I am literally at the mercy of an agent and his quartermaster. So here's a little prequel to the stages of Bond's realisation: What actually happened in Venice.

"007. What are you doing?"

"Reroute the rendezvous point, Q. Send the helipcopter to my current location."

"I need you to go down. Not up, Bond. Get out of the building." Q's voice sounded calm and steady in his ear.

Bond ignored him as he steered the diplomat up the stairs. Silence from the other end of the line. Good boy, thought Bond.

"Where are you taking me?" asked the diplomat, confusion marring his face.

"And you can shut up as well," growled Bond.

Bond stood at the top of the building. His mission - almost completed - sat one floor beneath huddled in a corner. Wait here. The chopper is five minutes out. When you hear it approach, get up to the roof." He nodded. "Where are you going?" Bond turned to carry on up the stairs. "I have a date with a friend," he said.

"Stay out of this, Q," Bond said before hitting the off switch on his earpiece.

He knew Q was watching him from the drone hovering above. He found it somewhat comforting that someone even if only his quartermaster, a man he barely knew, would witness his death.

He raised the gun to his temple. Poetic. Watched by Q as he took his own life with a weapon designed by him that only he could fire.

The memories were raw. Vivid, like everything in Bond's mind. The searing pain of everything he'd ever allowed himself to love, everything he'd not been strong enough to keep. How can an agent who can't protect what's closest and most important to him, an agent who can't hold his own world together, be expected to function in the best interests of the country he's been assigned to protect?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Took a heartbeat to watch life go on below him on Venetian streets where, for a fleeting moment, he'd found a sense of peace. A calm of mind that allowed him to step away for a beat in time from the wars waged every day and into the embrace of a woman he had loved.

"I have two cats you know."

Bond frowned and opened his eyes. "I thought I'd turned you off."

"Sorry not sorry, Bond. You can't get rid of me that easily. I installed an override in the comms links. Got fed up with you lot cutting me off whenever the mood took you."

"Whatever you're planning on saying Q, don't bother."

"George and Charles."

Bond gave an exasperated sigh. "What?"

"That's their names. My cats."

"You named your cats after members of the Royal Family…"

Q ignored him. "The thing I like most about cats, you see, is that they don't have owners, they have staff. Incredibly independent. Hardcore survivors. In ancient times, they were worshipped as Gods, you know, and they've not forgotten that fact. A cat in a pickle will always find a way out. Much like the agents who keep the SIS ticking over in a world ignorant of the sacrifices made every day in the name of protecting this great nation."

"You're rambling, Q. And if this your attempt at my eulogy, you'd better up your game. I'd rather my final thoughts not be an image of you as a crazy cat lady."

Q laughed. It occurred to Bond he'd not heard the boy laugh before. It was an easy sound, calming. He felt the gun slip from his temple, the cold intent to rid the world of himself follow.

The line went quiet for a couple of heartbeats before Q spoke again. The words soft, almost like a caress. "Don't let the dead consume you while you can still break bread with the living."

Bond heard the distinctive sound of rotary blades humming in the distance.

"Come home, Bond. Your country needs you." He uncocked the gun hanging by his side.

"Besides. Can you imagine the real diplomatic mess we'll have to clean up if we're forced to assign your missions to 004?"