Title: Quod Erat Facendium (QEF)

Pairings: Lestrade/OFC. The rest is simply friendship unless you want to read between the lines.

Warnings: Rated M for dark themes. Violence, nonconsensual drug use, captivity and references to past abuse especially in latin named chapters. If you have triggers for same you might want to avoid. Some language. Both Q and John tend to use obscure words. Unbeta'd and not Brit picked. I apologize in advance for any anachronisms, grammar errors and/or typos. Author's notes, if any, will appear at the end of each chapter.

Standard Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to their respective owners. I am merely playing with them for my own as well as your amusement. I own no rights. I make no profit.

Chapter 9 – Hunt

The three of us stood in that gravel car park and just looked at each other. James' jaw was set, Sherlock looked like he was going to rant about lack of data at any moment and I was frustrated enough to want to punch someone or something. It seemed as if just when we were making progress someone put up a road block.

"Why the paranoia and the extensive use of CCTV blind spots?" I muttered to myself. "What is Portier doing, trying to keep his people off the radar or something?" I came out of my thoughts to see Sherlock looking at me intently.

"The drug ring was a side business," Sherlock said suddenly. "Portier was borrowing the lorries to move people"

"Human trafficking or getting people in under the radar?" Bond mused then answered his own question, "He seems the type to do both depending upon market conditions."

"We need to get back," Sherlock stalked back toward Lestrade's car. "I can put my network on it."

"I'll interface with MI5 and see what they have on the trafficking issue," came Tanner's voice over the coms.

I started a little at that. I'd almost forgotten that we were all still wired for sound. I was very glad that we were a minute later when suddenly we all heard Shirley's excited voice, "He's alive. Q's alive! I'd know that style anywhere." Her initial outburst was followed shortly by, "Bastard. He's locked me out of his home server and co-opted my alarm but he's alive and coding!" I don't think she realized that she was broadcasting on a live feed.

"Can you back trace to his location R?" Bond snapped as he moved to the car. I was right behind him.

There was dead silence on the other end. Yep, I thought to myself, she didn't realize she'd broadcast that bit of exuberance.

Shirley recovered quite well. "Working on it 007," she replied in a much calmer tone.

We all piled into the car but waited to see if Shirley could give us a location. No such luck.

After a minute or two there was a muffled expletive in what sounded like Russian followed by "I'm not able to get a location fix. He's bouncing the feed off a whole host of proxy servers. Back tracking is going to take time."

"Roger that," Bond replied, "We'll head back toward Baker Street. Notify us if you get a location."

"Wait." Sherlock cut into the conversation, "do you know what he's doing?"

"I can see it but I'm not quite sure," Shirley replied. "It looks like he's hacked the Yard. He seems to have mucked around in their system files for a bit then he used it to backdoor MI5. Oh!" Shirley sounded surprised, "haven't seen that in a while."

"An anomaly?"

While Sherlock's computer skills were several orders of magnitude better than mine they were nothing compared to his brother. Q was a down right genius at this sort of thing and from what I'd gathered from Lestrade, Shirley was no slouch in that department herself. How Sherlock thought he was going to deduce something from Shirley's descriptions of Q's hacking I had no idea.

"No, just a modification of an old style attack used by a seriously gifted hacker called Ghost. He dropped out of sight some 10 years ago. Everyone figured he'd been nabbed because of a flaw in his protocols and I've not seen anything remotely similar until this." Shirley was matter of fact. "Interesting," she continued, "It looks like Q got ahold of the original coding and modified it."

I was watching Sherlock carefully. When Shirley mentioned Ghost he looked startled and grabbed for his phone. I expected him to start texting but instead he hit a speed dial button. It was apparently answered on the first ring because without preamble he said "Ghost is active." There was short pause to listen then, "I suggest you relocate." That was followed by, "Yes. No. Baker Street" and he rang off.

Both James and I were looking at Sherlock now, I with curiosity and Bond with speculation. He pocketed his mobile then settled into the back seat with his hands steepled in front of his face in his thinking pose. Well we wouldn't get much out of him until he'd chased down whatever chain of deduction had set him off. I looked at James who had clearly come to the same conclusion. He merely shrugged and started the car.

We passed most of the journey back in silence. It was somewhat of a surprise then when as we rounded the corner onto Baker Street to hear Mycroft's cultured voice on our earpieces.

"Sherlock."

Now wasn't that interesting. Mycroft was now using the coms. That meant he was most likely, given Sherlock's side of the phone call, physically at MI6. Oh I would bet that the spooks were absolutely thrilled at that little development.

"Yes," Sherlock replied without opening his eyes.

"I trust your judgment."

Sherlock only snorted in reply.

Several minutes later we were ensconced in what had become our usual places, Sherlock and I in our chairs James on the sofa, with tea all round. Sherlock had yet to say anything but for the exchange with his brother. Suddenly he stood up, walked to the kitchen and returned with a metal bowl. He then popped his earpiece out and took off the microphone put it down on the coffee table and motioned James and I to do the same. He then grabbed the old fashioned alarm clock which resided on the mantle, a memento from an early case of ours, wound it, set it down next to the earpieces and flipped the bowl upside down over the whole lot.

James looked at the setup and chuckled, "I usually drop them into a glass of champagne."

I just waited. It was clear Sherlock didn't want whatever it was he'd deduced broadcast over the coms.

"Dominic Greene," Sherlock intoned the name like it was something foul. "We find him and we'll find Q."

Bond's eyebrows went up. "Dominic Greene, scion of the Verdigris family cartel?" he asked.

Sherlock grunted an affirmative.

"From all reports he's a nasty piece of work. Escaped from Wakefield seven years ago and has been flying below the radar ever since. There has been some intelligence that he's been running logistics and enforcement activities behind the scenes for his father Charles," Bond stated, "but nothing directly on his current location. We only seem to find he was there after the fact."

"You run into him James?" I asked.

"No but I've tangled with the Verdigris on a variety of occasions, mostly to their detriment," he grinned nastily.

I glanced back at Sherlock. He looked like he wanted to murder someone. Somehow Quentin was linked to Ghost and Ghost was linked to this Dominic Greene. "So what's the connection?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he closed his eyes. I thought for a moment he was not going to reply but then he spoke.

"Ghost is an alias Quentin used in uni. He used it when he was involved with Dominic Greene. He got rid of both at the same time and hasn't used it, or the hacking style, since." Sherlock paused and I could tell he was getting ahold of his emotions. He continued, "The fact that he's using the style now is a message."

"Involved?" James asked before I had a chance to.

"Yes, romantically involved. He was 16 and Dominic was very charismatic and charming." Sherlock paused and added, "Also abusive." He pressed his lips together. "Sentiment," he almost spat the last word.

I understood now why Sherlock had not wanted to be overheard. He was protecting Quentin's personal details from his co-workers. Sherlock's avowed sociopath label had really taken a beating over the last few days.

"What now?" I asked.

Sherlock flipped the bowl back over and replaced the clock on the mantle. "Now, I contact my network and then we wait."

With that he whipped his mobile and started texting. After several minutes he stopped and settled back into his chair. From the look on his face, his posture and breathing I could tell he was accessing his memory palace. We would get nothing at all out of him until he finished or something that he considered important roused him from his introspection.

While we waited I grabbed my laptop. While I didn't expect any message from Quentin I wondered if, despite all the excitement at discovering he was alive, Tanner had sent the pictures of the vehicle transfer. He hadn't. I knew that Sherlock would want to see them eventually so what would be the fastest way to get them. Shirley would be busy watching whatever Q was doing so a message to her would most likely be ignored. Tanner was a possibility but I wondered if he would be inclined to share. No, my best bet was Mycroft since he seemed to have relocated to wherever the communications were being monitored from. I sent him a short text asking for the video feed. Less than five minutes later it was sitting on my computer. Bond and I proceeded to watch it several times to see if we glean anything. Other than a real good look at Mr. Portier we didn't unearth anything new.

It was a little over an hour and a half later when Sherlock opened his eyes and spoke. "I'm missing something," he complained.

James and I had given up looking at the TV feed by that time and had moved on to firearm care and maintenance. We worked mostly in silence. It had been a while since I had shared a gun kit but I quickly fell back into the rhythm of passing supplies back and forth when needed with only an outstretched hand or a grunt to indicate what was needed. Bond had reassembled his Walther returning it to its holster. I was a bit slower and was looking for the gun oil which had somehow migrated to the other end of the coffee table. James grabbed it and tossed it to me. I snagged it out of the air with my right hand and continued my task.

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his chair and said, "That's it!" He grabbed my laptop, fiddled with it a bit then exhaled suddenly with a soft "ha!"

I quickly reassembled my Sig. It was clear that Sherlock was onto something and we'd most likely be moving shortly. Sure enough he sat the laptop down and jumped to his feet. "Come along gentlemen we need to find Mr. Wilson's cocktail waitress girlfriend."

"What?" Bond asked clearly confused.

I however, was used to Sherlock's propensity to state his conclusions without any precatory explanation. I snorted as I got up and grabbed my jacket. "You'll enlighten us on the way I assume," was my comment.

"Mr. Wilson is more involved than we thought. He wasn't just the provider of transport," Sherlock noted on his way out the door. "He was also the first gentleman who looked at the flat with the estate agent in the afternoon before Mr. Portier and his boys showed up. I didn't recognize him because he was wearing shoes that had two different heel sizes. Just enough to throw off his posture and gait. I realized it was the same person when I saw him hold the door for the agent. Trained right hand dominant." I realized then that my right hand grab for the gun oil had given Sherlock's fantastic brain the nudge it needed to put things together.

By then we were out on the pavement. Sherlock raised his hand and a cab pulled up almost immediately. I still don't know quite how he does that. I've never seen anyone who can make a cab materialize from thin air better than Sherlock. As we piled into the cab Sherlock continued, "Wilson had his girlfriend staying with him for several days. It was obvious from the state of his cloths and the scent of her perfume. So, why would she stay with him, when it was clear that they weren't habitually cohabitating?" He looked at me expectantly.

"Because someone else was borrowing her flat?" I hazarded a guess.

"Exactly," Sherlock responded.

"How exactly do you propose to find her?" James asked.

"We'll start with Wilson's apartment," Sherlock looked expectantly at Bond.

James sighed and gave an address to the cabbie.

In short order we were deposited on a street corner. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Bond.

"It's going to be under surveillance," James replied to the unasked question.

"Then we need a distraction," Sherlock said while pulling out his phone.

Ten minutes later found the three of us behind of a block of nondescript flats. Thanks to James leading us on a meandering course through alleys and back gardens we'd managed to arrive unobserved by the CCTV. Hopefully the bar fight that spilled out onto the street, which Sherlock somehow arranged to have instigated, would distract the physical watchers long enough for us to break into the building.

Mr. Wilson's flat was a typical bachelor abode. It was clear the girlfriend had attempted to impose some order in the few, three according to Sherlock, days she'd been there. Sherlock took a quick look around, nipped into the en suite then almost pounced on a duffle sitting on a chair. He rummaged around in it and came up with what looked like a bottle of perfume.

"She works within four blocks of Hyde Park Corner. It's a high class bar or club," he commented.

"Shoes?" I asked assuming that Sherlock had based his deductions on the lady's shoes which were sitting under the chair.

"And perfume," Sherlock replied. "Many of the upscale clubs require their wait staff to wear the same perfume to avoid olfactory clashes." He tossed the perfume bottle at me and I caught it. "We only need follow our noses to determine which one."

I smelled the perfume. James cocked his head at that then held out his hand for the perfume bottle. I handed it to him. He sniffed thought a moment then said, "The Whisky Mist in Mayfair."

At that Sherlock was out the door.

It was a Tuesday night, it was early and the club was not at all busy. Sherlock flashed an NSY ID card that he'd lifted from Lestrade at the manager while Bond chatted up the bar tender and I talked to the ex-infantry bouncer. Sherlock ended up with lady's full name and address. Bond and I ended up with a good bit of gossip and her dating history. She went by Crystal but her given name was Crystallyn. A gorgeous natural blond without a bit of sense when it came to men. According to the bouncer she tended to go for "bad boys" with all the predictable results including beatings. Wilson, per the bartender, had been better than most of her catches but still not someone who would treat her like she deserved. She had been completely under his thumb. Wouldn't hear a word against him from anyone. Given what her co-workers said it was I didn't find it surprising that she'd loan out her flat just on his say so alone.

By 22:30 we were off again heading for the lady's flat. Sherlock, taking a page from Bond's play book, had the cabbie drop us several streets away. We went in the rest of the way on foot once again doing our best to avoid the CCTV cameras.

The flat was located in an old Victorian mansion which had been subdivided. We entered through the back and quietly made our way to what had originally been the entrance hall but now served as a foyer to the flats. We had just made it to the base of the staircase when the sound of three muffled pops came from somewhere above us. I knew exactly what had made that sound, as did Bond and we took the stairs two at a time.

The door to Crystal's flat was just opening when I hit it slamming it into the person on the other side with his hand on the handle. Bond dove through the open door tackling the second person in the room. Whomever it was the bloke was a halfway decent fighter since he managed to keep James occupied in a rolling scrabbling wrestling match sending his gun flying. The third person was just turning away from the open window raising a gun, a gun complete with silencer to point directly at me. Which, of course, was when Sherlock jumped in through the window from the fire escape and grabbed his arm.

They struggled. The gun discharged into the floor. I hoped that there was no one in the flat below. I used the distraction to use the door to bash the person I had pinned to the wall again. At the same time James managed to knock his opponent out with a solid punch to the jaw. The gun fell to the floor with a thunk as Sherlock twisted his man's arm up behind his back in a submission hold forcing the man to his knees on the floor.

James rolled to his feet and reclaimed his Walther. He assessed the situation in a glance then said "Don't" to the man I had pinned behind the door.

"Zip ties, Watson's right jacket pocket" Sherlock commented to Bond.

James nodded and moved to extract them. He secured the man behind the door leaving me to assist Sherlock. Once our prisoners were tied and on the floor I had a chance to look around. There was one dead body on the floor in the main room. It was the ex-boxer, Bill Gardner. We found his compatriot, Mr. Cotton, dead in the bedroom.

Sherlock, who had entered the bedroom, looked around then cautiously approached the wardrobe. James caught his movement and moved to a position where he could have a clear line of sight to fire when Sherlock opened the wardrobe door. I moved to the other side so that we could open both wardrobe doors at the same time. Once I was in position Sherlock gave a short nod and we both yanked.

There was a high pitched squeak from inside and Sherlock moved to catch the body that almost fell out. It was a female, hands tied with a scarf and a knit cap pulled down over her eyes, effectively blindfolding her. She matched the description we had of Crystalyn.

Surprisingly Sherlock was making calming noises as he lowered her to the floor and held her while I removed the hat. She was sobbing quietly. As soon as I freed her hands she threw her arms around Sherlock's neck and started crying into his shoulder. If it wouldn't have traumatized her further I might have laughed at the look Sherlock shot me over her head. James was also having a problem with not laughing.

Somehow Sherlock managed to foist Crystalyn onto me. I quickly got the story out of her. She'd gone home to pick up some extra clothes for her stay at Wilson's flat. Portier hadn't been too pleased but had let her in to pick up a couple of things. While she was rummaging around Portier had suddenly run into the bedroom, grabbed her and tied her up telling her it was for her own safety. She then had heard several pops followed by the noise of our precipitous entry into the flat and the fight that followed.

Sherlock, in the interim had been examining the room finally coming to a stop in front of the window. He looked out for a moment, grunted then turned and went out into the main room. I was still attempting to keep Crystalyn from having full blown hysterics when I heard Sherlock call out "Watson, I need you, quickly!"

James smoothly took over dealing with Crystalyn as I rushed out in the direction of Sherlock's voice. He wasn't in the living room but his voice came again from outside the window, "John! Up here on the roof."

Out the window and up the fire escape I went to find Sherlock kneeling by another body, his bloody hand applying pressure to the man's leg.

"Back in a moment" I said and hustled back down into the flat to gather whatever I could use as impromptu medical supplies.

"Get a hold of Lestrade and get medical support here quick," I barked the order at Bond. "Portier is bleeding out on the roof."

James' response was an expletive but shortly thereafter I heard him talking, presumably to the group at MI6.

I must say that the MI6 folks were efficient. Portier was on his way to a secure medical facility in less than 15 minutes. The thugs were collected. Crystalyn was sedated and taken from the scene. The bodies were also removed expeditiously leaving Sherlock, Bond, Lestrade and I standing in the living room of the flat. Lestrade wasn't too pleased that MI6 had, in effect, cleaned up his crime scene however he did mention to me in an aside that he had orders not to interfere on the grounds of national security. Thank you Mycroft.

As we stood there James had handed me back my earpiece and microphone. I hadn't even seen him scoop them up off the table when we'd left 221B. I put mine back on, Lestrade was still wired and Sherlock put his in his pocket. He had examined both the thugs and the bodies before they'd been removed. He was now pacing, brow furrowed, muttering to himself under his breath.

Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks and said, "He's near the University of London and there's a T-1 line or fiber optic cable that runs back into their internet backbone from his location."

Bond relayed this to Shirley and I heard her respond, "I'm on it." It was only a minute or two before she was back on the line. "I have six possibilities with connections fast enough to allow him to do what he was doing earlier. Sending coordinates to your phones now.f" She paused for a moment then said, "I'm also downloading a tracking app. Q has been playing around with an experimental subcutaneous tracker. It doesn't have a lot of range but your phones should vibrate when you get close enough to pick it up."

Tanner chimed in as soon as she stopped speaking. "Go get our Quartermaster back 007," he ordered, "and try not to blow up London while you are at it!"

Author's Note: The wonders of the internet. I know nothing about the bar/club in question save its location.