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It was a slightly over cast day. Grey clouds only occasionally giving way to the sun as the train cut its way through the rolling green of the English county side towards the wilds of Scotland before depositing its passengers in Edinburgh. In the first carriage sat 14 year old Quentin Holmes. He was dressed with care; his stiff navy blazer wrapped around his skinny frame, his dark curls slicked back and new black glasses perched on his nose as he read his book quietly.
He was the very image of a well-to-do school boy.
All around him, other school boys were gathered. Unlike Quentin, these boys were not well dressed; their blazers thrown hazardously over their bags, their white shirts and ties in a state of disarray already.
Like any confined space filled with only teenage boys, laugher and shouts filled the air. Objects were thrown around, cries of joy and anger filling the confined space as the bullies laughed and their victims protested.
And yet, there was a circle of quiet around Quentin, like an invisible wall which no one yet dared to breach. That was unsurprising. Teenage boys they all may be, but they all knew enough to know the secret. You don't approach Quentin. Not as a friend and certainly not to harass. Not if you wanted to escape his brothers wrath.
Sherlock had certainly let his mark, one, which Quentin suspected, would last a long time, despite the older Holmes boy now having been safely passed on to Cambridge.
It was going to be an interesting school year.
Boarding schools were always interesting for Quentin, regardless of those around him. Sharing the first two years with both his brother and his cousin had certainly been hazardous (although it had settled down a little after Cousin Sherlock had been asked to leave the school). But now, Quentin was looking forward to the experience. This was going to be the first time he was living away from home, without someone looking over his shoulder.
No, Quentin didn't expect to make many friends. He wasn't at school to make friends. Plus, his tendency to read people did put off any potential friendships in the middle of forming. No, he was here to learn.
Pushing his glasses more securely to his nose, Quentin ignored how the noise in the carriage dropped. He looked down at the page before him.
"Don't mind me, boys." A voice said to the now quiet carriage. It was a smooth, deep voice, Spanish accent detectable.
Quentin ignored it, turning a page. The voice continued.
"Now let's see. Where should I sit? Ah, here."
Footsteps drew close. There was a cough. Quentin looked up. There was a man standing next to his seat, looking down at him.
"Do you mind?" he asked, blue eyes looking into Quentin's. The young Holmes found himself immediately taking note, looking the man up and down. The man’s hair was a ruddy blond colour, slightly surprising, given his accent. He was tall and muscular, with a strong jaw and wide forehead. He was also dressed in a sharp suit and carrying a folder with the schools crest on it.
In every way, he was the image of a teacher. Maybe a new one about to start at the school. Certainly, Quentin had never seen him before on campus. And yet, something felt wrong. The young Holmes couldn't help but notice the faint scars on the man’s face, the surprising amount of muscle mass and the sharp glint in his eye, each thing contradicting the teacher theory. He had a sudden desire to study this man, to use his brain to try and figure him out.
Realizing he was being rude, Quentin reached for his bag, perched on the seat next to him. He dropped it on the floor, trying not to stare as the man smiled at him.
"Thank you." the man said, sliding into the seat. Quentin slowly closed his book, still eyeing the man.
"Are you a teacher?" he asked. He needed to know for sure.
The man looked at him quickly.
"How did you...?" he trailed off as Quentin nodded towards the folder still in his hands. The man looked down. When he looked up again, his eyes were shining in amusement.
"Clever boy." he said, again smiling. He held out his hand to Quentin. "Mr Tiago Rodriguez."
Quentin quickly placed his book on his lap and took the offered hand, feeling the strength in the grip. Realizing what was expected of him, Quentin nodded.
"Quentin Holmes." he volunteered. It was always a risk offering his name to anyone from school. Mycroft had certainly been well known during his time and Sherlock had all but created a stigma. No teacher would ever trust the Holmes name again.
"Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes." Mr Rodriguez replied, letting go of Quentin's hand. Clearly he did not know the legacy of Quentin's older brother. Or maybe he did. His face was carefully blank, making it difficult to read him. He man gave the boy a long look.
"Tell me, what do you think of computers?"
Quentin blinked. He hadn't been expecting that question.
"I'm sorry sir, I don't understand." he said. He deliberately added the sir. Years of trying to avoid trouble because of his brother had taught him to always be polite.
The man seemed to brush it off.
"Tiago, please. Or Mr Rodriguez if you must. But what I meant is, do you like working with computers, Mr Holmes?"
Quentin thought hard. Yes, he did like computers. There was a strange joy which came from fiddling with them, as though, using nothing but the keyboard before you, you could somehow change the world.
When he had turned 12, Mycroft had brought an old computer home for him as a Christmas present. It had lasted two whole weeks before Sherlock had managed to break it in a fit of boredom. Of course, the challenge of repairing the device had occupied much of Quentin's time for the next month or so after that and even now, the repaired (and if he was honest, improved) computer had a place of honour on his desk.
Quentin found himself saying as much to Mr Rodriguez. The man smiled.
"Wonderful." he said. "I have only been hired by the school on a temporary basis to teach Cantonese, but I was hoping I would be able to interest some boys in learning computer coding. You seem like the sort of clever boy who would benefit from such lessons."
Quentin blinked at the man.
"You speak Chinese?" he asked.
Mr Rodriguez nodded.
"Of course, you do not live in Hong Kong for very long without learning the local language."
Quentin was silent. It seemed to dawn on Mr Rodriguez.
"Ah! You thought because I have a Spanish accent, I would be a Spanish teacher, correct?"
Quentin blushed and lowered his eyes. He was loathed to admit that, yes that was exactly what he had thought.
Mr Rodriguez laughed.
"Then my plan worked."
Quentin looked up again, wanting to question the man. Mr Rodriguez seemed to see the question in Quentin's eyes.
"The secret to excelling at life, Mr Holmes. Never be what people expect you to be."
Quentin nodded. He only had to look at Mr Rodriguez to realise the truth in the statement. This man, whoever he was, was certainly more then he seemed, more than even Quentin could see. More than even Sherlock would be able to see if Quentin was honest with himself.
Right there, Quentin vowed to watch this man, to observe his actions and try to uncover his secrets.
For the next few weeks, Quentin found himself trying to unravel the mystery, watching the teacher in Cantonese classes, joining the after school computer program, observing the man in the great hall at lunchtime. He allowed the man to teach him everything, from correct pronunciation to coding. He worked with the computers, and even, with Mr Rodriguez encouragement, tried his hand at some basic hacking.
Mr Rodriguez seemed to like him. He called Quentin a 'Clever Boy', a title which should have been demeaning and yet, Quentin found himself proud to bear it.
And then, as quickly as it started, it ended.
Mr Folly, the head Science teacher was found to be subsidizing his income as a teacher, with his income working for several Cambodian drug lords. He was arrested in a frenzy of media and an outcry from parents.
Mr Rodriguez resigned that very week, disappearing from school life without even so much as a goodbye.
Quentin, of course, had already seen the signs. MI6 had certainly not been his first guess but it made sense. An agent, hidden as a teacher, could easily gain access to Mr Folly's private records. Especially if he was good with computers.
Of course, Quentin knew he could never talk about it. It was the Secret Intelligence Service after all. But he was still proud that, for a little while at least, he had been learning from the very heart of Britain's Intelligence. And he would certainly work hard to improve his skills.
A few years, a lot of hacking and an arrest later, and Quentin Holmes had all but disappeared, his records wiped from the British System and replaced by Q, the Quartermaster of MI6.
The handler of numerous agents, including the famed Double O’s, the Quartermaster was an impressive agent in his own right. And an impressive hacker, able to break into any system imaginable. Those few computer lessons had birthed a lifelong love affair with the mechanical world, the former Mr Holmes eagerly consuming any and all knowledge regarding the subject.
Of course, it was not the only lesson Mr Rodriguez had left for his former pupil.
Q was a hacker who had carefully cultivated the look of a weak office worker or computer nerd. None who would look at him would believe that the man, little more than a boy, was also an impressive shot with an array of weapons, was in possession of a wicked silver tongue, a genius mind and was capable of sending even the battle hardened field agents of the SIS cowering in fear with just a look. None who looked would believe that 007, the UK’s top secret agent and killing machine, was at this man’s beck and call. No one would believe that which a few well-chosen computer keys, this man could and would send regimes crumbling and governments reeling. No one would believe that to attack this man, would be to bring the down the wrath of the whole country in the bodies of a few, select but very important individuals.
A long time ago, a man, an MI6 agent, had told him to never be what people expected him to be. And he had embracing that idea to the fullest.