Empty Tower Flat
Chapter Two -
Yeah we're playing those mind games together
Projecting our images in space and in time John Lennon, Mind Games
Disclaimers as before, thanks again to Dr Kitten and libririanmum for editing this chapter.
The imposing residence of Mycroft Holmes stood serenely in Park Lane.
John paced slowly in his allocated upstairs room, which was airy and luxurious. He was being treated as a virtual prisoner. He had phoned Sarah to try to explain what had happened to him, but she hadn't really understood. If he'd told her anything about his attack, she would have become worried and no doubt would have tried to come over to see him, so he told her he was staying with a friend. Not that he regarded Mycroft in any way a friend. Especially now that he was being kept like a stray puppy, paid off and kept. There was no way to get out either by the window or the door, which led to the hallway where staff looking like guards were wandering about.
He heard the handle turn on his maplewood door and one of the staff came in. John whipped round, exasperated and feeling vulnerable. What now, he wondered.
He had been stripped and examined almost forcefully by a so-called nurse earlier, and another medic had checked him over too. He would be all right: a few cracked ribs and superficial injuries, but thankfully his internal organs were not damaged.
The valet nodded to him, walked into his bathroom and turned on the water.
After a whirlpool bath and a few snacks, he was feeling slightly less frazzled and in less pain than before. It was now a quarter after nine o'clock, and he was exceedingly stiff and quite tired. He got into the bed in his room to rest and felt it dip a little under his weight. It was a waterbed. It was lovely, warm and comfortable. He waited for the inevitable tap on the door. Two long hours later, it came.
"How are you feeling, John ?" asked Mycroft, coming straight in without waiting. What was it with the Holmes brothers and their dressing gowns, John mused. Mycroft was wearing a green-piped gold affair that screamed expensive. He came straight over and sat on the bed uninvited. The bed dipped down alarmingly and began to rock as the water swished inside. John felt himself swaying, and the elder Holmes gently placed his hand on the bed beside him in order to steady himself.
John gulped. He was a bit wary of this situation; who knew what Mycroft wanted of him? Maybe he was going to demand John undertake some secret government work in return for his sixty thousand. He wants my loyalty and allegiance, John thought, would I be in a position to refuse?
"Are you quite rested and no longer in pain? Do you need anything?" he asked solicitously. John looked away.
"Get out, Mycroft, I'm not your pet."
The elder Holmes removed his hand and stood up slowly. "Very well, I shall see you at breakfast, John."
As the doctor lay back on the covers, looking at the slightly bowed departing figure, he felt a little contrite." Well, yes I am in some pain, actually. I'll have some more painkillers if you could get some, thanks. Perhaps you could ask your medical friend to prescribe some tramadol for me? Otherwise I doubt I will get any sleep tonight."
"Consider it done," Mycroft nodded as he left.
The pills arrived and John still couldn't drop off. There was something playing on his mind. What was it that the infamous Moran had softly said only to him, something about the dead deciding to live again? Dare he imagine there could be any hope? Just a glimmer? Or was it some tease or insult that Moran's twisted mind had dreamt up to hurt him even more than the physical injuries.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep and dreamt of Sherlock falling and he was running up and this time dodging the bike and getting there in time to catch him. Sherlock fell into his arms as light as a feather. Floating down to him. A wish fulfillment dream. He woke up to reality, dreadful reality, coming down from a tramadol night.
Breakfast was a somber affair at Mycroft's house - no cake or muffins, he must be on another diet then. John sat down and ordered a pancake just to spite him. The maid brought it and he watched Sherlock's brother almost appear to taste it himself as he licked his lips, observing every bite.
"Are you watching your figure again, Mycroft?" he asked playfully.
"I have put on ten pounds after an unfortunate trip abroad," Mycroft said, nibbling at a small dry wheat biscuit. It looked very unappetizing.
John took a sip of tea. He found it interesting that Mycroft, obviously so sensitive about his weight, was willing to confide in him.
"You know I will pay you back when the book starts selling, of course."
"No, John, I will control your finances from now on."
John looked up in shock. "What do you mean, you will control … look, I am not a child, you can't do this!" He cast his eyes about trying to find some convincing argument. "How can I explain it to Sarah, for a start, and what gives you the right …"
"You are not yourself, John. I have taken the liberty of destroying all your cards; if you need money you will carry cash. When you need cash you will ask me. I will get you the help you so obviously need. You will stay with me until you are out of danger. That is all."
"You cannot be serious!" John shouted. "What megalomaniac game are you playing? You really think you can control me?"
"I can and I will. I will keep you safe until Sh- until such time as I see fit. I need to visit my office now. You will be taken to the television studio at four and my driver will collect you after the interview. Tomorrow you will be accompanied to the book launch at the store. Sarah will be informed you are staying with me. Your share of the rent is paid. You will do no more work."
John was feeling trapped. No wonder Sherlock used to think his brother was a spider. He was struggling in a web of insolvency of his own making and had allowed himself to be advanced upon and wrapped in the golden silken tresses of a controlling mind. Mycroft had been watching and waiting for a moment like this. He was probably about to pounce.
John jumped as he looked up and felt those eyes boring into him.
"Come now, John, don't be so dramatic; leave that to your wonderful stories. You have quite a vivid imagination, you know."
John shuddered. "You can't possibly have known what I was thinking then."
Mycroft smiled superciliously. "It's quite obvious to me what you were thinking, John. Not the exact words but I certainly got the gist of it. I am not going to take advantage of you in your reduced circumstances, my dear doctor - that is not my intention even though you seem to expect it. Until this evening, then. Be strong in the interview and don't let that man get the better of you. He is known to be a bit of a loose cannon. Be seeing you."
Mycroft stood up, then hesitated. "You really must not fear me, John, I am not your enemy. This is for your own good." He picked up his copy of the Times from the side table and looked down at the doctor chillingly." You are not in any position to resist me. Do not try."
Mycroft made for the hallway, picking up his umbrella on the hat stand. John heard the door bang.
'What the hell must your childhood have been like, Sherlock,' he whispered to himself.
