John vaulted out of the car, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees as he landed on the pavement. Hearing Mycroft exclaim, he leaped up and spun around, the sunlight shielding him like a suit of armour.
Moriarty's teeth were digging into his victim's left forearm with such force that his jaw muscles shook. But to John's amazement, no blood gushed from the tears in the expensive coat. "Kevlar body armour, you rabid fool," Mycroft grunted before raising his other gloved fist and punching his assailant between the eyes. When Moriarty released him with an enraged howl and dove deeper into the car's protective shadows, Mycroft stepped back, grabbed the ultraviolet weapon holstered at his hip and aimed.
The vampire Elder's ferocious glower disappeared and he smiled. "Not going to let you kill me today, boys, sorry," he drawled. Then he hurled the body of his murdered hostage out of the car with such force that Mycroft and his team were knocked down like bowling pins. Taking advantage of the distraction, the vampire reached out and grabbed the door's handle, grimacing as the sun's rays scorched his hand. "You'll be hearing from me, Johnny-boy!" he hissed before slamming the door shut.
The Bentley's engine roared back to life and the car surged forward, crashing into the government sedan blocking it. Both vehicles jumped the curb and slammed against a storage facility's street front with a loud metallic crunch. Glass flew everywhere and the acrid smell of burned tires and spilled petrol scorched the air.
Mycroft's eight-man team surrounded the wreckage, weapons drawn. John rushed toward the elder Holmes. "Moriarty," he gasped.
"What?"
"That- that's Moriarty in there."
Mycroft didn't hesitate. "Immolate the vehicle!" he shouted.
A husky young man opened the boot of a second sedan and took out a L2A1 ILAW rocket launcher. Mycroft grabbed John's arm and joined the rest of his people in backing a safe distance away. The former army doctor didn't need any encouragement: he'd seen the weapon used in Afghanistan and knew it had a devastating back blast when fired.
"You're going to tell me everything afterward," the elder Holmes ordered.
John could only nod as he watched the man aim the rocket launcher. He wasn't sure where they were, having limited familiarity with London, but the street was lined with warehouses and no civilians appeared to be around.
"Fire!" Mycroft shouted.
John heard the whoosh of the hurtling rocket a split second before the car burst into billowing flames. Watching it burn, his knees shook with relief and righteous fury.
That's for Amy Murphy, you-
His silent litany was interrupted when something dark and man-sized shot out of the blaze, howling and trailing fire like a comet. It leaped skyward and smashed through a third story window in the storage facility. Inside, crashing furniture and the wail of over-stimulated smoke detectors marked its progress.
"He's going to head for the lower levels and gain entry to the sewers," Mycroft declared to his men. "Enter the building and destroy the target on sight."
All eight men ran to the building's street entrance. The door was locked, so they kicked it off its aging hinges and dove inside. John started to follow them, but Mycroft gracefully blocked his way.
"No, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that you and I have things to discuss while we await the outcome."
In his own way, Mycroft Holmes was just as formidable as James Moriarty. The man's surface polish was flawless, but beneath the courtly veneer John sensed a ruthless nature whose aims were often nobler than the methods he employed to accomplish them. He kept those under his protection safe by being more violent and ruthless than the worst enemy imaginable.
John didn't envy him his conscience.
"What do you want to know?"
Before the elder Holmes could respond, the rear passenger door of an Audi parked down the street swung open, and a pair of long, shapely legs spilled out. It was Mycroft's attractive PA, who had caught John's appreciative eye at the military airfield. She approached on four-inch heels, nails tapping on her Blackberry keys.
"Sir," she said, "the Prime Minister is asking about the trade agreement negotiations."
"Please tell him that I'll be in his office at nine tomorrow morning with an update."
"Yes, sir."
John was impressed. The Prime Minister?
When the woman returned to the car, studying her phone like it contained the cure for cancer, Mycroft turned back to John. "Now where were we? Ah, yes. I'm interested in knowing how you ended up in a closed car with a vampire Elder whose ultimate intention was to bleed you dry. I'm not used to anyone except my brother getting themselves into such foolish situations."
Those words and their condescending delivery annoyed John. "I thought it was your car. Sherlock texted me and said you were en route."
Mycroft shook his head. "Do you really think I could have arrived at the hospital from Baker Street so quickly? There are some miracles even I can't accomplish."
"Such as talking to me as if I'm not a complete fool?" John snapped. "I don't know this fucking city. And I was expecting you."
"Well, now you know for next time." Mycroft stopped when a loud crash shattered the air. Both men looked in the direction of the storage building, but when the sound didn't recur, he continued. "So tell me what happened last night on your hunt as well as what you discovered in your interviews."
"Weren't you visiting Sherlock earlier?"
"Yes."
"Well, didn't he tell you about last night?"
"Yes, but merely his version if it. I'd like to know the whole truth." Mycroft's steely gaze pierced John like specimen needles. "You're an intelligent man, Dr. Watson. And even if you weren't, I believe you know better than to lie to me."
John was really irritated now. When he didn't respond immediately, Mycroft's eyes narrowed.
"The answer must be a complex one. You appear to be deep in thought."
"Actually," John said, "I was wondering what would have happened if Moriarty had succeeded in biting you… whether you'd be a bigger arse alive or undead."
Mycroft's brows lifted and he approached John, visually sweeping him from head to toe. "You don't seem to be very afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening," the doctor lied.
The elder Holmes took another step. They were now mere inches apart: John could see the intricate weave of the threads on the taller man's coat. But he did not flinch or avert his stare.
"You're lying to me now," Mycroft said. But he actually looked pleased. "You are afraid. Very much so. But you hide it well: anyone with lesser powers of observation would have missed the signs entirely."
John exhaled slowly. "Are you done measuring my worth?"
"For now."
Two of Mycroft's men emerged from the building and jogged toward them. "Sir," one of them reported, "the target evaded us and made it into the sewers."
Mycroft frowned. "We shall be hearing from him again then. He's severely injured at present, but he'll find minions to get him the blood he requires to rejuvenate." He sighed. "Extract the rest of the team and regroup at the Ealing location. Jerome and Hartley are to remain here to stand down the police investigation which will assuredly arise. Dr. Watson and I shall proceed to Baker Street."
"Yes, Sir."
"Come, John." The elder Holmes spun in one well-polished heel and sauntered toward the Audi. After a moment's hesitation, John followed. Mycroft had just called him by his first name. Had he passed some kind of test?
The two men slid into the back seat. Once the car began its journey to Baker Street, Mycroft retrieved an umbrella from the floor and laid it across his knees.
"Sherlock tells me that you're moving into 221b."
"For now."
"Mm." Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. "I understand that your dedication to vampire hunting has left you in a precarious financial state."
John flinched at the reminder. His Visa account was one missed payment away from being awarded to a collection agency, and half the time his debit card failed. His hunting activities had left him with the time and energy for part-time work only, and his pathetic army pension did little to make up the deficit in his living expenses.
"What's it to you?" he asked testily.
"I merely wish to inform you that as of an hour ago, your Visa account has been restored to good standing and you've even been approved for a substantial credit increase."
John turned around on the seat, startled. "What?"
"I've also deposited a small sum into your current account. Your overdraft has been covered and you now have a surplus for the first time in months."
"What do you want?"
"For this? Nothing. Consider it a bonus for the work you've done for our cause in Glasgow." Mycroft sat back and crossed his legs, balancing the umbrella on his lap. "But if you're interested in doing some private work for me, I'll make it worth your while financially."
"What kind of private work?"
"Nothing strenuous, I assure you." The older man's tone was so mild that John was instantly wary. "I only require a little information from you from time to time." He paused. "About Sherlock."
"You want me to spy on your brother?"
"Spying is such a hostile word, John, and in this instance my intentions are honourable. Sherlock and I are not as close as siblings should be: too much difficult history between us. He'd refuse my help if he was starving to death and I had the only key to a blood bank."
John knew that the Holmes brothers did not get along. Sherlock's acerbic comments had made that clear, and Mycroft's request now proved that the lack of trust was a two-way street.
It reminded him of his own family. Too much.
"No," he said.
Mycroft didn't seem to be surprised at the answer, but said, "I haven't told you how much I'm willing to pay."
"Don't bother." John crossed his arms and looked out the window. "I'm not interested."
"You've known Sherlock for barely two days, and you're already very loyal. Interesting. Well, my offer stands should you ever reconsider." Mycroft smiled tightly. "Now, do tell me how you ended up sharing a ride with Mr. Moriarty." He raised his left forearm and eyed the torn coat sleeve. "Before you identified him, I was wondering what vampire was cognizant enough to ride around London in a Bentley during daylight hours, kidnapping people. I anticipated the discovery of a new species."
John told him about the hunt in Wapping and Amy's murder, the latter of which was still painful to recall. When he finished talking about the interview with Moran and his abduction by Moriarty, Mycroft seemed genuinely grateful.
"Thank you for that report. I agree with Sherlock for once: someone at University College Hospital was Moriarty's day walker, and informed him that the girl was talking about vampires. He ordered that individual to murder her." He drummed his long, graceful fingers on his knee. "It's safe to assume that the day walker also drove the car that picked you up and was consumed in the blaze that is now keeping the London Fire Brigade occupied."
John, his earlier annoyance subsiding, commented, "Sherlock said that Moriarty only keeps one day walker at a time."
"That's my understanding too. Today's 'accident' will ensure that his daylight activities will be severely curtailed for a while: he needs to rejuvenate and cultivate another soul who's terrified of death. But we've not heard the last of him. Moriarty is determined to destroy Sherlock."
"What I'm wondering about," John said, "was how he knew my name and that I was connected to Sherlock."
"I was wondering about that myself." Mycroft looked troubled. "Until now, there's been no evidence that Moriarty knows about Sherlock working with vampire hunters. We have always believed that he's only threatened by what my brother is: an anomaly who cannot be controlled by an Elder and may create others like him. That is likely still the case, but the fact that he referred to Sherlock as a midge- which represents an incessant nuisance- is intriguing. Perhaps he does know. "
"Is it possible that he's monitoring Sherlock's communications? Texts and e-mails?"
"Perhaps. I'll arrange new mobile and internet accounts for both of you." Mycroft took out his phone, opened a memo application, and made notes.
They were now pulling up to the curb at 221b.
"John, I respect the fact that you don't wish to 'spy' on Sherlock, as you put it," Mycroft said as he put the phone away and uncrossed his legs. "But would it be too much to ask that you inform me if he acts in any way you perceive to be detrimental to his best interests? I worry about him. Constantly."
Before John could answer, the building's front door flew open and Molly rushed out.
Crying hysterically.