Title: Brothers Three
Summary: The lives of three brothers intertwine in a variety of ways. When R suddenly becomes Q due to an explosion at MI6 he is forced to turn to his half-brother for help. But Sherlock Holmes has his own problems to deal with. The confluence of the lives of the three Holmes brothers through the events of Skyfall, the Reichenbach Fall and beyond in the alternating points of view of Q and John Watson.
Parings: Mostly friendship unless you happen to want to read anything in between the lines. Lestrade/OC in passing.
Warnings: Spoilers for Skyfall and Sherlock Season 2. Language. Some violence. Potential OoC moments. Shakespeare quotations taken out of context and mangled mostly as chapter titles. A dictionary might prove useful as both Q and John tend to use obscure words.
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.
General Notes: 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.
Chapter 2 - The Case of the Purloined Laptop
I awoke when the train started to slow as it entered the suburbs around London. Sherlock Holmes was sitting across, his feet on the seat next to mine, eyes closed apparently asleep. I knew better. He was awake, alert and somewhat on edge. That was a bit unusual for him after finishing a case. Usually he would run around for a half day or so with a satisfied air about him, most often with a smirk on his face, before collapsing for ten to twelve hours. Both the satisfaction and the smirk were missing. It is constantly amazing to me that I can read his body language so accurately. No one else seems to be able to do so.
"Back with me John?" he asked softly, opening his eyes to look at me.
Huh? I must not be quite awake yet. I'd never heard that tone of voice, much less the sentiment that appeared to be behind it, before from Sherlock. Some of my confusion must have shown on my face because he smiled at me and relaxed a bit. I recognized the motion from my army days. It was the type of shift that a man makes when he's been on watch for a while and then been relieved. He stretched then and shifted a bit in his seat. Sherlock had been watching for danger while I slept? Why?
Voice still soft he commented, "Something is amiss in London John. I don't know exactly what just yet but something big has happened. The mobile network has been shut down to the bare minimum and they are slowing the incoming trains."
Just then a conductor entered the car and walked down the train aisle looking from side to side. Most likely for someone's lost bag or mobile.
"Ah," Sherlock said as the conductor exited to the next car, "It will be a terrorist attack of some sort then."
I didn't doubt it. Sherlock's deductions, no matter how inelegantly expressed, were quite accurate. He'd explain the chain of reasoning if I asked but I was still feeling somewhat muzzy headed. Nothing like a couple of doses of experimental hallucinogenic gas along with a sleepless night to make one feel a tad bit off. I wondered idly how long until we arrived at Paddington Station.
"25 minutes at this speed," Sherlock murmured.
Some days I'm sure that Sherlock's ability to deduce things from the minutest of clues is as close to reading minds as anyone is likely to get. It was uncanny when he did it to total strangers but it seemed to get even better the more contact someone had with him. These days he occasionally deduced my thoughts almost before I could completely think them. Why he bothered deducing my mundane cogitations I'd never know. In fact, given his intellect I often wonder what it is that I do that makes him put up with me.
Sherlock snorted. "I've told you before John you have the innate capacity to stimulate genius."
"Stop it Sherlock! It's rude to broadcast other people's thoughts aloud to all and sundry."
"If you wouldn't brood so obviously I wouldn't have to."
"Brood?"
"Not the proper word?" Sherlock sat upright and cocked his head at me. "You prefer mope? Worry? Fret? Agonize?"
"Sherlock."
He half smiled at my exasperated growl of his name. Hmph. He was baiting me. Trying to get me annoyed as an alternative to the mood I was quickly working myself into. Well, I wasn't going to rise to that. Instead I would think about how to write up the recent case for the blog. What to call it? Dartmoor something-or-other? Murder in Baskerville? Case of the Glow in the Dark Rabbit? H.O.U.N.D Program? No, none of those was quite right. I ought to be able to do something with that acronym though. Hound, dog, ah…Hound of the Baskervilles…that would work.
Paddington was a three ring circus as usual. We exited the station and were unlucky. There were no cabs in the taxi queue.
"Walk?" Sherlock asked.
He was still on edge for some reason. I nodded my agreement. Maybe the walk would settle him down into the usual post-case routine instead of this crazy oscillation between semi-civilized and expecting something. Could this be a side effect of the gas?
We set off briskly in the direction of Baker Street. Several blocks down he stopped his attention arrested by the news feed visible on the telly through the window of a convenience store. It was running a loop of a building, the top of which had apparently exploded earlier this afternoon.
"That," he said pointing at the video a tone of disgust in his voice, "is direct evidence of a distinct lack of imagination! It looks like a special effect from an American action movie. Properly placed that amount of explosive could have brought the whole building down."
Hm. I watched the next replay which had been filmed from a different angle. It actually looked like a shape charge to me. Meant to blow the contents and the walls of the top floor out then drop the roof in on top of what was left. Assassination rather than full scale destruction I would think.
"Oh." Sherlock replied looking at me curiously.
Had I said that last aloud? Judging from the way he was looking, with all his considerable intellect focused on me, I had.
He shook his head slightly. "When we get back to the flat we are going to pull up that video feed and you are going to walk me through how you made that particular deduction," he said. He turned and was off again at a faster pace than before.
We made it to Baker Street more quickly than we would have if we had caught a cab. Traffic was seriously a mess presumably due to the explosion. I noticed that quite a few more people than normal were walking so I surmised that the tube was also partially shut down. We entered the hall, Sherlock still in the lead. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out since I couldn't hear her telly which she kept on at a low level whenever she was home. She said it gave her the feeling of company even when no-one was around.
Sherlock bounded up the stairs but paused suddenly three quarters of the way. His body language went from mild anticipation to ready for violent action between one step and the next. It was so sudden that I made a grab for my Sig Sauer, forgetting that I had placed it in my bag for the trip back. I started to say something but he held up his hand. A moment later he started up the steps again and pushed open the door to our flat which I now could see had been slightly ajar.
He paused on the threshold for a moment then relaxed slightly. With a mild humph he strode into the room saying "Quentin" in an annoyed tone of voice.
A slightly raspy tenor voice acknowledged "Sherlock" as I entered.
A young man was sprawled in Sherlock's chair. He had a mop of unruly dark brown hair, rather thick rimmed glasses and was dressed in khaki pants, a button down shirt and rumpled pullover that clearly had seen better days judging from the holes. In front of him on our coffee table was a variety of computer parts, various cords and what looked to be the remnants of the toaster. The whole mess appeared to be plugged into…"My laptop!"
The young man sat up with a slight wince, focused on me and cocked his head slightly in a movement that I was familiar with. His eyes were green-gray rather than blue-grey and the shape of his face was somewhat different but I knew then that this young man was somehow related to Sherlock.
"Not going to introduce me?" he asked Sherlock with a sidelong glance, ignoring my outburst.
Sherlock merely looked sour.
"Oh well," he mock sighed, "I guess it's up to me to perform the social niceties as usual." He stood up then gingerly extended his hand to me and started "I'm…"
But that was as far as he got when the color drained out of his face and he went down like a stone.
From my considerable experience I know just how hard it is to catch someone who faints even when you are standing right next to them. Somehow Sherlock managed to not only catch the young man but also to sweep him up and place him on the sofa all in one smooth movement. By the time I had made it from the door to the divan Sherlock had cleared out of the way so I could work.
The young man, Quentin, was out cold. He was sweating, his breathing was shallow and I could see he had a faint bruise on the side of his face where something had glanced off him. I gave him a quick once over and determined the major problem was a partially dislocated shoulder. The jumper that he was wearing wasn't ratty as I had supposed. No, it smelled of smoke and had been the recipient of hot small pieces of metal, plastic and other things. In short, he looked like he'd been in an explosion. Judging from the amount of damage to his person and his clothes, most likely the very one we had watched on the way home. Given the shoulder I took a quick feel along the back of his head. Uh, huh. Just as I suspected. He had a substantial knot on the back where he'd hit whatever had dislocated his shoulder.
Sherlock had moved around to the back of the sofa. I glanced up at him as I continued my examination. I could tell that Sherlock was trying hard not to appear concerned. I took a chance with a direct question, "So how are you two related?"
"Half brother," Sherlock said curtly. "Mummy took him in after his biological mother died."
That was interesting. In one sentence I had at least tripled my knowledge about Sherlock's family.
"Well?" He said as I finished and looked up at him again.
"Dislocated shoulder which was not properly set, three bruised ribs, numerous abrasions, some minor burns and a concussion."
Sherlock looked annoyed. "I missed the concussion," he grumbled. Then he gave one of his half smiles, "But you missed the fact that he's had four hours of sleep in the last 48."
"Six" said my patient faintly.
I looked back to Quentin who blinked somewhat owlishly at me. His pupils were the same size and appeared to be reacting properly to light.
He started to shrug then stopped as he remembered that it was going to be painful to do so. "I was coding."
As if that explained anything. I gave him my best doctor look and voice, "You my friend should be in a hospital."
"No," said both Sherlock and Quentin with Quentin being half a beat behind.
"Why not? They are much better equipped to deal with your injuries than I am here. That doesn't even take into account the fact that getting your shoulder properly back in place is going to hurt like the devil."
"The mere fact of his presence here John," said Sherlock in his most pedantic explanatory tone, "indicates that the hospital not an option in the current situation."
At the same time Quentin grated out "Drugs, Dr. Watson, drugs."
I looked at Quentin. It was clear that he was in a lot of pain.
"I can't afford to be medicated." He paused for a moment then continued, "I need to be reasonably sober in less than eight hours."
I recognized the tone of voice. It was the same one Sherlock used when he wasn't going to listen to me on a medical issue. Pfft. I didn't realize that type of stubbornness was hereditary.
"John?" Sherlock spoke using that strange tone he'd used in the rail car again. I understood. He was asking for my help without directly asking for it. Some days I didn't think he is capable of asking for help directly. Never the less it was clear from his tone, he was requesting that I'd fix his little brother.
I sighed. When Sherlock bothered to ask me to do something it usually ended up being important, at times it turned out to be dangerous however if he bothered to ask I had learned that complying was ultimately worth it. "I can realign the shoulder and wrap your ribs," I told Quentin. "I can't do much for the concussion except monitor it to see if it gets worse."
"Shoulder first," was all he said in reply.
It was rather sobering. He trusted me without question merely because Sherlock trusted me. I moved around to get the proper leverage to pop the shoulder back into its socket.
"Quentin." Sherlock was now leaning on the back of the sofa. "Pi to the hundredth place in hexadecimal."
That got a snort from Quentin followed by, "How many times do I have to tell you Fibonacci sequences work better."
"Very well," replied Sherlock.
That exchange had the sound of a ritual. I glanced at Sherlock who had a little half smile on his face. I then looked back to my patient and was surprised to see on his face the somewhat vacant expression that I associated with Sherlock when he was accessing his memory palace. I waited a moment then pulled. The shoulder realigned itself with an audible pop. Much to my surprise Quentin only grunted.
After a moment his eyes refocused on me and he said, "Thanks."
I woke up again when my mobile buzzed. Time to check on Quentin. Since I didn't have access to all the wonders of modern medicine I'd taken to monitoring his concussion the old fashioned way, waking him up every two hours or so to see if he'd deteriorated. That meant I'd spent the night sleeping in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock once Quentin's shoulder was back in place and his ribs were taped up had left abruptly only saying "Don't wait up" as he closed the door behind him.
I stretched and rolled my neck a bit to work the kinks out before opening my eyes only to discover Quentin wasn't on the sofa. Glancing around I realized that the blanket he'd been under was neatly folded. The only thing left on the coffee table was my mobile, a mug of tea and a note.
I picked up the mug. It was still quite warm. He hadn't been gone long then. Hmmm. Earl Grey. I'd not had that in a while. I marveled at the fact that Quentin had found the tea tin in and amongst all the experiments and chemicals that resided in the kitchen. It was also interesting that he'd managed to make tea, clean up the table, and exit without waking me up. There are very few people in the world who can do that. Sherlock is one of them. Apparently my subconscious had filed Quentin into the same category.
I picked up the note. In a spidery hand he had written:
Thank you for your care and hospitality. I'm sorry I had to nick your laptop. I promise I'll return it shortly. I owe you one. Q
Yep. He was definitely related to Sherlock, right down to the propensity to purloin my property without asking. My mobile buzzed again. I picked it up there were two recent texts.
Tell him to answer his phone it's important MH read the first.
The second most current message read: Where is he? MH
I figured I'd better respond. If I didn't I was sure Mycroft Holmes would send his PA, Not-Anthea, to fetch me so he could attempt to intimidate me in person. Sherlock's older brother was like that when he was trying to protect his younger sibling. I don't suppose he'd be any less protective of Quentin than Sherlock.
Thinking about the events of the previous day I decided I just couldn't resist getting a bit of my own back. It was rare that I ever had one up on either Sherlock or Mycroft and I intended to take advantage of it. I texted: One just left, the other isn't back yet. JW
Author's Note: I assumed that Sherlock & John went to Dartmoor on the train then hired the land rover when they arrived. Watson's pistol is a Sig Sauer P226R per the website Sherlockology. He owns it illegally. He uses it on the dog at the end of the Hound of the Baskervilles. John tends to concealed carry only when he thinks he'll need it so I assumed he stashed it in his bag for the trip back to London.
Since I write to excise images I tend not to post until I have a story in plot outline form at a minimum and a full on rough draft at the maximum. Therefore, have no fears that this will be abandoned in mid-stream. I'll write it through to the end. Please read and review.
