Ford can't believe they are doing this on their own. They have MI5 and the Met officially looking for John, Mycroft has the bloody army at his disposal, Sherlock his damn homeless network and who knows about Bond, hell, they could probably get M to put together a rescue team, but no, apparently, back-up is for the faint-hearted.
His objections include an unknown number of opponents, unknown weaponry, unknown anything. But these are all met with incomprehension. He desperately tries to find at least one method of surveillance, if only for his own nerves. He hates doing this more or less blind. Infrared sensors don't show any nasty surprises, there is no unusual heating in the outer walls, so probably no elaborate security system. Satellite feeds don't show anything unusual, but the MI6 training is hard to overcome and yes, he is worried. Why shouldn't he worry? He is not an agent.
Of course, everybody else is doing fine. No surprise regarding Bond and Sherlock, they both thrive on danger, but he had hoped for some common sense from Mycroft. But even the British Government seemed in favour of some recklessness and only brought 'Anthea' as support. And although Anthea's training equals Bond's, he really thinks this rescue mission could only profit from more people.
His silent fuming is interrupted by Mycroft.
"Ford, you heard the man. They have only seen one car arriving, there won't be more than a handful of men here. Besides we don't know John's condition, every minute might be valuable."
Ford knows that his brother genuinely likes John Watson, but the display of worry is definitely only a show for him, since it's already obvious that nobody will listen to him. In times like these he is strongly reminded why he loathed being the youngest brother. Nobody took him seriously. He glares at the other men, only to feel foolish at Anthea's understanding smirk.
With a sigh he shuts the laptop and concentrates on the sight in front of him. An abandoned warehouse in one of the industrial districts on London's periphery. The paperwork had shown no current owner. The last one had died without any heirs, and now everything is slowly crumbling. In the light of the only functioning lamp-post he can see the white van, the Star Trek dent barely visible in the dim illumination. There is no sign of any guards on the outside. They probably feel safe enough with the other warehouses also unoccupied.
Of course, it is Sherlock who gives the starting signal to their rescue mission. Mycroft has provided them with guns, and Ford knows that Sherlock has had shooting lessons, but he is relieved when Bond firmly takes the lead. A trained assassin is certainly a better choice than a man who usually relies on an ex-army surgeon when it comes to gunfights.
He follows Anthea and Mycroft, carefully closing their car door, avoiding noise as much as possible. Every step feels too loud, every breath like a scream. It's the first mission he's actually participated in with a real weapon. On the outside. He really prefers his usual role behind the computer screens. This feels much too random; he is too exposed for his taste. And anyway, that's what he said to Bond on their first meeting. He does the damage in his pyjamas and Bond pulls the trigger. Perfect task sharing.
Bond slowly opens the door to the warehouse, slips in, closely followed by Sherlock and Anthea. Ford is barely in the small hallway that leads to dark offices on one side, and on the other to a large hangar, when he hears the first shots. He rushes in behind Mycroft, but it is immediately apparent that they missed the whole of the action. Not that Ford minds very much.
Anthea secures the thugs; Ford can see them still moving so they are still alive. Bond roams the hangar. There are not many hiding spots, and he joins Ford and Mycroft when they reach the chair John Watson is bound to. The doctor is unconscious, and bruises in all shades from purple to black cover his face and his upper torso. Cuts and scratches are encrusted with blood, and the rattling exhales indicate fractured ribs and maybe a punctured lung. Q is relieved that they have an ambulance nearby, at least; he can hear Mycroft alerting it.
Sherlock is hunched over his flatmate, undoing his bonds carefully. His brother's expression is raw, a rare display of open longing when he wipes some blood from John's battered face. Ford feels like an intruder, and is thankful for Mycroft's false cough.
"Sherrinford, the ambulance will be here shortly to take care of him."
For a moment it seems as if Sherlock hasn't heard his brother, softly caressing the small amount of John's skin that is free of any damage. Then he straightens, a harsh movement in contrast to his usual grace, closes his eyes and Q can almost see how he wills himself to turn. When he faces them, his eyes are a bit glassy, but otherwise he doesn't show any emotion. Ford expects him to say something, but in the end it is Mycroft who breaks the silence again.
"He will be safe, I promise."
A sharp nod, a turn back almost as if can't help himself, and then Sherlock leaves. The door bounces a little on the outside wall, and they can hear the ambulance arriving.
Four hours later Bond and Ford are suddenly the ones in charge of a still unconscious John Watson in one of Mycroft's bedrooms. Mycroft himself has left for the office, but not without assuring them that he will inform all relevant parties about John Watson's status. They both watch the nurse (who Ford vaguely recognises as the least annoying during Sherlock's rehab) adjusting the IV tube and the pillow, before settling in a chair beside the bed.
Ford understands her blatant ignoring of their presence as clear dismissal, and leaves for the library. Maybe he should go to sleep, he feels the physical exhaustion in his whole body, but his brain is still whirling. Scenes of their rescue mission, the moment in the car, the one interrupted by Sherlock. He hears Bond's footsteps following him, but chooses to ignore him for the moment. In the library he makes a perfunctory attempt at clearing the table, shifting papers and files together, dismantling the monitors and pcs.
It's a way to keep himself occupied, trying not to think that this is the first time he is alone with Bond after what had happened the last time they had been here together. He is nervous, ridiculously nervous, desperately searching for a topic to discuss, to prepare some neutral ground and trying not to find a way to convince Bond to finish what they had started.
"We should probably check in with M." It's certainly not his best attempt at communication, especially since Mycroft had told them he would deal with everything, but in his defence it is way past midnight and he is allowed not to be on top of his game.
"Why do you lie to him?"
Bond's question catches him off-guard.
"What do you mean?"
He turns to find Bond standing in the middle of the room with a tumbler full of whiskey.
"John thinks his best friend committed suicide in front of his eyes, while said friend is very much alive and chasing criminals. He needs to know the truth."
Yeah, Ford had thought Bond to be too clever to fall for the Sherrinford ruse, but this is not a good time to discover that he is right about the agent's intellect and instincts.
"Sherlock did everything to save John. Telling John the truth would jeopardize his whole plan."
It's a weak argument, but despite fearing Bond might learn the truth, he isn't prepared.
"How so? John is suffering. Is it worth that?"
"Why do you care so much? I mean after John came back from Afghanistan you never contacted him, you never visited him in hospital. Sherlock gave him a new purpose. Sherlock was there for him, not you. You just met him again because he was hired by MI6 and now you are playing the concerned friend?"
Attack is the best form of defence. Ford knows that his words have stung. He doesn't really want to hurt Bond, but right now he has to keep Sherlock's secret, has to convince Bond to keep it too. At least until he can speak with Sherlock to discuss the situation (more likely inform him that Bond knows and he will tell John).
"It's not the same." The answer comes hesitant.
"How is it not the same?"
"It's difficult to explain. It's more of a brothers-in-arms-thing."
"And isn't one of the brothers-in-arms rules to keep each other safe? Not telling John is keeping him safe. You are not telling him anything about your missions either, are you?"
Bond comes closer, putting the glass on the table behind Ford. Q can see the fire in those blue eyes. He swallows, fighting to hear Bond's explanation. It is certainly not the right time to give in to his hormones.
"As I said, it's not the same." Bond lowers his voice, Ford can feel goose bumps rising on his skin. "John and I have known each other since our childhood. When we both entered the forces, we knew that our priorities had switched. My first priority is England, has been for a long time. I have returned from death because England, MI6, was attacked." Bond comes even closer. "But John's priorities have changed after his return. Sherlock was his first priority. So, he needs to know."
It's really hard to find an argument, when Bond is this close. Ford is pretty sure Bond wants to intimidate him, but the effect he has is quite the contrary. He feels the blood rushing in his ears and his own voice sounds feeble when he tries to find a way to convince the agent of his brother's agenda.
"And John is Sherlock's first priority. You have seen him. He is not enjoying death, drinking himself to an untimely death in a bar on the other side of the world. He is making sure John is still alive when he returns."
The movement is completely unexpected. One moment Ford is trying to argue with Bond and his body's responses to the close proximity, and in the next a hot searing mouth descends on his and he forgets everything. There is just the taste of Bond, of Bond's tongue in his mouth and Bond's hands on the back of his head and on the small of his back, keeping him trapped between the table and the agent's body. But there is no need to keep him in a deathly grip because Q willingly surrenders after a moment of surprise, licks in Bond's mouth, over his teeth and his palate and it makes him dizzy and maybe it is not such a bad idea that Bond doesn't loosen his grip, because Q loses himself in the moment, the pleasure and the little noises that might come from either of them.
But suddenly the agent pulls away and Q feels the loss on so many levels that it takes a moment to gain something akin to equilibrium, and opens his eyes to stare at the man opposite him. Bond isn't paying any attention to him, he has turned towards the door where Ford notices the nurse, clearly uncomfortable, wringing her hands.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to interrupt … I just wanted to borrow a book if that's all right?"
"Of course, no problem." Q manages an encouraging nod and then follows her hesitating movements with his eyes, all the time feeling a bit as if caught up in the November fog of London and only too clearly aware of the agent next to him. The nurse doesn't take long, obviously just grabs the first book that sounds just a bit interesting and then she almost flees the library.
When they are alone again, Q turns to Bond. The agent's face is blank, but there is still fire in his eyes. Not the cold fury from before but a hot arousing flame that lures Q nearer, but Bond takes a step backwards, keeping their distance.
"We shouldn't do this."
Bond's words are like a bucket of ice cold water that clears the fog and Q remembers their argument. It is hard not to dwell on the feeling of being rejected, and to return to the issue at hand. Ford has to take a few breaths to get himself, his body, the emotional roller-coaster under control, but when he finally speaks his voice almost sounds normal.
"If you tell John now that Sherlock is alive, he will want to go after him. He is in no shape to do so and Sherlock can't watch out for him. At least wait until he is better. Please."
Q hears the begging undertone and briefly wonders how many things he would beg Bond for right now. Another kiss, touches on naked skin. He licks his lips nervously, noticing how Bond's gaze follows the movement. It is an arousing sight, but the feeling is lost in the silence that stretches between them. Bond seems to think about their discussion, but his face still betrays no emotion, no sign what he is going to decide.
"Okay."
The short word startles Q.
"Okay?"
"Yes, okay. I won't tell him until he is better."
Bond turns to leave and suddenly the exhaustion slams right in, the turmoil of the last days taking their toll. His knees buckle and he gives in, lets himself fall gracelessly to the floor. He hits his head on the table, but that is just a small battle wound compared to everything else. At least he has bought them time.
