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Match Making

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“So, you agree?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, but other than that his face remained completely impassive.

“Brother, do not take this in any way personally. I would rather agree with the ludicrous idea that Jack the Ripper was a homosexual woman attempting to overcome her sexuality than I would agree with you. However, in the face of the evidence you have- in a completely non-consensual act, may I note- placed in front of me this morning, I have no other option.”

Mycroft seemed unfazed.

“And you agree with my conclusion?”

Sherlock settled back into his armchair, interlocking his fingers over his stomach. He gazed at the laptop sitting in front of him in silence. Then nodded once.

Mycroft smiled and then quickly hid it. Not quickly enough.

“Get out, Mycroft. You have what you want, I agree with you. But this this is not for you! I only lower myself to work with you on this occasion for Quentin.”


“Out! And wipe that insufferable smirk off your face!”


Q stretched, reaching up towards the ceiling and yawning widely, like a cat.

‘Cute ,’ thought Bond. Followed by ‘Goddamn it 007 pull yourself togetherThe man yawned, for Christ sake!’

Q slid his laptop off his lap and curled up, pulling his knees into his chest. He snuffled, rubbing at one of his eyes with his hand.

Bond’s insides melted.

He forced himself to stop internally becoming a ball of warm, fuzzy feelings in favour of approaching Q. The young quartermaster appeared to be half-dead where he sat, trying to drink from his mug and then looking in confusion at the empty state of said mug for several long moments.

James gently took the cup from Q’s hands and set it on the table nearby, in the boy’s sight. He had learnt the hard way what happened when that mug wasn’t in sight.

“Alright there Q?” he asked.

Green eyes stared back at his, all sleepy from behind the thick glasses. Slowly he nodded, stifling another yawn. His head started to loll forwards.

James took hold of his chin and pulled it back up.

“Hey Q, come on. Bed time.”

Q made a small whine of protest and reached feebly for his laptop, which James firmly shut.

“No. You’re exhausted. You can take down the Siberian Government’s security systems later.”

Q slumped in defeat, allowing himself to be pulled up from the sofa and led out of the room. Bond settled him carefully into the bed, pulling the covers up as Q fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow, making little snorkling noises as he breathed.

No. Not cute’ James told himself firmly, refusing to acknowledge the way his intestines were turning to mush.

He looked at the sleeping face a little longer, clearer with the glasses on. The perfect skin (blemish-free, despite what Bond may say when aggravated) the long dark eyelashes, the lips which Bond constantly has to force his gaze away from.

No. Not cute at all.

He left the room quietly, shutting the door with a small click. He was barely three steps into the room before a voice cried out “NOW!” And he felt a sharp prick in the back of his neck.

The last thought before he slumped to the ground was whether Q would be able to wake up and fight or not.


Ropes. Around his wrists. He was sitting in a chair. He kept his eyes shut, trying to find clues from his other senses. He was warm, quite pleasantly so in fact. And this chair was comfortable as well.

Hm. This was a bit of an odd kidnapping.

Giving into temptation he opened his eyes.

Well this was unexpected. He was sitting in the middle of a room in a moderately messy, old fashioned living room. In a flat. In London.

He looked around, spotting armchairs, a wooden table, and rather worryingly a few bullet-holes in the wall nearby.

A door opened somewhere in the flat.

“Sherlock!? Look, I asked the man on the counter at Tesco’s and apparently soup is a good way of helping with withdrawal, and things with protein, so I got tomato soup and chicken- oh for fucks sake.”

The small, grey-haired man stopped and looked at Bond for a moment, taking in the sight.

Bond nodded amicably.

The man nodded back and then turned, placed a load of shopping bags on the table.

“Sherlock who the hell have you kidnapped this time?”

From what Bond assumed was the kitchen came ‘Sherlock’, a tall, dark haired man. Actually, the guy reminded him a bit of Q. Probably the hair. Sherlock ignored the question and began to rifle through the bags, pulling out a can of soup and staring at it thoughtfully.

“Well, tomato is an obvious fall back on dealing with drugs if one knows nothing of the withdrawal process.” The grey-haired guy looked annoyed and gave Sherlock a look.

“But I do enjoy soup, thank you John.”

“Better” John smiled. “Now who is the hostage, Sherlock?”

Someone pounded loudly on the front door, slamming their fists into it.




A rather overweight man sidled out of the kitchen, looking weary.

“I told you he would figure it out, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow frostily at this man and James hung his head in confusion as John opened the door. Q rushed in, shoving John out the way and glaring at the Sherlock and the other man.

“Bloody hell Mycroft, why do you feel the need to get your fat ass involved in my business every other week!? Kidnapping one of our country’s greatest agents, really? REALLY?!”

“James, are you okay?”

The switch from furious to tender in his tone was surprising and nice on the ears.

James nodded, and whispered “Who are these people? I recognise the fat one…”

Q glared over at them again, setting to work on Bond’s bonds.

“Meet Mycroft and Sherlock, my older brothers” he said dryly.

“Look this really isn’t our fault. It’s his!”

“Mycroft, hold your temper. Allow me to explain” Sherlock stepped forwards.

“Please do” John looked just as confused as Bond at this point.

“Mr Bond, my brother brought to me the other day some rather incriminating evidence in the form of the video files from yourself and Quentin’s flat-“

“-Quentin? I knew your name bloody wasn’t Q!-“

“-Mr Bond, please.  Myself and Mycroft (he directed a burning glare at the fat man) decided to step in for our little brother’s own good.”

“What exactly are you accusing me of?”

James was now amused and slightly scared. Q’s family were all certifiably insane.

“Please, Mr Bond, I am an infamous detective. It is my business to spot signs like the ones you have been displaying, the prolonged touches, the glances that transform into stares, the way your tone of voice changes as you speak to Quentin, your intense interest in everything he does- it’s just blindingly obvious.”

Q burst out laughing. “Sherlock, you’re wrong! Me and James live together because it’s easy, we work together, we can make our way to headquarters together, it’s just practicality. Like security. You told me I should upgrade my system!”

“I didn’t mean get an infatuated bodyguard!”

Q snorted.

John now intervened. “Would anyone like a cup of tea? I’ll be in the kitchen…”

He shuffled off, looking awkward. They watched him go then got back to the matter at hand.

“Look, James does not love me. Now we are going to leave and you cannot stop us.”

Q turned to leave. James did not follow.

“Q…what if they’re right?”

Sherlock smirked widely and Mycroft turned away to smile out of the window.


“What if I do love you? And that when I asked to live with you, it was because I wanted to spend as much time with you as possible? And maybe see if you loved me too?”

“Then… hypothetically, I’d say you found your answer to that.” Q cocked his head to the side.


“Because hypothetically, when I agreed to live with you, it was to maybe see if you loved me?”

James stared up at Q for a long moment before grinning. Q outstretched his hand and the two of them headed out the door, turning to nod to Mycroft and Sherlock, who nodded back.

Once they were gone, Sherlock slumped into his chair.

“Well, Mycroft, what did I tell you?”

“Sherlock as an infamous detective I’m not certain that your match-making skills should be the thing you choose to boast about.”