Title: Shaken Not Stirred
Disclaimer: I own no rights, I make no profit.
Shaken Not Stirred
The sound was distinctive, a cocktail shaker being expertly wielded. Underneath the clink of ice against the metal canister was the indistinct hum of several conversations muffled the acoustical properties of the room. The smell of wood polish, leather and a faint echo of wood smoke gave no clue as to his location or situation. James Bond opened his eyes.
He was sitting at a small, only two seats, wooden bar with his back to the room. The mirror on the wall opposite him gave a very good view of the area behind him. It was not a large room. Tastefully appointed with wood paneling that complimented the bar, a fire place, a dining table and a number of comfortable looking leather wing backed chairs with side tables strategically situated next to them. All in all, it looked like the members bar in a turn of the century gentleman's club complete with five rather well-dressed male patrons. The bartender, who was wearing a tux as opposed to the normal non-descript black of his profession, finished shaking and started decanting whatever drink he was making into a martini glass. At that point James noticed that he himself was dressed in his dove grey suit and did not look a bit out of place.
James shifted a bit on the barstool watching the patrons while attempting to appear focused on the bartender. Two were near the fireplace in a couple of the wingback chairs. James couldn't see their faces but judging by what he could see they appeared to be engaged in a friendly conversation. The other three were at the table. From the plates he deduced they had just finished a meal, a bottle of what appeared to be Bollinger in an ice bucket stood next to the fourth used place setting. They were talking amongst themselves in voices too low to hear while they apparently waited for their absent companion. What was rather interesting, James thought to himself, was that each of the gentlemen at the table were placed so that he was unable to read their lips through the mirror. Just then the bartender reverently placed a perfectly presented martini on the bar as if it were the elixir of life itself.
"Shaken, not stirred," he said with just a slight burr of a Scottish accent. "It has become a trademark over time you know, to go with all the rest."
James blinked. The bartender's hands had a number of small scars as well as a distinct pattern of calluses that James associated with use of a handgun. Another quick glance in the mirror told him that the rest of the patrons were not only physically fit but at least two of them were wearing suits specifically tailored to conceal a shoulder holster. Unfortunately, one fellow sitting at the table noticed his perusal and met his eyes in the mirror. He raised his champagne flute and grinned a cherubic smile that was completely at odds with the rest of his demeanor. James automatically mimicked the motion with his martini and took a sip; it was excellent.
The exchange of silent toasts had not gone unnoticed by the others at the table. There was no point anymore in being surreptitious about his curiosity so James swiveled on the barstool to face the room. Of course, that instantly made him focus of every eye in the place. James took the opportunity in exchange to get a better look at the patrons. Surprisingly, he found he recognized one of them sitting next to the fireplace.
Pierce had been one of the elite agents when James had been recruited. He was, in fact, James' predecessor as 007. He'd been promoted, gaining both the name and the title, when Timothy had been killed in Cairo. James had never met Timothy but the gentleman sitting in the other wing back chair looked very much like a younger version of the picture that had been published with his obituary. James looked closer at the three gentlemen sitting at the table and compared them with what he knew. The one who had saluted him with champagne and the knowing smirk was most likely Roger. Every description James had ever heard of the man mentioned his uncanny ability to look innocent even if he was caught with his hand in someone's pocket. If what he suspected was true, the other two men at the table were George and David. Neither one of them had lasted very long. MI6 lore sometimes didn't even count David as a true 00 because he had only had one premeditated kill prior to acquiring the moniker. However, if James remembered correctly he made up for it during his short tenure. All of which meant that the only person his fellow Scotsman tending bar could be was Sean.
James took another sip of his drink. He wondered if Sean had interrupted his repast to make him the martini or if the absent member of the foursome was another of the rather exclusive company in which he found himself.
"Ian had another commitment," Sean said in a conversational tone apparently noting his glance at the empty place. "He was technically the first of us and came up with the whole 'name goes with the designation' idea even though he never assumed it himself."
"That must have been when the head of things was 'C' for control," James replied remembering the green inked initial he'd seen on a number of ancient documents.
"They changed it to 'M' to match the branch designation and it's been that way ever since," Sean remarked.
James took another sip of his drink, it really was an excellent martini, and decided that he'd better ask the question which was now forefront in his mind.
"Am I…"
He was interrupted by Pierce, "Not if your Quartermaster has anything to say about it."
"We just took advantage and waylaid you here," Timothy clarified with a languid wave of his hand.
Roger continued, "It's just that we were curious to meet you. From the way things are going you are going to have the best shot of all of us to make it to retirement."
James seriously doubted that statement. Now that he thought about it the last thing he remembered before the sound of the cocktail shaker was pain and Q's voice saying 'Damn it James stay with me!'
His doubt must have been echoed in his expression because David noted, "Of course you'll most likely consider this a hallucination if you remember it at all."
With that remark James noticed that the room was getting a bit fuzzy about the edges. He looked at the martini as the most likely culprit.
"You might as well finish it," Sean remarked. "Knowing the bloodsuckers in medical they'll enforce the 'no alcohol in the building' policy as long as you are in their not so tender clutches."
"Like you are any better than any of the rest of us were at staying put in medical," George observed.
The room and the voices were definitely fading now. James looked confusedly at Sean who for some reason had remained clearer than all the rest.
"Good bye 007. I trust we will not see you again for a good long while after you've left the appellation to a successor."
With that final remark ringing in his ears James knew no more.
Once again sound was the first thing to return. A door gently closing and the creak of someone shifting in a not terribly comfortable chair was what James heard. He tried to crack one gummy eye half open and was able to get a blurry view of an all too familiar industrial ceiling. That plus the generalized industrial disinfectant smell lead him to conclude he was in hospital. James attempted to raise his hand to wipe the crud off his other eye only to realize that there was ab IV line in the back of his hand and from the faint pull it was hung up somewhere. He felt as well as heard movement and caught a whiff of earl grey.
"Wait a moment," Q's voice ordered.
James put his hand back down on what he now knew was a hospital bed. There was a bit more movement and a warm flannel was used to wipe his face. He opened his eyes and was extremely relieved to see not only a tired looking Q but also the hated walls of MI6 Medical. James relaxed a bit. It seemed that once again it was no time to die.
Author's Note: This plot bunny hopped out of the woodwork when I heard about the passing of Sean Connery, may he rest in peace. I plopped it into the 2.5 Holmes verse because it seemed to fit. Since this is a stand alone I'll close as is my practice with apologies to Master Shakespeare:
If this writer has offended,
Think but this and all is mended,
That you have but tarried here,
While the writing did appear
And these words upon this screen,
Are of no import, only my dream.
It has been an honor to share my dream with you.