Sí!" This comes from farther away.

The wall moves again and a larger gap opens up.

Sherlock is ready with the gun, James lowers his, slowly.

Somebody hauls himself up to the opening from the outside and looks in. "Rat's hole you found here, James."

Bond grins and steps onto the desk closer to the newcomer. "Felix. Amazing timing."

Felix grins back. "Your charming husband sends his love."

Bond climbs from the desk to the file cabinet and out of the hole, Sherlock right behind him.

Felix helps both of them out and eyes Sherlock, suspiciously.
"Not the hubby," he says in a tone that says that he knew Q wouldn't be here, but that the man in front of him bears a somewhat curious resemblance.

"No," Bond confirms and climbs down over the debris. "Brother in law. Dear 'Quentin' is safely in London."

Sherlock climbs down after Bond with Felix, and huffs at the rusty digger that has apparently been used to break down the piece of wall and ceiling to get them out.

"Brother in law?" Felix asks Sherlock, the emphasis only just strong enough to be perceptible.

"Of a kind," Sherlock answers. "Not secret service, however. I'm leaving that in James' capable hands." To his own surprise, there is hardly any sarcasm in his voice. He wonders if that is because Bond has already managed to earn some respect or because he is particularly glad that there will be no further delay.

They come to a halt in front of Bond, local rescue teams beginning to swarm behind them.

Bond steps closer to Felix. "We need a ride back to England."

Felix nods. "Yes, so I was told. Your target is already halfway there." He tilts his head to make them follow him to what appears to be a government car. Felix practically shoves his passengers into the back and speeds off past the approaching fire trucks and ambulances.

"You coming along?" Bond asks.

Felix huffs. "Much as I would like to see you in action some more, my local affairs are not done."

"Did we interrupt an operation?"

"Yes," Felix shoots back, though without bite. "Your show here might have delayed it anyway, I hope." The smirks as he peeks into the rear-view mirror. "And tell your husband that this one's on the house. He can ask for that favour I owe him some other time."

Bond chuckles.

Sherlock, for his part, is silently impressed. He knows what his brother is capable of, has seen some of it, first-hand. But this is different. This is Desmond having found a niche for himself, built a job around his needs (so much like Sherlock), and created a network that apparently reaches as far as individual agents within the CIA. He would expect such connections from Bond – who is, after all, well-versed in the field and would be used to dealing with people interpersonally – but from Desmond, who is only marginally more sociable than Sherlock, this comes as a surprise. So, yes, he is impressed... and... relieved. Perhaps even happy.

Bond has noticed the array of expressions on Sherlock's face and turns his head to fully look at him.
"Your brother is an amazing man with many talents."

Sherlock nods. "I am aware," he says, quietly.

Felix smirks, slightly. "Definitely a sharp one." He remembers all too well how he has met the young man posing as Bond's newly-wed husband. Sharp, quick, professional. And a surprisingly good match for Bond. A good match professionally, and, so it would now seem, personally. He reminded him of another dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty, but he keeps that bit to himself.

Bond grins, happily.

Sherlock is less relaxed, despite of their timely rescue. "Don't forget that Moran is on his way to England, James."

"I got you a nice little jet," Felix pipes up. "You should be able to make up a couple of hours, at least."

They manage to reach the airport in record time, having only just avoided the early morning rush hour. The sun is finally rising as they enter the airfield, just after seven in the morning.

The private jet is indeed waiting, and Felix stops the car right next to it.

"The pilot comes with the plane," Felix informs Bond, drily. "Try to send them both back in one piece."

Bond grins. "By return mail." The smile turns more honest. "Thanks, Felix. Q might not owe you, but I do."

Felix doesn't outright accept or decline the offer; he just takes James' hand and presses it firmly, smirking slightly. "Till next time. Move your ass, James."

The amused grin is back. "Until then." He lightly jogs to the plane and up the steps.

Sherlock nods, once, holding Felix' eyes with his. "I will remember you."

Felix returns the nod and has the feeling that this promise might come in handy one day. "Have a good trip, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't react to the agent apparently knowing his name – correctly assuming that it has been given to him by Q – and just turns to enter the plane that is already starting up the engines.

As he stands on the top step, he looks skywards. He guesses that the chances of a satellite being above him at that moment are fairly high.

He waves upwards, sardonically and enters.

TBC

Note: The Spanish should be correct. If there is actually a difference to Chilean Spanish in the sentence and my usage makes you cringe, please let me know ;)