Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or James Bond.

It was Sherlock's fault.

Well, it was not all his fault, John was willing to admit, probably not even most of it, but John had gotten in the habit of placing the blame for all the strange and surprising things that happened to him on Sherlock's shoulders. It worked well for them; Sherlock enjoyed the idea that he was that unique of an experience and John allowed himself not to think about the ridiculousness that was his life even without the influence of his eccentric flatmate.

So it was Sherlock's fault, because Sherlock, of course, saw them first.

Not that John knew that he was supposed to even look for someone.

Either way, Sherlock was the one who paused mid-step in the middle of the street, head tilted just so, piercing eyes scanning his surroundings. John stopped out of ingrained habit, glanced at his friend's face – which had gained a dangerous scowl – and followed his gaze to see a small coffee shop at the corner filled with people he didn't recognize.

He turned a questioning look at his flatmate. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock, true to his nature, chose to ignore him, twirling on his heel instead, coat flapping dramatically, and striding directly to the shop, slamming the door open with a bang. John followed readily enough and wondered if he should have brought his gun.

They stopped at the corner table, which seated two; a tall, blond-haired man in an expensive suit that set all kinds of alarms blaring in John's head and a slender, sharp-faced woman with penetrating eyes that struck him as vaguely familiar.

The man tensed at their approach, his hand drifting beneath the table, and John had just enough time to lament his lack of a weapon before the woman stopped him with a raised hand. She glanced briefly at her companion, before taking both Sherlock and John in with a sharp, assessing gaze, and grimaced.

"Sherlock," she greeted with a polite nod. She trained her eyes on John for a second and he was once again struck by the familiarity. "And you must be John Watson. Do sit down, please. You're making a scene."

Sherlock wasted no time in sprawling gracefully on the offered seat. John followed more sedately, wary and wondering how a woman he's never met knew his name.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat out as he rearranged his coat, scanning both of them quickly and efficiently. The man's face was openly curious, his eyebrows raised and mouth quirked in amusement. The woman was blank, save for a trickle of some kind of emotion that flitted trough her grey-green eyes.

"Drinking tea," she said, drily.

The man coughed.

Sherlock scoffed. "You know very well what I meant, Q," he accused. "What are you doing in London? Weren't you supposed to be blowing up weapon dealers in Uzbekistan?"

Blowing up?

The woman's – Q's – lips quirked up. "It was Kirgizstan, Sherlock. And I just came back two days ago."

"But you called Mummy, didn't you?"

John started in surprise, looking between them in confusion. There was no way. Just no way. Sherlock would have told him, he was sure.

"Of course I did," she said.

John opened his mouth to voice his confusion despite the disdainful comments he was sure to get. "Wait, what?"

"Is this one of your brothers then, Q?" the man asked at the same time, not bewildered, but amused. "You do seem to be very alike."

Sherlock and Q glared at him simultaneously, eyes flashing, and oh, John could see now where the familiarity came from.

"I will thank you not to say that again, Bond," Q bit out as Sherlock grumbled under his breath. The man raised his hands in a facsimile of a mocking surrender.

"Brother?" John asked, because he had to, really. The idea of a third Holmes existing was faintly terrifying and John wondered what it said about him that he wanted to know more. Probably the same thing as running towards the danger did, he realised ruefully.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said, finally acknowledging him. "Meet my sister, Wilhelmina Holmes. She goes by Q these days, though."

"Q?" repeated John, sounding baffled.

"Wilhelmina?" asked Bond, looking delighted.

Q glared at Sherlock hotly. "Mummy has a horrid taste in names."

Sherlock shrugged languidly. "She's something of a spy, John. They tend to lie about their names."

"But why didn't you tell me?" John asked and could not help but feel a jab of hurt. He understood Mycroft – they hadn't known each other for a day then and it was understandable that Sherlock hadn't explained their relation – but it's been a long time since then. John had thought they were past this.

"I like it," Bond said, as if he were not listening to their conversation. "Wilhelmina. Has a nice ring to it."

"Well, I don't," Q said stubbornly, taking a sip from her cup. "And if you decide to call me that, you'll be sleeping on the couch."

Before John could process that piece of information about their relationship, Sherlock shifted in his seat, drawing his attention again. "I couldn't tell you, John," he said, and sounded surprisingly earnest. "She's technically dead."

John glanced at the very much alive woman sitting across from him and raised a dubious eyebrow.

She caught his glance. "It's true," she confirmed calmly. "They even held a funeral. I'm told it was a lovely service."

Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft especially enjoyed it." He met Q's eyes and they grinned at each other, more teeth than eyes and all cruel delight. John could see even more resemblance now.

"I'm not going to ask," John decided after a long moment. Then he nodded towards the man sitting by Q's side. "And who's he?" John asked. Bond was clearly ex-military – John could recognize the stance a mile away – but he was also clearly not serving anymore. You couldn't get that kind of suit on military pay check.

Sherlock followed his gaze, face twisted into a frown. His sharp gaze assessed the man more thoroughly now, narrowed and intent. John was faintly impressed that Bond didn't fidget like many people did, only looked back with his own piercing blue eyes. But then again, he willingly consorted with a different Holmes. He was probably used to being taken apart by a gaze.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he rested his eyes on Bond's hands. "He's an assassin, I suspect," he delivered nonchalantly, even as John stiffened in his seat, sending a wary look in the blonde's direction. "And Will's current… boytoy, I believe the term is." His lips curled disdainfully.

John choked on air.

Bond grinned unashamedly.

Q took another sip of her tea. "His name is James Bond," she said, as calm as you please. "And I prefer the term partner, Sherlock."

"I like the boytoy," Bond said, cheeky. "It makes me feel young."

Q's lips curled. "And we all know that is such a rare occurrence nowadays."

Sherlock watched them intently. His face was thoughtful. "You do know, Will, that he slept with another woman a few days ago?" he asked, eyes lingering on a faint, suspicious-looking bruise on Bond's throat.

John cringed.

Q frowned. "Don't be silly, brother," she said, and John didn't know how to tell his best friend's sister that Sherlock is never silly about his deduction and rarely wrong. He did not want to come in the middle of family-slash-relationship argument. "Of course I know. I told him to."

John gaped. "You told him to?!" he blurted out before he could stop himself. Both Sherlock and Q glanced at him simultaneously. John was willing to swear that Bond was laughing silently at him and his confusion. He seemed to be that kind of man.

"It was the easiest way possible to acquire the needed information."

John felt like burying his head in his hands. He resisted the urge with some difficulty. "Of course it was," he muttered. "Just let me get this straight," he said and straightened in his seat, aware that he had the attention of three very dangerous people on him. "You," he pointed at Sherlock, who seemed to find his theatrics somewhat interesting. "You have a sister that is legally dead and that you can't talk about. You," here he reverted his attention back at Q, "are the legally dead spy sister with an assassin boyfriend. Who you regularly pimp out. For Queen and Country." He gestured with his head towards Bond, who looked like he was on the verge of laughter.

Sherlock observed him like he was new and unique specimen.

Q nodded calmly. "Yes."

John shook his head once, took a deep breath and repeated, "I'm not going to ask," very, very firmly.

Q looked at him for a moment and then glanced at Sherlock. "He's surprisingly smart," she said. John would have taken it as a compliment if not for the note of surprise in her tone. "For a goldfish," she added, because a Holmes clearly couldn't give a compliment without tacking on an insult.

Sherlock grinned, smugly.

"He will have to sign the Official Secrets Act, though," she added after a long, silent second.

John groaned at the thought of getting involved in even more government cover-ups.

It was so Sherlock's fault.