The cell was as barren and empty as John's spirit, as cold and unwelcoming as the day was frigid. He'd been locked up for almost 24 hours since the shooting of Charles Augustus Magnussen. He hadn't been allowed visitors or to contact anyone, and after his interrogation, he saw only his expressionless, tight-lipped keepers. The government's security holding cell was outfitted only slightly better than a New Scotland Yard cell; better mattress and blanket, cleaner commode and sink, but in the end, just as oppressive. He should have been exhausted from the events of the last day, but he was drained more than tired. His food trays lay untouched. He saw no way out of Sherlock's situation. When he heard footsteps approaching, he didn't bother sitting up until he heard the sound of the cell's electric lock opening.
Mycroft. Of course it was Mycroft, clean-shaven, in an unwrinkled suit and wearing a blank expression. He stood just inside the cell door, looking oddly exposed and vulnerable without his umbrella.
John gestured to his surroundings. "Quite the joke, this. A box. I'm in a box. On Boxing Day."
Mycroft didn't react. "As anticipated, you have been cleared of any complicity in the death of Mr. Magnussen... And the issue of your illegal gun possession has been 'resolved'."
There wasn't even a flicker of relief across John's face. He slowly got to his feet.
"So, how many pieces of your soul did you have to trade for that?"
"Your sarcasm in this situation is not appreciated."
"Who said it was sarcasm?"
"Hmm." Mycroft Holmes' expression was unreadable but he tilted his head fractionally, a tacit "you're welcome".
Mycroft ventured further into the cell. "You are free to go."
"Not until I see Sherlock."
"I cannot allow that."
"Allow?"
"Yes, John. Allow. Permit. Shall I fetch a dictionary so that you may look it up?"
John's anger simmered dangerously beneath a veneer of control and he stepped closer to the senior Holmes.
"I need to see him."
"You may not. That is, you cannot. He is not here. He has been detained at another facility."
"'Facility.' You pompous arse. You can't even say jail? prison? cell? You have to sanitise it? Do you have any idea what being in a cell again could do to him after the last time? And wherever else he was 'detained'?" John spit out the word with as much disdain as he could muster.
A flicker of surprise crossed the elder Holmes' face. "Sherlock told you?"
"No."
"Then how did you-?"
"His wrists. I observed. I'm a doctor, in case you'd forgotten. I know ligature scars when I see them. Some of the scars were old. Some new." He took a steadying breath but it didn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Some were very new."
Mycroft sighed.
"John-"
"Mycroft, if you tell me to calm down, I will punch you in your poncy face, so help me God."
Mycroft took several steps toward the side wall and away from John's balled fist. John felt some grim satisfaction at Mycroft's reaction and he made no effort to hide it. Even so, John stepped as far away from the man as he could get. When he reached the opposite wall, he put a hand out, steadied himself and let his head drop. His eyes were closed.
"Sherlock said nothing to you about the events that occurred during his hiatus?"
"Another euphemism. Lovely. How likely do you think he'd be to talk about it? Eh?" He turned to face him. "The terrorist plot."
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft was thrown by the non sequitur.
"That's when I knew. We were looking at the underground maps, and again in the carriage car, his cuffs rode up...I saw his wrists." John's haggard eyes narrowed as they met the penetrating gaze of the senior Holmes. "Afterwards, I told him I'd seen the scars, the bruising." And, he thought, signs of PTSD: flinching at sudden sounds, the raw emotions just below the surface, the thousand yard stare in those bloodshot eyes when he thought no one was watching. "Totally ignored it, shut me down completely. And when I pressed him? Well, you know your brother. How do you imagine that went?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, then nodded in understanding.
"I've acted as Sherlock's doctor more times than I can count. Don't you think I should have known about his injuries-two years of injuries?"
"Yes, he should have discussed them-"
"I'm talking about you, Mycroft!" he yelled. "You didn't think to tell me? Didn't think your brother might have lingering after-effects?!"
"Sherlock is quite protective of his privacy, sometimes at great cost to himself. I'm not at all certain that I know the extent of what he endured. Still, perhaps I was...remiss...in not speaking with you."
"I will never understand how you Holmes think."
"Undoubtedly."
John huffed out a grim laugh. The tension broke in a flurry of motion as John lunged toward the bed and hurled the pillow at the wall.
"Christ, Mycroft, what the hell was he thinking?"
"He's already told you that. Mary-"
"Don't go there." John's warning tone should have stopped him stopped him, but he only paused, then continued in measured tones.
"This was all done to protect her. And by way of that, you. And the child... Of course, if Mary had acted earlier or been successful in her attempt on Magnussen's life, we would not be in this unfortunate position now."
"Don't you think I know that? Of course I know that!"
John was breathing hard, and he resume pacing, the anger bleeding out of him. The silence stretched out until finally, John voiced the question he had been trying to avoid. "What's going to happen to him?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
John's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What do you mean, you don't know? Surely they'll be a trial?"
Mycroft's awkward silence more than answered the question.
"What? You can't cover this up. He killed a man. Murdered him. You can't ignore... He -" John couldn't get himself to even say Magnussen's name - "was head of a major news outlet for Christ's sake. Even you can't sweep this under one of your vast governmental rugs."
Mycroft looked at him with infinite patience.
"What is going to happen to my brother has yet to be decided. I have...the authorities have several options."
"Let me guess. None of which you're at liberty to discuss."
"Understand, John, that there are elements at play here that you cannot begin to imagine, areas where even I cannot intervene." There was a tell-tale slump in that iron posture, pained creases around those brilliant eyes, which vanished as quickly as they had appeared. John bit back the harsh comment that had been on the tip of his tongue. For the first time since Appledore, John realised that someone else was hurting.
"I can go, then." More a statement than a question.
"There is a car waiting for you outside."
John nodded. The atmosphere in the cell suddenly seemed claustrophobic. He rubbed his hands across his tired face before shrugging past Holmes. His footsteps echoed down the sterile corridor, leaving Mycroft alone in the cell.
