#qholmes

Mission Report

“Double-Oh Seven returned his kit, I take it?” Q didn’t bother looking up from the tablet in his hand as he passed by R’s station.

“Uh, sir? About that…”

It wasn’t at all like R to hesitate or stutter and Q stopped mid-step.

“What about it?” Q ground out as he turned back to look at her. “He ‘lost’ the bloody rifle again, didn’t he?”

R paused. “He…hasn’t been by.”

Q narrowed his eyes at her in confusion for a moment before diverting his attention to his tablet. “He was supposed to get in at seven this morning. It’s half three.”

“He did get in then,” R paused to pull up a few screenshots from security cameras in and around MI6. “From what I gathered, he’s debriefed with M already, checked in with Medical, and swam some laps.”

“And where is he now?” Q didn’t bother suppressing the moue twisting his lips.

R cleared her throat. “According to computer logs, he’s in his office, working on his After Action Report and…playing Solitaire.”

Q snorted, convinced she was having him on. As if James Bond would complete an AAR in anything close to a timely manner. He took in R’s serious and rather apologetic expression and sobered.

“Oh, bollocks.” 

—————————

“‘Defenestration,’ Bond?” Q threw the AAR on his desk and began to pace in front of the chair Bond had planted himself in without invitation. 

He kept his face politely neutral in spite of Q’s increasing ire. “Q?”

The Quartermaster stalked back to his desk and snagged the offending paper from its surface.

“‘Tracker [prototype] attached to previously cited myrmidon (Section 2, subsection B); destroyed via defenestration,’” he read out loud, his voice rising. “‘Defenestration’ — are you fucking kidding me?” 

Q belatedly thanked whatever deity was responsible for Bond shutting his office door when he’d strolled in. He stalked to his office windows overlooking the bullpen and snapped the blinds shut.

Bond barely managed to stop himself from smiling at his Quartermaster’s outburst. “Of course not, Q.”

“So you can take the time to crack open a thesaurus while writing your bloody report but not keep track of my goddamn prototype? Which you stole!” Q wheeled around to point an accusatory finger in Bond’s face. “You’re a thief. You’re a bloody thief!”

“Defenestration is my favorite word,” Bond drawled in explanation as he reached up to take Q’s hand in his.

“Not, it’s not,” Q scoffed. “Your favorite word is probably four letters long and not suitable for polite company.”

Bond gently straightened out Q’s fingers and shifted forward to get closer to the other man. He brought the hand up to his mouth and began pressing light kisses across the back of it. 

“The fact that you were able to comprehend and correctly use a five-syllabic word far exceeds any expectation I’ve ever entertained about your intellect, Double-Oh Seven,” Q continued undeterred, his tone clipped. “Based on your performance in the field and your history concerning your equipment, I’d think anything beyond three syllables would push your brain to its limits.”

Bond nipped at the tip of Q’s middle finger. “Now you’re just being mean…”

Q could feel Bond’s lips caressing his palm as he spoke, a light puff of air followed by the scrape of stubble. Loathe though he was to admit it, he could already feel the tension leeching from his shoulders as the fight drained out of him.

Sensing the subtle change, Bond pulled Q to him with a gentle tug on his wrist. He reluctantly settled himself into a more comfortable position in Bond’s lap, still frowning.

“I hate you. I really, really hate you,” Q sighed.

Bond nodded cooperatively as he leaned in to capture Q’s mouth. Q wanted to resist purely out of spite, but the pressure of those lips against his own proved too much. He kissed back with increasing fervor, just managing to reign in a moan when James caught his lower lip with his teeth. James pulled away and leaned back far enough to look into Q’s eyes.

“I am sorry, love.” Bond had the good sense to look contrite. 

“Yes, well…as you should be.” Q righted his askew glasses and sat up straighter. “It still doesn’t make up for the fact that my tech is — Christ, do you have any idea how much time and money went into that tracker? Even if it was in pieces, I still would’ve happily accepted it and been able to analyze-”

Bond shut him up effectively with another kiss.

“It worked perfectly. I wouldn’t have found their headquarters without it. And I still have the phone so you can at least analyze the information it got from the tracker,” Bond argued. “And next time, I promise I’ll remember to remove the tracker from the guy I’m fighting to the death before throwing him out the window.”

“Damn right you will.” Q twined his arms around James’s shoulders and relaxed against him for a gentle kiss. “Sorry I yelled. I’ve just…I missed you.”

The corner of Bond’s mouth quirked up at the sentiment.

“I missed you too, darling. Can we go home now?”

Q arched an eyebrow at Bond. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you so quickly, Double-Oh Seven. It’ll take a lot to get back in my favor again.”

“Would picking up curry and a bottle of Shiraz help, perhaps?”

“It’s a start. I appreciate where your mind is headed,” Q smiled, slipping off his lap only to bracket Bond in between his arms and the chair, “but I expect you to be a bit more imaginative than that.”

There was no mistaking what Q meant as his heated gaze slipped down Bond’s face and chest, landing on the bulge pressing against the front of his trousers.

“I’m sure I’ll rise to the occasion.” Bond smirked.

Q hummed and stood back to lean against his desk, allowing Bond to get up. He crossed his arms and grinned.

“See that you do.”

“You must be one hell of a cocky son of a bitch.” Comes the low growl. The gun is perfectly steady, no tremor of uncertainty or hesitation in the hand that holds it. This man won’t so much as blink before shooting him, Mycroft knows  in that instant.  “You really thought those fools would be a match for me?” Well, they’d never failed before- but clearly he’d have to be finding better staff.

“I appear to have overestimated their capabilities,” is Mycroft’s remarkably steady answer. “But you see, no one’s ever given us quite so much trouble before.” There is a gruff sound that might have been a snort of amusement, but is formed by a voice too jaded to be recognizable as anything so frivolous.

“I’m not armed Mr. Bond, and I assure you, I only brought you here to talk.”

“All right then, let’s talk.” There’s a shuffle of steps and the gun leaves his skin. A moment later Mr. Bond moves around to face him, the gun still held almost casually in his hand. “You make some ominous phone calls, play some parlor tricks with the CCTV cameras and then send your woefully inadequate people to bundle me into that government car. Frankly, as a first time user of you pickup service, I’m forced to give it a disappointing rating and a firm, ‘would not use again’.”

Mycroft shrugs elegantly and leans nonchalantly on his umbrella. “I apologize that the arrangements were not to your satisfaction, Mr. Bond. However, judging your reaction to the situation does provide fascinating insight into your character.”

“And of what interest would my character be to you.” The intonation was so flat that it was hardly a question at all.

“Let us just say that I have a vested interest in the safety, security, and happiness of my brother- As does all of England, in fact. Considering some of the temper tantrums I’ve known him to throw and the resources at his fingertips as it is.” Here Mycroft arched one eyebrow high and shot a look of distinct condescension, down the considerable length of his nose, at the man before him.

“Your brother?”

“Yes. I do try to keep an eye on my siblings and at least ensure the quality of people they insist on associating with. Q, I believe that’s what he’s going by these days- He has always had a certain preoccupation with that initial of his. Rather like Sherlock I suppose, always signing things ‘SH’.  Q is at least not quite so troublesome as his brother, and certainly more reasonable when it comes to family.”

“Q… Is your brother.” Mycroft nods somewhat indulgently here and Bond takes a long moment to consider the man in front of him. The dark hair, fighting to twist and curl wildly at the ends despite being firmly slicked back into a hairstyle of professionalism and stature. Eyes the same implacable shade of deceptive grayish blue-green that analyzed everything they landed on. Though this man was older and slightly heavier around the middle, Bond detected the faint echo of Q’s tall, lithe frame in the lines of his limbs.

And even without all that, the particular smugness in the satisfied twist of his smirk as he saw Bond accept his words was unmistakable.

“You had me kidnapped so that you could decide if I was good enough for you bloody brother?!”

 “I suppose so.”

“And what, pray tell, have you decided?”