Team Green Government

“I can’t decide whether you should live or die,” Jim Moriarty, Seb’s boss, said as soon as he entered Jim’s plush office.

Seb wasn’t exactly surprised. This was very much in character for his boss. “Why?” he asked.

Jim quirked his mouth, looking up from his computer. “You’re in my way.”

“How could I possibly be in your way? I’m wherever you tell me to be?” Seb was seething. Jim was super controlling, and he had been lectured about obedience before. It was bullshit.

Jim gave him a pointed look. “Don’t give me your sass. And you’ve actually become the most competent of my employees, even though that isn’t saying much.”

Punching Jim would probably get him fired . . . wait, had Jim just given him something that even vaguely resembled a compliment? Seb was used to the constant harassment, but compliments were new. He realized he hadn’t replied yet. “So you why would you even want to kill me?”

“I can’t afford to alienate you,” Jim said, then when he caught sight of Seb’s raised eyebrows, he added, “too much.”

Seb scratched the back of his head. “Okay, don’t alienate me, then. If I have a say, I’d rather not die.”

“It would be so easy, though,” Jim said, looking wistful. Seb rolled his eyes. Did he really have to stand there, listening to his boss fantasize about killing him?

Seb sighed. “Would it really be that easy, though? After all, I am your best man.”

Jim half-shrugged. “Yeah, but,” he raised his hands like little pistols, which Seb found cute despite himself, “bang, bang, you’re dead.”

“Okay, but why are you suddenly so afraid of pissing me off? I deal with your particular brand of bullshit all the time.” Seb might’ve felt a little cocky since Jim had complimented him.

Jim gave him another pointed look. “I still haven’t decided, Moran, so watch the sass. Sit down, though.”

Seb sat down at one of the chairs in front of Jim’s desk. Even though Jim’s chair was on a raised platform, Seb was still a little taller than Moriarty. It was weird that Jim had called him Moran. He was used to the pet names, annoying as they were. What was up with Jim today?

After three minutes, Seb couldn’t deal with it anymore. “Why do you want to kill me?” he asked, figuring he might as well be blunt.

“Because it’s either kill you or fuck you, and I don’t know if I’d be able to fuck you if you weren’t at least a little bit willing,” Jim said, his face straight like he was being serious. “I mean, look at you. I could drug you, but I’d rather fuck you when you’re sober. It’s more fun.”

Seb laughed nervously. He wasn’t being serious, was he?

Jim went back to his computer. “I’m being completely serious. I’ve decided to let you choose, because I really couldn’t decide.”

Seb was frozen. The choice was obvious – sex or death? Definitely sex. But this was so far from what he had expected when he had come in. Jim was always flirty, but in a way that was obviously fake.

“Have you decided?” Jim looked impatient. Was he supposed to do something there and then?

Seb shifted in his seat. “Uh, I guess so. Do you want me to give you a blowjob or something?”

Jim snorted. “I said I wanted to fuck you, didn’t I?”

Seb understood the implication. He normally topped, but it wouldn’t be the first time he took it up the ass. Oh well. He started unzipping his jeans.

Jim giggled. “Not right now, stupid. I have to finish this email, then we’ll go to my flat.” He was typing away, calm as anything, but Seb was freaking out. He thought Jim was kind of cute, but he didn’t want to have sex with him. His life was really fucked up. Did this make him a whore?

Jim stood up and walked to the door. “Ready to go?” He was being so smooth and clinical about it all. It wasn’t helping Seb’s nerves.

They got to Jim’s flat. Jim unlocked to door and ushered Seb in. It was clean and modern – sterile, even. Not what he had pictured. There was a bottle of vodka on the side table, which Jim gulped from.  Seb wanted some, needed some. Or a cigarette. Jesus. Anything to take the edge off.

“Get in the bedroom and strip,” Jim said, pointing towards a closed door that probably led to Jim’s room. Seb nodded and went in as Jim added, “I’ll be in in a second.”

Jim’s room was like the rest of the flat, but he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting there either. Body parts, maybe? Or a lot of super kinky sex toys?  But it just looked like a hotel room – queen sized bed, closet, TV on the wall. Seb stripped and sat down on the bed, feeling self-conscious. Would Jim use a condom? Seb hoped he at least used lube, or he’d be bleeding.

Jim came in, barefoot and bare-chested, but still wearing his dark suit trousers. He was holding a bottle of gin now. Seb hadn’t realized his boss was an alcoholic.

Jim followed his gaze. “Oh, this?” he said. “Rough day at work. I think I’ll do a little fucking to take the edge off.” He threw the bottle, which had been mostly empty, behind him. It he the wall and shattered, spilling little shards of glass and droplets of gin everywhere. A shard hit Seb just over his right nipple and he started to bleed.

Jim saw and he licked his lips. “Okay, boy, you’ll do as I say, won’t you?”

Seb didn’t want to. “Yeah, whatever, boss. Can we just get this over with?”

Jim giggled. “That’s right. Call me boss. Lay down and stretch out as much as you can.” Seb did what he asked without speaking. He could tell Jim was going to be one kinky little fucker, but he couldn’t tell what his kinks were. He really hoped it wasn’t watersports.

Jim opened the closet and, ah, yeah, that would be where he kept his kinky toys, wouldn’t it be? Seb closed his eyes. Fuck. A looong history of bad decisions had led him to that point, but working for Jim had been by far the worst. He felt Jim tying up his wrists to one of the bedposts tightly enough that moving even a little bit hurt. “That’s too tight,” he said, opening his eyes.

“I don’t care,” Jim said in his faux-sweet voice.

Seb thought Jim was going to tie up his legs, but he didn’t. Instead, Jim went back to the closet and pulled out a bunch of knives, a condom, and lube. Seb was relieved for a moment that Jim was planning to use lube, because that had been his biggest fear, but then he refocused on the knives. Fucking knives.

Jim pulled off his trousers and briefs and clambered onto the bed. “Let’s start out with a small one,” he said, smiling dangerously. “Open up.”

Seb spread his legs further and watched the knife closely. He wasn’t going to fuck him with the knife, was he? Was he?

Before Seb had enough time to panic for real, Jim leaned over Seb until the knife was next to the little cut where the glass had hit him. He hadn’t wiped off the blood before it had dried, so there was a dark red streak down his chest. Jim started licking at it until Seb’s chest was clean. He was so. fucked.

Jim took out his knife and started gently caressing the skin near the nick, not quite breaking the skin. Seb didn’t like it. Then Jim grinned a predatory smile and started cutting away and Seb really didn’t like it.

Seb squeezed his eyes shut and tried to tune the pain out. Jim didn’t seem to mind and moved on top of him so he could cut and link more skin. After what felt like forever, He felt Jim move off of him. For a while nothing happened, and he was on the verge of trying to leave when HOLY FUCKING SHIT Jim had poured something that burned into all his open cuts.

Seb instinctively strained against the ties and “WHAT THE FUCK!” he yelled. Every part of him hurt, from his wrists to his stomach and the stinging cuts to his legs, which Jim was sitting on top of and he should have chosen death.

“Yo, ho, Sebastian, let’s go far away,” Jim sang off key as he waved the bottle of rum that he had just dumped out on Seb’s cuts. His hard on pressed into Seb’s leg.

Seb took a quick break from his rage to be confused. “What?”

“You’ve never heard of the song Gay Pirates?” Jim asked. “Never mind, I don’t care. I’m going to fuck you now.”

Seb was glad for the warning, because Jim moved fast. In seconds, Jim had himself fully hard, in a condom, and slicked up. In another second, he was in, and already moving fast.

Seb wasn’t stretched out enough, but he knew it wouldn’t matter to Jim, so he kept quiet. The cuts all down his chest ached. He tried to forget about it, but Jim’s rhythm was too fast. Jim wasn’t even breaking out in a sweat, and Seb was sweating just from straining to keep his wrists in the same position. He actually kind of resented Jim for not at least acting like he enjoyed what he was getting.

Then Jim’s cell phone rang. The familiar sound of the Bee Gee’s Stayin’ Alive filled the room. The phone was in Jim’s trousers, but those were on the bed, so he reached into them and answered the phone, still thrusting away.

Seb was actually kind of pissed now. He had been threatened with death so he would let Jim fuck him, so Jim had better fucking enjoy it. While Jim was calmly talking business with whoever was on the phone, Seb decided he wanted a fucking reaction.

Even though he didn’t bottom much, Seb still knew all the things that made the guy putting it in feel great. And goddamn, he was determined to get Jim to act like he was having sex. Even though the rope binding his wrists was digging into his skin, and he could feel the blood dripping off most of his upper body, Seb started fucking Jim back.

Jim moaned midsentence and through the haze of pain Seb smirked. Victory. He went back to just sitting there.

Jim threw his phone on the ground. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “Do that again.” Seb didn’t do anything, so Jim five stared the part of Seb’s chest with the most cuts. “I said, do it again!”

Seb yelped a little but still didn’t move. He wouldn’t have moved if he could’ve, but the pain was starting to be too much. Jim growled and maneuvered Seb’s legs until they were around his shoulders. With the new angle, Jim’s cock was brushing right against Seb’s prostate and Seb couldn’t help but move back and forth a bit to capitalize on that.

“Yeah, tiger, do as I told you.” Jim was a bit more out of breath than he had been before, but he was still keeping it together well. And between the pain and the pleasure, Seb wasn’t thinking straight, so he wanted to make Jim come undone.

He went back to fucking Jim as well as he could and Jim started making little moans and moving even faster. “Want it fast,” Seb grunted. “Want it hard.”

Jim was ready to give him that. After a bout a minute, Jim’s trusts were getting erratic. Good thing that Jim was close, because Seb was getting closer to coming too – close enough to get hard even with a dick up his ass – and if he came first it would the most embarrassing thing.

Another minute more and Jim came without warning and pulled out. After pulling off the condom, Jim collapsed next to Seb, who was still completely hard and now pissy as he got further away from an orgasm. What a selfish bitch.

“You gon’ take care of that?” Seb asked thickly.

Jim was facedown, so his voice was muffled when he said, “No.”

Seb groaned. “Can you at least let me down so I can take care of it myself?”

“Let me think about that,” Jim said, rolling over. “No.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Jim propped his head up with an arm and smirked. “You were begging for my dick, you little cockslut.”

Seb couldn’t help it. He liked dirty talk. He was getting softer, but Jim made his cock twitch. Jim noticed and smirked wider. “I hate you,” Seb said. He was getting a headache.

Molly was minding her own business, working away as hard as she could, when I walked in the most incredibly gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on. She almost swooned.

And he was walking right towards her oh my god. If only she had bothered to do her hair nicely that morning.

“Hello,” he said, leaning against the table she was working on. She wished there was someone else in the room for him to talk to, because she knew she was going to say something to embarrass herself. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?”

His voice was like chocolate, but the expensive, rich kind that you couldn’t eat too much of in one go without feeling sick. Molly realized she was blathering away in her mind and not answering his question. “I’m Molly,” she squeaked.

“Hello, Holly,” Sherlock said. Oh god. He had misheard her name. Oh god. If she told him now, she would seem like a mumbling, incompetent fool that it couldn’t even say her own name correctly. She couldn’t tell him. Oh god. She just wanted the earth to swallow her up.

He had said something, but she hadn’t heard it over the sounds of her mental panic. “What?” she said, hoping she disappeared off the face of the earth.

“I’d like to see the body that you’re autopsying,” he said, leaning closer. She nodded and led him into the morgue.

Over the next few months, Sherlock came to look at bodies often. She knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, and he definitely shouldn’t be doing things to the bodies, but she was powerless to stop him. She was also powerless to tell him that her name was actually Molly, so he kept calling her Holly.

Once she even wore a nametag that clearly said ‘Molly’ on it, but he didn’t seem to notice. Finally she couldn’t deal with it anymore. It was too embarrassing.

“Hello, Holly,” he said, sliding into the room gracefully. “I was wondering if –“

“That’s not my name!” she said, shaking with awkwardness.

He stopped midstride. “What?”

“That’s not my name,” she repeated, a little quieter. “My name’s Molly.”

John was watching the news when breaking news interrupted the regular report. There had been yet another robbery, once again involving precious ancient Egyptian artifacts from London museums. The authorities said it was connected to the other robberies, even though there had been a two weeks since the last one, and all the other robberies had happened within days of each other.

“Sherlock!” John called. “There was another robbery! And a woman was killed this time, so Greg’ll be on the job.”

Sherlock came in from the kitchen, holding a vial of god knows what. “Egyptian again?”

“Yes,” John said as the news channel switched back to its regular programming.

Sherlock gave a fraction of a smile and pulled out his phone. “I give him less than five minutes,” he said.

John snorted. “Give him the benefit of the doubt. Ten minutes at the least.”

But it was only three minutes later that Sherlock’s phone started ringing. Sherlock gave John a pointed look as he answered, “Lestrade?”

John couldn’t hear what Greg was saying on the other end, but based on the way Sherlock was smiling it meant they would be leaving for the museum soon.  After less than a minute, Sherlock hung up and said, smiling celebratorily, “We’re going to the crime scene.”

They left their flat and headed to the nearest cabstand. At that time, it would probably have been faster if they had taken the Tube, but John still hadn’t managed to get Sherlock over his dislike of the subway system.

At any rate, they reached the crime scene fast enough. Sherlock popped out and got into the museum so fast, he was already deep in conversation with Greg when John got inside.

“What’s going on?” John said as he reached their usual knot of people.

Greg sighed. “Another robbery, but this time the guards had gotten better at protecting the Egyptian section. So a guard was there and was killed when she tried to stop the robber. At least that’s the theory right now.”

Sherlock nodded. “How many robberies has it been?”

“Seven, in different museums and private collections. Always ancient Egyptian stuff, and always only one item, but not always the most expensive item. This is the first place the robber has gone to twice, but he hasn’t changed his pattern.” Greg gestured at the body. “Are you going to take a look?”

Sherlock nodded and walked over, starting his usual routine. John turned to Greg. “So do you have any leads?”

“Well, I’ve only had this case for about an hour, but the team that has been investigating is over there,” Greg pointed at a group of unfamiliar people talking to Donovan and Anderson across the spacious room. “They didn’t have any leads, but were keeping tabs on several illegal markets for art or ancient artifacts. So far nothing has turned up, so this is probably some sort of wealthy collector. I’m going to search around for all the people that collect this sort of thing.”

“That seems like a good idea,” John said as he watched Sherlock work. He had moved away from the body and was inspecting the case that had been broken into. After a couple minutes, Sherlock came back over.

“Can you give me a list of all the things that have been stolen?” Sherlock asked, being unusually polite and straightforward. John was proud, but knew it probably had more to do with how interested Sherlock was than how polite he was trying to be.

Greg nodded. “Anderson’s got a list,” he said, pointing over to the other group.

Sherlock nodded his thanks (or at least John wanted to believe he was being thankful) and walked across the room. John waved at Greg and followed.

“Hello,” Anderson said when they were lose enough to talk to normally. “I’m sure you’ll be wanting a list of things that have been stolen.” He held out a list, which Sherlock immediately took and started pouring over.

John said, “Thanks,” for Sherlock. He wanted to be polite, because Anderson was obviously making such an effort to be nice. He knew it was because Anderson still felt guilty for the Reichenbach thing, but no matter why, it was still nice not to have deal with shouting matches at every crime scene they went to.

A couple of awkwardly silent minutes later, Sherlock handed back the list and rushed back towards the entrance of the museum. John waved a little as he raced after Sherlock, who obviously had some sort of theory.

But instead of leaving, Sherlock stopped to talk to one of the security guards that was lurking around the edge of the crime scene. “Can I have a list of all the people that work here?” Sherlock said.

The security guard nodded. “Right this way, sir.” The followed him into the bowels of the building. Eventually they reached offices and got the list they asked for. Then they were actually leaving.

On the cab ride back, Sherlock didn’t talk and studied the sheets of museum employees. “Why do you think it’s one of the museum employees?” John asked once they had paid the cabbie and were on their way inside.

“I don’t. I just think it’s most likely an employee because the first robbery was there, and the three most recent robberies were related to the item that was stolen last night.” Sherlock went over to his computer and started typing away. “I probably wouldn’t have taken the case because it’s too easy, but I was so bored.”

John laughed a little to himself. He knew Sherlock was really interested in the case, because he had been talking about the other robberies for days. Sherlock was just trying to show off, but well, that’s what he did.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock slammed his laptop closed and pushpinned a blank sheet of paper on the wall. He scribbled three names on it and stood back, staring at them. “It’s one of these three,” he absentmindedly explained to John, “because these are the ones that are Egyptian by birth.”

“Why’s that important?” John said, impressed that Sherlock was narrowing it down so quickly.

“Because of how the robberies are connected. The first three are random, since it included a set of five bracelets, a slab of rock with hieroglyphics on it, and a smaller figurine of Isis, one of the more popular goddesses. But then the last four have been a matching set canopic jars – the jars that held various internal organs of the person being mummified – that could have been from the same mummy. It’s like they started out not knowing what they wanted, and then figured out that canopic jars were worth collecting. That makes it unlikely that it’s a collector, because then the person directing the robberies would know exactly what they wanted.”

“But why would it be someone that’s from Egypt?”

Sherlock had returned to his computer and was looking something up. “Because why would someone steal things without knowing what they wanted? It’s too specific for someone that’s stealing for fun. But many Egyptians are angry that their tombs have been desecrated and their heritage has been shipped out across the world. Logically, it’s most likely that an Egyptian person, bitter that there were Egyptian artifacts in British museums and private collections, stole various Egyptian objects, discovered that there was canopic jars that were from the same period scattered around the city and stole those in quick succession. Then, a fortnight later, they stole the forth and final canopic jar. So they didn’t know about the forth one when they started out, but found out later, probably by accident. And they probably found it while they were at work.”

“Wow,” John said. It still impressed him, even after all those years, that Sherlock figured this kind of thing out so quickly and easily. “But how do you know they found it while they were at work?” John asked, wanting to hear more brilliant deductions.

“Simple. When the robber found out about the canopic jars, they located all but the latest one easily, even though some were in private collection. If they were that good at research, surely they would have figured out about the museum’s canopic jar, which was in the museum’s searchable database online. The only reason they wouldn’t have checked this particular museum’s website was if they thought they already knew the contents of the museum’s Ancient Egyptian display. And only an employee would assume that, given that they didn’t presume to know the details of other museum’s displays,” Sherlock said, still typing away at the laptop.

John just looked at him in shock. Sherlock definitely had the most brilliant mind in all of England; probably in all of the world.

Sherlock jumped up. “I’m going to go interview the suspects.”

“Should I get my gun?” John asked. “After all, one of these people killed someone.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be downstairs,” he called as John went up to his room.

They arrived at the first suspect’s house around two thirty, just as she, Dr. Fatima Suliman, was arriving home from work.

“Hello,” Sherlock said when she got out of her car. “We have some questions to ask you about the robbery.”

She sighed, but nodded and waved for them to follow her. She unlocked her house and went in, slipping off her shoes. “Please come in,” she said.

They followed her into a small, but modern and well-designed house. “So, what can I do for you? I’d like to do whatever I can to help your investigation. These robberies are terrible.”

“Are they really?” Sherlock said, looking around. “After all, those items were stolen from the Egyptian people in the first place.”

Dr. Suliman shot them a suspicious look. “Well, yes, some of them. Others were bought fair and square from the Egyptian government, like the bracelets that were stolen from my museum. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?”

John shook his head before Sherlock could reply. “No, thank you, Dr. Suliman.”

“Please, call me Fatima. And sit down,” she said as she herself sat down.

They did and Sherlock continued his questions. “Have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously at work lately? This includes everyone from janitors and security guards to your colleagues.”

Fatima thought about it. “Hmm, I can’t say I have. But I thought the police had decided it was an outside job?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “Yes, well, it pays to check every angle. That’ll be all for now,” he said, standing up so John had to stand up too, “and thank you for your cooperation.”

“Uh, okay, it was no problem. Thank you for searching for the stolen items,” Fatima said as she ushered them to the door. “Bye!”

As they walked away, John was confused. Why wasn’t Sherlock investigating her more? “I thought you would have to ask her more questions,” he said.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, she’s innocent.”

“That’s right, I forgot. You’re the human lie detector.” John shook his head in amazement. It was still fascinating how Sherlock just knew things, and on top of that, Sherlock was not frustrated enough to take it out on him. All the running around was starting to wear on John, but at least Sherlock wasn’t being snappy.

They got into the cab they flagged down and headed to the next suspect, on John Smith.

“John Smith doesn’t sound like a traditional Egyptian name,” John said as they waited outside the door of Smith’s flat.

“I believe he changed his name when him immigrated, probably to avoid prejudice,” Sherlock said, scanning the parking lot of the flat complex for Smith’s car. “Ah, here he comes now.”

Sure enough, in a couple minutes Smith walked up to them and nodded at them as he unlocked his front door. “Can I help you?” he said, frowning.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “We have some questions relating to the robberies at the museum.”

Smith’s frown deepened. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a janitor,” he said, closing the door on their faces.

Or at least trying to. Sherlock stuck his foot in the door at the last minute. “We just want to know if you’ve seen any suspicious activity among the people who work at the museum recently.”

Smith cracked the door open a bit farther. “Suppose you can come in,” he said. “I been telling them it had to be an inside job.”

They went in his messy flat. It was almost as bad as Sherlock’s room, and John was surprised he had found someone almost as messy as Sherlock. He hadn’t realized that it was possible.

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asked.

Smith shoved some books off the couch. “Sit down,” he said, staring at them until they did as he said. “It’s an inside job ‘coz only someone who knew the guard’s schedules could’ve done the first one. An’ they change those every week.”

“But last night they ran into a guard,” Sherlock pointed out. John could tell he was interested, though, because he wasn’t fidgeting for once.

Smith shrugged. “Dunno why. They probably tightened the security on the Egyptian stuff since the robbery. There probably would have been at least one guard in that room all the time. And if I was that thief,” Smith leaned in conspiratorially, “the guard I’d be least scared of would be Samantha, the one that was there when the thief came in.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”

“Well, everyone could find out what the schedule for the guards is, but not without people thinkin’ it was a bit weird. So probably a guard would be my guess.” Smith sat back. “Is that all? ‘Cos I’ve things to do.”

Sherlock nodded and they stood up. “Thank you for your time,” John said as they left. He thought it was kind of suspicious that Smith already knew the details of how an inside employee would’ve committed the crime. But he kept those thoughts to himself as they headed to the last suspect’s house. His name was Geb Samra.

When they arrived at Samra’s house, they had to knock three times before Samra answered. When he opened the door, they found out why – he was blasting his music so loud John was surprised Samra wasn’t deaf.

“Yeah?” Samra shouted above the noise. At least he had good taste. He was playing John’s favorite song, I’m On My Way by The Proclaimers.

“We need to ask you some questions about the recent robberies,” Sherlock shouted back. Samra frowned, but let them in. Fortunately for their eardrums, Samra also turned off the music. His house was as neat as a pin. Everything was in its place except for a small pile of packages near the door. John longed for a place so neat.

“Okay, shoot. Anything to catch Sam’s killer,” Samra said, leaning against the wall next to the packages.

Sherlock nodded. “Did you know her?”

Samra looked away. “Yeah,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “I wish she hadn’t been there last night. If someone else had been there, she’d be alive. Not that I want anyone to die,” he hastily added.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said. John was so proud. “But we need to know if you saw anyone doing anything suspicious at the museum.”

Samra thought about it. “Not really. We were all a bit paranoid since the last robbery, though, so most people were acting a little differently than usual. Nothing suspicious though. I thought it was some artifact collector doing the stealing, though?”

Sherlock nodded. “We just have to check every loose end. Oh, I see you’re mailing packages? Would you like us to take them to the mailbox out front when we leave?” John frowned at Sherlock. Being polite was good, but that was kind of overdoing it.

Samra seemed to agree. “No, uh, thanks though. If you have anymore questions just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said as they left. Once they were outside and a block away, Sherlock said, “Hand me your phone.”

“What? Why?” John handed him his phone, even before his questions were answered.

“Because Samra’s obviously the thief,” Sherlock said as he dialed Greg. “Lestrade? Yes, hello. Your robber and murderer is one Geb Samra. If you go to his house quickly, you can arrest him before he has a chance to mail the latest artifact he’s stolen.” Sherlock hung up.

“I thought it would be Smith!” John said. “Why do you think it’s Samra?”

“I can’t tell you enough times,” Sherlock said as they started walking back towards Baker Street, “that when I say the criminal is someone, it is definitely the person I name. I don’t guess.”

“Perish the thought of someone making a guess,” John said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “But how do you know it’s Samra?”

“First of all, there were only three suspects, and I had talked to all three. Dr. Suliman was obviously out, because she knew that not all of the objects were stolen from tombs, and she is too well informed for her to steal the bracelets. Then we talked to Smith. I, like you, was suspicious about how well he had thought it out, but it’s not unusual for someone to try to figure out how a crime was committed, so that in and of itself didn’t prove his guilt. Then we visited Samra. He pretended to want to avenge her death, but he was acting guilty about something when I asked him about her. That, combined with his awkward wording concerning her death, and a package addressed to somewhere in Egypt that he wouldn’t let us touch, persuaded me of his guilt.” Sherlock kept walking, but John had to stop because his mind was blown.

“SHERLOCK!” Violet Holmes yelled. “What is this sign on your door?”

Sherlock poked his head out of his bedroom. Violet did not like what she saw. Her son hadn’t brushed his hair, his shirt had some strange, foreign symbol on it, and he was even wearing eyeliner. Sherlock squinted at her. “What sign?”

Violet knew teenagers were supposed to be rebellious, but no one had warned her about this. “Don’t be obtuse. The sign on your door that says ‘The Morgue.’ What do you mean by it?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes further. “It means my soul is as dead and black as the bodies in a morgue.”

Violet had to try very hard not to roll her eyes. Mycroft had certainly never pulled a stunt like this.  She was greeted by a room that had been completely changed since she last saw it, which was not three days ago. She wondered how Sherlock managed to work so fast just to annoy her. “What have you done to your room, Sherlock?”

“I’ve created a shrine to my gods,” he said, looking smugger by the second. It was sort of true, except Violet did not approve of his gods, which were apparently the gods of ancient Egypt. He had even painted over the blacks of his room in black and over that he had painted thousands of tiny hieroglyphics.

“How did you even have time to do all this?” Violet said, pursing her lips.

Sherlock went and stood before an altar in the middle of his room. Violet didn’t even want to know where her son had gotten it. “The great god Ra told me to skip school in order to honor his sacred name.”

“You cannot seriously expect me to believe that.”

Sherlock rolled his kohled eyes. “It’s true.”

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“It’s too hot,” Seb said as soon as they got out of the bus. “And too sunny.” He adjusted his sunglasses.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Yesterday you were complaining it was too rainy.”

“That was yesterday, and we were in England. Now we’re in Egypt, and I’m sweating my balls off. I don’t see why we can’t stay in the hotel until its time for me to do my job.” They walked towards the giant pyramids, Seb lagging behind so he could sulk.

“We can’t just wait in the hotel,” Jim said. “That would be no fun!”

The had wandered away from their tour group. “How is this fun?” Seb was wearing a tank top and shorts, but he was still worried about sweat stains because it was so fucking hot. He grabbed sunscreen from Jim’s backpack and slathered more on.

“It’s not, yet. Let’s go look at the pyramid.” Seb rolled his eyes. He knew that look. Jim was planning something, and probably something dumb.

They lurked around the pyramid. “Is that a door?” Jim said, sounding innocent.

Seb caught on immediately. “No. We are not going in the pyramid.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m going in.” Jim winked and applied pressure to the door until it opened. After stalling for a second, Seb followed him and shut the door behind them.

“This is illegal and dangerous,” Seb hissed as they walked down a pitch-black hallway. Seb could hear Jim rustling around in his backpack, then saw the light of his flashlight. Yeah, Jim had definitely planned this.

Jim turned around, smirked, and started walking backwards. “I’m illegal and dangerous and you love me.”

“I hate you.” But Seb could already feel the adrenaline rush and knew that he was going to enjoy the adventure despite himself.

Jim laughed at him and turned back around so he could see where they were going. They walked for a while in silence, until eventually, they ran into a place where the path split in two. “I’m guessing this is one of those mazes they put in to confuse grave robbers,” Seb said.

“Yeah! Just follow me!” Jim replied and confidently turned to the right and walked onwards. Seb hesitated but followed even though this was getting sketchier by the second.

“How the fuck do you know your way around a pyramid that’s supposed to be sealed?” Jim was practically skipping ahead and Seb had to hurry to catch up and not lose his guide. He hated it when Jim did that. What an asshole.

Jim turned around for a second so he could wink. “Don’t you know your way around these old things?”

“You’ve been in here before, haven’t you?” Seb couldn’t keep himself from sighing. How did he do these things? Jim obviously loved nothing more than messing with his head. Keeping with that theme, Jim didn’t reply. Fine. Whatever. Seb pulled out his iPod and put on his headphones so he could have a proper sulk.

Seb was just rocking out to his favorite song, Lovesick Zombies by House of Heroes, when Jim suddenly stopped and started leaning against the wall. Seb ran into him and nearly knocked him over. Jim said something to him but he couldn’t hear it.

“What?” Seb said, pulling out on earbud.

“I said, help me with this door. It goes into the room where the mummy was kept.”

“Are you seriously planning to break into a grave?” Seb already knew the answer to that question. He sighed, but did as Jim told him to. With a grunt, Seb pushed aside the slab of stone, which to him honestly looked like all the other ones along the hallway.

It wasn’t, though, because behind it was a large, almost entirely empty room, with a few stone containers that hadn’t been interesting enough to take out still scattered around. There was also a large stone slab, which was obviously where the mummy had rested. Jim waltz over and perched himself on the edge.

“Okay, so we’ve further desecrated a grave. Now what?” It wasn’t Seb was against breaking the law, of course, but there was nothing interesting in there and now that they were inside the pyramid, the temperature had dropped to the point were Seb had goosebumps. Was it too much to ask that they went to a place with a comfortable temperature? So Seb was a little sulky.

Jim patted the space next to him and leered. “Come sit next to me, tiger. It’s a bit, uh, nippy in here isn’t it?”

Seb glared at Jim but when over to sit anyway. Jim had the magic ability to make him feel vaguely uncomfortable in any situation. “Shut up,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jim moved quickly, swigging a leg over Seb until Jim was straddling him. “I’ll warm you up, tiger,” Jim growled. Seb realized the implication and rolled his eyes.

“You’re kidding, aren’t – Hey!” Seb realized Jim wasn’t kidding when Jim pulled Seb’s wifebeater over his head and tossed it on the ground. “You’re not a . . . a, um, whatchamacallit. Guy that likes to have sex with dead people, are you?” Seb said as Jim maneuvered them until they were lying flat on the slab.

Jim started rutting against Seb’s hip like a fucking overeager teenager. “A necrophiliac? No. But I have always wanted to have sex in the center of a pyramid.”

“You have the weirdest kinks,” Seb said as Jim rolled off of him and started unbuttoning him trousers. “I don’t want to do this, especially not here.”

Jim wasn’t paying attention. He had pulled his trousers and pants down far enough to pull out his dick and was stroking it up to full hardness. “But you will,” Jim said, leaving his dick alone so he could pull out lube and condoms from his backpack. He rally had planned this out more than Seb had realized. Probably the job wasn’t even a real one.

Seb sighed as Jim roughly pulled down his shorts and boxers without bothering with things like zips or buttons. Jim was concentrating on wrapping his dick up and slick himself up, but Seb wasn’t even a little hard. It was too cold for that. He figured he might as well get ready for the inevitable pounding he would receive, so he got onto his hands and knees and waited, shivering.

Jim shoved himself in without any warning or preparation and Seb grunted in a combination of surprise and pain. At least he had used a lot of lube. “Make that noise for me again, tiger,” Jim said as he started thrusting.

Seb did. He was surprised that Jim was being so vanilla about the sex, but he supposed it would’ve been hard to hide their usual toys and things in Jim’s one small backpack. Jim had picked up the pace and was hitting his prostate. Seb groaned on accident as the pleasure started creeping through his body. “Uhhh, yeah, Jim,” he said, still a little self-conscious.

Jim giggled, but he sounded out of breath. “You’re such a  . . . cockslut, aren’t you? Tell me you want my . . . cock, tiger,” he said thickly.

“I want your cock, Jim,” Seb said, as the pleasure got more intense. Seb could tell Jim was getting close. The thrusts were getting more and more erratic. “Fuck me, Jim.”

“Shut up,” Jim snarled. “I didn’t tell you to speak.” It wasn’t as intimidating when Jim was breathing so hard. Besides, Seb was finally too far gone to care.

Seb tried to hold out longer than Jim, but he couldn’t make it and after a couple more seconds of Jim pounding away he gave up and came, moaning Jim’s name. Soon after, Jim came too and collapsed on top of Seb.

After a couple moments, Seb said, roughly, “Get your dick out of my ass. We should probably go before the tour leaves.”

“That’s not what you were saying a couple minutes ago,” Jim mumbled in Seb’s back. But he pulled out and threw the condom in a corner and pulled his clothes together.

“Shut up,” Seb said, wiping his cum off as best he could. “And are you really leaving the condom inside the actual gravesite? Don’t answer that question.” Seb pulled himself together as much as was possible.

Jim was humming happily. “Come on, let’s go,” he said as soon as Seb had his shirt back on. That man was the weirdest, but at least he was good in bed. Or in tomb, whatever.

They made their way out of the pyramids after admiring so of the wall paintings they had missed the first time through and rejoined the group before the bus left. Several other couples smirked at how disheveled they looked, but Seb and Jim ignored them and acted like they were perfectly innocent, normal tourists, thank you very much.

Molly rushed into the morgue. She was already late and she had a new case that would probably confuse her and she had spilt coffee on her new sweater and nothing had gone well that day. It had been a really cute sweater, too, with cats on it and everything.

Right. New case. Important work. Molly refocused once she was in front of the body on the table.

It was wrapped in white bandages, like a mummy from the movies.

Oh god.

Molly was afraid of mummies.

She stepped back and turned around for a second, because maybe it was just in her imagination. But when she turned around again, it was still there and still definitely a mummy. On a closer look, the bandages looked old and yellowed, like an actual ancient Egyptian mummy. That was even worse.

And normally the body was naked, so she almost thought it was a joke. Once she opened the wrappings (her hands were shaking and she might have whimpered a little, but not enough to be embarrassed about) it was obvious that it was a modern body, not a cursed artifact.

But as she got on with the autopsy (when she was recording the notes her voice only shook a little bit; she’d have to reward herself for that later) Molly noticed that all the organs were missing, and the person was badly stuffed with bags of spices. It looked like it had been made like a real mummy was made, Molly was pretty sure. She knew it was definitely a faux mummy when she cut open the head and found no brain. She was willing to bet that it had been pulled out through the nose.

Molly was admittedly freaking out a little now, because she hadn’t figured out the cause of death and it was a mummy and what if mummy’s curses were real and people could do that still and the man on her table would come for her in a year and kill her because she had to do her job?

“Hello, Molly,” Sherlock said as he came in, snapping Molly out of her freak out mode. It was kind of annoying that he only came when she had interesting cases but hey, it wasn’t like she wanted him to leave.

“Hi, Sherlock.” Molly didn’t even bother to ask how he knew she had something weird. It was like he had a physic connection with her room.

He walked over and gave the mummy a onceover. “Presumably the cause of death was some kind of poison? Arsenic is probable, what with his fingernails.”

Molly had to stop herself from actually headpalming. Of course it was arsenic poisoning. “Why’s he a, um, why’d they . . . “ Molly trailed off. She was having an even harder time than normal talking. She couldn’t even think properly. She never would have thought her fear of mummies would be so crippling.

“I don’t know. Mummifying someone was a sign of respect and love for the ancient Egyptians – after all, it was the key to gaining entry to and staying in their afterlife. Whoever mummified him wouldn’t have poisoned him, unless they were perverting the traditions to serve some other role.” Molly could see that even as Sherlock monologued he was scanning the body more closely, looking for cues. It occurred to her that technically he wasn’t supposed to be in the room, but he was already there so what could she do? If she got fired because of Sherlock’s interest in the mummy would that count as the beginnings of a mummy’s curse?

Sherlock was talking again. “What?” Molly said, feeling dumb for zoning out.

“I said,” he said impatiently, “where was the body found?”

“Umm,” Molly said, opening the file. “Actually, you just look through it yourself.” She handed him the thin file and watched as he read the information in a quick and sexy way only he could pull off. Those eyes were amazing. And his lips were just . . . wow.

They had serious business to get to, Molly reminded herself. Serious, important business. Sherlock handed her back the file and Molly blushed, because she knew she had been caught mooning at him again, over a dead body again.

“Thanks for your help, Molly,” he said, already moving towards the door. Molly felt used, but with Sherlock that feeling was hardly new. “I’ll be back later; I need to check something out first.”

And with that he was gone, disappearing just as fast as he had appeared. Molly still wasn’t entirely convinced that Sherlock wasn’t a vampire. Vampires and mummies – what was next, zombies? Oh my god, what if there were zombies too?

Molly mentally shook herself. Important new case. Work. That was what she was focusing on. She finished her autopsy paperwork, humming a little frantically so she didn’t hear the dead silence in the room. The morgue had always felt safe to Molly, but not now. Now she just wanted to leave.

Molly was upstairs getting coffee (which she was determined not to spill!!) when Sherlock found her again.

“Is that sweater new?” he asked, a sure sign he was buttering her up for another look at thatmummycorpse. Corpses were safer than mummies.

“Yes,” Molly said, glancing down at it. “Or at least, it was.” She almost wanted to say ‘What do you want?’ but she knew she’d hear it soon enough anyways.

“Could you let me examine that body again? It would only take fifteen minutes of your time.” Sherlock was smiling again and Molly could feel herself melt.

She forced herself to hold out for a couple seconds as Sherlock smiled expectantly. Finally, (after a full minute; an all time high!) she cracked and said, “Okay. Just for a little, though. I could get in trouble for this.”

Sherlock smiled brightly gestured for her to lead the way. He was being downright gentlemanly, which probably meant he was going to take a long time. Oh, well. There were worse things than helping out a friend.

They reached the morgue and Sherlock went to go look at the body without saying another word.

“I’ll just be in the lab, then, yeah?” Molly said. Before she left, a thought occurred to her. “Wait, where’s John?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the body but replied, “He’s visiting his mother,” in a monotone that suggested that Molly might have to deal with whining later.

That was okay. Molly could deal with Sherlock’s social awkwardness. If anything, it made her feel better that there was someone worse at social interactions than her, even if he managed to be charming sometimes. She went into the lab and started working on the samples she had taken from themummycorpse. She had calmed down since that morning, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a little worried.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock burst into the lab. “What exactly were the spices in the stomach cavity?” He had a crazy look in his eyes.

Molly handed him the results without a word. She was busy trying to focus the microscope, which wasn’t focusing at all even though she had tried almost every setting and if she had to try all the tiny changes in focus again she was going to scream. Molly exhaled slowly to keep from getting too flustered.

“I’ll be back!” Sherlock yelled as he ran back out the door. Molly smiled a little to herself because Sherlock was so cute when he let it show how excited he was about things. It made him look younger.

This time it took Sherlock hours and hours to come back. Molly was actually getting worried when her shift was almost over and he hadn’t come back yet. He knew her schedule just as well as she did, so he knew when she got out.

It was fifteen minutes until it was time for Molly to go and she was working as slowly as possible to drag things out when Sherlock burst in, moving so quickly he lost his usual poise. “I figured it out!”

Molly didn’t try to hide how impressed she was. “What? Already? What happened?”

Sherlock collected himself so he didn’t look half as excited (or half as cute.) “He was part of a cult that believed in the gods of ancient Egypt. He was aging and according to his wife, he thought he would die soon. So he chose to be killed by his fellow cult members so that they would have access to his remains. Once he died, they did as tradition dictated for the most part, but they cut too many steps and the wet climate of Britain took its toll, so they were forced to abandon the body.”

“Wow! How did you figure all that out?” Molly figured her shift was over, and she had taken enough overtime to make up for leaving early if she wasn’t actually done yet. She walked with Sherlock as he enthusiastically explained how he had come to the conclusions he did.

“Sherlock, what are we doing for dinner?” John yelled across the apartment, even though he was about 99% sure that Sherlock either didn’t care or didn’t know.

Surprisingly, Sherlock yelled back, “I’ll get the Chinese takeaway if you promise that we can have our Bond film night tonight.”

Right. John had forgotten about that. “Okay,” he said. Not seconds after he had agreed, Sherlock left the apartment at full speed. Sherlock really was unusually excited about film night, John mused. It was nice to see him happy about something other than murder. He hummed as he looked through their DVDs. He found the most recent movie, Skyfall, which had only been released on DVD a month ago first, so he decided they would start watching the series of movies backwards.

By the time Sherlock got back, John had a nice stack of movies that would last until at least morning.  Sherlock sat down next to him and said, “Put them in!”

John wondered why Sherlock was being so uncharacteristically enthusiastic about something, but it was cute, so he wasn’t going to question it. He put the first DVD in and opened his first box of takeaway as the movie began.

For the first half he was utterly entranced by the movie, but by the time Bond was going into the casino, he noticed that Sherlock was mumbling the words along with the actors. John started paying more attention to Sherlock than the movie, and he noticed that Sherlock’s inflection matched the actors’ perfectly. Even his pitch was the same, even though John could tell he was straining for the women’s voices.

After M’s conversation with Silva, he couldn’t stand his curiosity any longer and he paused the movie. Sherlock seemed to snap out of his trance. “What was that for?”

“Are you repeating the words of the movie?” John licked his lips in confusion.

“Yes. I’ve memorized the script.”

Weird. “Uh, okay. Could you just repeat what M said last?”

Sherlock did, mimicking her perfectly. It was eerie. If he hadn’t known better, John would’ve thought it was the DVD playing over that spot again and Sherlock was just mouthing along.

“Could you do that with anything?” John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I suppose so. Can you turn the movie back on?”

“Wait.” John turned on the radio. The last little bit of Gotye’s Somebody That I Used to Know was playing. Once the song was over, John turned the radio off and looked back at Sherlock. “Could you mimic that too?”

Sherlock looked like he couldn’t decide if he should be pouting about not getting his way with the movies or if he should be luxuriating in the attention John was giving his little talent. “There’s overlapping lyrics, but I suppose I could try.” He cleared his throat and sang: “just somebody that I used to know / I used to know / That I used to know / I used to know / Somebody / Somebody / I used to know / Somebody / Now you're just somebody that I used to know / I used to know / That I used to know / I used to know.”

John knew his jaw had dropped. He had never thought that Sherlock’s deep baritone could go that high. He also hadn’t known that Sherlock could sing. “That was amazing!” he said, and Sherlock looked slightly mollified. “Let’s see you do other things!”

The pouting was back. Sherlock clearly didn’t want to show off for what was possibly the first time in his life. John signed, but decided to give Sherlock a break. “Fine, we’ll watch the movie. When it’s over you have to pretend to be some of the characters for me, though.”

Sherlock agree and they finished watching the movie in relative silence, as Sherlock had stopped mumbling along with the movie (except during the exciting parts, when Sherlock forgot himself and started mimicking the characters again.)

The movie finally ended. “Okay, Sherlock. We have a deal. Before we start Casino Royale, you have to imitate some of the characters for me.”

Sherlock looked sulky but said, “Who?”

“Try the new Q.” John secretly thought Q had been cute, but he was a little too young for his tastes.

“What should he say?”

John thought about it. A funny thought occurred to him and he laughed. He had to ask. “Make Q say ‘oh 007, I love you!’”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but dutifully said, quickly and somewhat monotonously, “Oh 007, I love you.”

Not exactly what John had meant, but close enough. “Now make Bond say, ‘I love you too, Q!’”

“I love you too, Q,” Sherlock said, exactly how John imagined he would say it. Sherlock still looked bored and vaguely irritated.

“Aren’t you having fun?”

“I can’t believe you want those two to get together,” Sherlock said, reaching for the remote. “I’ve mimicked your one true pairing, can we watch more films now?”

John looked guiltily around his dorm room. It wasn’t as if he thought anyone would be in there with him, but what he was about to do was a guilty pleasure he didn’t want his roommate, Moran, to find out about. He was kind of intense.

He flipped open his laptop and opened up omegle. He added the tag “00Q,” clicked on ‘text’ and waited for a chatting partner to show up. He really enjoyed roleplaying as Bond. He could help it.

Finally the server connected him to someone. Before John could think, the stranger had already started typing. Hopefully he or she had a good plot idea.

Stranger: Bond, I have a mission for you.

Oh good. Someone willing to play.

You: Hello, Q. Or are greetings too old fashioned?

Stranger: This mission is very important. We haven’t got time for flirting.

On a ship tag? Really? John groaned a little. That wasn’t a good sign. Hopefully this person had a better endgame.

You: Who said anything about flirting? Just tell me what the mission is.

Stranger: We have to fly down to India to take care of someone.

Stranger: [don’t worry I want them to end up together haha hope you don’t mind]

You: We? I thought you hated flying. [okay cool :)]

John debated flirting with the other person. There was no guarantee they were a girl and John certainly wasn’t gay, but John decided to risk it.

Stranger: I do, but M gave me my orders. Surely even you wouldn’t disobey direct orders from M.

You: I guess an office worker like you would be afraid to rebel. [is it ok if we get to know each other better lol? Im john from the uk]

Stranger: Maybe I’m just intelligent enough to choose my battles, unlike some people I could name. Anyway, our flight leaves in one hour from the private airfield. Be there. [yeah sure :3 omg a guy on the tag haha!! Im molly also from the uk im in england for uni]

Molly seemed sweet and a pretty good roleplayer. She was even in England, and in university too! Maybe they knew each other. John tried to remember girls named Molly.

You: At least I’m not more confident than I should be. I’ll be there. [should we time lapse right to when they meet at the airport or what? and same here what uni do you go to? I go to kingston university]

It was a long shot that Molly would be in his area, but John had to try, right? It had been a while since his last girlfriend.

Stranger: [yeah lets just go to then haha and OMG kingston ME TOO :333 what are the chances???] Q was waiting nervously in the corner of the airfield, picking at his nails, half hoping Bond won’t arrive so he won’t have to go on the dreaded plain.

Stranger: plane

John debated whether he should stay on and flirt with Molly properly or if he should cop out and ask her out in a more subtle way. Either way, Moran was coming back soon, probably with his batshit insane boyfriend.

You: Bond pulls up in his fancy new car and walks over to Q. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asks. [omg what if we know each other?]

Stanger: “Be quiet,” Q says, lacking his normal sass. “It’s time to go.” They get on the plane that is empty except for them and the pilot. [omg we so could I know loads of johns haha]

You: When they take off Bond can see that Q is shaking and Bond thinks it’s really adorable but he keeps that hidden behind his pokerface. [lol yeah johns a common name and sos molly]

John smiled to himself. This was going really well. Hopefully Molly was pretty, because to John it looked like it was going to be easy to get a date with her.

Stranger: Q tries to talk so Bond wouldn’t be able to tell how nervous he is. “I hear it’s hot in India this time of year,” he says, lamely. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about what the older man thinks of him.

You: Bond smirks to himself. Q rambling when he was nervous was just as cute as the nervousness was. “You’re hot this time of year,” he says to see if he could make Q squirm more. He’s a little nervous that he would be straight-up rejected, though. [I might have to go soon we should meet up on campus lol]

It took longer than usual for Molly to reply and John waited nervously. It was almost like his life was being paralleled by what was happening in the roleplay. Finally more text popped up.

Stranger: Q blushes and because his skin is such an ivory colour it’s very obvious. “I said no flirting,” he says, but what with how his voice is quavering he isn’t even convincing himself. [yeah sure how bout the west cafeteria??]

John smirked. He had this one in the bag. He couldn’t wait. But he could hear Moran’s laughter in the hall, so he had to wrap it up quickly.

You: “Are you sure about that?” James asks, scooting closer to Q. [yeah cool lol at like 7 tonight]

Stranger: Q blushes even darker but ignores Bond and pursues the book had brought along with him. [omg yes :3 it’s a date see you then]

It was soooo in the bag.

You: [gtg see you then;)]

WARNING: Non graphic BDSM, references to torture.

While it was true that he had been trained as a sniper, and was still incredibly skilled with a long range rifle, people often tended to forget that since leaving the army and joining the underworld Sebastian had become more than capable at extracting information people didn’t want to share with him. He’d been embarrassingly bad at it in the beginning, always hurting his victims either too much or too little or in all the wrong ways, and Sebastian hated not being the best he could, so he grudgingly accepted a “training exercise” with his new boss.

  Standing in the elevator going up to Jim’s swanky penthouse apartment he wasn’t entirely sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t to be body checked into the wall by his boss the minute he walked into the door and man handled through a discreet door. Later he would say that he’d been too surprised to react before he was being cuffed to a St. Andrew’s Cross, but it was a damned lie and he knew it.

  In the hours that followed there were knives and clips, there were whips and paddles over every square inch of his skin, there was wax that was just a touch too hot and everything Sebastian had always secretly thought he might like but had never wanted to ask for.

  It didn’t take long for him to be begging, begging for Jim to stop, begging for Jim to fuck him, begging for it to stop, until finally he was simply begging, although he didn’t know what for.

  Abruptly as it had started it was over, and Sebastian’s body felt strangely numb even though he knew he should be in agony. Jim was gone as soon as he let Sebastian down, so he cleaned up quickly and left.

  Neither of them brought it up over the coming weeks, until there came another need for torture and Sebastian was far more efficient, and he happened to semi-jokingly mention that the training must have helped. After that they settled into a routine, completely unspoken of course, but they met occasionally, sometimes nearly every week, and sometimes not for months, whenever Jim wanted really, because it was clear from the beginning that Sebastian had absolutely no control over what happened between them.

  No control to the point where if he’d made the comment in the room it never would have happened, but in a café on a stakeout, just making conversation, he caught Jim’s attention.

  “You know, it would have been far more interesting if Q’d turned on Bond.” Sebastian wasn’t even sure if Jim had seen the new Bond movie, but the boss wasn’t talking to he’d talk about whatever the hell he wanted to. “Knocked Bond out, trussed him up nicely, made him talk, you know the drill. The nerdy ones are always the ones to watch you know.”

  Then his mark came into view and he didn’t even notice the slight quirk of Jim’s eyebrow, and didn’t think any more of it at all. It wasn’t until he next arrived at Jim’s flat and found himself apparently playing the role of 007 to Jim’s evil Q.

  Before long Sebastian was almost convinced himself that he alone stood between the safety of the British Empire and a deceptive hacker, that he absolutely had to hold out, no matter what was done to him, that he couldn’t betray his country, no matter that in reality he’d done that years ago.

Sometimes, in the brief lull between Sherlock’s post case adrenaline rush and before the onset of his insatiable boredom, there was a time, maybe a few minutes, maybe a few days, when he was calm.

  It was during one of these spells that John first decided to contribute his part to Sherlock’s pop culture education, as he referred to it privately. In his opinion no self respecting person could possibly live a life as full of mad chases as theirs without having a healthy knowledge of the king of mad chases, so he cajoled Sherlock into curling up on the sofa with him to begin at the beginning, with Dr. No.

  Over the coming months it became somewhat of a post-case ritual for them, until one day Sherlock turned expectantly towards John to ask where the next one was, only to be secretly disappointed when he was told that there were no more, he’d have to wait.

  There were other movies, and sometimes they rewatched their favourites, but it was never quite the same.

  John had barely made it through the door one night in November when Sherlock was pulling on his coat and dragging John back down the stairs. How exactly Sherlock had gotten tickets to the premier of Skyfall John never did know, but as they sat in the theatre, eager with anticipation, that didn’t really matter.

  Sherlock remained aloof as they walked out into the night, letting John gush excitedly about how brilliant it’d been, but the minute they were in the back of the cab he let loose.

“The name is Bond. James Bond,” Sebastian slurred. “Where’s m’martini?”

Jim giggled. “You’re funny when you’re drunk.”

“Shoooosh,” Seb said, trying to but his finger over Jim’s mouth and hitting his nose instead. “’M not drunk. James Bond don’t get drunk.”

Jim curled up on Seb’s lap. Contrary to appearances, Seb was not a hard drinking though guy. His alcohol tolerance was very low. So when he got drunk, he got drunk. And this time he had somehow found a tux and managed to put it on without injuring himself.

“Of course you aren’t drunk, tiger, I mean, James,” Jim purred. “But where’s your Bond girl? Can’t be Bond without a Bond girl.”

Seb hummed a little and rubbed Jim’s thigh. “I donno if Bond wants a girl. I think he, I mean, I want that one intern lad. The skinny one.”

“Q?” Jim said, trying not to laugh.

Seb rested his face in Jim’s neck. “Tha’s the one.”

“That’s interesting, James,” Jim said, petting his tiger a little. Maybe he was a little drunk too.

Seb pulled his head up. “Why’s that inter- inter- int’r’sting?”

“Because I just happen to be Q,” Jim smirked.

Seb smiled and leaned into Jim’s mouth. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a headbutt, but Jim just giggled and headbutted back. That quickly turned into a sloppy make out session.

“’M glad you’re my Q,” Seb said when he pulled away for air. “Coz you can make my pen explode anytime.” He tried to raise his eyebrows suggestively. “Get it?”

“That joke was a little tooooooo sophisticated,” Jim said, winking.

After a couple minutes of giggling, Seb said, “Wha’ I meant was that you can touch my cock any time, Jim. I mean, Q.”

Jim nuzzled the top of Seb’s head. “How about now?”

They had known they were different even when they were younger. Most people had to talk to communicate, but they didn’t. When they told their mother, while they were young, she didn’t believe them. From then on Mycroft and Quincy Holmes kept quiet about what they decided to call their ‘twin telepathy.’

The ability to communicate with their mind first started being useful in secondary school, when Quincy started cutting class and the two boys always, always needed to have the same excuse as to why.

It was especially important when Quincy got kidnapped.

Mycroft was sitting in the class, thinking of new ways he could lecture Quincy about responsibility when he heard the familiar voice in his head. I’ve been kidnapped, My, and I donno where I am. Mycroft was a little unsure that this was real – it was a joke, right? But he had heard the waver in Quincy’s mindvoice and knew he needed help.

I’m coming, Quincy, he thought back as he said to the teacher, “I have to go. There is a family emergency.”

The teacher gave him a look, but let him go. He was the favorite student, and that had some perks. Right now, though, he was concentrating on finding Quincy. He located an unlocked car and found the keys in the ignition. Maybe driving was not yet technically legal for him, but he knew how to, and his brother was more important that silly things like laws. Quin, he thought, what can you tell me about where you are?

It was a long, worrying moment before he heard the reply. In an automobile of some kind. I’m not in the boot, so it’s got to be some sort of van.

Mycroft groaned. Of course they had to be moving him. Where were you last?

The park a bit up the road just chatting up some birds, My, not asking for trouble.

Typical Quincy, to be hitting on some women and then get kidnapped. At least it gave him something to do. He speeded out of the parking lot and soon reached the park. Now what? he thought at Quincy.

Donno, there were loads of turns and I hit my head pretty badly and lost track. Oh, shite, we’ve stopped.

Are they taking you out of the car? Mycroft hated being useless, but until he knew more what could he do? If he started driving, his brother’s true location could very well be in exactly the opposite direction.

Yeah. I’m not blindfolded. It looks like we’re at an abandoned warehouse. How cliché.

Not the time to make jokes.

Fine. I see . . . I saw London. I’m in the warehouse now, but I was just to the south of London. yeah. I think just go directly south. The warehouse was mostly red on the outside.

Okay. I’m on my way. Mycroft started up the car again and sped off towards the warehouse. He didn’t have a plan, but he was glad he’d at least be with his twin.

He finally found the warehouse. I’m here, Quin. What should I do?

I don’t think they’re here right now. I heard a truck drive away. Come in I guess? Be careful.

Of course. Mycroft got out of the car and cautiously entered the warehouse. As Quincy had promised, no people were there. It was obviously a badly run operation.

I can hear you, Quincy said in Mycroft’s head. Oops. And I’m in the main room, stupid.

Right. “Thank god you’re alright,” Mycroft said as soon as he fond Quincy, who was gagged and tied to a chair. He ran over and untied him as fast as he could, even though his hands were shaking. He hadn’t been sure if he would be okay until he saw Quincy.

“I’m good,” Quincy said as soon as he was untied. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mycroft nodded. Thank god for our twin telepathy.

Yeah, really, Quincy replied as they ran out of the warehouse and into the car.

While the kidnapping incident was certainly not the last time they spoke telepathically, it was certainly the most important. Or, as Mycroft would argue, the most important time save one: all the time. Because it was only with the help of Quincy that Mycroft could run the entire British government.

Quincy was a little annoyed that his welfare ranked second to bureaucracy, but that was an argument for a different time.

They used their ability to communicate through thoughts so Mycroft could seem to be in two places at once. Quincy would be at the office, or more commonly, at the gentleman’s club, and Mycroft was flying around the world practically once a week to hundreds of important behind-the-scenes meetings. Quincy would tell Mycroft what was happening on the home front, and Mycroft would relay whatever orders he thought were necessary.

John had yet to meet the actual Mycroft Holmes, although Quincy was so used to acting like Mycroft for every waking hour that they weren’t all that much different anymore. Quincy was slightly more melodramatic, as seen by the camera-stalking-and-kidnapping-John-as-an-introduction stunt. Quincy could still remember the fuss Mycroft had made during all of that, even though pulling things like that was to one perk of pretending to be Mycroft.

In any case, it was Mycroft who insisted he had to meet John in the first place. And little Sherly has finally found someone to share the flat with, My! Isn’t that exciting? He had thought at his brother late one afternoon as he was reporting in.

You’re going to have to meet him. Preferably tonight, came Mycroft’s reply.

What? Why?

I don’t trust him.

You don’t even know him.

Exactly.

Quincy didn’t have a reply to that. But if Mycroft wanted to make sure John was trustworthy, fine. Whatever. He’d just have some fun doing it.

He sensed an opportunity when John was walking home alone. After calling on Anthea, it was all set up. I’m meeting him, he thought, smugly.

Already?

You make it sound like I’m not competent. Ahh, here he is. Quincy wondered, quietly and to himself, whether he should broadcast the conversation to Mycroft or just fill him in later. Broadcasting it would be childish, but infinitely more fun. Childish it was, then.

“Have a seat, John,” Quincy said, unable to stop from smirking.

“You know, I’ve got a phone,” he said, and Quincy knew Mycroft was hearing this and was already confused. “Pretty clever, an’ all that,” John continued, “but, uh, you could just phone me. On my phone.”

Quin, what did you do? Mycroft already sounded worried.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place,” Quincy said, and added This is fun! just for Mycroft. “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” John said.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” Quincy said, over the sounds of Mycroft half-screaming What are you doing, Quin, I didn’t want you to play one of your silly games with him!

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John deadpanned.

“Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” Quincy already like John quite a lot, and said so to Mycroft. Then why are you messing with his head? Mycroft asked.

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him, hmm, yesterday.”

“And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Quincy half hoped so. I’m doing this to prove Sherlock is capable of making his own decisions, he thought to Mycroft.

“Who are you?”

“An interested party.” This pissed off Mycroft too, Quincy could tell; Mycroft was thinking Why can’t you just say who you are?

“Interested in Sherlock – why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

Because what you’d being doing and what I’m doing are equally stupid, Quincy thought. “You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,” he said, out loud.

“And what’s that?” John asked. Quincy tried to broadcast his approval of John along with the conversation. He was already so protective of Sherlock – surely their relationship could only lead to good things!

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly.” Quincy was having trouble concentrating on the barrage of well-mannered insults h was receiving. Damn. He only felt like he was winning an argument when Mycroft was slinging curse words like a drunken sailor. “Do asked him; he’d say his archenemy, probably. He does love to be dramatic.” When Quincy said that, he could hear Mycroft go, Oh, and you’re not?

“Well thank god you’re above all that,” John said. Quincy counted that as a point for John, since he was being more sarcastic than even Mycroft.

John’s phone went off and he took it out. Almost certainly it was Sherlock.

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” Quincy said, meaning it. He was rooting for John even more after meeting him, and it wasn’t just on principal anymore.

“You’re not distracting me at all.”

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” Are you trying to frighten him off? Mycroft raged in Quincy’s mind. He was starting to get a headache but it was worth it. I’m proving a point.

“I could be wrong, but . . . I think that’s none of your business.”

What point are you trying to prove, Quin?

“It could be.”

“It couldn’t,” John said. That one, Quincy thought to Mycroft.

I don’t see what you mean, Mycroft thought, even though Quincy knew he did.

“If you do move into, um, two hundred and twenty one B, Baker street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

I didn’t tell you to bribe him, Mycroft thought at Quincy.

“Why?”

I’ll make sure you trust him beyond a shadow of a doubt, My.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Information,” Quincy said. Mycroft had quieted down and Quincy could tell he was curious. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel . . . uncomfortable with, just what he’s up to.”

“Why?” John looked more and more tense, and if Quincy was judging Mycroft’s silence, My was becoming more and more convinced John was trustworthy. Perfect.

“I worry about him,” Quincy said, meaning that, too, unlike most of what he had said. “Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“But I’d prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned; we have what you might call a difficult relationship,” Quincy said. Mycroft was getting antsy again. So what does this prove?

John’s phone went off again, and he checked it. “No,” he said. Quincy tried not to cheer.

“But I haven’t mentioned figure.”

“Don’t bother,” John said, and Quincy heard Mycroft sigh internally. Quincy knew he had won.

Quincy laughed. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.” Isn’t that right, My?

“No, I’m just not interested.”

Fine. You win. He’s not interested in betraying Sherlock, Mycroft thought.

At last, victory. Quincy messed with John’s head for a little while longer, then let him run back to Sherlock.