#quel-fromage

The difficult realization of your first year. Mid trimester "breaks" mean a break from lectures, not work unfortunately. (I have yet to learn this as a third year. I watched six episodes of Smallville today)

quMission: Distraction       

                                                      “Evening, 007.”

                “Evening, Holmes.”

Bond settled himself in the archaic leather chair and examined the man reclining in his own, far more modern, chair behind the desk. He’d never liked Mycroft. He represented the government and all of their empty words. He knew the suited, delicate man appraising him thought he was just a soldier. Someone to pull a trigger. But at least Bond was actually fighting for his country, not just lounging around and talking about doing something.

                “My little brother has gotten in too deep.”

                “You want me to stop them before he’s hurt?”

                Mycroft laughed. “No. I want you to distract him. These people cannot be ‘stopped’, certainly not by an intelligence officer. Leave the diplomacy to people who know what they’re doing.”

                Bond knew Holmes was technically his superior but he couldn’t stop himself rising out of his chair in anger. “These people are terrorists! I don’t know what your brother is doing investigating them in the first place, but you can’t just make the problem go away by distracting him. Sir.” The last word was in response to a glare from Mycroft.

                “You will do as you’re ordered, 007. I’ve already informed M that I’m using you. Report to your Quartermaster. He is familiar with Sherlock’s methods and will be able to help you.”

                “Yes, sir.”

                  A familiar mop of black hair appeared over the laptop screen as Bond walked in to the Quartermaster’s lab.

                “007.”

                “Q.”

                “Has your shoulder healed?”

                “For the most part,” Bond replied, testing the shoulder in question with a swing of his arm. “You need to work out a way to make that winch gun stop less suddenly. Bloody near pulled my arm out of its socket.”

                “You jumped off a thirty storey building with nothing but a wire to stop your fall. You should be thanking me for still being alive.” Q grinned and pushed his displaced glasses back up his nose. “I may be smart, but even I can’t defy gravity. At least not with something portable enough for you to take into the field.”

                Bond strode over to the floor to ceiling screen that took up the far wall. “Tell me what you know about this Sherlock Holmes.”

                Q joined him, laptop balanced on one hand. His other hand flew deftly over the keys and the screen in front of them shifted to show two photos. “Sherlock Holmes, private detective,” Q said, gesturing towards the left image. “Captain John Watson, M.D. Holmes’ flat mate and, so far as I can tell, assistant. They are currently investigating a terrorist cell operating in England.” With a brief patter of keys a whole series of new images sprang up.

                Bond laughed as he read the name at the top of the screen. “Children of the Revolution? That’s a bit of a mouthful. Is their mascot a T-Rex?” Bond rolled his eyes at the quizzical expression from Q. “Never mind. So what does Holmes know?”

                “Not much, yet. He was brought in to investigate the death of a weapons researcher before MI6 could step in and take over the case. He’s been ordered to drop his investigation but he’s tenacious. Won’t let it rest until he exposes the entire terrorist organization.”

                “Is that such a bad thing?” Bond asked. It was Q’s turn to roll his eyes.

                “Yes, it is. Some things need to be handled with subtly and diplomacy.” Bond’s fist clenched at hearing that word again. Q noticed, and smiled. “Not everything can be solved with a gun. Either way, it’s not our responsibility to stop them. We just have to distract Holmes. Keep him out of danger.”

                “And how do we go about doing that?” Bond tried to keep his tone serious.

                “I’ll tell you over a cuppa.” Q led the way out of the office. “You still owe me dinner for shutting down the power at that factory and saving your skin. That was a tricky bit of hacking if I do say so myself.” Bond laughed sharply, but his smile was genuine.

                “Yeah, alright.”

                  “This is a delightful case, John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he paced their small apartment.”

                John’s brow furrowed. “I thought you’d solved the doctor’s murder?”

                “I’ve solved the how, not the why or whom.” Sherlock’s pacing continued. John returned to his newspaper. Eventually he couldn’t stay silent any longer.

                “Perhaps you should drop it, like Lestrade said. There’s something bigger going on here.”

                “That’s why it’s so delightful John!” Sherlock paused momentarily to relieve John of his newspaper. “This is just one piece to a complex and detailed puzzle. It’s been so long since something challenged me as thoroughly. Don’t you try to take this away from me as well.”

                He pulled his phone from his pocket as he resumed his pacing. He exhaled sharply and returned it to his pocket, his face a shade darker.

                “Mycroft again?” John asked, picking up his paper again. Sherlock’s lack of reply told him he was right. “He’s worried about you, Sherlock. I know you and your brother don’t exactly see eye to eye, but he cares about you.” Sherlock snorted derisively but John pressed on. “I also know that you don’t think his brand of diplomacy is important, but he does know about things you don’t. If he says you shouldn’t get caught up in this, I think you should believe him.”

                Sherlock sighed and placed his hands on his temples. “Really John. After all this time do you not know me at all? Your observational skills are average, not poor.”

                John ignored the comment, unsure whether he found it insulting or complimentary. “I do know you Sherlock. That’s why I’m asking you to drop it. If we go any further we’ll have to go all the way.”

                “We? I thought you wanted to abandon the case?”

                “Of course I do. But if I fail to convince you to do the same I’m hardly going to sit in the apartment twiddling my thumbs and let you go charging into danger alone.”

                The smile on Sherlock’s face was one of the most sincere John had ever seen. Another buzz interrupted their conversation. This time the text message made Sherlock grin excitedly. “Get your jacket, John. We have a lead.”

                  “Run me through the plan again.”

                “Wait in the foyer. When I tell you, get out and get in a cab. Tell the driver to go to the airport.” There was a pause in which Bond could hear the clack of keys through his ear piece. “Make sure Sherlock follows you. If he manages to get to you, jump out and run. Do not let him catch you.”

                “That’s it? That’s the plan?”

                “That’s the first part. Do not get caught,” Q emphasized.

                “Got it. If I can get away from Russian militia I can evade Holmes.”

                “He knows London better than you know the construction of your favourite handgun.” Q’s soft laugh echoed through their connection. “He knows these streets almost as well as me.”

                “Enough with the rivalry, Q. How far away is he?” Bond leant casually against a pillar in the hotel lobby. His disguise was uncomfortably large and heavy. Even a suit would have been more practical.

                “Still a couple of minutes. His homeless informant took longer to find a phone than I’d expected.”

                “Why didn’t you just text him yourself?”

                “The message had to be as close to genuine as possible. No doubt Sherlock uses a code, and has his informants do the same.”

                “I thought cracking codes was your job?”

                “It seemed more logical to do it this way.” Silence fell and Bond was mentally preparing himself, (It was a trivial mission, but a mission nonetheless), when Q spoke again. “I had fun last night.”

                Bond had to restrain his laugh. It would have attracted unwanted attention. “I told you that you need to get out more. You should let me take you to a pub sometime. Show you some proper fun.”

                “I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate, 007.”

                “You started it.” Bond was glad Q couldn’t see him smiling.

                “I like you when you smile. You should do it more often.” Bond groaned and glanced around him. He spotted three CCTV cameras.

                “You’ve hacked hotel security? I’m sure you have my photo on file if you miss my face.”

                “I was bored,” Q replied. “Besides, I can hardly appreciate that chiselled face of yours properly in the office.”

                Bond laughed freely. He’d determined that no one in the foyer posed a threat to him. “And you say I’m being inappropriate?” Their amiable flirtation was interrupted by the mission at hand.

                “He’s thirty seconds away. Wave down a cab, but don’t get in until to see Sherlock’s pull up and him get out. And don’t let the driver leave until Sherlock gets back in.”

                “Got it.” Bond was already on the footpath outside the hotel. “Which way is he coming from?”

                “It’s a one way street, 007.” Bond felt a surprisingly strong surge of embarrassment. Q often jokingly flaunted his superior intelligence. He didn’t want to provide him with more evidence than he needed. He ignored the nagging voice in his mind that told him he sincerely cared about what Q thought of him.

                                “There he is!” Sherlock exclaimed as he leapt out of the cab. Before he could a step forward his quarry jumped into his own taxi. Sherlock almost pushed John back through the door he was clambering out of and followed him into the cab. “After them!” He directed the driver as the black car in front of them pulled away from the kerb. John tried to hide his grin from Sherlock as they drove.

                “They’re heading to the airport,” the detective announced as the cab in front of them made for the ring road.

                John nodded and tried to sound interested. “He’ll be fleeing the country I suspect. Not unusual for a murderer.”

                “We can’t let him escape, John. If he does we may never get to the bottom of this.”

                “That would be a tragedy.” John’s lack of concern was a little too evident in his voice. He turned towards the window and stoically ignored the stare of his companion. Mycroft had texted him soon after Sherlock had received his tip off. Why he had told him about the distraction, John was still trying to work out. Perhaps Mycroft wanted him to make sure Sherlock didn’t hurt the decoy. Either way he couldn’t help but grin as Sherlock grew more and more excited. The distraction was working perfectly.

                Their quarry was four cars ahead of them when they hit traffic. “Pay the driver, John,” Sherlock instructed as he leapt out of the cab, leaving John to yank some notes out of his wallet and catch up. Their trench coat-wearing target was out of his vehicle and racing between the stationary cars before Sherlock had gone more than a dozen feet.

                “This way!” Sherlock shouted as he veered towards the footpath and disappeared down a narrow alley. It was all John could do to keep up. He didn’t spare a thought for whether or not Sherlock was going in the right direction. He always did. After a few minutes desperate chasing however John tore around a corner to find Sherlock standing next to a skip, holding a piece of paper.

                “I’ve lost him,” Sherlock admitted angrily. “He left this though.” He thrust the paper towards John and set about pacing the narrow alley.

                  Globe Pub 7pm tonight

                Bring the doctor if you wish

                  “You think this was left for us?” John asked.

                “Undoubtedly. He must know we’re on to him. How else would he know you’re a doctor?” Sherlock stopped his pacing and rubbed his hands together. “This is excellent. This means he wants to talk. It’s always so much easier when they co-operate.”

                “It could be a trap,” John suggested instinctively, before he remembered the distraction. Mycroft hadn’t informed him of the entire plan but he assumed the message and the meeting was a part of it.

                “Then we will be prepared for anything. Let’s swing by the hospital while we wait. Molly says she has something to show me.”

                  “I told you I’d take you to a pub,” Bond said as he handed Q a pint. The scruffy-haired youth sniffed it tentatively.

                “I didn’t think it would be on a mission.”

                “This hardly counts as a mission. Besides, I invited Watson. You can pretend it’s a double date.”

                Q looked about to reply when his phone, resting on the table, lit up. His shoulders sagged in evident relief. “Message from M. Apparently the terrorists have been dealt with.”

                “Already?”

                “Already. Diplomacy can be efficient, Bond.”

                “I’m surprised it can be effective. Does this mean we have to leave? I haven’t finished my pint.”

                “Mycroft wants us to stay and explain to his brother,” Q replied. “Speaking of...” The pub door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. Sherlock strode in with haughty disdain. John was clearly more at ease in the noisy, yeast-smelling room.

                “Mr. Holmes!” Bond called out, rising slightly from his bar stool to attract the detective’s attention. Sherlock settled opposite them, John next to him.

                “The name’s Bond, James Bond.”

Sherlock ignored the introduction. “I guess I should call you Q.”

                “I would appreciate your discretion.”

John’s eyes widened as he saw a very familiar smirk on the youth’s face.“I didn’t know you had a younger brother.”

                “Brother?” Bond demanded. He glared at Q. “You never tell me anything. I thought we were supposed to be a team.”

                “I’m not here for this.” Sherlock interrupted. “Why are MI6 messing around with my case?”

                “Why don’t you go ahead and tell them, Q,” Bond said before taking a long sip from his beer.

                “It’s your mission.”

                “Exactly. I’ve been working all evening while you sat on a laptop bossing me around. I’ve earned this drink and I am damn well going to enjoy it.”

                “Will you two stop bickering and tell me what’s going on?” Sherlock demanded angrily. He was too annoyed to notice John’s knowing smirk, which was a good thing for the doctor.

                Q gave Bond one last hopeful glance before speaking. “The murder you were investigating was a small part in the large workings of a terrorist organization. Mycroft asked MI6, us specifically, to distract you from your investigation with a false lead for long enough that he could diffuse the situation. The cell has been dealt with and the case closed.”

                “Mycroft!” Sherlock slammed his fist on the table. “I should have known he’d intervene. He couldn’t even stop me himself. He had to go crawling to you, just like when we were kinds.” He groaned and put his head in his hands. “I should have seen through the distraction. I can’t believe I fell for it.”

                “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sherlock,” John said reassuringly. “We all make mistakes sometimes. No doubt these two are very good at what they do. I would have fallen for it completely.”

                Sherlock grew unnaturally still at John’s words. “Would have? You knew?”

                Bond and Q chuckled quietly as they watched the argument. John ignored them. “I didn’t know about the details, but I knew about the distraction.”

                “Mycroft should know better than to mess with my cases. Trying to take all of my fun away from me. He hasn’t changed since our childhood.” Q grinned down at his lager at Sherlock’s words. Despite his curiosity at discovering another Holmes brother, John gave Bond a very deliberate glance. He got the message and picked up his pint.

“How about we get you a drink, Watson?” Bond clasped John’s shoulder and steered him towards the bar. “They tell me you’re a soldier.”

Once they were out of earshot Q looked up at his brother. “Mycroft didn’t want you getting caught up in something so dangerous. He only did it because he cares about you.”

                Sherlock laughed hollowly. “You honestly believe our brother distracted me from my case to protect me? No doubt he didn’t want me solving it before him and making him look a fool, again. He is neither so caring nor so selfless.”

                Q surrendered any hope of convincing him. Maybe one day he would mend his relationship with his older brother. For now he was just glad Sherlock was safe. Sherlock had always been the most independent of the three of them but that had tended to get him into more trouble. Maybe one day he would realize how his siblings watched out for him. Not even the world’s greatest detective knew the true extent of their combined protection. Which was exactly how Q and Mycroft wanted it.

Just as John was about to order a drink, Sherlock stood suddenly and called out across the pub. “Come, John. We’ve wasted too much time here already.”

                John grudgingly followed him out onto the street. It felt like a long time since he’d been able to sit down for a quiet pint. “Where are we going?”

“Remember what we agreed,” John said as he examined the man in front of him. His build was perfect but for the some reason the clothes didn’t seem to fit quite right. Even so, it was disconcerting. “You only get paid if he doesn’t realize you aren’t me.”

Jack winked, causing John to shudder. It was like his reflection had taken on a life of its own. “Don’t do that,” John instructed. “That will give you away instantly. I never wink.”

“Do you ever smile either?” Jack laughed. He stopped abruptly at the stony glare from John. “Alright, alright doctor. Straight-faced and miserable it is. I’m sure I can manage that. Will you be fine? Don’t go losing me my job now.”

John adjusted his hat and rolled his eyes. “Please. How hard can opening doors be?” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better get going. Sherlock will be expecting me -you- back from your walk.”

“Right-o.” Jack immediately grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, last time I say that today. You’d best be off too. The hotel manager is pretty slack but you still don’t want to be too late.”

John watched as Jack wandered down the street. He’d taught him his gait as best he could, and it was like having an out-of-body experience. He waited until his doppelganger was out of sight before setting off down the Strand.

  You are my voodoo child, my voodoo chiiiild...

John groaned as the song started playing for the tenth time that morning. The music from the lobby was quiet but audible every time he opened the glass and gold doors with all the formality he could muster. He didn’t know who was responsible for the short and terrible playlist but he knew it would drive him mad.

It still beats that violin at 3 am, he reminded himself. That one thought cheered him immensely. No crime scene, no corpses, no smug detective. Just a busy street, pleasant fresh air and the idiotically easy task of occasionally opening a door. He prepared himself as a sharp suited, balding man sauntered under the awning towards the door. John quickly recognized him as the minister of transport. As had become his habit he gave the man a once over. Aside from the silver bow of a gift-wrapped box protruding from a pocket nothing caught his attention. The minister barely acknowledged John’s greeting and carried on into the lobby.

A couple of minutes later a blonde, reeking of cheap perfume entered the hotel as well. No one else came or went before John’s replacement turned up and he was free to go on his lunch break.

  Loud, crowded, dirty staff room. Bell boy humming Voodoo Child. Disgusting cafeteria sandwich and watery coffee. The trite and uninteresting conversation of his “colleagues” became an annoying buzz as John got up to fetch the milk from the fridge. As the door creaked open and the light flickered on he automatically braced himself for a severed head, an amputated limb. He was almost disappointed by the ordinary contents.

  Here come the drums here come the druuuuums...

Again the torturously familiar song played. A light rain had started to fall and the dampness was making his shoulder ache. To make things more miserable his limp was worse than it had been in months. He was almost asleep from boredom when the young blonde from that morning left the hotel. A familiar but now opened gift box was visible in her purse. An unfamiliar string of pearls hung about her neck.

In confirmation of his theory, the transport minister was only a few minutes behind her. The gift box was nowhere to be seen, he reeked of the blonde’s perfume and there was a smudge of pink on his collar. Just as John was congratulating himself on discovering their affair a voice rang through his head.

                A very astute observation, doctor. Even in his mind Sherlock’s voice rang with sarcasm. John clenched his fists and drew himself into the present. He had organised this to get away from Holmes. He neither needed nor wanted Sherlock intruding on his thoughts.

  A loud, crowded, dirty pub. The bell boy still humming that damned song while chugging at his pint. Discussions of last night’s rugby match, boringly cliché rumours about staff members. John caught himself almost longing for intelligent conversation, despite the confusion that occasionally accompanied it. The last straw was laid on his back when that agonizingly recognizable song started playing through the pub’s crackling speakers. John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent the text while he finished his lager as quickly as possible.

  Sherlock was sitting in his chair, chin resting on his finger tips when John returned to 221B. The angular face glanced up at him as shrugged off his jacket. “Good evening, doctor. Put the kettle on, would you? Mrs Hudson is refusing to do it.

                “I wonder why that would be,” John replied, gesturing not at all subtly at the still smoking bullet holes in the wall. “I thought I heard gun shots when I was walking down the street. I should have known it was you.” Still, he did as Sherlock had asked. But only because he was gasping for a cup of tea.

                A few minutes later he placed the cups down on the table and settled into his chair opposite Sherlock. The detective barely acknowledged the tea and made no move to drink it.

                “How was your day, John?”

                “You know exactly how it was, Sherlock. I was with you all day.”

                “Then tell me what you thought of the statue?”

                John bought himself time by taking a sip of his tea. Jack had debriefed him on what he and Sherlock had been up to that day. What had he said about the statue...

                “It was clearly a plant to distract us from the real murder weapon,” John answered in relief, finally managing to remember what Jack had told him. He pressed on to try and hide his relief. “But you knew that, of course. You said so at the crime scene.”

Sherlock twined his fingers together and leant forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Come now, John. This act is getting boring already. Perhaps if it weren’t so painfully obvious...”

                “I...don’t know what you mean.” John shifted uncomfortably and avoided those piercing, dark eyes.

                “I admire the lengths you went to, even meeting with him to learn our movements on the off chance I’d discuss them with you. But honestly I find it insulting that you thought a doppelganger would escape my detection. The flecks in his eyes are a different shape to yours. His nose is fractionally longer. His voice is noticeably lower. And it is impossible to fake a psychosomatic limp. His became more pronounced as we walked around the crime scene. Yours becomes less so when you are stressed as your brain is distracted. The sight of a corpse however strongly reminded him of where he was and why, so that he consciously put on the limp.” Sherlock reclined with his usual smirk and finally picked up his tea. “So tell me John, how did you enjoy your day as a doorman for the Savoy?”

                John laughed bitterly. “I’ll admit I’m not surprised you saw through the doppelganger. But how could you possibly know that he works as a doorman, let alone which hotel?”

                “So I’m right?” The question was said matter-of-factly, so that John didn’t bother replying. “Your doppelganger...”

                “Jack,” John offered.

                “Jack. His posture is perfectly straight when he stands, almost equal to your military style. This eliminates office work, and combined with his extraordinary manners suggests the service industry. When I asked for a pen he leant we one with the name and address of the Savoy Hotel on it.”

                “There’s no way you could get doorman from his posture and a pen. You yourself have a pen from the Grosvenor. As far as I know you have never worked there.”

                “Of course not.” Sherlock winked in that smug way that made John want to punch him. “Did you really think someone who looks exactly like you could work in London and I not know about him? I’m surprised it took you this long to find him.”

                “Were you planning on telling me about him?”

                “Perhaps, if I had ever had use for him. I did rather enjoy your little switch. I had such fun impressing him. It was like the first time I took you on a job. What gave you the idea?”

                John studied Sherlock for a moment, to try and perceive if the question was genuine. “Everyone knows the story of the Prince and the Pauper. Granted this was far from the same situation, it’s a pretty familiar concept.”

                “Never heard of it,” Sherlock said lackadaisically. As always John was shocked by his apathy towards something that, in his opinion, everyone ought to know. Sherlock glanced at John and rolled his eyes in response to the doctor’s surprise. “How many times must I explain this? If it isn’t relevant to my field I have no use for it. Until now this story hasn’t mattered.” Silence fell as they both sipped on their tea. Sherlock quickly broke it. “Tell me, in this paradigm who is the prince and who is the pauper?”

                John shrugged. “Honestly I don’t know. I don’t remember the story well enough.” He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock’s face, but it faded quickly. If it had existed at all. “Any new cases?” John asked, keen to change the topic of conversation.

                “Nothing. A city this size and there is nothing to stimulate and challenge my mind. The best problem currently is the case given to me by the wife of the minister of transport. Apparently her pearls have gone missing. My current hypothesis is an insurance scam.”