"What makes you think he can help us?" John Watson struggled to match Sherlock Holmes's wading strides across the taxi rank. Both dodging the deepening puddles as the morning grey drizzle turned to thunderous rain.
"Get in." Sherlock reached the black cab first, impatient rather than chivalrous he snatched open the dripping door. "Hurry!"
So where are we meeting this Kew guy?" John clambered into the vehicle, closely followed by Sherlock. They slumped into the rear leather seat, cold, wet and tired from a night of seeking Mary who'd now been missing for over eighteen hours.
"The Cock and Lion," Sherlock fidgeted and scanned the faces of the scowling commuters as they sped off. "Wigmore Street." Was Moriarty hiding in plain sight? He leaned forward to get a closer look at the ruddy neck of the chubby taxi driver.
"Bit early for the pub isn't it," John's fingers raked through his damp blonde hair. He was exhausted and cynical about Sherlock's earlier suggestion that some mysterious whizz kid assist them in finding his missing wife, Mary. "So is this Kew guy another of your helpful alcoholic friends? Or one of the Homeless network?"
Sherlock turned away and squinted, irritably wiping condensation off the window. "My brother rarely drinks alcohol," He finally settled, satisfied that their cabbie was not going to metamorphose into Moriarty. "Earl Grey is his tipple of choice."
"Um… Mycroft drinks alcohol," John arched a puzzled eyebrow, mystified by Sherlock's erroneous comment. "You know damn well that some days he drinks more scotch than tea. Is Mycroft meeting us at the pub too?"
"I meant Q, not Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled absently, watching the raindrops flick upwards, as he tapped elegant fingers on his long coat. "My younger brother Q."
"Younger brother?" John's mouth hung open, he glanced out of the rain spattered side window then back to Sherlock in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, haven't I mentioned him before?" Sherlock yawned theatrically. "Q is the youngest Holmes brother… And definitely the most boring."
"What's his real name? The only Kew I've heard of is the Royal Botanic Garden in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames…"
"I can't remember," Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "He's always insisted we call him Q… as in the seventeenth letter of the modern english alphabet, not Kew Gardens."
"Well is Q short for something?" John perturbment escalated at Sherlock not knowing his own brother's name. "Quentin? Quinn?"
"I'll ask Mummy next time I see her," Sherlock scratched his head. "She might remember."
"Isn't it inside your mind palace?" John was bewildered. "Or can't you ask Q himself?"
"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed as if he'd just solved a cryptic crossword clue. "As a child Q liked to pretend he was a captain in the British Army. His battalion was responsible for distributing technical supplies. As a former army man I assume you know about that sort of thing?"
"Technical Quartermaster?" John nodded. "Is that what he pretended to be?"
"Yes Q must stand for Quartermaster!"
John snorted. "So you, Mycroft and your little brother played soldiers and games like normal children?"
"Certainly not," Sherlock winced and shuddered at such a preposterous assumption. "Mycroft and I refused to play his stupid, boring games, but at least Q's two kittens appreciated his efforts. Q was quite the inventor, always issuing them with fancy electronic collars, or computerised scratching posts."
"Does Q have a job?" asked John. "You said he was a whizz kid?"
"I don't know… something boring probably, but his little hobby is still tinkering with electronics and computers… Look we're nearly there," Sherlock pointed to the road sign ahead. "Next junction."
"I can't believe you have a younger brother," John fumbled in his pocket, withdrawing his wallet ready to pay the fare. "You never fail to surprise me Sherlock."
"Let's just hope Q can help us find Mary…" Sherlock's eyes darkened, "and Moriarty."