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. 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.

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. I recieve no compensation, I make no profit.


Chapter 4 – The Curious Actions of Three Brothers

I was heading back to 221b from the surgery after a busy day when I spotted one of the ubiquitous black cars that Mycroft Holmes favored for kidnapping people parked next to the curb a half-block in front of me. Standing beside it was Ms. Not-Anthea typing on her blackberry. As I approached she looked up, saw me and smiled. She really was quite lovely and but for the fact that she worked for Mycroft I might have considered chatting her up.

"Dr. Watson," she said. "Can I offer you a lift?"

"Do I have a choice Anthea?"

"It's Alice," she replied then added, "Not really," and opened the car door.

Sighing I entered the car and scooted over. Mycroft apparently wanted a word in person. I wondered about the subject matter. It could be about Sherlock again or more likely something about his half-brother Quentin. He could even be upset about the cheeky text I sent him three days ago. Anthea, no Alice, slipped in and closed the door.

I couldn't resist the question, "How often do you change your name?"

"About every two weeks or so," she replied and tapped on the glass to signal the driver to go. "It keeps me in practice."

The car pulled away from the curb and into traffic. Surprisingly Alice did not go back to her blackberry as she had every other time she'd escorted me somewhere in a car. Instead she studied me intently.

I took the opportunity to get a good look right back. Living with Sherlock had increased my powers of observation and to some extent deduction. While I was nowhere near as good as he was I still could attempt to learn something about my curvaceous repeat kidnapper. She was about my height if you discounted the heels, at least partially ambidextrous given the way she handled the car doors and either a dancer or a martial artist the way she moved. She was also armed. I had caught a flash of a bit of what looked like a sheath on her thigh when she entered the car and there was a small budge under her jacket. Likely a shoulder holster for a small firearm. The bit with the blackberry was obviously meant to camouflage her true potential. Not only Mycroft's PA then but also bodyguard?

She caught my assessment and smiled again at me. I knew, that she knew, that I had…oh what was the bloody use. I was just too tired to really play these games.

"So what does the great Mycroft Holmes want this time?" I grumbled at her.

She chuckled, "Nothing really. I'm just running an errand as a favor and I decided the most expeditious way to complete it was to give you a lift."

What? Errand? Favor?

"The Quartermaster sends this with his regards." She reached under the seat and pulled out a laptop bag. She extended it in my direction, "He apologizes that he didn't return it sooner but the last few days have been rather hectic for him."

My brain jogged back into gear. Quartermaster, that sounds familiar for some reason. Laptop, borrowed, oh Quentin. I opened my mouth to confirm but Alice raised her index finger at me in a stop gesture. "Call him Q if you must use a name," she said, "Security."

The car pulled to a stop and I realized that we were in front of 221 Baker Street. Alice hopped out and held the door open for me. Slightly dazed by both the information and the location I exited the car holding the laptop bag. Alice said "Ta Dr. Watson" as she smiled, got back into the car and was gone.

Great, another meddling Holmes to add to the mix. There were days I could barely cope with keeping up with the first one. I wondered what had I done that karma had saddled me with care and feeding of a self-professed sociopathic genius with an addictive personality and a manipulative brother. Well now I guess it was brothers, plural. Not wanting to think much about the implications of the answer to that question I entered the flat.

Surprisingly I found Sherlock sitting in his chair fingers steeped in front of his face. He'd been in and out at all hours over the last several days commencing the night Quentin, no I'd better start thinking of him as Q, had crashed on the couch. He'd been working in information gathering mode ever since. I didn't really mind that he'd not confided whatever case he was working on just yet. I knew he would eventually and in the meantime gathering the pieces of the puzzle kept him from taking my Sig and shooting up Mrs. Hudson's walls again.

He didn't have that abstracted I'm accessing my memory palace look so I assumed he was thinking. I dropped the laptop case on the coffee table headed into the kitchen for tea. As I waited for the water to boil I could hear Sherlock start to mutter a bit. By the time I had made my tea he was storming about the sitting room in a full blown rant about lack of relevant data. I dodged around his pacing, put my tea down and started looking at my laptop. Might as well see if I could figure out what Q had done to it.

"So are you going to pace around or sit down and tell me about it?" I asked while I waited for the laptop to boot up.

Sherlock stopped pacing then stormed over and slammed down into his chair. "I've been tracking the bombers. You were correct, they were professionals. Used a plastic explosive. There's something off about the explosion. It wasn't big enough for the estimated size of the charge. Still working on that." He paused for a moment. "I know who, but they've not been seen for several days. My people are looking. They are contractors though, not the mastermind." He paused again, longer this time. "If I knew what was used then I'd know who was behind it, though I already have my suspicions. I doubt he's the principal in this but it has Moriarty's consulting style all over it for those who know where to look."

I typed in my password.

Sherlock suddenly focused on what I was doing. "Quentin returned your laptop," he stated. Then without giving me time to reply, "So what did my dear brother Mycroft want?"

I just looked at him, waiting for the inevitable deduction.

"Not Mycroft. Quentin using Mycroft's people to return your laptop," he stated his conclusion as fact.

I figured that he'd either seen the car or caught a whiff of perfume when I'd opened the laptop bag. "She's Alice this fortnight," I replied conversationally. "He's calling himself Q now."

"Hmm. Promoted then," Sherlock muttered. "Security and such not. As if anyone with half a brain couldn't figure it out. Cloak and dagger games…b-o-r-ing," he continued half to himself.

It suddenly dawned on me where I'd last heard the terms Q and Quartermaster in the tone and context that Alice had used it. It had been during my time in Afghanistan. For some reason or another my unit had often been assigned to work with the intelligence corps. The MI6 agents would occasionally mention that the Q, short for Quartermaster, would kill them himself if they didn't return the more expensive equipment in one piece. Most of the agents had been carrying highly experimental gear. Some bits of it worked as advertised. Others didn't. I was always amazed that the failures, well at least the visible failures, were not catastrophic. Hmm. I wonder. "Have you checked if anyone is missing any defective R&D explosives yet?"

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his chair. "Defective…Missing," he echoed. "It wouldn't be counted as missing if it was labeled defective and destroyed! What if it wasn't…destroyed? John you have done it again," he exclaimed. "Toss me your phone."


I didn't have a shift scheduled and wasn't on reserve call so I took the rare opportunity to sleep in. Sherlock, Lestrade and I had spent most of the previous evening going over the list of companies authorized to destroy explosives and discussion who would do which part of the legwork on each. Lestrade had showed up at the flat with a list almost exactly one hour after Sherlock's text to Mycroft. He had looked bemused and the first words out of his mouth had been, "I knew your brother was in government but I didn't realize he had ties in the intelligence community Sherlock."

"I told you he IS the ruddy government," Sherlock had smirked in reply. The two of them then launched into what I mentally labeled the obligatory sniping and I went to get a cup of tea. I had been a bit surprised that the insults had calmed down by the time I returned and in relatively short order we got down to business. I sat with my laptop and ran searches for public information on companies, people and occasionally locations while they talked over each item on the list. Really it was more Sherlock talked, Lestrade interjected and a plan of investigation took shape.

I had found it interesting that NSY was officially the lead on the bombing rather than MI5 or 6 and had asked Lestrade about it. "Officially we were the first on scene and we were designated lead with the other branches being used in the area of their greatest expertise," had been his reply. "It's a bloody zoo," he'd continued. The taskforce has taken over the entire 5th floor. Every time you move you trip over some expert, liaison or spook all wanting to know exactly what you have found new since the last time they asked you." His exasperated tone explained his willingness to put up with Sherlock for the time it took to develop a list of leads to investigate.

Sherlock hadn't been in the flat when I got up and started puttering around. He was obviously out gathering the information that he and Lestrade had determined that only he could get. I checked my mobile and there were no messages. Lestrade's part of the searches must not have turned up anything.

I hauled out the laptop again and started working on my blog. Whatever Q had done to it wasn't blatantly obvious. It was a given that he'd done something. Most likely a bunch of somethings. He was, after all, a Holmes and leaving well enough alone was just not in the genetic material.

I had managed to get about halfway through a rough draft of the events in Baskerville when I heard the front door slam. Sherlock only slams open the front door when he's hot on the trail. I hit the save followed by the power button and by the time he'd burst into the room with a "Ha!" I was already on my feet and headed for my jacket.

I'd grabbed it and half put it on when I realized Sherlock was standing just inside the door with a surprised look on his face. He obviously didn't realize that his behavior while on a case was in certain ways predictable and that I'd managed to pick up on it. While I was shrugging myself the rest of the way into my jacket I wondered if he thought I'd need my Sig.

"Yes, bring it," he said shortly. "We are off to catch the supplier of the explosives!"

"Shouldn't we call Lestrade?"

"No," Sherlock snapped. "He'd just arrest him immediately. I want to watch for a bit. The man hasn't been completely paid for his part of the proceedings. He's expecting the money shortly and I hope we'll be able to catch his paymaster as well." Sherlock whirled and started down the stairs again. "Come on John," he called happily from the vicinity of the front door. "Once more unto the breach!"

"Cry God for Harry, England and St. George!" I called back as I grabbed the gun and pounded down the stairs after him.


Several hours later I found myself huddled with Sherlock under the eaves of a warehouse. We'd been following our quarry most of the afternoon and into the evening. Our man had been relatively skilled and but for Sherlock deducing his next movements we would have either lost him or been spotted. As it was he'd finally gone to an abandoned warehouse in a rundown industrial area. The warehouse looked as if part of it had been repurposed as an outlet shop that had subsequently gone out of business. There was a big display window that had been inexpertly boarded up with what looked like cheap plywood next to a door with a lock on it. Our quarry hadn't bothered with the front door but instead had slipped into the alley and was currently fiddling with a lock on one of the side doors.

"This is it." Sherlock said in a low voice. "By the time Lestrade gets here we should have this wrapped up for him."

I fished my mobile out of my jacket pocket and hit speed dial. I never had expected when I ended up as a flat share with Sherlock that it would result in my having an NSY DI on speed dial.

"Lestrade." Since there wasn't a pejorative term or other grumble after the clipped answer I assumed that he out and about in a public place. He'd told me last week that the powers that be were getting very touchy about public perception. Thus the word from on high was no swearing or even being impolite when there was a chance that the public could overhear.

"Sherlock has tracked the supplier of the explosives to a warehouse. He suggests that you hurry if you want to catch the gentleman's paymaster too." I then rattled off the address.

There was a pause before he replied, "I'm close. Five minutes out or so. Can you keep him from doing anything stupid for that long?"

I was just about to reply when there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Sherlock took off down the alley at a dead run. "No," I said into the phone as I rang off and followed Sherlock.

Sherlock darted in the side door as I charged down the alley. I followed into what was obviously a back room to the former outlet store. There was a chained door into the rest of the warehouse and a door that presumably went into the shop floor area. It was partly open and there was a light source in the next room. Sherlock was standing beside the door frame. He glanced in my direction and put his finger to his lips indicating silence. I carefully made my way across the room to join him.

Through the partially open door I could see that the next room was indeed the former retail area. I could also see another partially open door in the wall that had a light spilling out. There was the powder discharge smell from the gunshot we had heard earlier.

Sherlock slipped through the door, clearly intending to move toward the light. He only got half way when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. "Damn" he said disgustedly. "Stupid git set off a booby trap."

I entered the room and looked where his attention was focused. There was the body of our explosives supplier dead on the floor with a shot through his head. There was a box on the floor with a hole in its lid. Sherlock walked over to the body and started to examine it and the box closely.

I looked around by the light of the open door which I could now see led into an office cubby. It was clear what had happened. Our quarry had come in, turned on the office light and then attempted to open the box triggering the trap.

Sherlock's relaxed pose told me that no one else was in the building but I was running on adrenalin and combat reflexes. Something wasn't quite right. I looked around to see if I could spot what was bothering me.

The shop area once had a dropped ceiling. Only about half the ceiling tiles remained and I could see the beams of the floor above through the gaps. A small flash of red light up near the ceiling caught my eye. I moved to see if I could locate it. As I watched there was another flash which revealed a shoebox sized package up on one of the beams. Another flash, shorter interval now and I saw another shoebox on another beam. It hit me. The building was set to explode and I was seeing the red flash of some sort of countdown timer.

I caught the flash again. It had moved to second increments which meant that there wasn't much time left. Sherlock was straightening up from examining the body. "Sherlock" I yelled as I charged at him. I caught him around the middle and threw us toward the boarded up display window. I hoped to hell that the plywood was as flimsy as it had looked from the outside.

We crashed through the boards and went tumbling into the street. I rolled to my feet pulling Sherlock along with me and started running for a concrete loading dock that we could shelter behind. We were almost there when the building exploded behind us. The blast wave knocked us down with enough force to stun. Through the ringing in my ears I could faintly hear people yelling. Hands grabbed me, hauled me upright and half carried me down the street.

When I became a bit more aware I realized that someone was between Sherlock and I supporting both of us as we were hustled out of harms way. From the voice spouting a rather creative stream of expletives I determined it was Lestrade.

Once we had made it around the corner, he rather unceremoniously dropped us. He then straightened and yelled a few orders before looking back in our direction. "It couldn't have hurt you to wait would it?" he started.

Sherlock cut him off by handing him a wallet and a square jewel case for a CD-Rom. "If we had," he remarked mildly "these would be destroyed in the explosion as the bombing mastermind intended."

Lestrade took them with a sour look. "You two sit right there till I have time to get a statement from you," was all he said as he turned back to the crime scene.

I was surprised. It only took two hours to get checked out by the medical boys and have our statements taken. For some reason Sherlock actually cooperated for once. Well, he didn't actually obstruct things and he did keep the deductions of people's personal lives to the minimum. He even deigned to answer Lestrade's questions without his usual snide comments. I suspected he was up to something.

Even with NSY being efficient it was almost midnight when we got back to the flat. As we walked in the door I just had to ask, "So why the cooperation?"

He looked at me with what I had mentally labeled his cat that ate the canary expression and replied, "Our explosives expert also had this on him." He held up a newish looking thumb drive. "I think my brother might be interested in this, don't you?"

"Which brother?"

"Both of them of course but I'll give it to Quentin. He's much less annoying than Mycroft."


Author's Note: "Once more into the breach…Cry God for Harry, England & St. George" from Henry V, Act III, Scene 1.

Judging from the traffic stats people appear to be reading this. I hope you are enjoying it. Please review and let me know what you think so far.

I'm somewhat amazed at the fact that I've not been pilloried yet by the British contingent for blatant Americanisms. (Waives fondly at readers across the pond to the east.) If anyone happens to spot something egregious or just a typo go ahead and lob me a PM and I'll see what I can do about it.