- Work in Progress
- Violence - Canon-Level
Q gave the bartender a nod; there wasn’t much of a crowd in the darkened pub on a Wednesday afternoon, just a few die hard drinkers and James Bond sitting at the bar. Bond was looking rough, as rough and wrung out as he had when Q first met him at the National Gallery.
It wasn’t surprising with the beating Bond had taken and the death of Olivia Mansfield at Skyfall less than two weeks before.
Q hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could really do what he planned to do. There were no other options. He’d have taken another option, if it had been available to him. Q’s agent was a Sentinel and Bond had no idea what he was, had no idea how dangerous that made him. As a mundane and a Double-O, Bond was deadly. As a Sentinel without control of his senses, Bond was savage.
Q approached the bar, a bit disconcerted at seeing Bond out of his bespoke armor. Of course, he’d only met and worked with the man recently, so he supposed Bond wouldn’t wear custom suits during his down time. The worn blue jeans, boots, and long-sleeve gray Henley would work for now, would work for where they were going.
Bond gave him the side-eye as Q moved the navy peacoat off the stool next to him and took a seat. Q had no illusions that Bond hadn’t been completely aware of him since he’d entered the pub. Even if he’d not been a Sentinel, James Bond was always aware of his surroundings. It was a hazard of the job.
“James,” he murmured back. It was better he not to use the agent’s designation; they were going to become very close soon, unless Bond killed him for what he was about to do. It was a bit of a worry.
Bond was drinking scotch straight, not a good thing, not at all.
Q flagged down the bartender and order a pint. He wasn’t the one having to curb his drinking after all. And, besides he needed the camouflage, best to try not to alarm the killer beside him.
“What do you want,” James asked, tapping the wooden bar top for another drink. The bartender whisked away the old tumblr and replaced it with a new one.
“Oh, what any boss wants, I suppose,” Q replied. “A computer with Wi-Fi and a reliable employee.”
Bond snorted before taking a sip of his drink, though, gulp was more like it. He didn’t know how Bond could stand the burn of the spirits down his throat, at least, in his current state.
“Are you going to come back?”
Bond was silent for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“What will you do, then? If you don’t come back.”
Bond didn’t answer him, not that Q expected him to.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” Q said. “You did what you could.”
“I got her killed. I wasn’t ready. I knew it and she knew it.”
“Self reflection is not attractive in you, James,” Q stated, watching the man beside him. “She knew the danger, just as much as you did. We all did. I don’t think it could’ve played out any differently. My part in the debacle, as well.”
“He was smarter than all of us put together. Crazy as a bloody loon but genius.”
“Yes, he was,” Q agreed, fiddling with the cold glass of the pint under his fingertips. “Perhaps we were all to arrogant to see our weaknesses, M included. It doesn’t mean we can’t move on from here. You’re a great agent and we need you.”
Bond was frowning down at his drink, swaying a bit on his stool.
Wait for it, not long now.
He flinched when Q put a hand on his shoulder. “It will be alright, James.”
“Q, what the fuck is this?” Those luminous blue eyes landed on him in disbelief, before they rolled back and closed. Q grunted a bit catching Bond’s heavy body before he fell off his stool.
“I got him,” John Watson said, putting one of Bond’s arms around his shoulder. “Sherlock, get over here and help us, you git!”
Sherlock gave an offended sniff, but moved out from behind the bar. He took Q’s place under Bond’s other shoulder.
“I hope you gave him the right dosage, Sherlock,” Q said.
“Of course I did, I calculated the dosage, based on the amount of alcohol he’s consumed.”
“How long will he be out?”
Q followed the trio out to the nondescript black car waiting on the curb. Mycroft’s chauffeur opened the back door and Bond was poured onto the gray leather seats. Sherlock of course, dropped the agent’s feet, leaving John to sort out the rest. And even though he was muttering unflattering things about Sherlock, John was careful with Bond’s body.
“Long enough to get you to the location and with the amount of drink he’s had, he probably won’t wake until tomorrow evening.”
Q shifted with impatience waiting while John checked Bond’s vitals.
“Do you think you can really do this?” Sherlock asked, and it was so unlike him to be concerned with anyone else but Dr. John H. Watson that Q was taken aback a bit.
“No, not sure at all but there’s no one else who can do it.”
John closed the car door. “We’ll be close if you need us.”
“Not too close,” Q replied. “He’s dangerous, particularly in his current state. I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”
“He’ll be riled up when he wakes,” Sherlock said. “You’ll need us before too long, I should think.”
Q shook his head. He did not want Sherlock or John anywhere near Bond, or anyone else for that matter. If Bond had a feral episode, anyone close, including himself could be killed. The first few hours would be critical for both of them and even though he was a bit scared of Bond at the moment, he couldn’t in good conscience let anyone else get hurt trying to help.
Bond knew him, to a point and Q hoped trusted him enough not to kill him outright.
“Stay clear, Sherlock,” Q murmured, taking in Sherlock’s worried green-blue gaze. “I’ll be fine.”
“Call me, little brother, if you need me and John and I will be there.”