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Son Of A

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“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock continued to pace up and down the room. “You’re starting to make me dizzy. Do sit down and have a cup of tea."

“Demigods!” Sherlock spat, ignoring Mycroft’s request. “And I suppose this is Mummy’s idea of a joke? All those years trying to deduce who our fathers are, and she decides to simply just tell us through her will.” He glared at the piece of paper on Mycroft’s desk as if it told him how stupid he was. Then again, Mycroft thought, perhaps it did. Though it really wasn’t Sherlock’s fault he didn’t think to consider that their fathers are gods.

“Mummy was a complicated woman,” Mycroft said, trying to appease the still pacing Sherlock. “Using Murray on official documents, using Holmes--her grandmother’s maiden name, for our surname, and using Harker as her surname during missions. More to the point, are you up to the task of telling Quincey who his biological father is?”

Sherlock hummed and finally stopped pacing. A borderline manic grin appeared on his face. “Perhaps,” he said. “Do I get to announce it over tea with Bond present?”

“Trickster,” Mycroft commented casually. “I think see it now. Will you be telling John?”

“So that he’ll quiz me on my family relations? No, thank you.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “I would also rather not meet my father. Or my uncle. Or my aunt who is younger than me.”

“Quincey might actually form a friendship with your Aunt Jane,” Mycroft said, enjoying Sherlock’s discomfort at knowing they actually had more family members than he could ever want. Maybe this could be their cue to read religious texts? “The two of them might even come up with a reliable transportation system from many key places in Earth to Asgard.”

“You arrange that meeting. I don’t want to have any part in it,” Sherlock said, already getting his coat and scarf from the armchair he threw it on. “In the meantime, let me meet up with Quincey to deliver the good news before Bond gets sent on another mission.”

--

“Let me make sure I understand this correctly,” Bond said later, when he and Sherlock were sitting across each other in the dining room of Quincey’s flat. Unfortunately, Quincey had to orient the new 002 and assist her on her mission in Baghdad, so he wasn’t around. Fortunately (for Sherlock), Bond had a whole week off before M sends for him. “The three of you are demigods.”

Sherlock only barely managed to roll his eyes. “Yes, Bond. Need I say it a third time for it to pierce through your skull?”

Bond held up a finger. “In light of this new development, I would appreciate it if nobody says anything threatening.” Sherlock now felt entirely justified at rolling his eyes. If he had any superpowers, it wasn’t killing anyone simply by voicing threats. Anderson and 99% of Scotland Yard would be proof of that. (It should be 100%, but he’d excluded George--was it George? Geoffrey? Gerald?--when he married Mycroft.)

“Well, I think I’ll leave you alone now,” Sherlock said primly, when it seemed that their conversation was over. “And remember the thing about threats, Bond. No depraved sexual acts or you’ll find--”

“Got it.”

“--how much of my mind palace is dedicated to housing information on torture methods.” Sherlock finished. He smiled at Bond’s subtle wince and turned to leave.

--

“Are you still sulking?”

Bond studiously sipped his coffee and purposely exuded an aura of non-sulkiness. “Of course not,” he said. “It’s not everyday I get to find out that my boyfriend’s biological father is a god of lust. It’s also not everyday that my boyfriend gets kidnapped by a shady man in a bowtie.”

“The Doctor is a family friend,” Q said. “Sure, Sherlock’s still pissed at him for not returning after promising to take him on a trip to one of the newer New Yorks, but--” Q paused as he noticed how stiffly Bond held himself. “Wait a second. Why are you sulking exactly?” When Bond said nothing and continued sipping his coffee like a disgruntled cat drinking soy milk, Q understood. He also may or may not have laughed like an asthmatic hyena.

“It’s not funny.”

Q didn’t stop laughing even as he pulled Bond closer to him and set aside his coffee mug. “You think, that after I find out I’m a demigod, I realized that I was too good for you and eloped with a time-traveler who is mentally 5-years-old?” Q asked, a bit incredulously, before kissing Bond’s frowning lips. “What are you, four and a half?”

“You are too good for me,” Bond mumbled against Q’s lips. “I knew it even before this demigod business.”

Q just smiled and kissed Bond again. “Well if that’s the case, why don’t you show me how good you can be for me?”

“So you won’t leave me for another bloke with a shiny vehicle?”

“So I won’t leave you behind when said bloke asks me to travel with him,” Q clarified. “Mind you, he hates guns. Loves fish-fingers, though. And mmph--” Bond chose to interrupt at that moment by claiming his lips in a filthy kiss that made his toes curl.

Bond leaned back out and smugly took in Q’s disheveled state. “That’s enough about him, don’t you think?”

--

“No, Quincey,” Mycroft said, two days later. “I really don’t want to hear about it.”

“Nor will you hear anything about it,” Q said. “I’m just saying, I think our--for the lack of a better term--powers started to manifest after we learned of our heritage. Maybe that’s why Mummy never told us.”

“If you’re asking me to arrest Sherlock in advance, or unknow everything from two days ago, then you should think twice about who you’re telling it to,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid my...ah, inherited talents have fully stabilized this morning, and people within earshot who wished for something hard enough found themselves in possession of a contract, which they only have to sign with their blood for it to come true.”

There was a pause, before Quincey said, “Well. I hope you won’t get horns. It looks terribly inconvenient.”