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John Watson wondered what his partner was thinking. The man in question, dressed in his favored purple shirt and slim black pants, had bustled him into the kitchen and given him a cup of tea.
It could hardly be more suspicious, John thought.
“And what have you done now?”John asked.
“Who says I’ve done anything? Sherlock returned. “Can’t a man simply provide his partner with a cup of tea?”
“Certainly, though I’ve never known you to do this before,” John commented. “Pardon my suspicion that you have ulterior motives.”
Sherlock looked put out. John smirked.
“Be that as it may, I do, occasionally, offer a kindness for its own sake,” Sherlock said stiffly.
Ah. John decided not to comment on the clearly bruised feelings, and accepted the tea. “Well, then, thank you.” He took a sip, and his nose wrinkled involuntarily. “What kind of tea is this?”
“It’s a new blend,” Sherlock said, pouring his own cup. “It’s a combination of herbs that’s meant to stimulate the intellect.”
John sipped again, slowly. “It’s got quite an interesting flavor.”
Sherlock took a sip, then spit it out in the sink. “Right. That’s disgusting.”
“Well.” John set his cup down. “Perhaps with sugar.”
“Not even sugar could rescue that,” Sherlock said. “Maybe if I change up the quantities.”
“Are you blending your own tea?” John asked. “Are you that bored?”
“Well, I can hardly lay around and shoot the walls,” Sherlock pointed out. “I might wake Rosie.”
Rosie, John’s daughter with his late wife Mary, slept soundly every afternoon in the room upstairs. John appreciated the consideration, even as he marveled, once again, at the fact that his daughter had his partner wrapped around her little fingers. “Blending tea, then,” John observed. “There are worse things to do, I suppose.” He stepped up to Sherlock and cupped his cheek. “Sherlock, I do believe you need a case.”
“I really do.” Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own. “I really, really do.”
A wail from above caught their attention, and John caressed Sherlock’s cheek before heading up the stairs to get Rosie, change her, and bring her downstairs.
Sherlock cleaned up the tea things and pulled out toddler-friendly food as John brought Rosie down. Now awake from her afternoon nap, she enjoyed a position of importance in her high chair between her two favorite people, who were feeding her an after-nap snack of dry cereal and bite-sized pieces of fresh fruit.
“What about contacting Lestrade?” John asked as set more fruit on his toddler’s tray. “Maybe he’s got some old unsolved cases or something that you could take a crack at.”
“Already took care of those,” Sherlock grumbled. “Ages ago. There was a backlog from my time away, of course, but I solved them in my spare time when I got back.”
“Leaving you nothing to do now,” John nodded. “Are you bored enough to reach out to Mycroft?”
“Never again in this life will I reach out to Mycroft.” Sherlock finished tipping milk into a sippy cup and set it down on the tray, and Rosie grabbed it to take a swig. “I don’t have any plans to submit to his idea of keeping me occupied unless circumstances are dire.”
“I have to point out that you are learning to blend your own teas,” John said reasonably.
“It’s a perfectly adequate hobby.” Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter. “When do you resume shifts at the surgery?”
“Tomorrow, actually,” John said, carefully tipping a few more pieces of cereal onto the tray. “Mrs. Hudson is ready to stand as nanny. Says she’s been bored.”
“I’m sure that between the two of us, Rosie will be just fine, won’t she?” Sherlock leaned down to ask her directly.
“Lock! Pay!” Rosie shouted, and nodded.
“Absolutely, there will be play,” Sherlock nodded along. “Children need stimulation for their tiny brains.”
“My child is not going to be an experiment, Sherlock,” John warned.
“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “I have activities planned that are perfectly age-appropriate and fun.” He cleared his throat. “Mummy helped.”
At that, John relaxed. Mummy Holmes wouldn’t steer Sherlock in the wrong direction. Purposely, anyway.
A knock at the door drew their attention, and Sherlock straightened up to go and answer it.
“Ah,” Sherlock said, looking into the face of his little brother. “I should be more surprised. I thought you were dead.”
The man, known only as Q, the quartermaster to MI6, looked sheepish for a moment. “So does the rest of the family, and it needs to stay that way, but I do have a problem that I think only you can solve.” He drew an unsteady breath. “I certainly can’t get anywhere with it myself.”
“Come in,” Sherlock said, opening the door more widely. He gestured to the living space. “Have a seat somewhere.”
The living area had changed a bit since John and Rosie had moved in. A play yard sat in the corner under a wall covered with bullet holes, and a couch and desk had been moved out to make room. Q processed that with a glance, then looked up. “When did you get a child?”
“When my partner moved back in with me, he brought his daughter along,” Sherlock said. “She’s finishing her after-nap snack just now.”
“Right,” Q said, wondering what else had changed.
John walked into the room from the kitchen, Rosie on one hip. “Hello.”
Sherlock nodded to his partner. “John, this is my other brother. Other brother whose name I do not have access to, this is my partner, John.”
“When you say partner ….” Q trailed off.
John rolled his eyes. “Just what it means.” He set Rosie in the play area and handed her the bucket of blocks. “And since when did you have another brother?” John asked.
“Since I was four,” Sherlock said. “Then, he was called Ambrose, and up until about ten years ago, he remained Ambrose. There was an accident, and my brother Ambrose apparently died. It must be Mycroft’s go-to strategy, killing off or institutionalizing siblings that he thinks he needs to control for the good of Britain.”
Q shrugged. “Call me Q. I run MI6’s technical department, and yes, Mycroft knows.”
“Brilliant,” Sherlock said. “Another thing to hold against him. Mummy will be livid.”
“Mummy mustn’t know, ‘Lock,” Q said softly. “It’s dangerous. More so now that I’m Q.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Can’t promise anything. Did you know about Eurus?”
Q blinked. “She died when I was 6.”
“She was committed by our brother, and her death faked, when you were 6,” Sherlock retorted. “I didn’t know either. But now we all do, and I go play violin with her at the institution every month.”
Q sat down, slowly. “She must hate us.”
“She did.” Sherlock sat opposite his brother. “I think we’re all down to just resentful anger at Mycroft, though that might just ratchet back up now that we know you’re alive too.”
“Don’t blame Myc, please,” Q said. “I hacked into MI6; I was caught. Mycroft managed to wrangle a deal for me: join MI6 or be incarcerated, and I chose to join. I do love my job, Sherlock.”
He said nothing, but glanced at John, who nodded slightly. “Right, well, what brings you out of the woodwork today?”
“My own partner is missing,” Q said. “As he’s gone off the grid before, none of the rest of MI6 is concerned. But he promised to be back by our anniversary, Sherlock. Two days ago, and he’s still not here. I can’t find him, and I hoped you’d be able to.”
Sherlock’s first thought was how he could possibly get away with Rosie to take care of, which said a great deal about his commitment to raising the child with John. His second thought, however, spun to how to make it work anyway. Not only was there a case, but it was one with which his brilliant younger brother needed help.
No one ever mentions how much being responsible for a child affects professional decision-making, he thought. Sherlock found himself in an awkward position, and ruefully admonished himself internally that he’d never before considered how child care could hamper a career. Mummy would call that “white male privilege,” and rightfully admonish him for it.
“Well, then,” John said. “I’ll just have to call in to the surgery, won’t I?”
“Wait on that, John, until we see that it’s necessary, will you?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the squirmy feeling of guilt over John’s career being set aside, again.
“When and where did your partner go missing, Q?”
“Last mission was in Singapore,” Q said heavily. “He planned to come home by way of Amsterdam. I’ve traced him to there, actually--or at least, his paper trail, to there. The last good image I have of him is boarding the plane in Singapore, though customs in Amsterdam have a record of him arriving there.”
“Your partner is an agent?”
“007, a.k.a James Bond,” Q said.
John looked startled. “Not Commander James Bond?”
Q looked over at John. “His rank in the Navy, yes.”
“Good man,” John said. “Served with him once or twice. Didn’t know he’d gone to MI6.”
“If he’s a double-oh, he’s licensed to kill in Her Majesty’s service, and it implies that he’s a deadly threat on his own,” Sherlock reflected. “I can see why your superiors aren’t worried.”
“He’s also got a bit of a reputation as a rake,” Q said distastefully. “They’re not taking my assertions seriously because of that.”
“A good reputation, once lost, is not easily recovered,” Sherlock said absently. “Which suggests, if Bond was taken, that he was taken by someone who knows him, and his reputation, well.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down as much as it ought to,” Q said. “His reputation as deadly and rakish is sort of legendary among the foreign intelligence set.”
“But it does narrow it to the intelligence community.” Sherlock absently handed Rosie one of the blocks she’d just tossed over the play yard fence. “Who is the primary person stalling your efforts to have this investigated?”
“Requests go directly to M.” Q shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
“Who is in that role these days?” Sherlock asked.
“A man named Gareth Mallory,” Q said. “He’s been in the role for about five years.”
“How long have you been married to Bond?” Sherlock sat back in his customary chair, fingers steepled.
Q raised an eyebrow. “Noticed the ring, did you?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Anniversary implies wedding, too, but yes. Two days ago for the anniversary, but how long have you been married?”
“Three years,” Q said. “We eloped, quietly, after a major disaster with SPECTRE.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said. “How many at MI6 know that your involvement is not just romantic, but stable and committed?”
“Perhaps one.” Q fidgeted, his fingers tapping his thighs over and over again, as if on an invisible keyboard. “Eve Moneypenny. She’s a good friend to us both, but we never did tell her we were married. She may have figured it out by proximity.”
“So you’ve got nothing on him after he arrived in Amsterdam.” Sherlock leaned his chin on his fingers. “Knowing you as I hope I still do, you’ll have stripped away everything that could be found on the net to locate him already.”
“It’s as if he never left the airport,” Q agreed. “No credit card receipts, no cash images. Granted, if he’s gone off the grid, he certainly knows how to make himself disappear. But he promised not to.”
“Back to the promise,” Sherlock said. “Did anyone but you know about it?”
“No,” Q said.
Sherlock sprung back up out of his chair and began to pace. “Too many suspects, too many avenues of investigation. Someone will need to physically go to Amsterdam and look for traces of him to follow. Someone will need to look very closely at those in MI6 who could benefit from his absence. And, of course, someone will need to look at known enemies and their locations.” He spun around and looked seriously at Q. “We also cannot discount the possibility that he was taken at random. I know that he is a capable and deadly man, but with a reputation as a rake, I would wager he is also a handsome man.”
“Very,” Q admitted.
“And thus, this could be a new or bigger plot that relies on his reputation to keep from alerting his superiors in a timely fashion to the very real danger,” Sherlock said. “Every hour missing counts in that case.”
“Right,” John said. “I’ll go see Mrs. Hudson about minding Rosie. You’ll want me at your back in Amsterdam, Sherlock.”
“That would be my preference, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Q, you will turn your investigation toward those at MI6 and those who are Bond’s known enemies. You have my mobile number, of course. John and I will go to Amsterdam and start looking for physical traces of him.”
Q slumped in relief. “We have a plan.”
“We do.”
“And you believe me.”
“I do,” Sherlock said, and smiled suddenly. “You always had good judgment when it came to people, Q. You’ve been married to this man for three years. When he makes promises to you, he keeps them. Therefore, something is wrong, and we’re off to find out what.”
“Thanks, ‘Lock.” Q stood. “I’ll take the day off, then, and head to my own flat to start hacking. I’d rather not use MI6 resources to investigate MI6. I’ll call it a training exercise, and see if anyone can catch me looking into personnel and case files for information about past ties, enemies, and why any official investigation might be stalled.”
“We’ll let you know when we get to Amsterdam.” Sherlock extended a hand to his brother. “And when we find something.”
Q shook his brother’s hand briskly, then hesitated. “I’m glad to see you, ‘Lock.”
Sherlock nodded. “I can say the same. Be careful.”
Q smiled, then headed out the door.
John followed him out and down the stairs to talk to Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock picked up Rosie from the playpen.
“It looks like your father and I have an adventure to go on, Rosie-my-love,” he whispered to her. “Mrs. Hudson will spoil you endlessly, I’m certain.”
Rosie bopped him on the nose and giggled.
Sherlock and John wasted no time booking a flight to Amsterdam. They settled Rosie in with Mrs. Hudson, then took a cab out to the airport, picking up equipment from Q on the way that would keep them in touch via a tiny transmitter in Sherlock’s ear. The quick, budget flight went smoothly, and they landed at Schiphol with minimal issue. Sherlock started watching as they went through customs, but saw nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary. Once through, they headed directly to the customs office, where Sherlock asked after the people on staff the hour that Bond supposedly went through customs.
The rather strict privacy laws enacted in the Netherlands, however, stumped official enquiry. Sherlock nosed around the current staff, surreptitiously taking pictures, and sent them to Q with a note asking about whether any of those on duty were also on duty the day that Bond supposedly arrived. Q sent back documents on two of them: Anders Van Dijk, and Elsa Johnson. Sherlock watched as the pair continued their work, and Johnson left to take a break. He and John followed, then struck up a conversation about passengers.
A picture of Bond had Johnson shaking her head. She either did not remember, or had not seen, Bond, and her microexpressions told Sherlock she wasn’t lying.
Van Dijk, however, had more to say. He remembered Bond, because the man seemed to be cared for by another, larger man.
“Blond, very light eyes, muscular in that Dolph Lundgren way,” came the description, and Sherlock gave a shark’s smile. “Held on to this one all the way through. Fellow seemed ill.”
Sherlock thanked the man, and sent the description to Q, who used it to search the known enemies database he’d erected in the time he’d been given. It didn’t narrow it down terribly far, but knowing that Bond had left with company gave Q an opening to examine images through CCTV. Amsterdam was not peppered with cameras, as London was, but there were enough that Q finally caught another clue when he saw the odd couple drift past a warehouse with a known reputation for smuggling. The image, texted to Sherlock as he and John wandered down into the city, pinpointed a spot that held promise for finding James.
“There’s a new security camera across the street, installed by the city, but it’s new enough that our big Dolph fellow might not know that it’s there,” Q told Sherlock when he found the image.
“Somewhere in the warehouse district,” Sherlock muttered. “What do we know about this area?”
“The warehouse reflected in the image is one known for smuggling; Interpol has had an eye on it for some time, but has left it alone because it occasionally offers bread crumbs on larger operations,” Q said, his keyboard clattering softly in Sherlock’s ear. “The spaces on either side have rotating owners; at the moment, the one to the south on the canal is empty, while the one to the north reportedly holds tulip bulbs ready for shipment.”
“Smuggling of what sort, Q?” Sherlock asked.
“Mostly luxury goods in an attempt to avoid taxes,” Q said absently. “They’ve got a pretty slick operation.”
“Would ‘luxury goods’ extend to human trafficking?” Sherlock wondered aloud. John gave him a sharp look.
The clatter in his ear halted.
“Q?” Sherlock said sharply.
“Not in anything I’ve seen,” came the soft reply, “but…”
Sherlock nodded briskly. “Right. We’ll check it out.”
“‘Lock, be careful,” Q cautioned. The clatter of keys resumed. “I’m stripping this warehouse’s history down.”
“Happy hunting, little brother,” Sherlock said, and locked eyes with John. “We will.”
The pair picked up their paces, moving toward the warehouse on the canal swiftly. Q remained a soft hum in Sherlock’s ear as they made their way. As odd—and unsettling—as his little brother’s appearance had been, it was nice, too.
“I’ve got a match,” Q said quietly.
“Oh?”
“The image of the man with James matches the image of a man affiliated with the smugglers’ leader, Rafe DeVeaux. The system identifies him as Jacob Vanacker, 32, businessman, no known criminal activity.”
“But he knows DeVeaux?”
“They have some business deals, which look legitimate, on file,” Q said. The keyboard clattering didn’t let up. “His digital footprint isn’t terribly large, but that’s enough of a connection to make your infiltration of the warehouse reasonable.”
Sherlock hummed. “Knew of the warehouse, knew he could take Bond there. But for what purpose?”
“And are they still there?”
“We’re nearly there, and we can have a look,” Sherlock said.
The warehouse stood directly against the canal, a large, box-like structure that had blacked-out windows and a water entrance. Though kept in good condition, the lack of obvious street entrances practically screamed, “Criminal activity here! Move along!”
Sherlock noticed, however, that one panel, while not an obvious door, was set on hinges. A closer look showed him the cleverness of a door hiding in plain sight, with a hidden lock.
“Fun,” he muttered as he ran fingers along the edge of the door seam to find a mechanism that would allow him to spring the door open.
“Smart, anyway,” John added, watching for trouble behind Sherlock. “We going in through that door?”
“Don’t see why not,” Sherlock said, finally finding a latch he could press. The door hitched, then gave way, and he slipped inside, holding the door open enough for John to follow him in before shutting it.
Inside it was dark, with light barely filtering in though obvious cracks in the floor that led to the water entrance.
“Watch your step,” Sherlock muttered quietly, turning his phone’s flashlight on. “Some of this floor is likely rotten.”
He turned the beam so that it shown outward, then directed it along the walls to find an office with a stairwell next to it, closer to the water side. The office itself had a large window facing the warehouse floor, but it was dark. As Sherlock traced his light over the window, they heard a muffled bang from that direction, and Sherlock aimed his beam at the floor between them and the office. He guided John with him toward the office door, following the increasing number of bangs, and reached the office door with alacrity.
It was locked.
“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, and handed his phone to John so he could get his lock picks out. “Give me light for this?”
John aimed the light at the door handle, and kept one hand on his gun as Sherlock worked the tumblers in the lock.
“Stupid,” Sherlock said. “Relying on tricks to keep people out. Where’s the security cameras? At least stupid criminals make our jobs easier.”
“Doubt they see it that way, but when you’re right,” John said, watching as Sherlock slipped his picks free and turned the handle, “you’re right.”
The banging stopped as Sherlock picked the lock, and when the door swung open, the light from Sherlock’s phone revealed a disheveled and bloodied James Bond, zip tied tightly to a metal office chair. He also wore a ugly black ball gag, and Sherlock curled his lip in distaste. Judging by the marks in the dust on the floor, Bond had been using his legs to bang the metal chair legs against the concrete.
“James Bond, I presume?” Sherlock asked. “Sherlock Holmes. Your partner sent me.”
James’ blue eyes narrowed.
“Yes, yes, as it happens, Q is my little brother. No idea if you knew that or not, but as his requests for help finding you were getting nowhere with MI6, he enlisted me,” Sherlock said. “May I approach and get rid of that gag for you?”
James gave a deliberate nod.
“Excellent!” Sherlock strode forward. “John, do please watch our backs.”
“Got a knife with you, Sherlock?” John asked. “I can see from here that he needs those zip ties off before he loses a hand.”
In answer, Sherlock pulled a jackknife from his pocket. “I’m always prepared, John.”
“How did you get that past security?” John asked curiously.
“How did you get your gun past security?” Sherlock countered, busily unbuckling the gag. It popped free, as it had been buckled too tightly, and James moved his lips and jaw.
“Holmes and Watson,” he said hoarsely. “Can’t say I expected you.”
“Can’t say we expected to find you tied up in an Amsterdam warehouse after missing your anniversary, but there you are,” Sherlock said. He carefully slipped the tip of his knife under the plastic of the zip tie on his right hand, which fastened him to the heavy metal chair, and flicked it upward. It fought, but eventually the tie broke. He did the same on the left, then squatted to undo the zips at each foot. “How long have you been here?”
“No idea,” James said. “That wanker Vanacker locked me up here in the dark.”
“How did he manage that?” John asked idly from the door. “Getting the drop on you?”
“He roofied my martini on the plane,” James said bitterly. “I was sitting next to him, and I was distracted. I didn’t notice until I tried to get up, then he helped me up, ‘kindly’ got me through security, and brought me here. He kept me drugged to keep me compliant, but that wore off. No idea even what day it is.”
“Three days since you arrived in Amsterdam; two days since your anniversary,” Sherlock said. “Q came to me this morning when he got fed up with your superiors.”
“Ah, yes,” James said. “M. I think Q will find that Vanacker has a known affiliation with our dear leader.”
In Sherlock’s ear, Q, who had been quietly listening in as he mined MI6 for information, hissed. “Yes; there it is. Vanacker is one of M’s former schoolmates, and a business partner.”
“M apparently decided Vanacker would like me,” James said coldly. He tried to stand up, but his feet failed him, and he collapsed clumsily back into the chair. “I’m not sure what Vanacker’s purpose is, only that he left me here.”
“You’re going to need an exam,” John said clinically. “With drugs, there’s no telling what he’s done with you up until this point.”
“I did have the impression that the ball gag was meant to be fun for him, yes,” James said unwillingly.
Sherlock, who had been looking around the room with his phone flashlight, said absently, “There’s no bed or cot here, so if you were brought straight here, it’s likely he was trying to soften you up, make you more compliant through deprivation. Did he feed you?”
“No,” James said. “A little water I remember.”
“We need to get him out of here, Sherlock.”
Q cleared his throat. “I’m sending a cab to your location, ‘Lock. I’ve booked you in to The Dylan for the night. Can you ask John to take care of him?”
“My little brother wants to know if you’ll care for James, John, and as I know the answer is yes, we’ll be moving you out now. There’s a cab coming to collect us and take us to a hotel for the night,” Sherlock said briskly. He moved to James and offered a hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”
James took the offered hand, stumbling again, but managing to catch himself enough to limp out, slowly, leaning on Sherlock as John lit the way with his own phone flashlight and kept an eye out for Vanacker.
“You’ve got Q in your ear?” James asked as they hobbled out.
“I do,” Sherlock said.
“Tell him I’m sorry I’m late.”
Sherlock smiled. “He can hear you, you know.”
“I know,” James assured him. “I know, and love, I’m sorry.”
Q whispered. “I know.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He says he knows. Enough, please, I’m not interested in being in the middle of your romance. I’ll hand off my phone when we’re settled and you two can have a proper conversation that does not involve me.”
“You’re all heart, Sherlock,” John said, but his smirk gave him away. “I’ll need you to unlatch the door again.”
Sherlock transferred James to John, then found the latch that let them in. He used the mechanism to release the door, and let them out, and as they made it to the sidewalk, a cab pulled up. Sherlock opened the door, and asked, “Who ordered you?”
“Bloke named Q,” the driver said. She tossed her golden hair back. “We’re going to the Dylan, and I’ve never seen you. Don’t worry; I’ve been well paid for my silence, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and helped John get James inside.
The Dylan not only expected them, but rolled out their equivalent of a red carpet for them. A luxury room, a platter of food, and a first aid kit welcomed the trio, and an order had been already been placed for a new suit for Mr. Bond.
Sherlock helped James get into the room, then he and John helped him out of his tattered suit so that John could get a good look at his hands and feet.
“He didn’t do you any favors,” John said. “But you had just enough circulation to ensure you kept these. They’re going to be bruised like anything for a while, though.”
“Lovely,” James said sourly. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
“I’d think a warm bath and a long phone call with your husband would do you some good,” John said, and gestured to the en-suite. “You can tell me then if more doctoring is necessary. And I want to see you sip some of that lemon water.”
“Yes, doctor,” James said. He took the glass with him as he hobbled toward the bath, and Sherlock stopped him for a moment to hand him his phone.
“Q’s already on.” Sherlock stepped back. “Let us know if you need any help.”
James saluted him with the phone, stepped into the bath, and shut the door.
“What is this all about, Sherlock?” John asked, crossing over to get himself a glass of the lemon water and to nibble on a biscuit.
“We’ll have to ask M,” Sherlock said. “It’s clear that he let Vanacker know where James could be found, but for what purpose? The key question, of course, is whether M knew Vanacker intended to kidnap the man, soften him up, and potentially enslave him. If I were an optimistic man, I might suggest that M had the poor taste to think he was setting James up on a date, but frankly, I’m out of optimism.”
“M doesn’t know that James is married,” John said slowly, “so he wouldn’t know that James would be missed.”
Sherlock nodded. “A lot can be explained away by a poor reputation as a rake. I wonder how much M resented Bond’s place in the agency?”
“No excuse to slut-shame the man,” John retorted. “Which is all anyone at that agency did when Q tried to find him.”
“Indeed.” Sherlock wandered over to the food platter and poured himself a cup of tea. “You should call Mrs. Hudson and check on Rosie.”
“Right,” John said. “Are we heading straight back?”
“See how your patient is doing first,” Sherlock said. “And we can take the train. A longer ride, but a more secure one. I think I’m quite put off Schiphol for the moment.”
As it developed, a hot bath and a good meal did a great deal for James’ overall health, though John cautioned him to take it easy for a couple of days. With James’ statement regarding M and Vanacker, Q determined a tip to the police in Amsterdam, along with a helpful last known location for Vanacker, was in order.
“The more public an arrest is, the less likely it is they’ll try to make you disappear, again.” Q, on speaker in the main room after Bond left his bath and got comfortable, muttered darkly as he sent the information packet. “At the very least, you’ve got documented injuries, and eyewitnesses to your kidnapping. It’ll be enough to point an investigation Vanacker’s way, since he seems to have only one tie to the intelligence community.”
“And that would be M,” Sherlock nodded along with Q’s explanation.
“What was he thinking?” James asked.
“We’ll have to ask him and find out,” Q said.
As it was nearing midnight when all was said and done, the trio agreed to take the first train back to London the next morning, where Q himself would meet them with a hired car, and take James to MI6.
But first, Q informed Mycroft about the investigation, his husband’s disappearance and subsequent rescue, and the role Sherlock suspected M played in it. He did this over tea in a planned ambush of Mycroft’s office after breakfast, and Mycroft found himself rebuked, threatened, and on the back foot over his hiding of Eurus—again—and his failure to manage any part of his family.
“Accept it, Myc,” Q said gently, pouring another cup of Earl Grey. “You’re in the wrong here. We don’t need to be managed; we’re your family.”
“A family of geniuses bent on their own ideas of how things should be,” Mycroft said curtly. “At least I know that Mummy’s influence guided us all toward service.”
“Father’s, too,” Q said promptly. “But with you refusing my calls, and MI6 outright ignoring my inquiries, I had few choices but to go to Sherlock and reveal myself.”
“I suppose not,” Mycroft said, and left it at that. “Do keep me informed about M’s role in all this, would you?”
“Of course,” Q said. “We’ll be confronting him directly before lunch, when the trio arrive in London.”
“What about this Vanacker fellow?”
“Arrested about an hour before they got on the train, by local police, at his home,” Q said. “When shown the picture Sherlock took of James in the warehouse, he went silent, which is just as well. He’s looking at prison time for kidnapping and assault. Police are taking over the investigation at this point, because it seems that James might not have been the first victim.”
“A serial killer? Lovely,” Mycroft said sarcastically.
“But did M know?” Q asked.
“Whether he did or not, if he’s the source of the leak, he’s a security threat,” Mycroft said, and the steel underlying his words told Q he was speaking as the British Government. “I’ll need to find a new M. Bother. Thanks ever so, little brother.”
Q gave a dramatic bow. “You’re quite welcome.”
James, Q, Sherlock, and John walked into M’s office just before lunchtime with one agenda: find out what M knew about James’ kidnapping.
“Bond!” M exclaimed upon seeing him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly not,” Sherlock muttered, but gestured to Q when the latter shushed him.
“No, I was kidnapped by a man named Vanacker and held in a warehouse, bound, gagged, and starving in the dark, for three days,” Bond said dryly. “Do you know anything about that?”
M had gone quite pale by the time Bond was finished speaking, and Sherlock snorted. “He does, of course.”
“Well.” M smoothed down the front of his shirt and sat back down at his desk, carefully. “I certainly didn’t know about a kidnapping.”
“But you knew about Vanacker.” Bond sat on the edge of M’s desk, cheerfully getting into his space. “What did you know about Vanacker?”
“He’s a … friend, I suppose,” M said carefully. “He’s been looking for a new companion, and I happened to mention I had a friend flying into Amsterdam he might like to meet.”
“Happened to mention?” Sherlock snorted. “Vanacker knew exactly where to find Bond. Try again.”
M paled even further. “I just let him know when and where he was flying into Schiphol. He said he’d introduce himself.”
“He flew with me, sat next to me, and drugged me into compliance,” Bond said. “Does that sound friendly to you?”
“No, not at all,” M said faintly.
Q stepped up. “For breaches in operational security, sir, I will be relieving you of your duties at this desk.” He produced a document with the Queen’s seal. “By order of her Majesty.” He stepped back, and opened M’s office doors, where uniformed officers waited. “You are also under arrest for violating operational security until such time as we uncover the full extent of your complicity in the murders of several people to which Vanacker has now confessed.”
M looked like he might be sick, but readily stood and allowed himself to be handcuffed. As they snapped around his wrists, he looked right at James. “I do apologize, Bond. I merely thought you’d hit it off.”
“My husband begs to differ,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand and kissing it.
“I see,” M said, and went quietly.
They all watched him go, then filed out, and Q locked the door behind them. “We’ll be going through it when we have permission, just to ensure that’s the only breach committed.”
“Matchmaking,” Sherlock said. “I guess the optimistic theory was the correct one.”
“We can only hope,” John said. “We only have what he said here today, and that’s not necessarily truth.”
“But with James found, and the culprits locked up, we can sort those details later,” Q said. He swung his husband’s hand. “Lunch?”
“Lunch sounds grand. Ever been to Angelo’s?” Sherlock asked, pulling out his phone.
“No, but I’m always game to try new things,” James said.
John pulled out his own phone. “I’ll get Mrs. Hudson and Rosie to join us there.”
“Perfect.” Sherlock smiled at his brother. “Welcome back to the family.”
Q smiled back. “I’m glad to be back.”