I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement.

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James stared at him. "You're not gay?" Quentin shaked his head, looking at him as if he might bite or be outraged or something. James merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, figures. Your brother is terrible with everything to do with emotions!" Something in the younger man's eyes cleared in understanding. "Mycroft hired you?" It was barely even a question. "Assigned me, actually. Funny, he doesn't strike me as someone who'd screw up so royally at his homework. Sherlock's not gay, you're not gay. Damn it, even I'm not gay!"

Quentin smiled tentatively at that. "No?" "Well no, not really. Pretty sure John isn't, either. Hang on, though" James looked at the younger man with new focus "your brother was pretty damned specific about what you liked in a man. He picked me out specially because I'd fit. Well, partly because I was convenient and needed reassignment because of an injury, but mostly because he was sure I'd fit your tastes".

Quentin rolled his eyes with the air of someone explaining something obvious for the seventeenth time in a row "I am an artist! I'd kill to get to paint a guy like you. Perfect. Every part of you. Like an honest, real life Adonis. Stunning. That doesn't mean I want to bed you". James' responding look could only be described as "eh, I'd be game for either", but then it was his turn to have his eyes clear with understanding "that explains so much of our awkward 'dates'!"

Quentin smiled shyly "so, Mycroft hired you and John...?" "assigned. Special forces". "Ah. For Sherlock and me... As, companions? Would-be-boyfriends? Minders?" James nodded his agreement at that "yes. I'm ex navy; special forces, John Army, just as you've been told. We both got injured recently. Our assignment was to bump into you at Barts and take care of you, John got Sherlock and I, you. Your brother assumed you'd both work it out but we were to keep the cover story for passers-bys, your artist friends from university and Sherlock's colleagues. John and I knew each other back from basic training. So that fit". Ah" Quentin mulled that over for a few moments, and James let him without comment.

"Anyway" the Holmes finally looked up "Does that mean I do get to paint you?" "Pretty sure it does, assuming it'd make you happy, yes" James answered carelessly. He had no problems with that. "Fancy that" the youngest Holmes' brother commented off-handedly "Mycroft being useful!"

Sometimes, Sherrinford Holmes seriously doubted his own sanity. One of the more recurring reasons was regret. He had a family, outside these walls: three little brothers, mostly annoying, but his little brothers all the same. A mother, a father... back when he was first locked up, there had been grandparents, too. He had not been able to attend any of their funerals. He had thought his brother Mycroft's ambitions unlikely, not to say ridiculous, but the very fact that he was even alive today proved that they were also beyond successful.

He had heard Sherlock was some sort of detective now, but he wasn't allowed newspapers or any communications with the outside world, except the very brief and far-between visits of Mycroft. He wondered if Quentin was still painting. Had he progressed in his skills? Did he still like to analyse colours? That, might be the deepest regret of them all. Not knowing what you truly cared about before it was all gone.

Mycroft and Sherlock in all their cold, emotion-hating glory, he knew that his youngest brother needed someone. Someone to be there for him, to show that he cared. And he sincerely wished he could have been that for him.