Right In The Hearteries

Sherlock graphics-20/∞

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Q felt like death personified.

It wasn’t often that he got sick, but when he did, it was like the efforts of six months worth of plague breaking through at once.

Perhaps he was a little dramatic, but as he stared groggily at the screen in front of him and stuffed tissues up his nose in a less than dignified fashion, he convinced himself time over that his concerns were justified.

He took a swig of tepid tea from the mug perched on his desk, and if he had the capacity to taste, he may have cringed. As it was, the liberal amount of honey he’d poured into the beverage struggled to make an impact and he slumped a little further in his seat.

Life only got harder as he flicked a glance at the movement from across the room and saw double oh seven approaching, as composed as ever and - Q couldn’t help but be annoyed at it - apparently in a good mood.

“Double Oh Seven,” Q said, voice tight. Well, tried to say. The affect of aloof disinterest was marred by the coughing fit on the last word. He doubled over, hacking into his fist. The hacks turned to choked gasps as a warm hand patted and rubbed at his back. His eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.

“Q- Q.” Bond’s voice revealed some actual concern as he spoke. “Quartermaster!” He said as the fit continued. Q squirmed away from the man’s bloody hand and swatted at the air in Bond’s general direction. 

“I’m-” he gasped, coughed and gasped again, “fine.” He turned to Bond. “I’m perfectly fine,” his voice died. “Thank you,” he rasped. 

Bond was having none of his shit. “You’re sick as a dog, here.” He reached for the cup of tea, meaning to offer it as an appeasement to the coughing fit, but hazarded a glance into its depths before turning it over. “What is this swill?”

“Tea.” Q really should just stop talking. 

“Right,” Bond said and smoothly turned on a heel and stalked out of the office. Q tried, really he did but yelling at the man’s departing back was an exercise in futility. His lungs were a half second from a death rattle. Inwardly he groaned and collapsed into a cuddled husk behind his desk. 

Only moments later his phone rang, shrill buzzing striking into his brain. I just want to work, he whined. He picked up the phone. “Quartermaster,” he attempted.

“Well,” he offered dryly, “I know this might be a difficult concept to grasp, but some people actually happen to work here.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Eve clucked her tongue, and Q took some childish pleasure in rolling his eyes at her. “You’ve been overworking yourself and I told you before you left last night that you looked absolutely terrible.”

“Yes, and as kind and encouraging as those words were, I have obligations to attend to.” Q looked up as Bond reappeared, steaming mug in his hands and a decidedly curious glint in his gaze as Q near immediately averted his gaze and sighed down the phone. “I’m sure I’ll live.”

“Q branch isn’t going to fall apart if you take a few days, Q,” Eve chided, and Q wondered how much truth there actually was in that theory. “Don’t make me send Bond down there to manhandle you from the building.”

Q felt an uncomfortable flush rising up the back of his neck at the images her unfortunate wording produced, and cleared his throat before taking a long pull of tea from his mug. 

I knew that gif reminded me of someone ;)