Chapter 10

Several hours later, John sat on the bed in the anonymous suburban hotel room and took stock. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.

Sherlock had actually given him a note to show Mycroft. "Go home and pretend to receive this in the post," he instructed. "We can't fake the envelope and postmark, but this is a receipt from a Paris café from Thursday. I happened to have it in my wallet."

He had hated parting from Sherlock again, but he had to trust him to take care of himself just as Sherlock was trusting him not to let one of his own guards overcome him. Fortunately, he hadn't encountered Mrs. Hudson and thus didn't have to trump up any story for her. Mycroft had agreed to meet him at the club. John ignored the arm extended for a handshake and cut off the pleasant greeting by thrusting the note at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Dear John,

Vatican cameos. Tell Mycroft.

I didn't intend for things to turn out this way. I'm sorry.

SH

Mycroft scanned the note quickly, flipped it over to see a purchase of three espressos and frowned at John.

"I don't know," he said evenly.

"What?" John didn't have to struggle to generate authentic outrage. This man had permitted him to remain in mourning for months. "I got this in the post today, from Paris. Sherlock is alive! How is that possible?"

"Surely it's just a hoax."

"It's code," John snarled. "It's him. I know it. He's alive!"

"He was alive," Mycroft admitted, apparently accepting that his bluff had failed.

"Last week!"

"Yes, I heard from him on Sunday morning."

"Mycroft! How could you?"

"I'm sorry, John. Truly sorry. Sherlock contacted me several weeks after his apparent suicide, and he's been engaged in taking apart Moriarty's web of crime, as he calls it. You know how he loves the dramatic. I haven't actually seen him," he assured John.

"Haven't seen him! As if that makes a difference!"

"John, please. What's more important right now is not the existence of this note but its contents." Mycroft sat down and gestured for John to take the chair opposite, but John remained standing.

"What do you mean, 'He was alive'?"

"I expected to hear from him, and you would have seen him in person before now. He intended to take the Eurostar on Monday. 221B Baker Street was his destination. I've been trying to 'pick up his trail,' as you might say, but I haven't been successful."

"So he was alive all this time but he's dead now?" John tried to channel some of the crushing confusion and horror he'd felt by the pond that morning.

Mycroft ignored John's agitation. "What does 'Vatican cameos' mean?"

"It's a warning: danger, get out of the way."

Mycroft brought his fingertips together in a familiar gesture. John decided his display of emotions had been sufficient and dropped into the chair. After several minutes of silence, Mycroft appeared to send a flurry of text messages. He returned his contemplative pose for a time. Finally, he spoke, keeping his eyes on his steepled hands. Presumably he was sparing himself from witnessing John's reactions or perhaps sparing John from the intensity of his observation. Under the circumstances, this choice was ideal. "My conclusions are as follows. (1) Sherlock perceived some danger to you which he hoped to eliminate. (2) He believed he had done so and therefore informed me of his imminent return to London. (3) He is now dead, unconscious or held captive, unable to communicate further with either of us. (4) I have assigned a small team to guard you while I investigate this matter."

John was pleased that Mycroft had fulfilled Sherlock's expectations immediately, but he felt he should protest. "No! I want to help."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question. You said yourself that you must stay out of the way. 'Tell Mycroft' means that I am to handle it. This is what Sherlock wants."

"Why should I care? He lied to me for months."

"You brought me the note," Mycroft pointed out. Mycroft's phone buzzed with a text alert. He glanced at the screen and strode to the door. "Your car is here. Now, please, John, I need your cooperation. Are you armed?" John nodded. "Good. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I trust it will not be of long duration. I shall be in touch as soon as possible." This time John accepted the handshake.

The guard's names, or the names they offered, were Adrian and Tom. After introducing themselves, they didn't speak again. Throughout the long ride in the car with blacked-out windows, John was on edge in case either of them made a move against him, but the trip passed without incident. Adrian entered the nondescript hotel, presumably to check in, and then radioed for Tom to bring John to a side entrance. Adrian remained in the hall while Tom took up a position against the wall of the small room, halfway between the door and the window. He motioned to the bed. "Please have a seat, Dr. Watson," he invited. "You can even take a nap if you like." Of course John had no intention of relaxing his wariness. Tom might be waiting for just such a moment to attack. John knew how to keep watch. He sat down and reviewed the evening's events. He could spend hours waiting calmly, ready to spring into alertness the instant that he was required.

Author's Note: Reviews are almost as thrilling as a cryptic note from Sherlock!