A/N Just felt inspired to add this. Suppose it fits in as chapter 3 if you want a sequence, but I've hopped around. :)

M: Why didn't you call?

Bond: You didn't get the postcard?

He awakes in a hospital bed, attended to by nuns in starched uniforms who fuss over him in heavily accented English. Can they call someone? No. No next of kin, no family? There's no-one.

Of course not strictly true. There are several people who'd be very interested to know his demise is not as permanent as they'd feared. But he's not in a particularly charitable mood right now. M's order, still ringing in his ear, burns hotter than the stitches holding together his punctured side.

As soon as he is able, he leaves. His damaged organs sewn together as best they can be, his broken ribs wrapped and on the mend, he finds himself a place to stay. At first that's a cheap hotel. It's adequate for his needs and he doesn't want to waste what little money he has access to. A week later he moves to a shack on a small island of little consequence to anyone other than the natives. It's an idyllic location, or at least it should be.

He drinks.

He fucks.

Mostly he just stews.

His anger is eating away at his insides just as surely as the alcohol is destroying his liver. As time goes by and he sinks ever lower, James acknowledges if he wants to detour from this highway to oblivion he's going to have to be sensible about it. Writing down what he's feeling seems to be the best option since there's no-one he can feasibly talk to about any of it. M would probably thumb her nose at the exercise as too American. That simple fact makes him determined to do it. MI6's resident psychologist would be proud.

He's half considering buying himself a journal - though a little notebook or the back of a serviette will do just as well - when he passes a stand of picture-postcards aimed at the tourists. A beautiful image of the island paradise life he's supposedly living catches his eye. His side pulls painfully as he reaches up to retrieve his choice.

Over a strong cup of Turkish coffee at a pavement table of a small café he pulls out a pen. The question now that he's made this resolution is just what to write. He decides to start small - baby steps - settling for Dear Ma'am, Alive and well. Wish you were here. (he's feeling remarkably snaky all of a sudden) Love James.

He pushes it in the slot of nearest letter box and heads home to his girl and his booze feeling a little lighter. Quite why he doesn't know, since the card is unstamped and without an address. It'll never get anywhere near England let alone his former boss.

He repeats the exercise a few days later. It's a veritable diatribe this time, railing against her betrayal and lack of trust in his ability. It essentially amounts to a longwinded 'Fuck you'. He runs out of space before he gets everything out, even with his writing kept small and crossed at a right angle. Consequently it's mostly illegible so it wouldn't matter if she did receive this one; but since he's written over the address portion of the card he'd have to shove it in an envelope if he really did want her to read it. James doesn't have an envelope. It goes in a mail box as is.

M'd probably tell him to get over it anyway. Buck up, stop pouting like a supermodel and get back on the job, 007. You're behaving like a petulant child.

So he's bitter, he can't deny it. She's taken things from him, a life, which while not easy, is one he held dear. This drunken beach bum routine has gotten old pretty quickly.

He misses the weight of a gun in his hand, the thrill of the chase in an expensive machine. Playing drinking games with a scorpion on your hand poised to strike at any moment just doesn't have the same effect. He misses London and English weather. He misses custard tarts. He misses his Tom Ford suits - the brown leather jacket he's been living in for several weeks now isn't cutting it anymore. And it's starting to smell.

He could have it all back he supposes, if he'd acknowledge to her that he is still alive. But he wants to leave M suffering for her professional misstep as much as he still does.

Whether she does indeed suffer has never been a question. She may be a cold-hearted professional, but he knows he was always one of her favourites. How else could he have got away with the things he did? She always rode him with a slack rein. Who holds the title of pet now, James wonders. It's probably not Ronson.

When he stumbles - if actively looking for something can be termed as such - across his obituary online one morning another card is despatched forthwith: M, Atrocious case of defamation in the Telegraph. Exemplar of British fortitude indeed! Retract immediately! Bond.

He can't deny however, that it's given him a little warm glow inside.

As a result his next message takes a rather different tone. He's feeling more understanding now. He apologises for calling her names, and accusing her of not doing her job properly. His rational side knows she didn't have much choice in the matter, the head of MI6 has tough decisions to make that will never please everyone. Still, he resents being the one made to pay the ultimate price.

Perhaps he'll pick up the phone one of these days, and let her know he isn't dead. He can remember her number when he wants to. But soon the thought of hearing the voice that called the 'bloody shot', of her berating him for not making contact sooner rather than falling on his neck and begging his forgiveness sends his blood pressure climbing. He can't bring himself to do it and the more he thinks of it, the more annoyed he becomes. In no time at all he's back to thinking of her as 'Bitch'. So much for therapy.

At times he fantasises about what their first meeting might be like. Would he walk into the office and sit casually on the edge of her desk, braving the displeasure of both M and that dreadful dog? Or maybe plonk himself down opposite her at some posh London eatery and watch her choke on her sea bass in surprise?

He doesn't have long to ponder. A CNN Breaking News report of a terror attack on MI6 interrupts his morning hair of the dog. Images of smoke billowing from HQ at Vauxhall Cross make the decision to return home now ridiculously easy. As is the one of how to approach M.

Breaking into her home will always be Bond's number 1 choice. Why mess with the classics.

He's coming, he doesn't necessarily want to, but he just can't help himself. Never mind Queen and Country. M needs him.

So he goes, home James, and doesn't spare the horsepower.