Before John could react to Mycroft's grim statement, he found himself being dragged towards the small, smudged window in the back of the warehouse. "Give me a hand, Dr. Watson," Mycroft whispered, struggling to open the jarred window.
When the feat had been accomplished, John was the first to chamber out, followed by the older man. "Follow me," Mycroft said abruptly, and John didn't find the strength for even an indignant glare.
The men ran, crouched, and climbed, until they found themselves on a road in a somewhat less desolate area, where houses dotted the roadsides, and there was some illumination in some spots. "We need to find the town center. There should be some kind of convenience store open, and we could call for help," John suggested.
Mycroft nodded, and they proceeded down the road, until they arrived to a well-lit area. The convenience store they found was small and rundown, but had a perfectly functioning phone. John politely asked the young man at the counter for permission to use the phone, spinning a tale of a broken-down car in the woods and a lengthy hike to explain their appearance.
When the swarthy young man readily agreed, Mycroft practically lunged for the phone. John glared at him, but the older man ignored him and dialed a number. "Yes, I would like to order a cab. I'm at..." he turned to the cashier, who supplied the address. Mycroft repeated the address into the phone, and hung up.
John reached out to snatching the phone, when Mycroft put a restraining hand on his arm. "I do believe, Jack, that we can make all other arrangements when we arrive home," he said, the harsh glint in his eyes belying his friendly tone.
John figured that Mycroft was being cautious, and couldn't begrudge him that right. When the cab arrived, Mycroft gave directions to an address somewhere in the suburbs of London. John raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft just pursed his lips.
John had the distinct feeling that he was, once again, being kidnapped by the other man and playing along. True to his premonition, the journey didn't end at their destination. "We need to walk at least a half-mile, and then call another cab," Mycroft informed him curtly.
"Mycroft, stop playing games. Call your security team, or Lestrade, or Sherlock, or anyone for Heaven's sake, and get me home! I'm injured, and exhausted, and too bloody tired for this!"
Mycroft turned to face him. He looked the doctor up and down, and then crossed his arms. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Dr. Watson," he said softly, dripping with condescension. "You will do exactly as I say, or I will not be responsible for what happens."
John shook his head in disbelief. "You think I'm just going to follow along like a good little puppy, just because you said so?"
"You don't have much of a choice, do you?" Mycroft responded, with a smug grin.
"No, I don't," John admitted, chagrined. His strength was waning, and he wasn't sure he could brave it out himself. "But I do hope we'll both live to see you regret this."
The next two hours were a blur of cab rides, more walking, and John grump ingredients at Mycroft, who responded with stony silence. When Mycroft stopped in front of a residential building, and dragged John inside, the doctor was mostly relieved about the chance to rest his weary bones a bit, more than frustrated at being led like a sheep.
After taking the lift to the fifth floor, Mycroft punched in a range of numbers on a keypad near the door, and the door buzzed open.
John looked around their new haven. It was small, but clean and fully furnished. Mycroft interrupted his thoughts by commenting, "There's a first-aid kit in the lavatory, if you wish to avail yourself, Dr. Watson. I'll put up a kettle in the meantime."
"Any chance of fresh clothes?" John inquired.
"Certainly. You'll find some provisions in the bedroom over there, although there are no guarantees as to style or size."
John took a shower, put some ointment and wrappings on the wounds and chafed skin he had attained from his captivity, and then put on the clothes. He wryly noted how he looked like a child dressed in his father's clothes. Of course. These are Mycroft's, he realized suddenly. This is his private safe house, and I somehow ended up in here together with him. Who would have thought?
Mycroft, true to his word, had made tea, which John drank gratefully. The pair had a meager dinner of some canned food and Ramen noodles, and then Mycroft used the facilities to freshen up himself.
"Alright, what's our next step? I mean, we need to contact somebody. I want to make sure Rosie's alright. And you need to make sure Sherlock is safe, given that they seem to know about him, too."
"Look, John," Mycroft said softly, "I understand your concerns. However, there is no reason to believe that your daughter will be involved in this. As for Sherlock, he is incommunicado right now, which is a good thing, because our enemies can't get to him either. I believe we need a good night's rest before we do anything else. One misstep is all it takes to get ourselves caught again."
John agreed, however reluctantly, and Mycroft pushed him into the bedroom. He eyed the bed longingly, but turned to Mycroft. "Is there another bedroom in here?"
"The sofa is quite adequate, Dr. Watson. After your misadventures, I would say you need the bed more."
John nodded, and hesitated. "Good night, Mycroft."
"Good night, Dr. Watson," Mycroft returned.
The next morning, which truthfully could nearly be called noon, John Watson woke up refreshed and in better spirits than he had been in a long time. The sun was shining, he was alive, he was going home, and what more did he need?
"Alright, Mycroft, call your troops, or whatever you need to do, and let's go. Your company's been great and all, but it's getting a bit much," John called jovially to the man currently sipping tea a the kitchen table.
The man looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Sit down, John. We have things to discuss."
Those ominous words were the last thing John wanted to hear now. "No, I won't sit down. This stops here. You can stop with your bloody power play, and just get us home. Or I'll go myself."
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, sighing, "the matter is extremely complicated and volatile. Someone in my inner circle has sold me out. I don't know whom to trust. I won't be safe at home. You won't be safe. We need to stay here until I figure things out."
"Until you figure things out? That's a comfort," John said sarcastically. "With your track record, that shouldn't take long. How long will this take you? Hours? Days? Weeks?"
Mycroft's expression told John all he needed to know. "Are you mad?" he exploded. "There's no way I'll be hiding out with you for weeks. I'd rather cut my throat right now. Your need for control has gone too far this time, Mycroft, you hear me? Much too far! I'll contact Lestrade and get his help. I'm leaving and you can't stop me."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Can't I?"
"I'd like to see you try. I'm not afraid of you, Mycroft Holmes." John strode to the door and attempted to open it, only to find it locked. "Very funny, Mycroft. You'd think that after all my time in the army and with Sherlock, I wouldn't know how to pick a lock."
He felt a sudden pressure on his shoulders, as two hands grabbed him and roughly pushed him away from the door. "You will find, Dr. Watson," a voice hissed in his right ear, "that your bravery this time, is the kind of stupidity that can do more damage than you can ever imagine. You will sit down now, and listen, or you will find every reason to be very, very afraid of me."