BONDLOCK

MYCROFT'S GUESTS

Author's Note:

Pairings: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Q/James Bond, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Note: This is the fourth story in the "Bondlock: Mycroft's Son" series. The full list can be found on my profile.

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. James Bond belongs to Ian Fleming. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

'I'm sorry, love, but I really can't get away; I probably won't be home until at least midday tomorrow.'

Mycroft sighed. He was used to this, of course. Both he and Gregory had very demanding jobs, and those jobs often took them away from their shared house in Kensington. However, Mycroft really needed to speak to Gregory, and a conversation that went along the lines of, "It turns out that I have a son; he's twenty-one, and I only just found out about him a week ago", was best had in person.

Mycroft could admit that he probably should have told Gregory earlier. But he'd left the decision up to Quillan, and then he'd been injured, and now he- and by extension, James- needed a place to stay. Mycroft had, of course, offered his own home. He had two guest bedrooms; Q and James could stay in one, a nurse in the other.

Which was all fine... except for the fact that Mycroft's partner still had no idea that Quillan existed. As Mycroft's son. He had a son. He was still reeling over that fact.

'I understand,' Mycroft finally spoke. He could hear wind and rain over Gregory's mobile; he was no doubt standing in the chill, not protecting himself, and would come down with a cold in less than a week. Gregory never learned. He was like Sherlock, that way. The younger Holmes had always caught colds fairly easily as a young boy. 'But please call me before you come home? I don't have any pressing meetings for the next week, so I'll be keeping regular hours.'

'Sure thing, love,' Greg replied. 'Oh, and make sure Sherlock actually stays home, yeah? John said his concussion was pretty bad.'

Mycroft just hummed. Sherlock was on bed-rest for a week. But he'd no doubt start crawling the walls after four hours, and Mycroft would be called because his brother had done something in a fit of boredom.

'Gotta go,' Greg's voice came again, 'I'll see you soon.'

'Love you,' Mycroft replied before hanging up. He groaned and rubbed his face rather vigorously, for once ignoring that one errant curl that slid over his forehead. Oh, he was going to hell. Gregory was going to murder him for not telling him about Quillan. Or he was going to hate Mycroft forever. Neither outcomes were welcomed by the British Government.

Sighing, Mycroft was about to stand- and maybe smother himself instead of eat dinner- when his BlackBerry buzzed in his jacket pocket. Said jacket was laying atop his desk, and Mycroft battled with the fabric for a good few seconds before managing to get the piece of technology free.

The caller ID simply said "Withheld number", which Mycroft understood to be something MI6 or MI5-related. They always had untraceable numbers. He was betting on the former.

'Mycroft Holmes,' he answered.

'Mycroft, hi,' Q replied, and Mycroft felt a small smile tug at his lips. It had only been three days since he and Quillan had decided to try and build a relationship. The younger man was still stuck in Medical, and Mycroft had visited every day when possible. He was a rather charming young lad. Very intelligent, too. Although he couldn't deduce people, he was more than capable when it came to technology and other interesting facts.

'Quillan,' Mycroft said, and heard a soft huff of annoyance at the name. Apparently in private, Q preferred "Freddie"; a play on his middle name. Mycroft detested nicknames, and unfortunately for his son, he wasn't about to make an exception. 'What can I do for you?' Mycroft asked as he walked across his office and into the hallway. Dinner it was; smothering would have to wait. 'Has 007 managed to escape?'

That earned him a huff of laughter from the younger man. 'No, the nurses alternate between straps and sedatives. I'm not sure which James is enjoying more. Take out the fact that he's in Medical and it's a usual Saturday night for him.'

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. 'That was more than I needed to know about yours and James Bond's private life.'

There was a beat before, 'Oh, God, no! I didn't mean me! Mycroft!'

Mycroft chuckled.

'Sherlock's right; you're a bastard,' Q muttered.

'Mm, yes; I've heard that before,' Mycroft drawled. 'Now, how can I help you?'

'Maybe I just fancied a chat?' Q ventured.

'Nobody ever calls me because they "fancy a chat", Quillan,' Mycroft rolled his eyes. Not even Gregory called just to "chat".

'Right,' Q cleared his throat, 'so, um... Nurse Gilda said that we could leave sometime tomorrow morning, depending on James behaving himself. As my flat is too small, and James' is in-hospitable, I was wondering if your offer still stood?'

'Of course,' Mycroft said. He could deal with Gregory and the backlash of keeping secrets. He wanted Q to heal from his injuries, and Mycroft had the space. Plus, spending a little quality time with his son could only help their relationship. 'I can have a car pick you up, or MI6 can drop you off. I assume that Nurse Gilda will be the one accompanying you?'

She was the Head Nurse at MI6, but there were others just as capable as her in Medical; they could survive without her. Besides, Gilda was rather good at keeping the double-ohs in line, even if they sometimes managed to sneak their way out of Medical. And with Q also on bed-rest, Mycroft would need all the help he could get to keep both Q and 007 resting.

'Yeah,' Q said and laughed softly, 'James hates her. But I think it's more of a love/hate relationship, you know? They like to tease and bully each other mercilessly. Quite frankly I think that they're secretly in love and one of these days they'll run off into the sunset together.'

'I heard that!' a new voice joined the conversation, barely audible on Q's end of the line. 'And I'm offended! Nurse Gilda and I share a special connection. Don't we, my dear?' There was a mumble over the phone before Bond said, 'Oh, well just dash my hopes, sweet Gilda.'

Q snorted a laugh and Mycroft had to chuckle; it was very, very hard to dislike James Bond. 'Yes, Gilda will be joining us,' Q said. 'If that's okay?'

'I already told you that it was,' Mycroft replied. 'You both need to heal in a stress-free environment and I have the room.'

'So you've told Gregory about me?' Q asked.

Silence.

'I'll take that as a no,' Q laughed.

'It's... very difficult...' Mycroft muttered.

'No, I get that,' Q giggled, 'I just didn't realise that you were scared of anything.'

'I am hardly scared,' Mycroft rolled his eyes. He'd reached the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, wondering what to have for dinner. Leftover pasta or chicken and salad? 'I'm just not sure exactly how to broach the subject.'

'How'd you tell Sherlock?' Q asked.

'I just... told him.'

'Ah, so you went blunt, like with me,' Q hummed, 'well, just do that with Gregory.'

Mycroft snorted. 'I'd rather not give the man a heart-attack.'

'Oh, come on, he's a DI; a long-lost son is hardly gonna make him keel over!'

'Q, get off the phone.' That was Nurse Gilda, Mycroft knew her voice from his visits with Q.

'This is a matter of national importance,' Q responded.

'No, you're talking to your dad.'

'Who happens to be the British Government. I'd think, that as a part of MI6, you'd be interested in keeping up good relations with the government.'

Mycroft grinned as he pulled a plastic container from the fridge. Yes, Quillan was definitely a Holmes.

'I've been listening to your conversation for the past few minutes; it's personal, not national. Get off the phone, you need to rest.'

'I don't wanna!'

'I'll tell Eve,' Gilda threatened.

Q grumbled and cursed a bit before saying, 'I'll talk to you tomorrow, Mycroft. James and I will most likely be discharged around nine or ten am.'

'Very well; I'll talk to you soon,' Mycroft said, still smiling. After another round of goodbyes- and Gilda threatening to smash Quillan's Q-Phone- Q hung up. Mycroft popped the lid of the leftover pasta and put it into the microwave, pressing buttons and then watching as the container whirled, slowly re-heating his food.

He sighed and rubbed his face. Maybe he could just text Gregory? Or leave a voicemail? He was actually quite surprised that Sherlock- or John, who undoubtedly knew by now- hadn't "spilled the beans", so to speak, and told Gregory themselves.

But they hadn't. And now Mycroft had to.

Oh, he was well and truly screwed.

{oOo}

Mycroft was working from home for the next four days. Every so often he was ordered by one of the very few people in charge of him- usually the PM- to take it easy for a few days. Of course, the people working as part of the government couldn't take care of their own problems for even a day, so Mycroft still took a number of highly important calls while wandering around his house in jeans and a jumper. Gregory had nearly had a heart attack when he'd first seen Mycroft in jeans- John, too. They'd seemed to be under the impression that Mycroft wore suits 24/7. Which was just ridiculous, really.

Mycroft had been so preoccupied with his work that he didn't realise it was almost eleven when Quillan finally called.

'Mycroft, hi,' Q said, and Mycroft blinked as he checked the time on his laptop.

'Quillan,' he responded, 'I'd expected you earlier.'

'James had a bit of a tantrum,' Quillan replied. Mycroft heard a muffled protest over the phone but Q ignored it. 'We're on our way now; about five minutes out.'

'I see.'

'It's still fine for us to stay, right?' Q asked, sounding nervous. 'James is on bed-rest for three weeks, me for a week and a half. Of course, Nurse Gilda said that she'll change her mind and keep us longer if either of us decides to over-exert ourselves.'

'I have no doubt that that will be the case with James,' Mycroft said in amusement.

'Probably,' Q chuckled. 'So we'll see you soon?'

'Yes,' Mycroft responded, and they said their goodbyes before hanging up.

Mycroft frowned down at his BlackBerry. It was eleven; Gregory had said he'd most likely be home by midday. That gave Mycroft an hour to get Quillan, James and Nurse Gilda settled before Gregory got home. Meaning he had an hour to think of a way to tell his partner that he had a son; a son that would be staying with them for at least two or three weeks.

'Shit,' Mycroft cursed. He rarely swore, and he only did when the situation was truly terrible. This was one such situation. 'What am I going to do?' he sighed to himself. Perhaps...

Already calling himself an idiot for even bothering, Mycroft flicked through his contacts before choosing his brother's name. It rang for a good while before Sherlock picked up.

'You're actually answering,' were Mycroft's opening words.

'I'm stuck in the flat until further notice,' Sherlock answered, his tone sour. 'John said that if I get off the couch he won't have sex with me for three weeks.'

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. 'Far too much information, little brother.'

'Please,' Sherlock snorted, 'it's not like I went into detail about exactly what John and I do.'

Mycroft sighed; true, but every time he saw his brother or John he saw what they'd been getting up to. Sometimes his observational skills were a curse.

'Why are you calling?' Sherlock questioned. 'And I'm only asking because I'm BORED!'

'Stop shouting at John,' Mycroft said.

'I'm shouting at Mrs Hudson; she's babysitting me. Because, according to John, I'm a child that needs constant minding.'

'I've been saying that for years,' Mycroft smirked. 'I'm glad that someone finally agrees.'

'Tell me what you want in the next three seconds or I'm hanging up,' Sherlock declared.

'I still haven't told Gregory about Quillan,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock chuckled softly. 'And? How am I supposed to help you?'

'I'm unsure,' Mycroft admitted. He trailed over to the closest window and pulled one of the curtains back, checking to make sure that Q hadn't arrived. 'Quillan and James are staying with me for a while; they were injured on a mission and Quillan's flat is too small for three people.'

'Three?'

'They need a nurse,' Mycroft said. 'Apparently Quillan's just as bad as you are in regards to staying in bed when injured.'

'Please,' Sherlock muttered, and Mycroft knew that his brother was rolling his eyes, 'like you have any room to talk.'

'They're arriving in a few minutes,' Mycroft continued, ignoring Sherlock's comments. 'And Gregory's due home in an hour.'

'Ah,' Sherlock hummed. 'I'm still unsure what you want me to do.'

'Normally people ask their loved ones for advice in situations such as this.'

'I'm the last person anyone would come to for advice.'

'I still haven't told Mummy or Father; you're my only hope, as much as it pains me to admit,' Mycroft responded.

Sherlock grunted and Mycroft heard him moving about. He was actually surprised that Sherlock was still sitting in 221B; he'd been on bed-rest for a good two days already. Then again, maybe Mrs Hudson had spiked Sherlock's tea with aspirin; that was always enough to knock Sherlock out for a few hours. For a recovering drug addict, he really was a light weight when it came to pain relievers.

'Remember my request to be there when you inform Mummy and Father,' Sherlock finally said. 'Or I at least want to be there when they meet Q. It'll be so much fun.'

'I'm glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense,' Mycroft muttered.

'Don't I always?' Sherlock responded in amusement.

Mycroft's entire body went rigid when he spotted the silver car pulling up just outside his house. He sighed.

'Is that Quillan?' Sherlock asked. 'You know, perhaps I should come over; moral support, and all that rubbish.'

'You need to stay in bed, Sherlock,' Mycroft said.

'But I want to help!'

'I'm sure you do,' Mycroft rolled his eyes. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was be helpful. 'Not that this conversation hasn't been delightful, brother dear, but I really must dash.'

'Mycroft- no, Mycroft, don't hang up on me!' Sherlock ordered. 'I'm bored, come get me!'

'We can spend some time together next week.'

'I won't be bored next week!' Sherlock snapped, but Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could try and wrangle an invitation out of him. This would be difficult enough without Sherlock's presence.

Mycroft slid his BlackBerry into his jeans pocket and took a long, deep breath before heading downstairs. He crossed the entrance and pulled the door open just in time to see the silver car peel away. James was walking on his own but Quillan had a cane, and Nurse Gilda- a rather short woman with very dark hair- had been saddled with the luggage.

'May I?' Mycroft queried and stepped forward to help the woman.

'Thank you,' Gilda breathed as Mycroft took about four bags.

'I'd help, but my arm's currently otherwise occupied,' James said and gestured to his right arm, which was currently inhabiting a sling.

Mycroft turned his attention to the double-oh. He'd heard of James Bond, of course, but hadn't met the man in person, not even when he'd visited Q at MI6. He was only about an inch or two shorter than Mycroft, but much broader, with cropped blonde hair and light blue eyes. His nose had been broken at least twice, his ears stuck out, and there were scars dotting his face and hands, as well as his throat. His skin was pale and there were deep bags under his eyes, but he seemed to be in relative good spirits.

Mycroft could see what Q liked about him; despite his occupation, there was something incredibly alluring about 007. He wasn't exactly stunningly attractive, but he was very handsome, and the smile he threw at Mycroft- though a bit hesitant- was charming enough.

'Agent Bond,' Mycroft inclined his head before flicking his eyes to Q, who was standing on the doorstep. 'And Quillan; delightful, as always.'

Q rolled his eyes at the use of his full name, and both James and Gilda smirked.

'Mycroft,' the young man replied. 'Do you have Earl Grey?'

'But of course,' Mycroft said. He nodded at the open door. 'Shall we?'

It took some time to get the three guests settled in; Mycroft had two guests rooms, and he put Q and James in the one furthest from the master bedroom, which was at the end of the long hallway upstairs. Nurse Gilda was in the one between theirs and Mycroft's office; it gave Q and James a bit of privacy, while ensuring that they wouldn't injure themselves too badly without Gilda realising what they were up to.

Gilda helped Q and James unpack before all three headed back downstairs and into the kitchen. Mycroft had made tea for himself and Q, coffee for James and Gilda, and the nurse practically fell onto a stool and grabbed the mug.

'Bless you, Mr Holmes,' she said, taking a sip and sighing.

'You're welcome,' Mycroft responded. 'And please, call me Mycroft. We'll be room mates for a while, after all.'

'Mycroft,' Gilda inclined her head.

'Can I call you Mycroft?' James asked from opposite the older man. 'After all, I'm dating your son. Isn't it proper to stick to "Mr Holmes"?'

Ah, yes; that. Mycroft and Q hadn't spoken in-depth about the younger man's relationship with James. Despite Mycroft's concern, he really had no right to tell Quillan whom he could and couldn't date. James had his issues- his past emotional troubles, his alcohol dependency, his love of dying every other week- but then, everybody came with their own baggage. 007's was just rather more heavy than most.

There was a rather large age gap between the two. James was thirty-five; only three years younger than Mycroft, which made him thirteen years older than Quillan.

Mycroft blew across the top of his tea and took a sip. Q was fidgeting a bit at James' side, but the agent himself was completely calm. He just watched Mycroft, waiting, clearly having decided not to bother defending his relationship. Which Mycroft had expected. James Bond was a man of action, not words. And really, he wasn't about to stop dating Quillan just because Mycroft disliked it.

'Please, call me Mycroft,' Mycroft finally repeated, eyes still on James. 'I'm not that much older than you, after all.'

'But you are my superior,' James responded.

'At MI6, certainly,' Mycroft conceded, 'but in this house you're a guest and my son's partner.'

He and James stared at each other for a bit before James got the message and inclined his head. Mycroft wouldn't say any more on James' relationship with Q, at least not with Q present. Mycroft would give him the shovel talk, of course; hurt him, I make you disappear somewhere in North Korea. It was the same speech Mycroft had given John, and no doubt James would react in the same way; laugh while wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

Mycroft quirked a lip and sipped his tea again. Q glanced between James and his father before saying, 'Well, I have no idea what happened just then. But nobody's shot each other, so I'll count it as a good first meeting.'

'No blood will be spilled unless it's warranted,' Mycroft said, smiling at Q.

'That's really not reassuring,' Q mumbled and sipped his own tea. He made a muffled sound of surprise. 'Oh, this is very good.'

'I've never met anybody who could brew tea to my exact liking,' Mycroft said. 'So I've always made it myself.'

'I have the same problem,' Q said. 'Though R makes a rather nice cup.'

'Her coffee is beyond gorgeous,' Gilda piped in, drawing the group's attention. 'Seriously, I'd marry her for her coffee making skills alone.'

'She's already married,' Q reminded her.

'And I'm dating someone,' Gilda shrugged. 'Doesn't mean a girl can't dream.'

Their conversation was halted by the sound of the front door opening, and Mycroft felt his heart leap into his throat.

'Mycroft!'

'Oh, no,' Mycroft groaned and slid from his stool.

'Gregory?' Q asked, looking far too amusement.

'I'll cut Q-Branch's funding,' Mycroft threatened, but Q just chuckled.

'Gregory?' James echoed.

'Mycroft's partner,' Q said. 'He doesn't know I exist.'

'Ooh, this'll be fun,' Gilda smirked and swivelled on her stool to watch Mycroft dart out of the kitchen.

'Gregory,' Mycroft said when he spotted his boyfriend, who was pulling his coat off and dumping his keys in the small bowl by the door.

'Hey, love,' Greg grinned. He looked exhausted, but still managed to smile and peck Mycroft on the lips. 'I got off earlier than I thought I would. And I figured I could get off before a snack and bed,' he added with a smirk.

Mycroft chuckled nervously and grabbed Greg's arms to stop him moving further into the house. 'Yes, well, about that...'

'About what?' Greg asked.

'Um, well...' Mycroft cleared his throat and just stared at the older man. Really, he could manipulate any conversation; he always knew what he wanted to say, even to Sherlock, who enjoyed trying to throw his brother for a loop at every available moment. But what was he supposed to say now?

'Honestly, Mycroft,' Q's voice suddenly interrupted Mycroft's panicking, and he practically jumped as he turned to look at the young man. 'Just tell him.'

Honestly, he took after Sherlock a bit too much.

'Oh, hello,' Greg smiled tentatively. 'I didn't know we had guests.'

'Mycroft's apparently a coward,' Q smiled. He limped towards them and Mycroft spotted James and Gilda, both peeking into the hallway from the kitchen. 'I'm Quillan Turner; call me Q,' Q said, holding out his hand.

'Greg Lestrade,' Greg responded. He shook Q's hand and then glanced at Mycroft.

'Uh...' Mycroft hesitated, again.

'Mycroft?' Q said. He looked far too amused with the situation. Yes, definitely a Holmes.

'Gregory,' Mycroft tried again, clearing his throat, 'there's something I should have told you... I only found out just over a week ago.'

'Yes...?' Greg ventured. He was beginning to look worried, a crease forming between his eyebrows. 'Mycroft, what's wrong?'

When it became clear that Mycroft had froze, Q stepped- well, limped- closer to the DI. 'I never knew who my father was,' he said, and Greg's eyes turned to him, brows furrowing further.

'Okay...'

'I was injured recently during a... uh, business trip,' Q said, 'and the nurses ran my blood through the database. We discovered that, well... I discovered who my father was.' Q looked pointedly at Mycroft, who's eyes were swivelling between Q and Greg.

Greg frowned, blinked, and frowned a bit more. 'Okay,' he repeated.

'Quillan's my son,' Mycroft blurted.

Well, it worked the first few times. Why not do it again?

Silence fell; the three men stared at each other, while in the kitchen James and Nurse Gilda watched like it was a rather interesting tennis match. Greg finally broke ir.

'What?'

'I'm Mycroft's son,' Q said. 'He and my mother were... acquainted, when they were fifteen. Mycroft had no idea until he was called and told.'

Greg stared at him. 'What?'

Mycroft grabbed Greg's arm and tugged him into the living room. Greg was so stunned that he let it happen, not saying anything even when he and Mycroft were alone- well, sort of alone; Q was watching from the entrance.

'I should have told you,' Mycroft said immediately, 'but like I said, I only found out a week ago.'

'You... that kid's your son?' Greg demanded. Mycroft nodded. 'How... how?' the DI asked. 'I thought you were gay!'

'I am,' Mycroft said. 'But when I was younger, I... I suppose that I wanted to be normal,' he said. 'There were already so many things about me that people didn't like. I thought that maybe if I... slept with a girl, I'd be attracted to them. It didn't work.'

'Jesus,' Greg gaped and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers twitched, and Mycroft knew that he was aching for a cigarette. 'How the hell... how old is he?' Greg asked.

'Twenty-one,' Mycroft said.

'Fuck,' Greg muttered and messed up his hair again. 'Mycroft-'

'I know,' the younger man interrupted, 'it's a lot to take in. I know that I should have told you.'

'Who else knows?' Greg demanded. 'Am I the last one?'

'No, not really,' Mycroft said. 'I haven't told my parents yet. Sherlock was the first person I told, followed by Quillan himself. The only other people who know are Quillan's superiors at MI6.'

Greg stared. 'MI6.'

'He's the Quartermaster,' Mycroft admitted. He'd changed Gregory's security clearance, first when he'd started working Sherlock, and again when he and Gregory had started dating. He couldn't tell Gregory everything, just enough that he could share parts of his day and what Quillan did for a living.

'What the fuck is a Quartermaster?' Greg snapped.

'He's the head of the technical branch of MI6,' Mycroft explained. 'He's in charge of security, of outfitting agents for missions, and working on new gadgets and technology. He writes the programmes that protect MI6 and Great Britain from cyber terrorism.'

Greg's eyebrows climbed, his mouth dropped open. 'Seriously?' Mycroft nodded. 'Bloody hell,' Greg muttered, and then snorted. 'Right. Of course any kid of yours would work for MI6.'

'If I'd known I had a son I never would have let MI6 recruit him,' Mycroft said, voice soft. 'I already hate how much danger Sherlock's in.'

Greg just nodded.

'Gregory, I'm really sorry that it's taken me this long to tell you,' Mycroft continued. 'I wasn't sure how to broach the subject, and then Quillan was injured. He and James needed a place to stay.'

Greg looked at him. 'James?'

'Quillan's partner,' Mycroft said. 'Who's also an agent for MI6.'

''Course he is,' Greg snorted. He looked at Mycroft again and sighed at the vulnerable look on the usually stoic man's face. 'Jesus, Myc...'

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft repeated.

'Yeah, I can see that,' Greg said. 'So, uh... they're staying with us, then?'

'Quillan's flat is too small for him, James, and the nurse tasked with keeping them healthy,' Mycroft explained. 'We have two guest bedrooms...'

'Yeah, I get it,' Greg nodded.

'Do you hate me?' Mycroft asked.

'What? No, Mycroft, I could never hate you.' Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. 'I'm pissed off,' Greg continued, and the red-head nodded. Yes, he'd be worried if Gregory wasn't. 'But, I'll... I'll get over it, I suppose,' Greg said. 'It's just a lot to take in.'

'I still haven't fully accepted it myself,' Mycroft admitted.

'Yeah, well... a long-lost son isn't something you deal with every day,' Greg said, smiling a bit. Mycroft smiled back. 'Christ, I can't believe you have a son,' Greg murmured. 'You're the gayest man I've ever met.'

Mycroft frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Please,' Q snorted. Mycroft and Greg both jumped, then looked to see Q leaning against the doorway. James and Gilda were just behind him, looking torn between amusement and concern. Well, Gilda looked faintly concerned; James was just grinning. 'You dress in three-piece suits,' Q continued, 'and your mannerisms are a bit... you know, gay.'

'Why thank you,' Mycroft said sarcastically, 'it's always good to be told that you sound gay.'

'I'm not judging,' Q grinned. 'I'm pansexual, after all.'

'Pan what-now?' Greg asked.

'Pansexual,' Q repeated. 'I'm attracted to the person, not the gender.'

'Right,' Greg nodded, 'right. Okay, so, uh... you're Mycroft's son.'

'Yes,' Q smiled slightly. 'I'm still processing it myself. I've known for about a week.'

'Have you met Sherlock?' Greg asked.

Q smirked. 'He broke into MI6 the day after I met Mycroft.'

'Of course he did,' Greg laughed. Yeah, that sounded like Sherlock. 'Well, um, I'm hungry,' he decided to move the conversation on. Despite what had happened, he was starving. He needed food and rest before he truly came to terms with his lover having a son. 'Lunch?'

'Pizza?' James suggested, and Gilda scowled at him.

'No, you and Q have to keep a healthy diet for the next few weeks.'

'But I don't wanna!' Q pouted. Both Mycroft and Greg raised eyebrows at his petulant tone.

'No more gorging yourself on chocolate and tea,' Gilda told Q, who pouted.

'He has a sweet tooth,' James explained to Mycroft and Greg.

'Huh,' Greg grinned, 'takes after you.' He smirked at his partner, who rolled his eyes.

'Yes, moving on,' he murmured and left the living room, bypassing Q, James and Gilda. 'My assistant keeps the refrigerator and cupboards well stocked, so we have a fair bit to choose from.'

'Oi, I went shopping last time,' Greg said as he followed Mycroft. 'You ate all the blueberries and then blamed me.'

'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,' Mycroft drawled.

'Bastard,' Greg muttered.

'So yours eats everything and blames you, too?' James asked as Greg passed him.

Greg stopped to look at the man, whom he assumed was Quillan's agent boyfriend. 'Yeah. Blueberries and crackers, usually. Everything else I have to force-feed him.'

'Q too,' James smirked. 'Only add chocolate and tea onto that.'

'I'm really not that bad,' Q denied as he limped after them. 'It's not my fault that chocolate digestives taste amazing when dipped in tea!'

'Q, if you could live on tea and chocolate, you would,' James told him.

'And crisps,' Q smiled. 'Salt and vinegar.'

James rolled his eyes and Greg chuckled.

'What's so funny?' Q asked.

'Myc's favourite crisps are salt and vinegar; Sherlock's too,' Greg explained. 'Only crisps either of them will eat. John and I found that out the hard way.'

'John?' Q questioned.

'Oh, Sherlock's boyfriend,' Greg said and went into the kitchen, James, Q and Gilda following. 'Huh, seems you Holmes men all have a type,' he added.

'We do not!' Mycroft denied- but of course, he and Sherlock always denied the similarities they had.

Greg smirked and leaned closer to James and Q. 'I'll tell you all about the Holmes brothers over lunch.'

'I'll never have a calm day again,' Mycroft sighed.

{oOo}

Greg managed to hold out until around three, but when his eyes started to droop, Mycroft, Q, and Gilda all ordered him to get some rest. He just nodded and waved a half-hearted goodbye before heading upstairs. He'd just stripped down to his boxers when Mycroft walked in.

'Hey,' Greg smiled slightly before hopping into bed. God, he loved Mycroft's sheets; he was sure that they were damn expensive, which was why he'd never asked what they were.

'Hello,' Mycroft responded carefully.

'I'm not mad, Myc,' Greg said as he got comfortable. 'It's just... weird.'

'I know,' Mycroft nodded. He strolled further into the room, and didn't speak again until he was sitting on the bed beside the DI. 'I am sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. I just wasn't sure how to start the conversation.'

'Yeah, I can imagine,' Greg said. 'Honestly, I'm not mad,' he repeated, 'it'll just take a while to get used to.'

'I know,' Mycroft said, looking down as he picked at the sheets. 'If you figure out how to accept it completely, let me know.'

'What'd you do when you first found out?' Greg asked.

'Panicked quietly,' Mycroft said, smiling when Greg chuckled. 'I sat in my office for a while and cancelled all of my meetings for the day. I had to tell my assistant what had happened. She was worried I'd finally cracked.'

'Ah, it'd take more than a son to make you crumble,' Greg smiled. He reached out and grabbed Mycroft's hand, threading their fingers together. 'How are you doing with this?' he asked.

'Okay,' Mycroft said honestly. 'I still can't quite believe that I managed to procreate.'

'Yeah, me either,' Greg agreed. 'I mean... you actually slept with a woman?'

'Mm,' Mycroft nodded. 'Her name was Caitlin Turner. We went to high school together before she moved. I tutored her in mathematics and one day, well... I'm still not quite sure why she wanted to sleep with me.'

''Cause you're adorable,' Greg stated, like it was a simple fact.

Mycroft smiled faintly. 'We didn't speak about it again; we went back to being tutor and student. She and her family moved a few months later. I'm not sure if it was because she was pregnant; I never asked.'

'She never told you?' Greg asked. 'About Quillan, I mean?'

'No,' Mycroft shook his head, 'I had no idea until the head of MI6 called me just over a week ago. I had my assistant supervise another DNA test, just to make sure.'

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'I gotta admit, Quillan looks more like Sherlock than you.'

'And Sherlock looks more like our parents than I do,' Mycroft shrugged. 'I got most of my looks from my father's mother. She was a red-head, too, with freckles. The only thing Sherlock and I share is the same eye colour, and even Sherlock's have bits of green and brown, as opposed to mine, which are completely blue.'

'What colour are Quillan's?' Greg asked. He wasn't sure why he was so interested, but... he'd always been really pleased that his daughter, Andy, looked exactly like him. His ex-wife, Karen, had dark blonde hair and light brown eyes, but Andy took after him; dark brown hair, chocolate brown eyes- hell, they even had the same nose and skin tone.

'Hazel,' Mycroft answered. 'Brown and green. He got his eyes from his mother. His hair colour, too.'

'The messy hair must be a Holmes family trait,' Greg commented, making Mycroft chuckle.

'Yes, well,' he cleared his throat, 'Quillan's looks about as manageable as Sherlock's. My hair's been a constant battle for as long as I can remember.'

'Well I like it,' Greg said. He smiled and reached up to touch the one curl that always managed to break free from whatever product Mycroft used. His hair was always wavy in the morning, or after he showered. Greg liked it a lot. Then again, he always liked messy Mycroft.

When Greg yawned rather widely, Mycroft slid closer across the bed. 'You should rest.'

'Yeah, I've been running a few days now,' Greg admitted. 'You gonna be okay with that lot by yourself?'

'I'll manage.' Mycroft pressed a chaste kiss to Greg's lips before standing.

'Hey, Myc.' Greg reached out and grabbed the taller man's hand, stopping him from leaving the room. 'I'm really not mad, okay? Don't think that I am. I was just surprised.'

'I believe you,' Mycroft said.

'I'll help you through this, 'kay?' Greg said. 'Suddenly having a son's gotta be messing with you a bit. I don't want you to bottle all this up and lash out at work.'

'I'm... doing okay,' Mycroft said slowly, 'surprisingly. Sherlock hasn't been too dreadful about the whole thing, and you've taken it much better than I thought you would.'

'I'm just really great like that,' Greg smiled cheekily, making Mycroft chuckle. 'Love you.'

Mycroft's smile softened and he leaned down to kiss Greg again. 'I love you, too. And thank you, for being so... accepting, of this.'

'Quillan's a good kid,' Greg said. 'Sorry, Freddie.' Quillan- or Q, as James and Gilda called him (and seriously, how many names did the boy need?)- had insisted on Greg calling him Freddie.

'I'll never call him that if I can help it,' Mycroft commented.

'I know,' Greg laughed. He could count the amount of times Mycroft had called him Greg on one hand. 'Go, spend time with your son,' he said, patting Mycroft's hand. 'Wake me up for dinner.'

'You can always have a late one,' Mycroft responded.

'Wake me up for dinner,' Greg ordered.

Mycroft chuckled. 'Yes, sir.' Greg poked his tongue out and burrowed under the covers as Mycroft left, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.

Greg stared at the pillows for a few minutes before closing his eyes. Yeah, he hadn't expected his day to go like this, but really, he'd gotten used to weird things happening; they always did around the Holmeses.

Besides, like he'd said; Q was a good kid.

{oOo}

Mycroft paused after he'd shut the door; just leaning against it, taking deep breaths, and blinking rapidly.

Gregory didn't hate him. He hadn't threatened to leave Mycroft. He hadn't even been that mad, all things considered. He'd bee upset, yes, but that had quickly disappeared during lunch. He and James got along very well, and he seemed to like Q. Gilda had just watched from the side-lines, a slight smile on her face. That was when she wasn't ordering Q to eat. Honestly, the amount of things Q and Sherlock had in common was truly worrisome.

'Hey.'

Mycroft blinked and turned to see Q standing a few feet away, cane gripped tightly in his right hand. Gilda had said that he'd heal well; in a week or two he wouldn't need the cane. Until then, he had to take it easy.

'Quillan,' Mycroft said, and ignored the eye roll his son gave him. 'How are you?'

'I was going to ask you that, actually,' Q said as Mycroft closed the distance between them. 'Greg seemed to handle everything well.'

'Yes, he did,' Mycroft said, feeling a smile spread across his face. 'He's always been an extraordinary man.'

'Well, Greg did say that we Holmes men were attracted to that sort,' Q grinned.

'So it seems,' Mycroft responded. 'But, yes... Gregory's fine.'

'I'm glad,' Q said. 'I'd hate to come between you and your partner. That's not something I'd ever want.'

'That's good to know,' Mycroft said. He led the way down the hallway, and then down the stairs, walking slowly so that Q could keep up.

'You aren't going to corner James and threaten him, are you?' Q asked suddenly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Why would I do that?'

'Well...' Q murmured, 'he's not that much younger than you. And he's dating your son.'

'I have no right to tell you whom you can and cannot date, Quillan,' Mycroft said. 'And really, I don't want to. Who you date is completely up to you. As long as James treats you well, and he's who you want to be with, then I have no problem.'

Q stopped at the foot of the stairs, forcing Mycroft to. 'You didn't answer my question.'

Mycroft smirked slightly. 'I wouldn't be Mycroft Holmes if I didn't threaten him a little.' With those words he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Q standing on the spot.

'Of course,' Q sighed and rubbed his eyes.

'My coffee machine!' he heard from the kitchen.

'I wanted coffee,' James responded.

'And you felt the need to utterly destroy it in your pursuit of caffeine?' Mycroft demanded.

'Well I hardly meant to destroy it,' James huffed.

Four hours and James had already destroyed something.

'Of course,' Q repeated and limped into the kitchen, prepared to play mediator. He always did where 007 was concerned.

{THE END}

Author's Note: Greg finally knows! Now all we need is for John to meet them, and for Mummy and Father Holmes to be told. I WILL be writing those stories, I promise.

So, I hope you enjoyed; and, as always, I hope it wasn't awful :)

Cheers,

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}