John sipped at the caramel-coloured froth on his pint of Guinness. Beside him, Lestrade nursed a glass of Tribute ale and eyed the blonde bartender appreciatively. The pub was full of tourists and locals taking a midday break. Somewhere in the crowd, John knew, were the two bodyguards that Mycroft had assigned to follow and protect them during their outing.
"Look at all these people, Greg," he said as he put his pint back down. "Most of them don't have anything more serious to worry about than the price of groceries and petrol. I should be so lucky."
"If you were, you'd be bored shitless within a day."
"I know, damn it. Still, at times like this, I wish for it."
"Yeah, I know. It was the same for me at the Yard. The press, the public, the politics: it all got to me more than once, but I wouldn't have had it any other way." Lestrade looked at his watch. "I imagine that Sergei bastard is in serious pain right about now."
Anthea's predawn call had been in response to her boss's order that any prisoner developments be reported to him immediately. She told Mycroft that Sergei had been caught trying to remove an artificial molar with a cyanide capsule in it. The crisis had been averted, but Mycroft wanted to go to the centre at once. John persuaded him to stay in bed for a few more hours. Neither expected to sleep, but to their combined surprise, they dozed off and remained in bed until noon.
Mycroft and Sherlock had dropped John and Lestrade off at the pub before proceeding to the containment centre. The brothers had decided to combine their deductive talents (and violent tendencies too, if necessary) to get information out of the contrary Russian, who was determined to deny them victory. To pass the time during their absence, Lestrade had suggested going into Topsham, a historic estuary that was now part of Exeter, and John assented. He needed to visit a chemists' anyway, as he'd written himself a prescription for more lorazepam. He didn't like the idea of self-medicating, but it was the only way he could relax while alone with Mycroft.
"John," Lestrade said as he signalled for another round, "how are you doing, mate, and I mean really?"
"Really?" John lifted his eyes from his glass. "Can't you imagine, Greg?"
"Doesn't matter if I can or not. I want to hear you say it."
Those calmly spoken words reminded him why he'd always liked Lestrade. The former Yarder was temperamentally stable, although Sherlock preferred the word 'boring', and John needed some stability right now, as well as someone to talk to.
"It's hard to explain, Greg. My life stopped being normal the moment I met Sherlock and like you said, most of the time I love it that way. I expected to be injured now and again- that's nothing a soldier isn't mentally prepared for during training. But I never once expected what Sergei did to me: turned me into a walking weapon." He breathed deeply to calm his growing agitation. "When I realised what he had done, I planned to run away, to avoid seeing Mycroft and endangering him. If you all hadn't found me first, I likely would have done it."
"It's a good job you didn't then. How would you have survived? Slept behind skips and begged for money? That's the only way you'd have stayed off Mycroft's radar." Lestrade shook his head. "Christ, John, when you went missing he was like a man possessed. He didn't go into hysterics- that's not him- but he didn't eat or sleep, and was always on the phone or jumping into cars in the middle of the night. Even Sherlock was worried, if you can believe that."
"I can, actually."
"You're lucky to be with Mycroft, you know." Lestrade eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.
"Yes, I am, for a variety of reasons. Be specific, Greg."
"So many police officers see their marriages end in divorce. When I was at the Yard, we threw parties for those who made it past the five-year mark. Your job comes first, you work crazy hours, and forget about making plans: I've lost count of how many Christmas dinners I missed with my ex-wife because some yobbos turned a pub fight into a street brawl. Your spouse can never be sure that you won't be in a body bag at the end of your shift."
Lestrade paused as the waitress laid two more glasses before them and removed their empties with a sweet smile. He grinned back and winked. When she left, his sombre expression returned.
"Nice girl- hope she stays away from cops. Anyway, John, I don't mean to sound facetious, but not many relationships would have survived what happened in the car yesterday. Mycroft didn't even suggest separate beds last night, did he?"
"No. I'm actually the one who's had the reservations and fears."
"You lucky bastard." Lestrade leaned toward him. "He's seen you at what's possibly your worst, and he stayed. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"
"Yes, I do." John's heart swelled. "I don't know why he forgave me so easily, but I'm bloody grateful."
"He forgave you so easily because he knows it wasn't your fault. And there's nothing you can do that he hasn't seen or experienced a million times over. You can't scare a man like Mycroft Holmes. Not even Sherlock is privy to everything he's seen and done, but I'd bet my shitty pension that he's walked through hell and pissed on the devil more than once."
"I know he has." John recalled the last time they'd made love, before leaving London for Exeter. As his palms glided over Mycroft's shifting back, he'd felt ridges from numerous scars, and shuddered inside. At the same time, he felt Mycroft's lips brush against his shoulder wound, silently confirming what they shared: familiarity with pain and determination to persevere.
He was lucky. Greg was right.
"Would you be interested in anything from the menu, gentlemen?"
When John heard that voice, he froze before slowly turning around in his chair. Standing in a crisply pressed waitress uniform, a pair of menu folios nestled in her graceful arms, was Elena.
"I'll look at a menu, thanks." Lestrade accepted one, flipped it open, and began perusing. John nodded jerkily in reply, unable to tear his eyes away from her cool, lovely features. Her blonde hair was caught behind her head in a loose ponytail, making her look a lot younger.
She handed him the other menu with a mysterious smile. When he opened it, he saw a sheet of paper containing the following message:
Men's room. Five minutes. Knock four times.
Lestrade closed the folio and gave it back. "I'll have the fish and chips, please."
"Same," John said, returning the menu and its message with a quick nod.
Elena beamed. "Right away, gentlemen." When she walked toward the kitchen, Lestrade's eyes were glued to her rear, which shifted seductively in her tight black pencil skirt.
"Now, that's nice. I like a woman who knows how to age gracefully. Wonder if she's got a boyfriend."
John cringed inside, but managed to keep his reply casual. "She sounds Russian or Polish, Greg. Maybe she's looking for a naïve middle-aged Brit to help her get a marriage visa."
Lestrade chuckled. "You think? If she can cook and last all night in bed, I'll negotiate."
"You're suggesting that you can last all night."
"Maybe I could, with an incentive like that."
John kept up the banter, trying not to make his clock-watching obvious. When five minutes passed, he stood.
"I'm going to the Gents'. Be right back. If that waitress returns, try not to slobber."
Lestrade gave him the finger, and John forced a smile. As he crossed the pub and went down the dim hallway leading to the toilets, his heartbeat increased until he could barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears. Elena must have news if she'd hunted him down like this.
The door to the men's toilet was concealed from the pub customers by an aging phone booth. John knocked four times and waited. A second later, he heard the bolt slide, so he turned the knob and slid inside.
Elena leaned against the sink, arms crossed and one long leg bent at the knee. Even in a waitress uniform she looked formidable. Her green eyes examined him from head to toe before she spoke.
"How are you coping, John?"
"As well as can be expected." He locked the door and turned back toward her. "I'm going to presume that you have news for me."
"You presumed correctly. I'll make this fast, so that your companion doesn't get suspicious. Who is he, by the way?"
"A close friend. Formerly with Scotland Yard so yes, let's make this quick."
"Sergei's capture has forced me to use other resources to learn more about your programming." She pushed away from the sink and paced slowly back and forth. "I found out that there's one trigger, and it's a spoken word."
"I know," John replied.
Elena spun sharply about, lips parted. "You know? Did Sergei break?"
"No. Not yet, anyway." He took a deep breath. "I've been triggered already. Mycroft figured out that you were there. He said your name- that was the trigger- and I tried to strangle him. I was brought out of it by hypnosis and I'm on medication now to slow my reactions-"
Her eyes had widened at the words "triggered already". Her hands began waving, making John stop talking. "John," she said slowly, "you've been triggered?"
"Yes." He stared at her face, which was now a mask of dismay. "What is it?"
She shook her head. "That means the fail-safe has kicked in."
"The what?"
"John, when a sleeper assassin is triggered, it's assumed that they either succeeded in killing their target or failed and are therefore exposed and useless. Either way, Sergei has no further use for them. I discovered that you were injected with a microscopic device- I don't know what else to call it- that travels in your circulation system until activated. Triggering activates it."
John felt cold. "Go on."
"It's a timed explosive. Thirty days after activation, it will go off, killing the host." Her eyes fell to the floor before returning to his face.
As he listened to those words, John experienced a flashback. He was at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned, Moriarty's explosives strapped to his aching body and red dots dancing over his heart while Sherlock stared at him in shock and panic. That had been his first inkling of how much the younger Holmes cared about him. Now, faced with imminent death again, anguish tore through him.
He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave Sherlock, leave Mycroft.
"There's nothing that can be done?" he whispered.
"I don't know- I don't think so. The explosive is too small to detect and extract. I'll try to find out more, but dear God." Her finely manicured hand went to her mouth. "John, please, even if I can't help you, please help my son."
Before John could answer, the doorknob jiggled. "One moment," he called out, throat sandpaper-dry.
"John? Open the door. Now."
Mycroft.
