"I don't enjoy being your errand runner, Bond." Q sighs, but gets started. It's a little awkward to reach over the edge of the box, but he manages, choosing to touch the back of the hand rather than hold it like in a handshake or intimate gesture.

Just this much contact is enough. Q doesn't close his eyes, but his head dips down and his gaze unfocuses.

Fear. Pain. Not unusual for someone who'd been killed, or at least tortured. Q pushes further. More fear, surprise, confusion—and finally, a face, cast in shadow. He's wearing a gambler hat and clean-shaven. Dark hair. He says this is because of him, and immediately you know who the bastard's talking about. And so it's James' fault that your arm is tied down on a table to your right and the man starts to saw, and saw—

Withdrawing his hand, Q shakes off the chill and closes up the box again, quickly and neatly.

"The perpetrator knows who you are, and the victim knew you by first name. Her hand was removed with a surgical saw, I think—two days ago." Yes, at most. So the perpetrator knew when Bond would be returning. Q pushes the box across the table back towards Bond, already shuffling papers to try and forget the phantom pain.