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. 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 receive no compensation, I make no profit.


Chapter 6 – The Tragedy at Addleton and the Surprising Events Thereafter

A little over a week after our impromptu defenestration out of the old warehouse Sherlock and I found ourselves in the Scottish highlands in the picturesque village of Addleton. It sat on the edge of a huge bog. The bog itself was home to several estates originally belonging to minor Scottish nobility but long since passed into other hands. They had quaint official names such as Fennview, High Heather and Skyfall but in the tradition of small towns everything had a secondary reference used only by the locals.

We'd been called up to this benighted spot on the edge of the map, as Sherlock had dubbed it, by one Leroy Gibbson former NSY DI and now the head of the county police force who's jurisdiction included Addleton. He'd worked with Sherlock before and was, in Sherlock's opinion, not a complete idiot. High praise indeed coming from Sherlock.

The case involved an archeological dig that had unearthed three not so ancient bodies. Even though Gibbson had E-mailed the complete unedited case file, including a large number of digital pictures and a rather detailed map, Sherlock had insisted that he needed to go and look at the dig himself. That had meant a trip to Glasgow, the hire of a car, and two days of driving around on back roads with Sherlock suddenly yelling stop here!

The newest body had been in the ground for only two or three years. Sherlock deduced that it wasn't the husband of the victim but rather her lover, one of the secondary archeologists on the dig, who had murdered her in a fit of rage after she told him she was not going to get a divorce. This murder was actually the third for this archeologist, all in similar circumstances, and he had dumped the bodies in the barrow secure in the fact that there were tons of more significant archeological sites which surely would be excavated first. What he hadn't counted on was a bequest to the local university that required immediate use of part of the funds for a local archeological dig. If the university didn't use the funds they would lose the remainder of the bequest which was quite substantial. Of course the administrators looked for the easiest and cheapest site, to heck with archeological significance, and the barrow at Addleton was chosen.

The evening Sherlock solved the case we were sitting in the police station in Addleton tying up the loose ends when the sound of an explosion echoed through the building. It was enough to rattle the windows so everyone piled out onto the street to see what had happened. Once we were outside it was clear that whatever had exploded was somewhere across the bog. The mist was heavy but one could faintly see the flickering of fire in the distance. There was a small crowd gathered all staring in that direction as if their collective will could remove the obscuring mist. As we were watching another explosion echoed across the moor. This one sounded bigger to my ears than the last. There was more fire and it was clear that it was not dying down as quickly this time either.

The bits and pieces of speculation that I overheard among the onlookers were not terribly enlightening. Old Bond place, over by the lake, natural gas tank, helicopter. I, however, was more interested in eves dropping on Gibbson. He had his mobile out and was apparently checking in with his main office.

"Yes. Skyfall? No. A cordon? I only have four men here. No. No. I can cover the main paths but nothing more." He rang off and approached Sherlock and I. "I'm sorry gentlemen," he said. "I have to deal with this. If I have any questions I'll E-mail." He turned away and started for the station then hesitated and turned back. "Dr. Watson, if you happen to do a write up on this one could you please let me know when you post it." At that moment his mobile rang. He answered, "Gibbson. Yes. Yes sir." There was a pause then, "Appreciate the help sir." He waved at us, clearly in dismissal as he strode purposefully into the station still listening to the person on the other end of the phone.

I looked at Sherlock. "Not interesting," was his only comment.

I shrugged in reply and we made our way back to the pub which doubled as a B&B where we had a room.


I'd just spent the last two hours getting Sherlock to explain his deductions on the case to me and taking notes. Despite all his grumblings he seemed to enjoy the debrief process. We had come to an agreement that he'd allow me to ask questions after a case. In return, I'd not bother him for additional details until I had the blog post almost ready to post. Through trial and error I'd discovered that the closer we were to the close of the case the better information I would get so I now attempted to ask my questions as soon as possible.

Since I had run out of questions for the moment I stood up and went to the window. Our second floor room faced the bog and the area where the explosion had been. As I looked out I noted that I couldn't see any more flames through the mist.

"They got the fire under control," I commented.

"I would expect so," Sherlock replied from his reclined position on one of the beds. "A military operation would clearly be able to requisition adequate firefighting capacity even in this remote area. Even more likely," he continued, "they brought it with them."

"Military?"

"No sirens, Helicopters, Gibson's body language and tone of voice when saying Sir all indicate military involvement."

I was about to ask a follow up question when something caught my eye in the car park. It was a person casually approaching our hired car. Uh oh. "Looks like someone is going to try and nick the car," I commented. "I'm going to go discourage them." I headed for the stairs.

By the time I had exited the building and was peering around the corner, the would-be car thief was just finishing up opening the driver's side door. There was something familiar about the way the thief moved that triggered a strong sense of deja vu. The thief looked around and I got a clear look at his face. I almost laughed out loud.

Sherlock had come up behind me. Unwilling, I supposed, to stay in the room when something interesting might be going on. I looked at him and whispered "Stay put. I've got this." I trusted that he'd quickly deuce the reason for my actions and refrain from doing something monumentally stupid that might get me killed.

I strolled around the corner and addressed the thief directly, "You know you are in no fit condition to steal a car, much less drive one."

The would-be-car-thief casually opened the car door, straightened and looked at me, "Are you going to try and stop me…again?"

His voice was gravely and full of pain. As I moved closer I could see he was rather banged up. He'd clearly been in a serious fight. He tensed and I realized he was very close to violence. I stopped moving. "How bad?" I asked.

He looked at me and came to a decision. "Better than the last time. I'm in no danger of passing out," was the level reply.

I couldn't help it, I snorted a half laugh. "I don't recall that being much of an impediment for you. Where do you need to go?"

"Glasgow."

"I have a companion with me," I replied. "He's trustworthy."

"The Detective?" he asked to my surprise. It must have shown on my face. He made a derisive noise, "I do get a chance now and then to read your blog," he explained.

I took a glance at the corner. Sherlock was not in sight but I hadn't expected it. "Yes." I replied. I moved around the car and approached cautiously. He was not only banged up but also both singed and damp. He was leaning heavily on the car but trying not to be obvious about it.

"The commotion earlier your handiwork James?"

He nodded shortly then stiffened as we both heard the sound of a door shutting softly. Sherlock stalked around the building with my laptop case in one hand and a blanket draped over the other arm.

He looked at James and said "Backseat" as if it were a forgone conclusion. He then proceeded to toss the blanket into the back, placed the laptop and himself in the passenger seat asking "Are you two going to just stand there?" as he closed the car door.

Once again James looked me over. He nodded to himself and decided to trust my statement about Sherlock because he opened the back door and stiffly got into the car. I got in, started it up and we were very shortly headed for Glasgow.

I was a bit concerned about the drive. What in heaven's name was I doing taking a several hour road trip in the middle of the night with one of the world's most dangerous men in the back seat and one of its most brilliant in the passenger seat. That didn't even consider the fact that the brilliant one had absolutely no social skills in regards to sharing his deductions and the dangerous one was highly stressed, injured and just a hairs breath from reacting violently to any situation he perceived as threatening.

Sherlock shifted in his seat as if in preparation to start talking but he must have caught a glimpse of my face and deduced the danger because he merely sighed then sat back.

I glanced in the review mirror. James was wedged between the seat and the door with the blanket partially covering him. His eyes were closed, his body appeared relaxed but I doubted that he was either relaxed or asleep. His position and posture reminded me of the first time I had met him. He'd been on his last legs then, conserving energy for one final fight.


We had been on patrol when the call came in. My unit was the closest one with the clearance to assist one of the MI6 operatives whose cover had been blown while infiltrating the operations of a Taliban allied war lord. The operative had managed to get to a village near our forward operating base but communication had been lost just as we were moving out. In less than a minute our mission had suddenly changed from recover and provide protection to forcibly extract if necessary.

What we found when we got to the village was a scene of incredible carnage. It looked as if the few men of the village had been rounded up and shot. We found the women and children in the courtyard of the mosque, brutalized and shot. We spread out carefully from there and quickly started finding other bodies. These men looked as if they belonged to the local war lord. They had been killed in ones and twos. Most with a knife but some had been strangled and a few had broken necks. By the time I got to the largest house in the village I was expecting the worst.

There were two bodies outside, shot, and three more were visible as I peeked in the door. There was also a man who was dressed in native garb but clearly Caucasian. He was injured but still alive sitting propped up in a corner. He had a bloody knife in one hand and a pistol balanced on one knee. He looked half passed out but some instinct told me that one wrong move and I and my cohorts would be as dead as the Taliban fighters on the floor.

I had been lucky it was Private Jones standing next to me. He had often acted as my corpsman and had seen enough to obey my instructions without question regardless of what strange thing I did. I moved into the line of sight of the exhausted, presumably injured, man and proceeded to hand Jones all my weapons as well as most of my gear. I then entered the room. I moved closer until the slight tensing told me he was getting ready to move. I sat down cross legged and started talking. I don't remember what exactly I said but I finally ended up on the subject of tea. After I had waxed eloquent for a minute or so he fully opened his eyes and said "Actually I'd prefer Scotch" and that was how I had met Mr. James Bond.

He'd been an absolutely atrocious patient. Even drugged to the gills, suffering from blood loss and delirious he'd attempted to escape by knocking out several guards and hot wiring one of the FOB's land rovers. Apparently his delirious mind was equating the base with his captivity. Since he was due to be exacted the next day I had decided that the best way to deal with the situation was to let him capture me and make me drive him to Kabul at gun point. Luckily he passed out before we got half-way and when he woke up he was more copacetic. We had a rather interesting conversation during the rest of the trip and I had been able to deliver him in at least stable condition to his MI6 handlers.

I'd run into him several times since. The most memorable had been when he arrived as a patient in Baghlan with a variety of knife wounds that had been precisely placed for maximum pain. I had been a bit surprised that he had requested me specifically and refused treatment from anyone else. When he passed out while I was suturing up the worst of it I understood. Given what I knew of his profession I was flattered by the trust. The last time I had seen him had been just before I'd ended up in the flat share with Sherlock. We'd met for a beer and had been catching up when his mobile rang. He'd had to run out on me…duty and all that had been all he'd said at the time.


I was thankful that Sherlock had stayed quiet for most of the drive. It was only when we reached the outskirts of Glasgow that he even moved. I had though he was asleep and thus was a little surprised that he dug out the laptop and powered it up.

"We've got wireless signal," he commented.

"What are you doing?"

"Data," he said shortly and started typing.

I glanced in the rearview mirror again. James had shifted a bit. He still had his eyes closed but he was tenser than he had been previously. Damn. "Why?" I asked Sherlock.

"I want to know if I need to text Mycroft and I won't know that until I can determine exactly how much trouble we are going to be in for absconding with a high level MI6 agent, probably one of the 00's, who has gone off the reservation due to the death of someone close to him. Even if you do happen to know him from Afghanistan, you two haven't really had a chance to talk since you were medically discharged and he's been through a lot since then including the fact that the last three weeks or so have been incredibly stressful most likely due to his recent sojourn in Indonesia." Sherlock continued hardly taking a breath as he continued to type, "Which of course explains why he's attempting to decide whether or not to snap my neck."

"Sherlock, shut up!" I said in chorus with a tinny voice coming from my laptop speaker.

"Hello Quentin," Sherlock said to the computer. "Are you going to convince your colleague that he shouldn't terminate me for deducing his profession?"

"You are annoying enough that I ought not to." Quentin sounded both tired and exasperated. "By the way it was Shanghai Sherlock."

"It's always something," Sherlock replied disgustedly.

"What's the damage 007?" Quentin changed focus to our passenger, "other than the fact that you've managed to at least half short out your micro transmitter."

James raised his voice a bit but otherwise didn't move or open his eyes, "I'll live."

Oh great. He was pulling the stoic agent bit. Don't let anyone know how badly you are hurt while you are in the field even if it's your own side. I decided I'd better put in my opinion. "He's as bad off as you were several weeks ago minus the concussion but I suspect the ribs are broken. I won't be able to tell you much more until I can get a look at him in some decent light."

"Thank you Dr. Watson" said Quentin.

James made a noise that sounded somewhat like a growl. Sherlock chuckled softly then said, "I suggest you not argue 007. Watson in full on medical mode is not someone to mess with."

There was an "I concur" from Quentin and a resigned "I know" from James.

I hadn't thought I was that unreasonable when dealing with patients who ignored sound medical advice.

"I assume you don't want to deal with anyone from the home office right now?" Quentin continued. "I can arrange a safe house in Glasgow and keep everyone off your back for at least 24 hours if you want."

"Who's officially in charge?" James asked.

"Mallory" said Quentin.

"Logical," Sherlock chimed in "Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee he'd be the optimum…" He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence.

I looked over at him. He looked stunned and rather upset. Not a normal Sherlock expression. I looked back at James who had shifted around and was now looking over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop. Was Quentin on Skype or some high tech equivalent? No, probably not I concluded. Too little bandwidth to support a picture. Whatever James saw on the screen seemed to confirm to him that it really was Q and he sat back glancing at Sherlock then giving me a questioning look. I shrugged and flipped him a hand sign for later. It was fast becoming obvious that he and I needed to compare notes on the Homes brothers and their peculiarities.

After a substantial pause Quentin finally said, "Pass the computer to 007 if you would Sherlock and I'll give him the details of where you three can hole up for a bit."

Sherlock, for once, did exactly as his brother requested.


Author's Note: Chapter title derived from a Holmes case that was mentioned in passing in The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez ("also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow"). Bonus internet points if you can guess why Sherlock is so upset. Even more bonus points if you can identify the shout out to another fandom.

Please PM any typo's and other funkyness (if you happen to spot any). As always, reviews and constructive criticism are encouraged.