[BBC Sherlock/Skyfall Crossover] Love in Codes
A/N: Has Q being BAMF J
Not Brit-picked, I’m sorry L
19.
James sat down in his hotel room for the week (he hadn’t bothered to get a new flat when he’s out of the country most of the time), and made a short list.
He trusted Q with his life: check.
They had pedantic arguments like an old married couple: check.
Q found him attractive: double check (of course James had noticed the way the younger man looked at him. And the snarky, awkward, endearing flirting).
He found Q attractive: triple check. (That nape, the nerdy spectacles, his irresistible hair. God.)
Q cared about him: …check, somewhat. With the amount of weapons he’d broken, quartermasters who didn’t care about him would have done him already. (And he didn’t miss the way Q’s breath hitch, sometimes, after he’d had a brush against death and barely emerged victorious.)
He cared about Q: … (must he admit it?)
James blinked. Bloody hell, they had been…a couple. Sans the sex, and the confession.
That could be easily remedied, he thought.
(The question was: did he want to?)
20.
The day Percy lost his name started like any other day.
He’d left his flat a little later than usual, sure. His cat wasn’t behaving properly, clinging to his leg with her claws as he put on his shoes, but she often behaved like that when the day was cold.
Percy was reading the reports on the prototypes of radio transmitters with stronger, steadier connections when the alarm that signaled there had been a security breach blared. *He joined Q in frantically tracing the source of the attack and they were so baffled by the result neither of them reacted until it was too late.
The explosion happened above the basement, where Q branch was, but the gas leaks were causing chunks of the ceiling to rain. Percy followed the emergency procedures and assisted other employees in evacuating with thumb drives containing information on very important projects. The rest had to be given up because people’s safety was more important.
The smoke made Percy feel sick and the darkness reminded him of the incidence that caused him to give up fieldwork years ago, but he was determined to help Q, who was still fighting to gather information needed to bring down their attacker. They stayed until the last minute. As they exited, a huge part of the ceiling collapsed on Q. Percy had cried and tried to pry the older man out, but Q merely pressed the external drive to his hands and told him to get out because it would be foolish for him to die here too, as MI6 would lose all the knowledge related to the attack. Percy gritted his teeth and left, but not without mourning for his fatherly figure.
M passed him on his way to the ambulance, cold fury invading her piercing blue eyes. “Q, you’re to go immediately to the other base and begin working on this problem. Someone from medical will follow you.” [1]
Percy barely registered that she had addressed him. He choked inwardly. He knew he was going to be Q someday, but he’d never wished the circumstances to be like this.
“Yes, M,” he was nothing but calm in the exterior as he indicated his acceptance. The turmoil inside remained.
(Percy had never realised how…pervasive the title was. His life had been pretty much a secret to the public since Mycroft’s job became increasingly dangerous, but it was only when Percy stared at his new ID card - it only said ‘Q’ and it was still accepted everywhere - the severity of his responsibilities dawned on him.
He’d never regretted it, though. Q loved his job.)
21.
Gregory spied a familiar figure as he walked down the road. He grinned to himself. “Jeremy!”
The thin, gangly young man, still with his bird nest hair and old man jumper, turned away from the store display of male clothing he’d been staring raptly at, and smiled at Greg. “Gregory,” he greeted.
“Window shopping?” Greg shrugged at the store display.
Jeremy blushed. “Ah, yes,” he shoved his hands to his pockets and fidgeted, a little. “How about you? On your way home?”
Shopping for the boyfriend, Greg chuckled inwardly. So sweet. “Nope, meeting a friend at a pub a few blocks away,” he moved his chin to point at the general direction of the place.
“I see,” Jeremy cocked his head, his expression turning thoughtful, “is she, um, someone you’re interested in?”
“Oh, no! John’s a pal,” Greg shook his head and laughed.
Jeremy looked disappointed again. “No one has caught your eye yet?” He was strangely too invested in this.
Greg thought of dark auburn curls against pale, long neck and thin wide lips in a plumy smile and it was his to blush. “Uh…not exactly,” he shuffled his feet. Greg watched as Jeremy’s face lighted up with interest and dreaded the question that would pass the technician’s mouth next.
Luckily, he was saved from the awkwardness. “Greg!” a familiar voice called.
Both of them turned to see the good doctor getting out of a cab and approaching Greg. “Fancy meeting you earlier than expected,” he greeted cheerfully.
Sherlock was half a step behind his flatmate. He looked past Greg at Jeremy and there was muted surprise on his face, his bottom lip dropping open a fraction and his eyes widening minutely. It was a very subtle change of expression. Greg wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t known Sherlock for a while.
Greg didn’t know what to make of that. “Sherlock, you’re joining us?” He was too surprised by Sherlock’s presence.
“You know I don’t frequent pubs, Lestrade. Too much stimuli,” Sherlock spoke, disgust apparent in his features. “I have business nearby. It’s convenient to cab together.”
“So that’s that,” John directed his smile to Jeremy. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Oh, no,” Jeremy returned with a friendly smile of his own, “Gregory and I met here by chance.” The bespectacled man offered his hand as he introduced himself, “Jeremy. Jeremy McKenzie.”
“John Watson, but please call me John,” the doctor shook the proffered hand chirpily.
Greg swore he heard Sherlock hiding a snort under his breath before he too shook Jeremy’s hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you,” his voice sounded a bit unnatural, a bit too silky, “Jeremy.” The name was almost hissed.
“Sherlock,” Jeremy’s smile looked a bit strained.
Now that the two were standing side by side, Greg noticed that the similarities between them were really glaring. Both tall, thin and pale, with strong facial bone structures…it was as though they were related.
Greg shook his head inwardly. “Shall we go, John?” he asked the good doctor.
“You’re welcome to join us,” John told Jeremy as Sherlock straightened his coat collar and turned the other direction, about to walk away.
What occurred next happened so fast Greg could barely register what was happening. A white, unassuming van stopped on the road near the pavement they were located. Men who had their faces covered emerged and manhandled both Sherlock and Jeremy, covering their mouths and noses with what must be chloroform and dragging them to the vehicle. Greg and John fought by the skin of their teeth before Greg could feel the impact of a blunt object on the back of his head and his sight turned dark. Just before he went down, he saw John being chloroformed as well.
Bugger, Greg’s last thought as his head hit the ground, I hope Mycroft’s got this.
When he came to, Greg felt like as though he’d drunk three bottles of whisky the night before and been hit by a bus. His head was aching so bad his sight was blurry, but he was still able to survey his surroundings.
The four of them were in an abandoned factory of some sort (hah, déjà vu. Greg would laugh so hard if Mycroft was behind this. But Mycroft wouldn’t be this violent, and the man was still in hospital last Greg checked…which was less than twelve hours ago). From the scant light that escaped through the cracks on the wall, Greg deduced that only a couple of hours had passed, at most. They couldn’t be that far from London.
Each of them was tied to a chair, arms and legs both, and the chair was heavy enough Greg would break his back trying to stand. Their belongings (wallets, Greg’s badge, the gun John owned Greg wasn’t supposed to know, and so on) were scattered on a table far, far away across the room. Greg was gagged. He couldn’t see John but he could hear the good doctor slowly returning to the waking world with a muffled groan. Sherlock and Jeremy were not gagged however. The two brunettes stared back at him when he peered at them, Jeremy with a concerned look, while Sherlock’s gaze was pensive. Greg had no doubt his mind was working at a mile a minute.
Who on earth would kidnap us? Greg wondered. Is it the sick fuck behind the serial bombing…Moriarty? Greg peered at Jeremy again, and spied panic in his eyes. Moriarty’s henchmen must have confused him for Sherlock and brought him along. Poor chap.
They didn’t have to wait long. Someone entered the room and approached them, navigating through empty racks of boxed inventories and dilapidated machineries. One man, an average-sized man with close-cropped red hair, was dressed relatively well in a suit, his eyes covered by a sunscreen. Three burly thugs settled around him as he stood a few yards away from Sherlock and Jeremy.
“Now,” the grin on the redhead’s face was feral, “which of you two pretty boys is the Quartermaster?” he looked at them expectantly.
Quartermaster? Greg blinked. What is Moriarty playing at?
Sherlock’s answer was border-lining rude. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I’ve been in a lot of newspapers recently, despite my wishes. You should know my identity if you read them.”
The redhead twitched. “We can’t rule the possibility of a double life, can we?” He turned to Jeremy and gave him a nudge on the shin. A rather hard nudge. More like, a kick. “How about you?”
“M-my name is Jeremy. I w-work at PwC and,” the younger man was hyperventilating, “I don’t know anything you’re talking about, p-please let me go-”
The ‘boss’ (Greg had taken to referring to the arsehole as such in his head) cocked his head and one of the thugs punched Jeremy on the face. The young man moaned and bent his head down in pain.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” The redhead said. The thug grabbed Jeremy by the chunk of his messy hair and the bespectacled man whimpered. “P-please,” his lip was split and there was a crack on one of his lenses, “I don’t know anything-” his breath was taken out of him when a fist made its home in his gut.
Greg craned his neck and looked around, searching for potential exits more frantically. Sherlock, though, had his eyes trained on Jeremy. There was anger in his clear eyes, a low growl low in his throat, and Greg was momentarily sidetracked.
“I’m bored,” Sherlock said next, purposely provoking the attackers, “I’m not interested in watching a piece of meat playing with a sandbag-”
The genius was punched on the face for his taunts. Greg heard John’s muffled protest at his back.
“Too impatient, darling?” the ‘boss’ smirked at the detective behind his thug and Sherlock only shot him a disdainful look as he spat on his kidnapper’s patent leather shoes. “At least something is happening,” he huffed.
The tedious beating continued for a while, with Sherlock reacting like a wall, and Jeremy sobbing and pleading to be let free. The thugs turned their attention to Greg and John at some point, but both of them were used to this, used to violence and bruises and it was kind of impossible to give the kidnappers what they wanted if Greg didn’t even know what it was about.
The ‘boss’ looked annoyed. “Bring out the toys,” he ordered his henchmen and scowled, “you asked for this, I swear.”
There were knives, pliers and…was that a hedge shears!? Mycroft, where are you?
“Playtime’s over,” the redhead snapped his fingers. John was dragged into everyone’s line of sight, and one of the kidnappers held a knife his throat. The doctor’s eyes were wide with alarm, his spine straight as a rod.
“Let this be the last time I ask,” he hissed at Jeremy and Sherlock, “which of you is the Quartermaster?” As he said this, the thug purposely nicked the doctor’s skin. A drop of blood trailed down his neck and stained his shirt.
Sherlock took a sharp breath and glared at Jeremy. “Just end this game of pretension already,” he yelled at the younger man, “Q!”
Greg blinked profusely. Did you seriously just sacrifice Jeremy? He was about to glare at the detective in righteous anger when Jeremy’s expression transformed from that of a scared and confused civilian caught in a crossfire to annoyance and sharp intelligence in the blink of an eye. The normally geeky nice bloke hissed at Sherlock, “You wanker.”
The next sequence of actions also happened so fast Greg could barely follow it. The moment two of the thugs went for Jeremy/Q/whoever he was, both Sherlock and Jeremy (yeah, let’s refer to him as Jeremy for the time being, for Greg’s sanity) managed to free their hands from the ropes. Sherlock attempted the impossible, planted his feet on the ground and threw himself (and the heavy chair) at one of the thugs, while Jeremy threw something that looked like a pen to the ‘boss’. The pen hit an arm and exploded with a blinding light.
“Gregory,” amidst the smoke and black spots that had dominated his sight, Greg recognised Jeremy’s voice. There was a touch on his legs, and soon he found his limbs freed. Greg wrenched off the duct tape covering his mouth. “Who the bleeding-”
“Not now,” Jeremy eyed him sharply, “we need to get out of here. Come along-”
The outline of a huge obstacle appeared in front of them. It was one of the muscular henchmen, who had managed to track their movements. “I’ve got this,” Greg pushed Jeremy behind him. The bloke was skin and bones.
The henchman took out his gun. Trickier than I thought, Greg cursed inwardly, but he ploughed forward, keeping close to the opponent, giving him no chance to fire. As they were fighting for the gun, Jeremy knocked the henchman out with a blow to the back of the neck.
“Let’s go,” he pocketed the gun which had fallen to the floor before Greg could take it. By this time, however, the smoke had mostly cleared out, and Greg could see more people entering the storeroom and running after them. On the bright side, it seemed Sherlock managed to free John and both of them were wrestling against some of their kidnappers. “Sherlock!” Jeremy shouted across the room, “Vatican cameos!”
It must be a cue of some sort, because both John and Sherlock ducked, and Jeremy fired two shots, hitting the opponents on the shoulders accurately.
“Faster!” Jeremy told the two men as Greg gaped at him. That’s not how civilians handle guns. A tech staff at PwC my arse!
Once Sherlock and John had caught up, Jeremy led them through a door at the corner and a twisting and turning hallway. He took out a smartphone from his pants (Greg didn’t want to know where he’d hid it such that it escaped their captors’ notice) and tossed the gun to Sherlock as he thumbed through what looked like the layout of a building. Was that for this building? How did he even know where they were? “Turn to the left after the third right and we’ll escape through the sewers,” he told the gang, still fiddling with his phone, “it’ll lead us to the Thames.”
Sherlock huffed. “Why wasn’t there a rescue from your Masters?”
“I didn’t send them a distress message,” Jeremy rolled his eyes. “There is no need for it. The kidnappers are amateurs. They didn’t even get us out from the country.”
Greg caught John’s eyes and he was relieved that he wasn’t the only one who was utterly lost.
“They would have, if they haven’t confused me for you,” Sherlock clucked his tongue, “Transporting four people instead of one, illegally, is rather more complicated. In any case, amateurs or not, they nearly had John killed!” his tone rose in anger.
Jeremy paused and turned to look at Sherlock. He opened his mouth.
He didn’t get to say anything, as the quartet suddenly found themselves surrounded by armed men.
Sherlock looked murderous, the lines of his body taut and screaming that he was ready for a spectacular fight. Jeremy gulped and trained his eyes on one of the guns pointed at him, the thumb of his right hand hovering above the touch screen of his smartphone, which had an icon that looked suspiciously like a bomb on it [3].
“Now, kittens,” the redhead ‘boss’ from earlier appeared, looking very pissed. Well, if Greg had blisters and burns on his arm from an exploding pen, he would be, too. “No place to hide now,” he sing-songed.
Apparently, it was a bit too soon to say, because before Sherlock, John, Jeremy and Greg were re-apprehended, the armed men started dropping like flies. Shot in the back. From outside the windows, Greg could hear the screeching sound of car tires.
The familiar figure of Mycroft’s PA strolled into their view from the corner. She was wearing trousers and her hair was tied to a ponytail. For once, her eyes weren’t on her blackberry; there was a gun in her hand instead.
“Anastasia,” Jeremy greeted.
“Quartermaster,” she nodded at him. “The car outside will take you to medical.”
Sherlock snorted. “Not a helicopter?”
The quartermaster grimaced. “Say that after you’ve survived a plane crash, Sherlock.”
The moment four of them (plus a nonplused driver behind a partition) were inside the car, Greg couldn’t hold the question back anymore. “Who the hell are you?”
“Excellent question,” John added. “Not quite a stranger, eh?”
“It’s...never meant to be personal,” the quartermaster shot Greg an apologetic look. “I can’t give you my name. You can call me Q.” He shared a brief look with Sherlock before he continued, “I’m Sherlock’s younger brother.”
Greg’s jaw dropped. He’d known Sherlock for years, and he’d never known. He didn’t know whether he should be shocked, or hurt.
“Younger brother,” John echoed in disbelief. His expression mirrored what Greg felt.
Sherlock looked upset. ** “There’s no need to make this more uncomfortable than it is, John.”
“You have a younger brother and you’ve never mentioned him once, to us!?” [2] His voice rose in volume and pitch. By the end of the sentence he was shouting. “It’s a big deal!”
“Please, Dr Watson,” Q placated, “it’s not entirely Sherlock’s choice. As the head of MI6’s armoury, I possess skills and knowledge others would kill for. It is pertinent that my identity, along with my connections, be kept a secret.”
“Mycroft’s job is dangerous,” Greg stated, recalling the man who was still in hospital, “yet I met him on the same unfortunate day I first stumbled upon you.”
Sherlock shot the DI a look that said are you dumb? “I certainly never introduced him to you. He’s the overbearing pompous arse who barged into your life himself,” he sneered. “In the first place, for any government to be effective, the governed needs to know who to listen to. Everyone who matters knows Mycroft. Q, however, should be invisible.”
John pursed his lips. He could not fight Sherlock’s logic. Hell, if John was as normal as Greg, half the time he probably couldn’t even follow it. It was clear, from his face, that he was still dismayed.
The rest of the journey was spent in horrible silence, the good doctor’s expression sour, Sherlock unrepentant, and Q a little guilty. When they finally reached medical, the bespectacled brunette grabbed Greg’s sleeve. “Detective inspector, I have to introduce myself as Jeremy McKenzie to anyone who isn’t MI6 agents or family,” he spoke quickly, his voice quiet as a breath. “I never meant to trick you at all.”
Greg stared at Q’s sincere eyes behind his cracked lenses for a beat, and finally gave him a wry grimace. “I know, kid,” he shrugged, “no worries.”
The Holmeses. Never could say no to them.
22.
The next day, M called Q to his office first thing in the morning. The older man shot Q a dirty look and tossed a file containing the profiles of yesterday’s kidnappers at him. “Don’t play this trick again, Q. Send that distress message to us.” He seemed annoyed for owing Mycroft more favours.
Q returned to his workstation with a mild headache from the scolding, and groaned when he spotted Agent 007 lounging around the Q branch. “Bond,” he groused, “What do you want?”
The spy’s arctic blue eyes lingered on Q’s bruised face for a moment too long before he planted his arse on the edge of Q’s desk, like he owned it. “Mission in Egypt tomorrow,” he said lazily.
“Back to active duty so soon, 007,” Q sighed as he slipped behind his desk and started rummaging for the standard parcel of Walther PPK and radio transmitter. He’d taken to keeping a stock of Bond-imprinted guns in his drawer for Goodness sake, the agent had lost the Walther so many times it nearly gave Q a hernia. “Not that it would be detrimental for my sanity. Quite the contrary, in fact,” he remarked as he passed the black box to the agent. Bond on forced medical leave was a nightmare. “Should I even bother telling you to bring my equipments back in tact?”
Bond’s fingers brushed against Q’s slowly as he picked up his tools, and from the way the blonde was staring at him raptly, their faces closer than what was appropriate, the touch was obviously intended. “I will try this time,” 007 spoke softly, and Q’s heart jumped to his throat.
Q sat down and pretended to be busy with his computers to put more distance between them. Bond nonchalantly retrieved a small package from his inner pocket and placed it in front of Q as the younger man was inwardly telling his heart to stop beating so fast.
It was a pack of Hungarian tea biscuits. Caramelised.
“I forgot to pass you this,” Bond said, a piss poor excuse of an explanation as Q stared, not knowing what to make of the…souvenir. “Take care, Q.”
By the time Q looked up, the agent had already disappeared.
23.
Mycroft loves with well-thought-of acts of service that means the world and digital eyes that follow you everywhere. Sherlock loves like a fire, explosive like the rest of him, a sleek, dangerous big cat who pounces on anyone who hurts and threatens them.
Percy loves unconditionally. He always does.
TBC
Notes:
1. Everything from ‘*’ to [1] are borrowed from ‘This is Her Body’ by Chaerring (http://archiveofourown.org/works/565584).
2. The line starting from ‘**’ to [2] is borrowed from ‘Family Secret’ by Valeria2067 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/566104).
3. Oh, yeah, Q can totally turn his own smartphone to a grenade. Or cause a gas explosion at another part of the factory. Take your pick.
Next chapter should be last. Oh God, first time in ages that I actually finish a multi-chaptered fic? A cause for celebration, really.