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Bond notes the sleek black car parked outside the cafe as he pays his bill. He also notes the very attractive young woman standing next to it. It smells like a trap instantly. Still, he exits the cafe via the front door and stops when the woman calls his name.
“Mr. Bond? Your employer would like a word.” He nods and steps through the door she’s now holding open. This is likely M.’s doing, but Bond remains alert just in case. The woman sitting next to him taps away on her phone for the duration of the drive.
Bond discretely checks his watch when the car comes to a halt. Twenty-three minutes since he left the cafe and stepped into the black sedan. Far longer than needed to get to the SIS Building, even in midday traffic. Maybe this wasn’t M.’s car after all.
The driver opens the door and points Bond toward a shabby looking warehouse. Bond’s muscles tense, ready for fight or flight, and he enters the building. The comfortable weight of a small gun strapped to his ankle is reassuring.
“Ah, James.” It is M. M. is meeting him in a damp, broken down factory far away from his cushy office on the banks of the Thames. “Please, sit.”
There is a single chair in the large open room. M. stands, leaning heavily on an umbrella, not far away. Bond drapes himself across the empty seat. It’s hard to affect a decent slouch in a small folding chair, but he manages.
“Secret meeting in an abandoned building? This is a bit old fashioned.” Bond’s voice takes a harder edge. “Afraid your own people are spying on you?”
“It is a bit old fashioned. I’m not sentimental but old habits, you know.” M. matches Bond’s jab at the control he may or may not have over his own organization with a predatory smile. “And I trust my own people explicitly. The location was chosen for your comfort.”
Bond fights the urge to sit up straight. “I’d be more comfortable somewhere where it doesn’t rain indoors. But thanks for thinking of me.” This meeting was turning hostile far more quickly than Bond would have liked.
M. changes the subject abruptly. “It’s recently come to my attention that you’re having a relationship with your Quartermaster. Is that true?”
That’s a lie, Bond thinks immediately. M. should have known months ago that I was sleeping with Hamish. He falls back on bravado to figure out what game M.’s playing. “I think relationship is a bit strong. We enjoy working together.” He stresses the word “enjoy” with a lascivious grin.
M.’s expression remains unchanged. “I suggest you think about what’s best for the boy. He would be much easier to remove from his position than you would be to remove from yours.”
“Are you threatening Q’s career? He’s a damn fine quartermaster. You gave him the job for a reason.”
“Yes, but there are rules against fraternization-”
“Fuck the rules on fraternization.” Bond’s voice echoes around the steel beams and concrete walls. “Those are never enforced anyway. I’m not his superior and there’s no conflict of interest.”
“Those have never been enforced before.” M. keeps his voice level in the face of Bond’s anger.
“What?”
“You mean to say, ‘Those have never been enforced before’. Just because my predecessor saw no reason not to let her agents screw their way through the organization doesn’t mean I don’t. It is a new regime after all.”
Bond rises from his chair. “There are plenty of people in relationships with other MI-6 employees. Will you be dragging every one of them to this cozy hideaway for a little chat?”
M. smiles more broadly at that. “No, James. I have a personal interest in your current situation.”
“What the hell does-”
M. cuts his rant short. “The driver will take you back to a more comfortable location.” At that, the driver appears at Bond’s elbow ready to pull him out of the building if necessary. It’s not necessary. Bond is more than happy to put M. well behind him.
The car drives only eighteen minutes back toward central London before the driver pulls to the curb. Bond spends all of those eighteen minutes running M.’s smile and the inflection of his voice when he said ‘personal interest’ through his head. When the car eases to the curb, Bond has the door open and a leg out before the tyres have completely stopped spinning.
He’s not in front of the cafe. He’s not in front of his own flat. He is, however, across the street from Hamish’s subtle, nondescript building.
M.’s obviously taunting him and Bond’s blood boils over. Time to get some answers.
***************
The pounding on his door is sharp and hard. It doesn’t sound like a social call, so Hamish is surprised when the camera he’s fitted to the outside of the door shows James’s face. His very angry face.
“Did I forget your birthday?” Hamish jokes as the door opens.
Bond pushes past him, striding into the clean and modern looking flat. He stops in the all white kitchen. He’s been dozens of times over the last five months but Hamish never quite gets used to his larger-than-life presence in his calm and quiet world. As calm and quiet as a world can be for a Watson-Holmes that works for MI-6 anyway.
Bond turns, hands on hips, to face Hamish. “Who exactly is M. to you?”
That was very nearly the last thing Hamish expected James to say. His confusion shines through in his voice. “Excuse me?”
“Who the bloody hell is M. to you?” Hamish’s confusion is no buffer to the anger James has been broiling up since his impromptu meeting.
Hamish’s brows knit in further confusion. Has James found out that Mycroft is his uncle? Is he looking for some kind of confirmation? Then it hits him like a ton of bricks. He’s accusing me of nepotism. He thinks I don’t deserve my job.
Now it’s Hamish’s turn to be angry. “Listen, just because I knew Mycroft before coming to MI-6 doesn’t mean that he recruited me for anything other than my skills.”
“Mycroft? His name is Mycroft?” Bond scoffs. “And I’m sure he was interested in a lot more than your skills.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The implication is obvious in Hamish’s mind, but he doesn’t want to believe James would stoop to that.
Bond crosses his arms over his chest, voice going deadly cold. “You seem to have a thing for older, powerful men, Hamish. And you’re a bloody genius so I think you can work it out.”
A ball of lead settles in Hamish’s stomach. “You think I slept with Mycroft to get my job?”
The question hangs thickly in the air between them until Bond’s mobile beeps. He pulls it from his pocket and scans over the screen.
“I’m being called in for a mission briefing.” Bond slams the door on his way out instead of offering a goodbye.
Hamish feels shell shocked. His (boyfriend? lover? What the hell is James anyway?) had stormed in and accused him of sleeping with his own uncle in exchange for directorship of a lab at MI-6. It isn’t until Hamish spells it all out in his own head that the pieces fall together. Bond has no idea that Mycroft is his uncle.
Hamish’s mobile beeps in a similar tone to James’.
From: M.
Report to briefing. Temporary reassignment to field support.
Pack for warm weather.
“Shit,” Hamish says to his empty apartment.
***************
Though his summons came from M., it’s not his uncle waiting in the briefing room when Hamish arrives. It’s a buttoned down and dower looking assistant. Bond is already sitting at a conference table when Hamish arrives.
The assistant nods and passes Hamish a folder labeled “Quartermaster: Field Assignment”. Bond does not acknowledge Hamish in any way.
Fine, Hamish thinks, two can play at that game.
The assistant’s monotone voice drags on describing a drug cartel turned to human trafficking and the disappearance of British citizens from several Caribbean islands. Bond was being sent to Miami to investigate the man suspected of importing the kidnapped Britons to the US. Q was being sent along as in field technical support since the operation was projected to require extended surveillance. Lab assistants were already packing up and shipping cameras and audio recording devices to their beachside resort.
As soon as they are dismissed, companion plane tickets in hand, Hamish beats a hasty retreat to his lab to oversee the final equipment preparations. He doesn’t spare Bond a glance as he leaves the room.
The lab doesn’t really need his help, of course. Over the six or so months he’s been the Quartermaster here, he’s picked the best assistants and trained them well. Hamish packs a few extra gadgets and prototypes for himself. James can do without on this trip. That’s what you get for pissing off your Quartermaster.
He hides in the lab for as long as he’s able. There’s a car taking both of them from the SIS building to Heathrow. It’s barely noon and Hamish is exhausted. He meets Bond in the lobby just as the car pulls up. Hamish rolls his suitcase to the curb and crawls into the backseat without a word.
Bond has the option of riding up front with the driver or sliding in next to Hamish. He hesitates a fraction of a second before moving into the back seat. Hamish steals a glance at Bond from under lowered lashes.
Bond puts out a peace offering that Hamish isn’t ready to accept. “I thought you were afraid of flying.”
That’s not the story Hamish wants to get into before his first flight in almost fifteen years. It was a plane crash in the Urals when he was 10. He was convinced Sherlock and John had been on the flight. It took his fathers days after the crash to call him and Mrs. Hudson and confirm that they had not be on the flight but were deep in an investigation in Kazakhstan. Hamish’s anxiety then generalized to all air travel. Though he is an adult, John still calls when he and Sherlock land on foreign soil.
“I am.” He pulls a small prescription bottle from his pocket and shakes it in Bond’s direction. “But I’ll sleep most of they way.” Hamish seems more nonchalant about flying than he feels. His stomach has been knotted since the ticket to Miami crossed his palm. He certainly doesn’t want to have a panic attack in front of Bond, even on their best day.
They ride in awkward silence for a few minutes before Hamish pulls his phone from his pocket. Best to go on the offensive early. He dials Mycroft’s private mobile and presses the command for speak phone.
Mycroft picks up on the second ring.
“Hamish.” His voice is much warmer than Bond remembers it being in the warehouse that morning. “Shouldn’t you and 007 be on the way to the airport?”
“We are. But I was wondering if you could let my fathers know that I’ll be out of the country for a bit.” There’s a long pause at the other end of the line. Hamish sighs and continues. “You know if you don’t tell them something, Father will figure out where I’ve gone and then Dad will come after me.”
“Astute point. I’ll tell them what I’m able. Enjoy your time in the field, Hamish.”
“I’ll do my best.” Hamish grimaces at the thought of anything about this trip being enjoyable. “Thanks, Uncle Mycroft.” He turns to make eye contact with Bond when he calls Mycroft by name and familiar title. He finds James’ cool blue eyes gazing back at him.
Mycroft chuckles and terminates the call.
“He’s your uncle?” Bond keeps his voice level but Hamish can see the surprise in his eyes.
“Yes, my father’s older brother.”
“Damn it, Hamish. Why didn’t you say something this morning?”
“It’s not my responsibility to keep you from jumping to outrageous conclusions.”
“He took me to an abandoned warehouse and told me to stay away from you. That he had a ‘personal interest’ in you.” Bond leans back in his seat. “It didn’t seem like that outrageous a conclusion.”
“He warned you away from me?” Hamish can smell a Holmes family game a mile off and almost punches redial on his mobile. “And your first thought was that I must be...” cheating on you? But they never promised exclusivity, never even had a conversation about what they’re doing with each other, so Hamish stops himself short.
“It seemed like a reasonable conclusion.” Bond’s voice has lost the hard edge he’s taken with Hamish since barging into his flat.
Silence reigns again in the car. Hamish is still seething, especially now that he knows Mycroft introduced this strife and then sent the two of them on a mission together. Bond seems uncomfortable but no longer angry. At least not angry at Hamish anymore.
They’ve settled into their business class seats before Bond speaks to him again.
“So,” Bond clears his throat, “genius runs in the family then?”
“Yeah, does being a prick run in yours?”
Hamish turns to the window, swallows a sleeping pill, and promptly passes out for the entire flight to Miami.
***************
Their cover story is that they’re business partners. Business partners with adjoining hotel suites. It is Miami after all. Hamish makes sure the connecting door is locked before even unpacking his suitcase.
He gets about halfway through the unpacking chore before Bond knocks on that connecting door. Hamish opens it but channels his Dad’s best “I’m pissed off because you are unreasonable face”. It’s a useful expression to keep handy.
“You know, we have these doors to ease communication not so you can lock it in a pout.” Bond walks straight into Hamish’s room without being invited.
“Do you need my help with something or are you just here to irritate me further?” Hamish brushes past Bond and goes back to unpacking.
Bond’s sigh is deep and overly dramatic. “I said I was sorry-”
“No, you didn’t.” Hamish voice rises and he drops the suit jacket he was attempting to wrestle onto the wooden hanger. “Not once did the words ‘I’m sorry’ pass your lips, especially followed by ‘of accusing you of sleeping with your elderly uncle in order to get a job’.”
“I had no way of knowing he was your uncle!” Bond snaps back.
“You’re a spy aren’t you? Figure it out!”
Bond takes a moment to regroup, to lower his voice and calm down. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions and accused you of something I know you wouldn’t do. Is that better?”
Hamish laughs and scrubs his hands over his face in frustration. “It’s not even that you jumped to the conclusion or that you were such an unmitigated arse about it. What if I had been sleeping with someone else, even to get my job? It’s none of your damn business.”
Bond looks shell shocked and Hamish pushes on. “It’s not like we’ve ever defined this.” He waves his hand between them loosely. “Or given it rules or boundaries.”
Any sense of remorse Bond has gained in the last few moments evaporates in a flash of anger. His eyes go cold and the muscle in his jaw pulses. “You really need that spelled out for you?”
“Do I need a concrete statement of what we are to justify you flying off the handle with jealousy? Yes, James, yes I do. Especially considering I read all your mission debriefings and know exactly what you get into in the field.” That was probably a low blow, Hamish concedes internally. But if they were going to have this fight, Hamish was not going to pretend he was totally okay with every gorgeous woman in the free world hanging all over James. Even if it was James’s job to get information at whatever cost.
James’s face grows even darker. He gives a clipped nod and moves back to the adjoining door. “I’m going out on reconnaissance tonight. Stay here, order room service, and wait for me to need the expertise M. was so convinced would be necessary on this mission.”
He slams the door between their rooms more forcefully than necessary and Hamish clearly hears the lock click into place.
If he’s ruined...whatever it is they’ve been doing over the last five months, at least the last thing he got to see was that gorgeous arse.
***************
Hamish listens to Bond’s instructions...for a while. He orders room service then unpacks and inventories the surveillance equipment the concierge delivered to his room. He fiddles with the equipment, makes some adjustments just to pass the time.
This is ridiculous. He doesn’t have to sit in a hotel room just because James Bond tells him to. Hamish showers, tries to tame his thick, wild hair, and puts on his best suit. At least he can match Bond when it comes to sartorial matters. When he wants to anyway. He’s going to enjoy a night out in Miami.
Which is exactly how Hamish ends up being hit over the head and stuffed into the trunk of a limo three blocks from the hotel. As the blow lands across the back of his skull, Hamish thinks, James will never let me hear the end of this.
***************
It’s still dark when Hamish comes to. Or maybe it’s dark again. He’s not sure. He’s never been knocked unconscious by kidnappers before. His dad would know about how long he’s been unconscious, both because he’s a doctor and because he’s been in this situation a few times himself. He doubts that whoever locked him a trunk and then tied him to a chair would let him call his dad. Probably best not to ask.
His head feels heavy and he wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep. The rational part of his brain starts running through the symptoms of a concussion. Unnecessary, of course. He’s sure he’s concussed, but it’s something to keep him cognizant.
The blow to his head seems to be the only injury. He can feel the congealed blood pulling uncomfortably at the short hairs on the back of his neck but there doesn’t seem to be pain coming from anywhere else. Which is good because the throbbing behind his eyes is about all Hamish can stand at the moment.
He breathes deeply, pushing down the nausea caused by his head wound. Now that he’s sure he’s not in danger of bleeding to death, he takes a wider view of his circumstances. There’s rope keeping his wrists tightly together around the back of the chair. There’s also a thick cord anchoring his chest and thighs to the chair. His feet are tied together, but not as tightly as his wrists. He might be able to get his feet free, but what would he do then? Stand up and try to sneak out with the chair still tied to his body? Working on the wrists seems the way to go.
Hamish starts a very deliberate rotation of his wrists, intended to loosen the rope and let him gain some leverage. Ideally, he’ll be able to work one wrist out and untie himself. He focuses on trying to free his left hand, the dominate one, figuring it will be the most useful. Hamish knows this may take some time. His father used to tie him in various ways and walk him through tricks of getting loose again. He thought it was all fun and games as a child, but soon realized it was a valuable survival skill for a Watson-Holmes. And apparently a transferable skill from the home to the workplace. But his father never tied his hands this tightly.
He keeps working: rotating his wrists, trying to turn his left hand inward and force his fingers between the rope and his skin. He’s gaining some extra space but not enough. As Hamish works, his eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. It’s large and filled with dark wood and leather furniture. Maybe they could have tied him to a more comfortable chair if they had so many options? There’s a fireplace on the far wall. That seems out of place. Who needs a fireplace in Miami? Maybe he’s been moved. That would make him much harder to trace. Hamish’s wrists pick up speed. He’s gaining more wiggle room.
The door must be behind him. He can’t see it, but he hears it softly click open. Whoever’s coming can see his hands, but Hamish doesn’t have a choice. If he can get his left arm free, maybe he can throw a punch. Or at least not be totally helpless. Hand-to-hand had never been his strong suit. He’s still wiggling and pulling his wrist furiously when a hand rests on his shoulder, thumb warm on the back of his neck.
“Q. Stop. Your wrists are bleeding.”
Hamish’s shoulders sag and a rush of calm overtakes him at Bond’s voice. He immediately stops fighting the ropes. “I was almost out.” He’s still angry and not quite ready to forgive Bond, even if he did just rescue him.
“At the expense of most of your skin.” Bond tucks his gun in his waistband and makes quick work of the restraints. He pulls Hamish up by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”
Bond’s hands run down Hamish’s arms and across his chest. “I’m fine. Just the knock on the head. I could have gotten free myself.” Hamish does his best not to sound childish. He’ll blame the concussion for his failure.
Bond kisses him, hard and fast, before pulling out his gun again. “You didn’t have to. I was coming for you. I’ll always come for you.”
Hamish will blame the concussion for how quickly his heart rockets to the bottom of his feet too.
Bond takes his hand, careful to avoid the damaged skin on his wrists, and leads him to the door. “Stay behind me. And don’t do anything stupid.” Hamish’s head throbs at the force of his eye roll.
The make it down a back staircase and onto the pool deck before they’re spotted. Gunfire erupts from the balcony above them. Bond pushes him down and returns fire. There is shouting from inside the house followed by what sounds like a herd of hired gunmen running their way.
Bond grabs Hamish again and pushes him toward a gate leading to the front yard. “Run!” Hamish takes a few stumbling steps before he realizes Bond isn’t behind him. He turns to see the other man hunkered down behind an overturned deck chair, laying fire across the first floor doorway to bottleneck the thugs trying to break through.
In that brief hesitation, one of the shooters still on the balcony gets lucky. He feels the pressure before the pain. Incredible pressure spinning him around from a pivot point in his left shoulder, just above his collar bone. The pain isn’t far behind though. It explodes out from that same pivot point and radiates down his arm and across his chest. Hamish’s foot slips as he tries to keep himself from blacking out again. He can hear Bond calling out to him, yelling his name in twisted anguish, but it sounds as if he’s a million miles away. There’s a sudden splash and that sounds much closer. Hamish sinks almost to the bottom of the pool before he realizes that he’s fallen in. Blood trails listlessly out of his shoulder to mix with the water in front of him. He watches it, thinking about how peaceful it looks, before there’s another, much larger, splash from above. The water churns and the ink-like trails of blood are lost in the upheaval.
Bond pulls him up and up until the both break the surface. He can still hear gunfire but Bond hauls him from the pool and drags him behind a concrete and granite barbeque. They are well shielded from the remaining gunmen, which Hamish can hear are fewer than when he fell in the pool, but Bond has virtually no shot at any of them from this angle. Bond fires a few shots over the grill before turning back to Hamish.
Water drips down Bond’s face and the muscle in his jaw clenches as he thrusts the small radio transmitter in Hamish’s hands. “Activate that,” Bond barks out. He turns to lay some more cover fire over the grill. Hamish’s hands shake but he manages to send out their distress call.
Bond’s back at Hamish’s side, running his hands over Hamish’s completely dead left arm. He prods at the back of Hamish’s shoulder, fingers skirting the exit wound, before pulling back. Hamish grits his teeth and promises himself he will not cry in front of James Bloody Bond.
“You’re lucky. It went straight through and didn’t shatter your collar bone.” He fires his gun again, barely looking over the grill. Bond slides out of his soaked jacket and lays it across Hamish’s chest. “Now stay here and don’t do anything fucking stupid this time.”
Hamish is still trying to catch up when Bond dives into the open space in front of the barbeque. He’s crouched low when he rounds the corner and Hamish can hear shots being fired from multiple directions.
Hamish struggles to stand or to at least pull himself up to see over the concrete ledge of the grill. The concussion was hard enough to deal with but the combination concussion/bullet hole in his shoulder is too much. He slumps back down, back against the cold concrete, to listen to volleys of gunfire and the occasional sounds of punches and kicks being landed.
Then everything goes quiet. Not completely silent, there still some scuffing and grunting, but the gunfire has stopped.
“Are you alive back there?” a laughing voice, thick with a South American accent, calls out.
Hamish twists on his right side and pushes himself up to his right hand and knees. He crawls to the edge of the barbeque shielding him from the rest of the pool deck, his left arm dragging uselessly beside him. Peeking around the corner, he can see Bond, trapped in a headlock and feet scrambling for purchase against the wet tiles. The men who holds him appears to be the only one left standing, though some are still twitching. He’s much bigger than Bond, and James’s face is turning red from the pressure of his arm is putting against James’s throat. The gun pressed against James’s temple isn’t helping either.
Hamish can see a gun lying half under one of the fallen thugs between he and James. He half-crawls, half-drags himself toward it. The drug lord laughs at him the entire, excruciatingly painful way.
He pulls himself up to sit on his knees and grabs the gun in his right hand. A twist of his torso and his ruined left arm is lying across his lap. Hamish takes a few seconds to breathe before struggling to stand. He lurches from side to side as he gets his wobbly feet planted underneath himself.
“And what are you going to do with that, chico? I don’t think you have the balls to try and shoot me even when you’re not bleeding to death.” The drug lord is still laughing but the gun at Bond’s temple is steady.
Hamish tries to raise the gun but even his right arm gives out. His hand is shaking and can barely hold the gun, even at his side. His vision goes white and fuzzy around the edges, like a tunnel closing in on him, when he tries to raise his arm a second time.
“He doesn’t need to do anything with that.” Bond’s voice is strained and raspy. He sounds as if he’s been smoking a pack a day for years. He manages a nod upward, directing his captor’s attention to the sky. The telltale whirling of helicopters can be heard.
The arm around Bond’s neck tightens and he chokes. “You actually think you’re going to live long enough to be rescued, Mr. Bond?”
Time slows down. Hamish sees the drug lord’s hand tighten on the gun and Bond’s eyes lock with his, then close in preparation of the inevitable.
“No!” Hamish’s voice rings out, strong and as if torn from some hidden, primal place. He squares his hips, his shoulders, then swings the gun up level with Bond’s captor. There’s a faint, amused smirk there before Hamish pulls the trigger. The bullet whizzes a few inches above Bond’s head and leaves a neat hole just above the drug lord’s left eye. Some of the blood splatter lands across Bond’s cheek and on his ruined shirt.
The gun clatters to the ground and Hamish falls to his knees. The pain there is nothing compared to his shoulder. Hamish can’t tell if it’s the blood rushing through his ears or the sound of the helicopters getting closer. He pitches forward and Bond is there to catch him.
“Hamish? Hamish? How did...” Bond’s leans close, fingers running over Hamish’s face. Hamish lets himself slump forward and presses his lips to Bond’s neck.
“My Dad,” he manages to mumble out against Bond’s skin. “He shoots right handed.”
With the helicopters descending, and Bond’s arms safe around him, Hamish lets himself slip back into darkness.
***************
It’s not the buzz and blips of machines that wake Hamish. It’s the yelling.
“This is your fault! You deliberately manipulated-”
“Hamish is a grown man, Sherlock. This is a known hazard of his job-”
“Known hazard? You sent him out here to prove-”
“Father?” Hamish just wants to keep Sherlock and Mycroft from killing each other. Mycroft is backed against a wall and Sherlock is standing way too close. John is there as well, back to Hamish’s bed and arms crossed, deliberately not breaking up the argument.
At his voice, all three men turn and take a step toward the bed, Mycroft nearly colliding with Sherlock. But John is the closest.
“Hamish! How do you feel?” John smiles but there are dark smudges under his red-rimmed eyes.
He stops to think about it. The pain isn’t really pain anymore. It’s closer to a dull hum in the back of his mind. Actually, he feels rather nice. Like he’s floating in a warm bath.
“Great. I feel marvelous.” Even to his own ears, he sounds slurred and slow.
“Ah, that would be the morphine then.” John smiles a little brighter this time. If this is morphine, no wonder his father used to like drugs so much.
“You all got here from London rather quickly.” Through the fog of the morphine, Hamish is starting to piece things together.
Sherlock comes to stand behind John, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been unconscious for almost two days. You’ve undergone surgery on your shoulder.” Hamish tries to turn his head to the left to see the shoulder in question but finds that his neck won’t quite turn that way.
He does catch a glimpse of the white bandages leading from the curve of his shoulder up his neck. He looks confusedly back to John and Sherlock. “I got shot.” It’s somewhere between a statement and a question.
John nods gravely, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. “You did. Clean through the shoulder. You shouldn’t have any long term muscle or nerve damage but you’ll be in physical therapy for awhile.”
Hamish smiles up at his dad, a swell of morphine washing away all thoughts of the painful physical therapy to come. “We’ll match then.”
John’s eyes go immediately wet and shiny. A laugh that turns into a controlled sob bubbles up from his chest. “Yeah, you and your old dad. A matching set of lunatics.”
Sherlock snakes a hand around John’s waist and John presses his face into Sherlock’s offered shoulder. “Hamish, what’s the last thing you remember?”
Hamish can remember the pool and the never ending volleys of gunfire. “James! I remember James was captured and I shot someone. Then I fell and James caught me.” Hamish tries to push himself upright in the bed but his left arm is lashed tightly to his chest and his right feels weak and wobbly. “James? Where is he? James!” He’s still trying to push himself up on one useless arm when John raises the bed for him.
“Stop shouting. I’m here.” Once the bed screeches to a halt, Hamish can see Bond leaning in the doorway, ankles and arms crossed. It’s a casual pose, but his muscles are clenched and he looks ready to bolt.
“Are you alright? You were bleeding.” If Bond is back in his standard grey suit and leaning in the doorway, rather than in the hospital bed himself, Hamish knows he must be healthy. But he has to ask anyway.
“I’m fine. It was just some cuts and bruises.” Bond is keeping everything straight and to the point. He’s not sure if that’s because his whole family is in the room or because Bond’s still angry at him. Either way, at least James is wearing clothes this time.
Hamish stares at James, trying to will his brain to move forward to come up with something to say. Mycroft steps in before the morphine clears up enough to let him speak.
“Your abbreviated account matches what 007 has reported. We’ll have to get a more complete statement-”
“But not right now.” John may be the only person brave enough to cut off Mycroft without being genetically a Holmes. Hamish isn’t sure if it’s experience or raw talent. “Now he needs to rest.”
John sits on the edge of the bed and takes Hamish’s hand. He rubs the pad of his thumb across Hamish’s knuckles and Hamish is struck by how familiar that gesture seems. He knows he’s seen his dad do this when his father’s been confined to a hospital bed.
Sherlock squeezes the back of John’s neck and then strides heavily through the door. Bond follows him into the hallway as if pulled by the flowing trail of his coat. Mycroft tucks into a chair near the door and crosses his long legs one over the other.
Hamish keeps his eyes pinned on the open door until the soothing warmth of John’s hand wrapped around his own lulls him to sleep.
***************
“Mr. Bond.”
“Mr. Holmes.” Bond knows a predator when he sees one and the cold smile and even colder gaze are hard to miss.
“Did you know that my husband, Dr. Watson, killed a man when he perceived my life to be in danger only days after meeting me?” Sherlock steps closer and Bond refuses to step back. He also knows a realistic threat when he hears one and will show no weakness to it. “What do you think he’d do to protect his son?”
“And what about you, Mr. Holmes? What would you do to protect your son?” The best way to deal with a threat is to push back as aggressively as possible.
Sherlock’s smile grows wider, the wrinkles and lines in his aged face bunching up, but does not grow warmer. “Oh, believe me, Mr. Bond. You’d rather deal with John.”
Bond holds Sherlock’s deep stare. His eyes are so much like Hamish’s that a fleeting image of Hamish attempting intimidation streaks across Bond’s mind. He would have laughed at that a few days ago, but the sight of a bloody and beaten Hamish swinging a pistol for a near perfect shot isn’t going to fade from his memory any time soon.
Finally, Bond smirks. “Understood, Mr. Holmes.”
***************
The next time Hamish wakes, it’s darker in the room. The only light comes from the half-open door to the corridor. His fathers and Mycroft are gone and only the beeps and whirls of the machinery cut through the silence. His mouth is dry and his head aches. It’s more comfortable than waking up tied to a chair, but not by much. So much for morphine. He tries to slide his right arm toward the call button. Maybe a nurse can at least bring him some water.
A hand clamps over his and panic spikes through Hamish. A monitor instantly beeps faster.
“Calm down. It’s me.” Bond’s voice is rough but not tinged with sleep. “What do you need?”
“Water.” His heart rate slows and the monitor comes back under control. Bond tilts a plastic cup to his lips and Hamish tries not to spill it down his chin. He swallows and takes a few seconds to squint at Bond in the dim light. “What are you doing here?”
Bond sits a plastic chair pulled close to the bed, where he must have been sitting before Hamish woke. “If hospitalized while on assignment, MI-6 agents require an armed guard. And I am still a spy, you know.”
“Mycroft put you on guard duty?”
“I volunteered.” He can see the flash of white teeth when Bond grins. “Dr. Watson was less than pleased.”
Hamish laughs and pain slices through his shoulder. Bond sees his grimace and reaches for the morphine box. “No, not yet. I don’t want to go back to sleep yet.” Hamish wishes his right arm would coorporate more so he could reach out and take Bond’s hand.
Instead, Bond takes his. “Hamish. I’m sorry. I was angry and shouldn’t have-”
“James, no. I’m an agent. Field work is part of that. I need to be able to handle myself.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.” Bond smiles again. “You proved you can handle yourself just fine.” He strokes the back of Hamish’s hand with calloused and cut finger tips. “I meant before.”
Bond pulls back and scrubs a hand through his hair. “If you want this to be something, I can... I’ll always have to do certain things-” Bond drops his head to the bed. “Christ, Hamish, if you want me, I’m yours.” Hamish raises his hand enough to thread his fingers through Bond’s short blonde hair. “I don’t know how we’ll do it, but we’ll do it.”
“Okay, James, okay.” Hamish pets Bond’s hair and thinks maybe the morphine has kicked back in or that he’s still dreaming.
Bond takes a deep breath and pulls himself upright. “The women. Sometimes I have to-”
“No. What you do out there is 007, what you do in here-” Hamish waves his hand weakly between them, “-is James. Okay?”
Bond leans over the bed and presses his lips to Hamish’s forehead. “Okay. Now can I give you more morphine so you can sleep and your parents don’t show up ready to kick my arse in the morning?”
Bond presses the button on the morphine box and Hamish feels it almost instantly. He’s got that “floating in a warm bath” sensation all over again. Bond’s back to holding his hand and the warmth radiates up his arm and across his chest.
“James?” Hamish can feel himself sliding into sleep but an urgent question has pushed itself to the front of his mind. “Can we take a boat home?”
He can hear James chuckle before he completely drifts away.