Chapter Text
“007 speaking, I need an evac,” Bond said into his mobile (special MI6 issue, secured line, no doubt the source of most of Q’s “breadcrumbs”). “Myself, one civilian, two decedents.” There were, of course, more corpses on the premises, but he didn’t give a damn what happened to them. M was owed a proper burial with full governmental and military honours. And Silva needed to be nailed into a lead coffin and buried 60 feet under the bottom of the nearest large body of water.
After arguing with headquarters about whether they would take him to their main Scotland facility or back to London (Bond won on his insistence on the latter), he also demanded that Gareth Mallory be there to meet them, telling them that he didn’t give a damn that Mallory was still in hospital, a shot in the shoulder never prevented him from returning to MI6 when they needed him. Headquarters stopped arguing any point with him after that.
Within the hour, the sound of helicopters cut through the air for the second time that night, wholly welcome this time. He given no indication to Kincade what was going on for the past hour, and Kincade had known better than to ask, but as two black choppers touched down just outside of the chapel, his curiosity was roused almost to the breaking point. Before he could say anything however, Bond looked over at him and said simply “In due time...” and Kincade kept his mouth shut.
A medical team emerged from one chopper with two stretchers. A formality, of course, until M and Silva were officially declared dead, which would happen en route. Bond watched intently as M was laid out on her stretcher, and he held the medical team back a few moments to hold her hand one last time. Silva had already been carted off, and Bond finally allowed himself to let go. He slid one arm across Kincade’s shoulders and leaned into him, not quite sobbing, but drawing huge gasping breaths all the same. After another member of the medical team draped a rough blanket around Bond’s shoulders saying something about hypothermia, Kincade took the lead in walking Bond to the other helicopter.
Once on board, Bond sat as close to Kincade as he could, taking the comfort he had refused at his own parents’ death. Kincade patted Bond’s head down to his nearest shoulder, and said “She was a fine woman, lad. She was lucky to have you right up to the end.” Bond said nothing and his breathing remained unchanged, but small tears began to leak silently from his eyes.
They had been in the air for a half hour before Bond had gathered himself back together to some degree of professionalism. “Where in London are we going?” he asked, finally realizing that the Churchill bunkers were really no place to bring the body of one of MI6’s greatest leaders, not to mention the security risk Kincade would be perceived to pose at first.
The pilot replied, “St. Stephen’s hospital. It’s where Mallory is recovering, not to mention direct access to a coroner, a doctor to look you over, and well, there aren’t too many other places we could bring a civilian with no clearance.”
Kincade snorted. “James, I still don’t know what you do, and hope you don’t have to kill me after you tell me. Because then I’d rather not know.” Bond smiled in spite of himself.
“I’d rather get you a VC,” Bond replied. “I think this qualifies for one. Or at least a George Cross.”
“‘At least’, he says!” Kincade laughed, and for the first time all day, Bond was keen to see his life go on.
~ ~ ~
He should have known that feeling would be short-lived. He had just stepped out of his chopper on to the hospital roof when he noticed there were far too many technicians and nurses waiting to meet them. And there was a rush to unload Silva from his chopper and get him inside.
“Son of a bitch,” Bond growled and ran for the door Silva’s stretcher had just rolled through. He almost made it, until his gut collided with Mallory’s outstretched good arm. Clutching his stomach and gasping as he straightened up, he turned on Mallory. “Goddammit Mallory, what the bloody hell are you doing? Get out of my way and let me finish my job!”
“No, 007, I can’t allow you to murder a man in the Crown’s custody,” Mallory replied, grasping Bond’s upper arm to hold him in place.
“He killed M,” Bond spat. “Don’t think I won’t break your other arm if you persist in trying to stop me.”
“007, you know how this works. He killed the former M,” Mallory said steadily. “As of about an hour ago, I am M. And I’m telling you your job re: Raoul Silva is now deemed complete. Until further notice, any further violence perpetrated by you upon his person will be considered a rogue action and you will face court martial.”
Bond wrenched his arm away and said, “See you in court, then,” as he turned to the roof door.
“James,” Mallory said with a new gentleness. “Enough. She wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your career on him.”
Bond stopped and turned around to face Mallory again. “And what are you going to do with him? You can’t contain him. Q’s marvellous security system couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him. Cyanide and a fucking knife in his back haven’t stopped him. Where do you see this ending?”
“It doesn’t end with him being strangled in his hospital bed,” Mallory shot back. “Plans of what to do with Silva are being made as we speak. And while not of official concern to you, I will personally keep you updated on his status. Now go inside with Nurse Pritchett here,” he said, gesturing towards a woman now standing next to the roof door, “and let the doctors have a look at you. You absolutely will not be able to have your revenge if you lose your fingers to frostbite or die of pneumonia next week,” he finished wryly.
Defeated, Bond allowed himself to be escorted down to the closed ward where all the government officials injured in Silva’s attack on M’s hearing were recuperating. He cursed Silva, cursed Mallory, cursed himself for not making sure the job was done back in the chapel.
~ ~ ~
After being stitched up and soaked in a warm bath, Bond was given a clean bill of health, but was told he was being kept for “further observation”. In other words, Mallory wanted to keep an eye on him. He had been debriefed and vouched for Kincade’s trustworthiness (and listed all the medals he believed Kincade deserved) by the time he saw his new boss again.
“His condition has stabilised,” Mallory informed him. “He’s still unconscious, but he is expected to recover.”
“Always start with the good news, don’t you?” Bond replied dryly.
Mallory ignored the comment. “It’s been decided that after he regains consciousness and has been debriefed that he will remain in MI6 custody indefinitely. He has already been declared legally dead.”
“Have you changed your mind on making that an actual reality?” Bond spat.
“No, 007.” Mallory sighed. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but you are making this too personal.”
“Too personal? For fuck’s sake Mallory, her body isn’t even cold yet--”
“And not a single member of the NATO Military Committee will give a damn about that. They are far more concerned about the five operatives of theirs who are dead. They will want to know exactly how our security was breached and how to prevent it from happening again. They will want to be assured that the only person who could leak the remaining names is unable to. Right now, MI6 looks like it has as much security and advanced technology as a telegraph office, every maniac with a computer has been trying to hack us ever since the list leaked.” Mallory’s voice tightened with his conviction, “Bond, there is only one person in the world who has all the information we need. The security of the free world depends on us even trying to get it from him. Is your revenge, is your grief, worth that much?”
“Apparently not,” Bond ended the conversation.