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Retirement doesn't come for men like Mycroft Holmes. Just reassignment. Which is the way he prefers it really. Mycroft hasn’t spent over 40 years building a shadow empire and discretely maneuvering the direction of the British government simply to pack it all in at 70.
Besides, running MI6 will feel like a retirement after the job Mycroft has done. He’s just keeping tabs on one smalls section of government operations. A vacation, really.
It will be fun to be known simply as M. But first, he’s got some recruiting to do.
**********
“No. I forbid it. Absolutely not.” Sherlock throws himself across the sofa, not quite as dramatically as he did in his youth. He’s all too aware of aching joints and old wounds these days.
“Father, you do remember that I’m 27 years old and you can’t really forbid me to do anything anymore, right?” Hamish’s teasing meets only a dramatic sigh from Sherlock.
The sound of tea making halts in the kitchen. “I think it’s wonderful. Really wonderful, Hamish.” John enters the living room, balancing a tray with mugs and a steaming pot.
“Of course you think it’s wonderful”, Sherlock sneers. “You have an unnatural love of duty, of Queen and Country. It’s hateful.”
With a long practice eye roll, John places the tea tray on the coffee table between them. “Ignore him, Hamish. If this is what you want to do, I support you 100%.” Settling into his well-worn chair, John adds, “He’s just upset you’ll be working for Mycroft.”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock explodes off the sofa. “Of course I’m upset you’ll be working for Mycroft!” He steps on the coffee table, avoiding the tea tray, and launches into a diatribe on the evils of his only brother that Hamish has heard for decades. He tunes out his father’s ranting to enjoy a cup of his dad’s Earl Grey.
Hours later, after Sherlock has calmed and whisked out of the flat on some errand, Hamish quietly helps his dad do the washing up.
“I really am proud of you, you know. Even if you weren’t about to become the youngest division head at MI-6.” John’s voice can barely be heard over the sloshing of the water in the sink.
“You’re getting emotional in your old age, Dad. Imagine what father would say.” Hamish leans over to kiss the spot of the thinning, grey hair at the crown of John’s head. “But thanks.”
“I’m going to take you shooting though. You need a refresher course.” John’s voice is much more firm this time. It’s the tone Hamish has known since childhood meant that no argument to the contrary would be entertained. He tries anyway.
“Dad, you taught me to shoot years ago and I’m pretty sure MI-6 can give me some pointers.”
“Are you suggesting that after a career in the military and 30 years of running after your father, I’m not just as good as a bloody MI-6 agent?”
Hamish laughs. “No, Dad. You’re the best.”
Switching off the water, John turns to smile at his son. “Glad to see you still realize that.” He sobers and crosses his arms firmly against his chest. “I just want to make sure you’re prepared.”
Hamish’s chest swells with affection for the two mad men that raised him. “Alright, Dad. We’ll go shooting.”
It’s the middle of the night before John feels the bed dip behind him and Sherlock’s cold limbs wrap around him.
“Get that all out of your system? Are you done pouting?” he asks through the clinging haze of sleep.
Sherlock grunts in response and presses a cold nose to the nape of John’s neck. John pushes back against him.
“He will be fine you know. He’s a genius, courtesy of you, and incredibly resourceful, thanks to me. He’ll be fine.”
John can feel Sherlock’s lips moving against his shoulder before he hears the Sherlock’s words. “I know.”
**********
“...the inevitability of time, don’t you think?” Hamish steals a glance at 007 and loses his breath. Even just in profile, the man is gorgeous. “What do you see?” he adds to give himself time to pull himself back together. He misses 007’s answer completely.
007 is rising to walk away when Hamish says, “007.” Not a question, because Hamish already knows who he is. A gentle command to sit, to stay, and the agent listens. “I’m your new Quartermaster.”
The conversation takes a turn for the worse there. Hamish expects some push-back due to his age, but he wasn’t expecting it so directly. And it doesn’t help that he did notice a spot on his forehead this morning.
007’s continued attacks on his age, even on his competence, push Hamish to responding in kind. That line about doing more damage on his laptop in his pajamas could have been pulled directly from his father’s mouth. The part about a trigger needing pulled sounds much more like Uncle Mycroft.
“It’s hard to tell which in your pajamas.” 007’s tone is much lighter now and Hamish turns to look at him.
Hamish thought the man’s profile was nearly too much to bear, but this is something else entirely. There are deep lines around his mouth. Hamish can see the quirk of a smile there and thinks of how quickly those lines would be transformed if the man ever laughed. 007’s eyes are just as clear a blue as his own, if only a few shades darker. And there’s a layer of golden stubble framing his jaw and plump bottom lip. Hamish’s hand itches to touch it. You didn't prepare me for this, Dad.
“Q.”
“007.”
007’s hand is broad and warm in Hamish’s.
Well, they say you always fall for a man that reminds you of your dad.
**********
It’s several weeks before Hamish can visit his parents again. Several weeks of working with an increasingly frustrating 007.
He’s not in Baker Street for 30 seconds before Sherlock sniffs it out.
“Who is he? Someone in your lab?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow and Hamish flops in one of the chairs near the fireplace. “No. An agent.”
“Leave it, Father.” Hamish is dejected and Sherlock is shocked at how much his expression can look like John’s though they share no DNA.
“Leave it? Why would I leave it?”
“Because it’s just a one-sided crush and it will go away. Now, leave it.”
John shoots Sherlock a glare from the kitchen doorway and Sherlock leaves it.
It’s after dinner, as Hamish is struggling into his coat, that Sherlock brings it up again.
“Hamish, this agent...” He clears his throat and keeps his voice low. “Don’t just assume it’s one sided. Sometimes, men of action can be paralyzed by... well... I’m not sure your dad and I would have made it through if I hadn’t cracked. He has an amazing gift with self-restraint.”
Hamish hugs his father, burying his face against his shoulder. “Thanks, Father. I’ll think about it.”
**********
Six days later, Hamish opens his door to a blood splattered 007.
“How did you know where I lived?” Hamish takes in everything with a glance but that’s the first salient topic that springs to mind.
“I’m a spy, remember? Now are you going to let me in?” He’s leaning heavily on the door frame and sounds breathless.
Hamish slips a should under his arm and helps 007 to the loo.
“You should go to the hospital.” It’s just a statement Hamish needs to put out there, already knowing that if 007 had any intention of going to the hospital he wouldn’t have come here.
He cleans the spy’s head wound, carefully evaluating the need for stitches and decides instead on some butterfly bandages. 007 removes his shirt and Hamish moves on to cleaning smaller cuts along his arms and torso.
“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.” He feels just like his dad, fussing at Father after a case.
“Afraid you’ll have to convince another agent you’re old enough to drive let alone run your own lab?” 007’s voice isn’t quite right. It’s not the teasing tone Hamish has come to expect. He stops his ministrations and meets 007’s eyes.
“No. That’s not what I’m afraid of.” Their gazes hold until 007 wraps a hand around the back of Hamish’s neck and pulls their mouths together. That lower lip and drag of stubble is better than Hamish imagined it to be. He’s moaning into 007’s mouth before the other man even has a chance to get his pants open.
There’s a quick, but mutually enjoyed, handjob against the washroom sink, then a shared shower, then Hamish learns that when pinned to your bed 007 rolls off the tongue quite easily, and in more ways than one.
007 stays all night, but never asks to call him anything but Q.
**********
It’s the morning after the seventh such overnight stay in as many weeks, and not all of them were prefaced by a bloodletting, when Hamish is awoken by a tell-tale scratching sound at his front door.
007 also recognizes the sound of a lock being picked and is out of bed, gun pulled from the nightstand, and into the kitchen before Hamish has a chance to pull on his pants.
Hamish rushes after 007. “Stop! It’s my-” The sight of a naked MI-6 agent in his kitchen, gun drawn and pointing at his dad, who has stepped protectively in front of Sherlock and dropped the bag of pastries he must have been carrying to reach for his own gun, stops him in his tracks.
Sherlock is smirking and not at all concerned about the gun pointed in his direction. John is less relaxed.
“You know these men?” 007 waits for confirmation from a mortified Hamish before lowering his gun. He doesn’t relax completely but at least he’s not ready to shoot either of Hamish’s dads.
Sherlock recovers the fastest. He steps around John to pick up the fallen pastries, leaving them and two of the three cups of coffee he was juggling on the countertop. “Hamish!” Sherlock is far too cheerful for either the hour or the situation. “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d bring you breakfast, but I can see you’re otherwise engaged.”
If it were possible for Hamish to flush a brighter shade of red, he would have. He knows Sherlock can see everything, from the fading scratch marks on his chest to what must have occurred to muss his hair in exactly this way. Instead, he opts to lean against the wall and put his head in his hands. Sadly, he doesn’t miss the long up and down appraisal Sherlock gives 007. Sherlock smirks again. “I can see the appeal.”
With that, Sherlock turns on his heel, coat flipping out behind him, and heads back to Hamish’s front door. “Come along John! Give the boy some privacy.”
John’s appraisal of 007 is much more modest. “We’re sorry Hamish. I tried to get him to ring the bell but you know how he is about picking locks.” Hamish nods and waves his dad on without looking up. “Bring your, ah, young man to dinner sometime, alright?” Hamish doesn’t have to look up know the expression on his dad’s face at that little jibe.
“Come on John!” Sherlock calls from the hall. “And Hamish, tell Mycroft to get you better locks!”
Hamish doesn’t look up at 007 until the front door clicks closed.
“Those were your parents.”
“Yes.”
“You have two fathers that pick locks to bring you scones?”
“That is the least of their skills.”
There’s a dull thud when 007 places the gun on the countertop next to the steaming coffees. He stalks over to Hamish, trapping him against the wall with a hand by each ear.
“But, more importantly...” 007 leans forward and drags his tongue along what Hamish is sure is a love bite on his neck. “Hamish?” He can feel the quirk of 007’s lips against his throat.
“Shut up. It’s a family name.”
“Hello Hamish. I’m James.”
Hamish skims his hands down James’ ribs, the pads of his fingers catching on scars both old and new. “Hello James. You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.” He kisses Hamish solidly but briefly. “But I’m not going to your parents’ for dinner.”
Hamish is instantly mortified. “Oh God no. I can’t imagine anything worse.” And then James is back to snogging him soundly against the wall in his kitchen. Of course Hamish can imagine many things that are worse, but he’s James and he’s staying and that’s enough for now.
**********
New Quartermaster sleeping with one of his agents. Should fire Quartermaster immediately. Breach of policy surely. SH.
Will do no such thing. I think you and John can attest to the strength of two men who care deeply about each other on a shared and dangerous mission, can’t you? M.
Sherlock scowls at his phone and John simply laughs.