"Whatever are they up to, darling? My drawing room is hardly meant to be a brothel!"
"Now, pet, boys will be boys, you know. I'm certain they're only just canoodling."
The advent of Mummy and Papa impinges only vaguely upon Q's consciousness, at least at first. He's a bit gloriously entangled in the solid heat of James, and his usually alert mind is more than a little fuzzed out by the rampant wet curl of a darting tongue 'round his own and the insistent fingertips clutching at his bum, rhythmically squeezing.
"Dearest," Mummy observes dryly after a long moment. "Bond has a hand stuck down Baby's trousers. Not merely canoodling, demonstrably."
"M!"
A staggeringly precarious situation, fraught with faux pas, this is. Which commences abruptly when James jolts, spins like buttered lightning in a heel-toe rock, and then literally shoves Q straight behind him, keeping him fast with a pincer-grip on Q's uncomfortably bent arm. As well, there is the broad flat of a tanned hand, 'accidentally on purpose' placed so as to pancake Q's ridiculously tented flies between James's taut spine and the raptorish curl-down of yet more digits, sunk firmly into Q's clenched arsecrack.
"Ew, ouch!" Q whimpers, blinking back the sting of possible bruising later, but James hardly seems to hear. "Mind!"
"M?" James ventures, and Q blinks faster yet and braces automatically against what is likely to develop into a rather enormous fallout sequence, worse even than when the rogue agent Silva bombed HQ. "M," James repeats, and the hair on the back of Q's neck rises high. "It is you."
"Bond," Mummy replies, coolly as anything very, very much chilled, such as an ice lolly in Siberia, and releases Papa's arm to step forward. Wisely, though, she stays back just sufficient distance as to provide James the customary bubble of neutral ground. Q doesn't blame her. James is a dangerous bloke, sometimes. "Welcome to your first Holmes Family Christmas. I see you've got Baby."
James growls, not quite inaudibly, and tightens his hold on Q.
Q yelps, involuntarily, his checks flooding crimson. As James does indeed 'got Baby'! His arse, to be exact, and his dominant arm, too. He grits his teeth, stuffing back further protest. This is humiliating enough without his needlessly setting off further protective actions on James's part.
As it is, Papa is regarding James carefully, his jaw firm, and his ghost-grey eyes are markedly steely.
"Ma'am." But, never let be said James doesn't recover quickly. "Sir."
The mask of an agent is firmly in place before Q can complete his next full flutter of dampened lashes; the inclination of his lover's leonine head in acknowledgement is all that is polite. Worse, though, his tone is as smooth as cream…and as bloody well heavy, fraught with all sorts of layers and intimations Q really doesn't care to consider.
"Mummy!"
Q jumps in fast as he can, crashing forward and shoving the bulk of James aside as best as he is able from behind and held catty-corner, with the burning intention of—literally—rushing into the breach.
"Mummy, you know James? Of course you do; what am I even saying?" Q realizes he's babbling like the village idiot but that seems not to be something he can help at the moment; it's all systems 'go!' to quell disaster. "Well, as you can see, he's my boyfriend, Mummy! That is to say, my partner, Mummy, and I've brought him along for Christmas dinner. Please do be nice to him, Mummy!"
That idiotic request earns Q a hard stare from both his esteemed mater and his paradoxically quiet lover. Q glances away, belatedly getting a lid on it, and becoming aware he and James have suddenly been flanked, what with My on the one side and Sherly on the other, the great overprotective tits they both are. He hisses, resenting the show of support even as he's rather grateful.
"Now, Mummy." My murmurs with intent to unruffle a few maternal hen feathers, though it goes unregarded, sadly.
Thinking on it, though, Q can hardly blame them, his brothers. The situation could suddenly descend in to something quite volatile and that's a gun in James's pocket, Christmas goose and all the trimmings or no, and there's no guarantee Agent 007 is actually glad to see his old superior come back from the ranks of the recently deceased.
"Don't be ridiculous! Of course I shall be nice, Baby," Mummy reproves Q, a quick, hard squint the only signal she may well feel her youngest is perhaps trespassing upon the acceptable dignities of her parlour by chiding her. "I am never not nice to any guest you care to present me, am I? Hah!" Mummy elevates her nose at Q. "The idea!"
"Well, I'm sorry, Mummy, but—" Q flounders, and gapes. "It's...well, it's!" Words fail him suddenly, as he's really not honestly certain as to what it allis.
"Oh, Mummy," Sherly sighs. "Really? Must we?"
No one seems willing to heed Q's next eldest brother, either, although the good doctor might've snorted...or maybe not.
James's eyes narrow into brilliant blue chips of ice and Mummy returns to fixing upon him with a very meaningful stare of her own. Q shivers in reaction, a bit stunned by the animosity reflected in both sets of azure eyeballs, and is intensely grateful when the hand glued above his jutting wrist bone suddenly transforms itself into a comfortingly warm length slung about Q's waist.
At least that means James won't be able to murder Mummy outright; small favours!
"This is," James carries on, intensely urbane given the circumstances, "rather a turn up, M. Or should I address you as Mrs Holmes now? Tell me, has the Minister been notified you're still ticking over, all right and tight? Has Mallory?"
"Hah-hah-hah!" Papa laughs gaily, finally piping up as he paces forward to take up Mummy's hand. "Oh, but this is precious, just precious," he giggles, firmly tucking Mummy's hand most comfortably over his arm. "Most amusing, Baby," he adds, nodding at his bewildered youngest spawn with a gay grin. "And well played out, really. Masterful! I must say I do appreciate a good chuckle before a holiday supper; it does clear out the digestion beautifully."
"Wait, what? No!" Q bursts out, appalled. "Father, you think I did this solely for effect? Do you think I've run mad?"
"Effect, Charlemagne? You, of all my three sons? Not likely!"
Q spares a thought o the fact he's never before been quite so chuffed as to observe his own father burst into that trademark and occasionally startlingly ridiculous giggle of his. Oh—and also? He's never been quite so much the focus of attention either, and it's really most uncomfortable a feeling.
"Oh, no, Baby," Papa huffs, pink cheeked at Q's gawp of growing alarm. "You're the last one of them I'd ever expect to draw attention to himself with pointless drama. I can only imagine you simply couldn't manage to put it off any longer, could you?"
Papa is usually quite the reserved sort, and Q and his brothers most definitely take after him, but now and again Papa exhibits these rather blinding flashes of a hidden hilarity. Mummy has always and ever blamed those spells on the 'bloody Vernet genes, darling!'
Q nods, feeling rather helpless in the face of fatherly wisdom. "Exactly so, my boy," Papa says gently, nodding his understanding. "There comes that time when it's imperative your Mummy be properly introduced to your beau. And it's hardly Christmas when the one you love isn't by your side, is it?"
Q gulps. "Ngh!" It's enough to floor a fellow, having his innermost bits laid out for all to see, and certainly the Holmeses are not known for their lack of attention to detail!
"But, really, to continue to the point here. Absolutely not, Mr Bond," Papa says, at last turning his attention back to the real threat in the room: James Bond. "The latest 'M' and the Minister are fully unaware, which is to say they've not a clue, nor does anyone in any officially appointed or elected capacity. Indeed, that would be entirely unwise and completely contrary to the Plan."
"The…Plan?" James prompts, keeping a wilting Q close clamped to his side. "And what might that entail, exactly? This Plan."
"Oh, but!"
'The Plan' is clearly worthy of capitalization, and trust James to realize it.
"I say..." Q parts his lips, relief leading him to slump even more against the comforting warmth of James's shoulder, and prepares to explain it. Or at least give a go at wrapping rational words about the whole sodding ball of wax, as it's a bit convoluted, but Papa forestalls him.
"The Plan was to free up my dear wife from all her ties to the MI6, Mr Bond, and thus also allow her a reasonably safe retirement, naturally," he replies, all traces of mirth erased by a seriously beetled set of eyebrows turned dead centre on James's answering smirk. "Case in point? Double-Ought-Seven, you specialize in resurrection, do you not? Then you're aware precisely how very useful it can be, playing dead. We merely took full advantage of the perfect opportunity. Which, please not, you and that right wanking bastard Silva were so kind as to provide us, ta very much."
"…I see."
"And when I say 'we', Mr Bond, the pronoun indicates there was certainly a conspiracy," Papa, ever mercurial, twinkles at James. "But very much kept to the Family, naturally, and posing not the merest risk to our beloved Queen and Country."
"Hmm."
Q gargles wordlessly, just a bit, catching sight of his boyfriend's face. To his right, Sherlock inhales sharply, a great stertorous sniff up that familiar old snoot, and taps a shiny toe tip loudly upon the carpet. "Boring!" he mutters, and none to softly, which earns him a swift kick in the shin from his doctor friend.
My, to his credit, contents himself with a mere folding of his perfectly suited arms 'cross his broader chest and issuing a low-grade glare at Papa.
Mummy sighs, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, do get on with it," she orders. "The goose is cooling!"
"It's all alarmingly simple, so easy a ninny could see through it, really," Papa carries on happily, eyes trained on James with rapier sharpness. "Which is precisely why I was of the opinion that all the super-intelligent high muckety-mucks over at MI6 would overthink it and instantly assume the worst. As indeed they did."
Which statement of Papa's actually manages to explicate very little, really, but James somehow manages to look very deep and knowing, nonetheless. What is completely amazing to Q is that neither of his elder brothers has uttered a real peep, though he can certainly hear Sherlock's sharp intake of breath next to him, as well as discern the almost audible roll of Mycroft's eyeballs.
"Oh, indeed?" James remarks. He raises a brow at Papa. "Do go on. This is all rather fascinating. You must tell me the details, sir. I'd very much like to know how you managed it."
"Hah!" Papa waves him off with a grin. "Immaterial, Bond! That hardly matters now, does it—after the fact?"
"Hmm, still…" James peers at Papa obstinately. "I am curious, sir."
"Bag of blood."
But no, it's apparently up to the doctor amongst them to explain further. John Watson, smiles genially at the little knot of tense Holmeses and strolls forward, the DI valiantly attempting to disguise a cheesy grin just behind him.
"Freeze it, wrap it well, and tuck it under the armpit for when it is needed. And there you have it—death on demand, as it were. Quite convincing, I must say."
"Hardly," James swivels about to regard Sherly's companion. "You must be joking, John! I think I should recognize a dead person when I see one! And no pulse on her. No heartbeat and no respiration. Not tot mention M here was clearly bleeding out, in the final throes of it, actually. That's a bit more than a simple bag of blood can account, sorry. Try again, will you? The other's got bells on."
"Well! What an excruciating waste of time all this is!"
Finally Sherlock can't stand it. Q closes his eyes with a huff, deeply anxious his idiotically impatient elder sibling will cock it all up, even though Dr Watson has his mouth already open and is ready to carry on, no doubt to issue some further soothing words of explanation.
"It's all very simple, even for a utter moron, Bond," Sherly snarls, barely restrained from pacing by the doctor's one foot, planted firmly on Sherly's. "Obvious blood trail aside, breath control, the power of willful focus and the meretricious use of a compress at a major pulse point explains it all—why, even a infant could accomplish the same exact result, were one so stupid as to try! And I know for fact even you have exercised the learnt ability to control the basic signs of life, your vitals. Plus I know for a fact I have, just as successful—now, now, John, I did apologize for that!" He interrupts himself to subtly step aside from the heel John is grinding into his big toe. "Again and again and again, too! You can hardly bring that up now; it's not fair!"
Somehow, and in a rather miraculous manner, this seems to break the tension in the room, Sherly and John's antics.
"Sherlock!"
John Watson can be quite fierce when he wishes; Q cracks an involuntary grin, sniggering. At his elbow he hears James swallow back the hint of a laugh. Still, it's always pleasant to be reminded that Sherly has got himself a quite stern minder in his doctor friend—the silly old sod, he's always been in need of one, certainly, so it can all be accounted for as a 'good thing'. And especially at this moment, when Mummy and James have yet to truly sort it.
"Now, John."
"Oh, no! Sherlock, you can apologize all you like, you great arse, but it hardly changes anything!"
"Oh, now, please! All that ancient history and plotting aside, Bond," Mycroft interrupts the developing contretemps blandly, and earns himself an approving nod from Mummy by doing so. "This is naught but a game we have all of us played out at one time or another. And yes, it was a bit brutal, I admit, at least for Mummy's most favourite of her upper-level operatives. But, as the Bard says, all's well that ends well. And bless dear Mummy for her quick thinking; I should hardly like to be counted a traitor, not for conspiring to aid my own mother."
"Thank you, darling."
"Oh, pish, Mycroft. Do cease blathering on," Sherly grumbles. "It's dinner time!
"And lauds to you as well, Bond, for providing an absolutely honorable witness to Mummy's purported passing, knowingly or not. Old 'M's' death cannot not ever be in question."
"Did I, now?" Seemingly James Bond is just as capable as My is of going all po-faced and inscrutable; he shrugs. "Cheers, then. Glad to be of service, Ma'am."
"But whatever," My finishes up a bit desperately, throwing up his hands to the air. "It's done with. That particular goose is cooked, yes? And very well done, I do say. Mummy's been ever so pleased to return at last to her apiaries."
"Ah. Apiaries, M?" James cocks an enquiring eyebrow at Mummy, tilting his stern jaw mockingly. "Making use of the hive mind in entirely differing circumstances, I see. How impressive. You always were clever."
"Gack!" Q freezes, wary as all hell, and clutches at James's arm, scrabbling down with calloused fingertips. "Now, please, please don't start up again, James! For the bloody love of god, we've only just calmed down, all of us! And it's Christmas!"
"And I'd quite like to go at my dinner now, you fool," Sherly sticks his oar in, apparently unabashed by John Watson's beady eye. "Cold goose is appalling, Bond, and congealed mash worse. Heinous, don't you know?"
"Oh!" Mummy laughs, trotting forward to take up one of James's hands and squeezing it familiarly. "Hardly that, Bond. It's a hobby, and one I'd missed greatly whilst Silva was running about, all loose cannon and blowing far too many valuable things to kingdom come. And yes, of coursebees. Bees are lovely creatures and we have much need of them. Just as," Mummy answers the arched angle of James's blond eyebrow with one of her own, contrapuntally. "We all have a great and dire need of our Majesty's agents."
"Hmm!" Papa—as always—has to snatch up the final word on a subject, any subject. "And especially our dear Baby here. Isn't that right, son?"