For a few seconds longer after his bout of cursing, John stared at the phone. The words "You could of gotten some excellent tea for free" stared up at him mockingly from the screen, shining and smug and utterly aggravating. Frustration bubbled in his stomach like lava, (If London doesn't get tea in the morning, No-bloody-body-whom-so-ever-will-be-happy for the rest of the week. And if you shove it in it's face then by god) and before he knew it a low growl emitted from deep within his throat like some great animal, rolling vibrations through the black interior of the car.

"Settle down, Dr. Watson...Before you damage my car. What happened?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John tiredly rubbed at his face and sighed, dropping off the growl as best as he could and shoving down the red-hot anger.

If he considered it truthfully, Mycroft was right. Ciel Phantomhive was an anomaly no matter what angle you came at him from; He had to be in order to pull Q of all people to his side... That text message was no accident. No wonder why Jim had taken to the Earl in the vision, really...Genius minds had the unfortunate tendency to be bored, and something like Ciel Phantomhive was a puzzle that had the promise of being complicated. The fragility of genius, Sherlock once said. They needed an audience. But they also needed something to fuel the genius.

And another genius had unexpectedly joined the ranks, much to John's annoyance and bemusement.

"Q's with him."

He only had the shriek of tires to reckon with before Mycroft came to another sudden stop. John whacked his head on the seat before him and a dark thunderstorm bloomed somewhere in Barking and Dagen; Both London and John cursed simultaneously and wished that they were quicker on the uptake. And for the second time today, Mycroft seemed to be put off. "Q... MI6?" His voice was still sharp, but it wasn't directed at him this this time.

John groaned from the back, rubbing at his head. "Yes. You know, you geniuses never think about giving a part of London another black cloud. You are his brother, you know."

Mycroft's only reaction was to restart driving. And then say, "I'm well aware, Dr. Watson."

"Arsehole." John muttered silently, and sat heavily back into his chair.

When the young man known mostly as Michael Serrocold opened the drapes to his office and out of mere curiosity, looked down upon the streets of New York City and saw a white BMW innocently parked in front of his building, he had a small heart attack.

Michael Serrocold was a semi-reputed handsome workaholic, prone to binging on coffee and papers at his workplace and not much else. He was mightily mysterious to his women co-workers for being a "pretty boy who never spoke of his past or habits", never went to bars or clubs with his colleagues, never sat or chatted with them at lunch and only intermittently spoke to them outside of work. It was often said in whispers that he needed the right girl to loosen him up before the ice melted, and in a way that was true; Michael Serrocold wasn't the type to have one-or-two night stands with girls or even boys, but there was his sister, and while he could hold himself in great restraint with everyone and anyone else, any illusions of politeness or even restraint flew out the window the minute he saw hide or tail of her.

The reason being that she absolutely drove him to distraction, and either infuriated him beyond measure or enamored him completely to whatever scheme she was involved in. Most of the time, it was in both cases.

Such a time was when she had managed to get him allergic to Alcohol during an accident in the Philippines. This, not a case of being standoffish, was why he never went out with his co-workers. It was humiliating. He didn't mean to be mysterious, but his real occupation, not the part-time job he was currently employed in was a bit... confidential. To anyone that was relatively on the right side of the law. If you were on the other side, then to hell and high tides; he was most definitely not mysterious and most everyone who knew his name also knew the Boston accident where he was found mostly naked, strung up by a lamp post by his underwear after a job. The details were what made the story, but he had no wish to recount them.

In his pocket, a ringtone drifted out a mournful tune. "It's unfortunate that when we feel a storm, we can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable..."

Pulling out his phone, he gazed at the caller ID. Blocked, it read in it's unemotional white. Huffing with ironic laughter, sliding his thumb across the screen, he opened to answer and held it to his head, his heart filling up with hope and fear.

"Cally, we're in."

The affectionate nickname broke his eternal suspension, and a radiant smile grew on his face. A storm had come his way, but he was fortunate indeed to be able to roll over. He was uncomfortable, living like this.

"Change your car, won't you?" He quipped, already re-setting his eternal gears and mentally turning his eternal clock back to "homeland."

At the moment, it seemed like the two-week notice you had to give to the company he was working at was a bit out of the question.

What felt like moments later, he was in front of his building and in front of the white BMW. In the window, there was a girl in the driver's seat gazing at traffic. Perched on her nose, she wore a pair of tortoise shell sunglasses, though she hardly needed them judging by the level of pollution in the skies. A car beeped angrily ahead, which set off an entire stream of beeps all down the street. There was indignation in the air from the road, thick enough to spread on bread.

Awkwardly, he stood for a few minutes on the walk, waiting for her to notice him.

The driver was young adolescent girl in her late teens, a "rich darling" judging by the cost of the car and designer sunglasses. Tips of a silk scarf peeked out from the bottom of the window, and through the gritty smell of the pavement dust, the man could smell Chanel N5.

Then her lips curled in a lazy smile, and she rolled her head to face him. "Did you not hear me, Cally? I said…" Pursing her lips, she suddenly blew out a white bubble from her lips. The bubble snapped, and she grinned again. "We're in."

Recognizing the signal Michael grinned back at her, his face full of boyish charm.

"If the princess wishes it so."

If there was a city more miserable than he at the moment, John honestly didn't want to hear about it.

"Now remember Mycroft, don't- Don't try to set them off. I'm just as upset as you." John chattered in between sprays of freezing water from the sky, completely soaked through. His Government was faring far better off with his gigantic black brolly, completely dignified as ever. John sent his Government a slightly sulky glance, and looked up at the umbrella. And being a much better people-reader than his brother, Mycroft grudgingly moved his umbrella a single square inch to shield John more from the rain. Mouth a thin line, he pressed the doorbell.

(In the background, what was left of Mycroft's car was a smoking, charred wreck. In terms of guarding one's home, Ciel Phantomhive was surprisingly vicious and overly thorough. Mycroft claims that it's John's fault for letting him get this way, and all bets are off with the cars because he needs to replace his. Even if he gets kidnapped it'll be worth every moment to deprive the brat of his money. ((Translated from Mycroft-speak.)))

A beat passed before a sharp, bell-like tinkle was heard. The door opened immediately, revealing a handsome twenty-something year old man dressed immaculately in smart black wool. He surveyed the pair, and his clearly practiced, charming smile melted into something far more genuine. "Sirs—"

"Tell Q that I'm here to see him and the Earl, if you would." Mycroft inclined his head stiffly at the Butler holding open the door. Privately, John thought that anything getting them out of the damp and off of the slippery white marble doorstep would more than suffice in this occasion... Sebastian ignored the not-quite-veiled snub towards his Master, and bowed. "Of course. They've been expecting you, Mr. Holmes. Would you and Dr. Watson like to join them now?"

"If you could."

"A pleasure. Would you like for me to take your coats before meeting them?"

"If you could." John interrupted, feeling very much-put-upon, and wretchedly cold. "Is the offer of tea still available? And Mycroft, stop handbagging the bloody butler. It's not his fault MI6 is involved."

Mycroft looked insulted, and the butler almost-smiled at him. "This way, sirs."

"No! I keep on telling you, Lord Phantomhive-" Q and the Earl appeared to be in the middle of an animated debate, John thought rather bemusedly, toweling his head. It was a hot towel straight from the dryer, thank goodness that the butler seemed to be adept at picking up social cues from the present day.

The thunderstorm from Barking and Dagen had clearly moved upwards, and was currently raining angrily like a high-pressure shower over the grounds of the manor. Both he and Mycroft so far were caught in the middle of it, and bloody hell he was going to be still damp when John got back to his stomping grounds. Morning included, his day was shaping up miserably so far.

Then Q saw the two of them and ended his conversation with the Earl with a hasty excuse, clearly alarmed by them. John wondered why; their entry was hardly subtle. "Hello Grandmaster," He greeted Mycroft with an air of minute uncertainty, surveying his boss' boss' thunderous face. Almost immediately, John's day picked right back up at the sight of that face. "I...Didn't think you'd overreact in this way?" It ended as a question, and the Quartermaster became visibly nervous.

But disappointingly, Mycroft only gave Q a look and sat down heavily to sulk with a carefully picked scone. However, this behavior was so strange and unfitting of the Government John privately wondered if he should ask Sherlock to help pick funeral arrangements in advance. "Bring the fat bastard lollipop-cakes, John. A nice arrangement of them" sounded appropriately Sherlock-y in his head, until it was replaced with "What's a funeral," a concept John found so funny that he had to excuse himself briefly from the conversation that was forming.

"Nine months, Q. This could be counted as treason. I hope you understand the magnitude of what you did by not reporting to Mother... Doctor John Watson could not have told me, as he has the city under jurisdiction and not surveillance." Mycroft commented snippily, toweling his head off. "But you...Re-incarnated children, London acting up, My Brother, and cleaning up that new mess 007 made this time with Mother's old protoge... I might add that you accidentally released the man?"

Oh, so now we're getting to it. John thought, interest tweaked back to the conversation. The funeral arrangements were off. In the meantime, Q burned an ugly red flush of embarrassment and looked down. The Earl only looked rather amused.

"I-I was only trying to figure out the pass codes, sir—"

"You are young, Quentin and though it has been two years since your early graduation from University, perhaps Bond was not entirely wrong in commenting that you still had...spots." This was clearly too much for Q's pride, and dark eyes flashed behind his horned spectacles. "With all of my due respect Grandmaster, I regularly fix your security and safeguard the Kingdom's. There is an entire division set to that task alone in America. I tend to do it before breakfast."

There was a beat of silence, and Earl Phantomhive began to lightly snicker.

"Well played, Grandmaster." Once, twice he silently clapped his ringed hands, and surveyed the balding Government in a mildly condescending fashion.

London briefly thought that for being a thirteen year old, Ciel Phantomhive had a lot of backbone. Perhaps for the first time in his life, The Government itself was turning puce. Then it calmed, and returned to it's usual dry and mostly unemotional self.

"Ah, the fruit of our matter. I see you have not been...Brushing up from your departed absence."

Ciel Phantomhive then smiled at Mycroft, and John shivered. Bloody hell, that was terrifying. For all that he was exceptionally pretty and delicate for such a young child, the Earl looked remarkably like a shark at times.

Back in New York...

"Any minute now." The girl in the front said in a matter-of-fact voice, having entered traffic by this time. Michael had entered the car and for all intents and purposes, had left his job to disappear once again into the dark and exciting world of crime. It was five minutes already, and so far the experience was extremely boring. No others words had been spoken yet between the two, despite not seeing each other for a year and a half.

"Any minute what?" Michael asked, peering behind them. An italian taxi cab driver was currently making some fantastically obscene gestures in his driver's windows, and becoming steadily more inventive by the second. Michael was taking notes with some faint admiration.

The girl's response was to put a delicate size four Christian Dior shoe on the pedal and break several speed limits by at least eighty-five miles per hour. For a traffic-laden street, this was a very dangerous move.

"Holy SHIT!"

"If you'll let me finish, Grandmaster, you would know that this boy would be extremely useful to us!" Q said in agitation, waving around his empty tea cup like a maniac. His eyes were popping from behind his spectacles, and his curly hair was all but frizzing in the cold air. Personally, John thought he and his Government was making a mountain out of an anthill. Lord Phantomhive looked bored already. And he lost most of his interest fifteen minutes ago, when they had last reached the point of shouting.

"He is an Unknown, Q. You of all people...ought to know better."

John raised his eyebrows at the young boy in a stupor of semi-tedium on his furniture. Briefly considering that it might of gone better had the Earl just stuck to the original vision instead of breaking into his flat. Mycroft, as far as he could read him- Wasn't even that upset anymore at the young lord. He was just throwing a hissy fit at his subordinate because things were out of his complete control.

Still, arguing for the good part of half an hour was a bit much. "Maybe we can stop this now?" John offered quietly after a minute more, rather fed up with the bickering. No matter that he was on the outskirts of London, he was still London and no matter where he went he still carried the city within him. His quiet offer, said as both John Watson, Legend and London, City as a result rocked the house a little with the weight of his words.

The Earl looked up, startled curiosity lighting up his face as the couch swayed from side to side. Q and Mycroft froze in place, midword, looking quite shocked.

John cleared his throat. "Now, if you two boys are done having your...handbags, then perhaps we can settle this matter?" He smiled uncertainly, but his eyes were slowly unveiling to show a glowing glint of gold.

Q turned pale, gulped and sat down unceremoniously. Mycroft glared, his stone grey eyes showing the warning glint of Government in return but sat down as well, deferring to the leading city.

John coughed again, and smiled a touch more genuinely. "Thank you."

"I can't decide whether you should live or die, boy you'd probably go to heaven-" The ringtone sang cheerfully from the front seat of the white BMW, quite unconcerned with the present situation. The wail of sirens was behind them, and the cars behind them sang an angry chorus with their horns.

Broadway Street wasn't very happy with the girl driver or Michael.

"Answer it." The girl snapped, glaring at a white-faced and utterly silent Michael from behind her glasses. Onwards she drove, ducking various cars as she went and weaving madly. Gone was the rich darling who stopped in front of buildings for young men abandoning jobs; Together they were currently in a high-speed goose chase around the city, leading police cars (and nosy New Yorkers) around to some building that apparently needed the attention. "Go on, Answer it."

Managing to roll his eyes with difficult flippancy, Michael picked up the phone from the front and slid it open. "Yes?"

There was a beat of silence. Michael slammed his blond head into the front seat of the car in a misguided attempt to release tension and grumbled inaudibly, knowing full well he seemed five years younger than he actually was and not caring. He'd had two heart attacks twice in one day and was well on his way to having a third. "Yes. No. No, I don't fancy being sold off in a specialized auction house! I don't think they accept human flesh donations in Sothby's. No, I know-"

There was only the overpowering screech of sirens for a moment or so. Michael looked very put out at whatever was being said, to the point where his lips were protruding in a slightly uncharacteristic pout, having momentarily forgotten his physical circumstances.

"Tell him I expect payment." The girl snapped, and snapped her gum, and snatched her phone back. "Hell-ooo." She sang the last bit in a low, honeyed alto: Then spun around a few cars in a circle, and began driving backwards. Michael shut his eyes and tried to not scream like a four year old girl at this particular prospect of death. "Mory-Mor, I'm shocked. Do you fancy- I don't fancy getting my face getting split like a grape. Who told you to proposition ladies this way? At least let me explode my ov-" There was a snapping of gum, and a loud speaker-phone of "PULL OVER" from a couple miles down, likely from the police. She ignored it. "Aren't you eager! Ta, I'll execute it. Afternoon." She hit "End," and pulled up another app on her phone.

Michael, who had opened his eyes and was now busy watching the street behind them, screeched: "JANE, WATCH THE FIRE HYDRANT!"

Without so much as looking upwards, the girl swerved to the side again and missed the fire hydrant with a few inches to spare, settling back tidily into the road. "What?" She finally asked, after a few moments of fiddling on her mobile.

There was a whimper from the seat opposite.

Meanwhile back in the Phantomhive Manor, John was busy setting things straight.

Ciel Phantomhive, bless his sold-off soul was a veritable font of information when he wasn't busy biting chunks out of people with that ridiculously frightening smile of his in tow. He had told everything that had happened to him in the last nine months (Though this was mostly for his own amusement) and supplied details that Q had failed to mention, much to the relief of both John and Mycroft. Mycroft, because he could back it up with the right push of the button and John, for getting Mycroft off of his back.

He was just getting to the part where he knew how to break into John's flat and how he knew in the first place that John was going to call on him when two things happened.

Mycroft's phone rang, singing a doleful tune. Mycroft's hand, previously on a teacup was reaching towards his pocket with superhuman speed...

And the world, within a moment became a deafening roar of rubble, fire, ash and dust.