When Mycroft awoke, cool oxygen was softly blowing on him and a monitor beeped nearby. He opened his eyes, but shut them again quickly when the fluorescent overhead lights seared his vision.
Hospital. He was in a hospital. Before blocking out the light, he'd glimpsed a green curtain pulled around his bed. He was either in a common ward (not likely) or an observation area.
His left side throbbed. He remembered being thrown down and kicked there when he and Gregory brawled with those hooligans…
Gregory!
And John! Hadn't he heard John just before passing out?
Mycroft sat up, nearly ripping the oxygen cannula off of his face. Chair legs scraped against the floor as Gregory and John jumped to his side.
"Hey," Lestrade said softly. Mycroft winced at the sight of his black eye and bruised cheek. "You gave us quite the scare."
"Where am I?"
"Airedale Hospital."
"I had a heart attack." It was not a question.
"Yes. A minor one." John touched his hand. "How do you feel?"
"Damnable. Is the girl all right?"
Lestrade nodded. "Those bastards have all been charged with assaulting her and us."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
Mycroft tried to smile, but hissed in pain. He'd forgotten about the punch to his face. "You look as horrible as I feel."
"I'm all right. Been years, though, since I was in that kind of mix-up."
John glanced at the heart monitor, which was connected to Mycroft's chest via a series of wires. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, then took a blood pressure cuff off of the bedside table and wrapped it around the elder Holmes' arm. Mycroft waited until he'd gotten a reading before saying, "Regardless of what it tells you, John, I want to leave. I'm not staying here."
John removed the cuff and clicked a penlight on. "I knew that would be your response. But humour me anyway. Look this way, please."
As Mycroft obeyed, he remembered something.
"You suddenly showed up during the fight, and armed, if I remember correctly. How did you know?"
The doctor put the penlight away and exchanged glances with Lestrade. "That is the mystery."
"What do you mean?"
John took out his mobile, scrolled through his messages until he found the one he wanted, and then held the device out to Mycroft, who peered at the screen.
The coordinates of the intersection were specified, followed by the message:
Your friends are about to be seriously injured. Come now.
Mycroft frowned. He took the phone and stared at the letters as if they were a handwriting sample that could give away the sender's motives, personality, and life story.
"We traced it," Lestrade said. "The number is assigned to a prepaid mobile. I made some calls to the office while we were waiting for you to wake up, and learned that the minutes are topped up by gift card purchases."
"We're being watched." Mycroft handed the mobile back to John and leaned back.
"Apparently so. When I first received that text, I didn't know what to think. I couldn't afford to ignore it, but it could have been a trap, so I brought my gun. Thank God I did, too." John stood. "You've stabilized, so I'm going to see about having you discharged. We can talk more in the car."
When he left, Mycroft said, "Gregory, I'm going to give you Anthea's number. Provide her with all the details that you've collected so far about this prepaid phone. She'll take it from there."
"You think she can find out more than my office could?"
"I know she can."
Gregory smiled, but his eyes betrayed his worry. "I thought we'd lost you today. I still want to go down to the jail and take those bastards apart piece by piece."
Mycroft reached for his hand. "They'll get done for assault and attempted rape, and then their fellow inmates can take them apart on our behalf. Don't stress yourself."
"Easier said than done." Gregory's fingers laced with his and squeezed tightly. "Mycroft, I've only known you for days, and to be frank, you pissed me off and worried me during most of them. But I think I might be…."
"Yes, I know. I feel the same way."
And for the very first time, Mycroft felt regret sink in.
Night had fallen by the time Mycroft's discharge was complete. He and Lestrade rode back to the manor in their car while John followed in the Citroen he'd jumped into after receiving the warning text.
Wrapped in a blanket and wearing scrubs the hospital had provided to replace his torn clothing, Mycroft was physically exhausted. His face, chest and side still hurt, and he felt lethargic from the mild sedative John administered to slow his heart rate, but his mind was alert and fixated on the mystery of who had sent the text that had saved his and Gregory's lives.
When asked how many people had his mobile number, John counted forty names in his contacts list and admitted that he'd passed it on to others during past cases. Hearing that, Mycroft promptly dismissed that avenue of investigation; besides, anyone with the right connections could find John's number if they wanted it badly enough.
As requested, Lestrade called Anthea during Mycroft's pre-discharge examination. She was under the impression that her boss was in Yorkshire Dales to recover mentally from his suicide attempt, and Lestrade did not correct her. After giving her all the information Sergeant Donovan had provided on the prepaid phone, he asked her to trace the top-up cards to their point of purchase, collect CCTV footage for the locations and times matching the computerized sales records, and upload it to a secure FTP site that Mycroft had access to. Anthea agreed without asking a single question, saying that she would e-mail John the FTP link before morning.
"Please tell Mr. Holmes that we miss him," she said before hanging up.
When Gregory passed on her message, Mycroft felt a pang of regret for the second time that day. He'd tried to kill himself because he'd been in serious emotional pain, pain that still lingered and attacked with a vengeance whenever he encountered something that reminded him of Sherlock. But it was becoming more apparent that tunnel vision had driven him to make an irreversible mistake. He couldn't look at Gregory Lestrade without catching the glimpse of a future now denied and feeling a new, different distress.
When they were minutes from home, Gregory yawned and then swore as his bruised facial muscles protested.
"Ow, fuck- I'll be feeling this for a month."
Mycroft made a sympathetic noise. "I'm afraid I wasn't very good backup- I'm sorry."
Lestrade extended one arm and drew him closer. "I'm just glad you made it."
A temporary reprieve, Mycroft thought. He let his eyes drift shut, but his mind refused to back away from the question of their savior's identity.
Whoever it was either knew John or was interested enough to obtain his mobile number. They also knew that Mycroft and Lestrade were John's "friends". They clearly had the manor under surveillance with equipment that covered the mile from the house to the intersection where the fight took place. But who were they? A friend would not be so secretive, while an enemy would not have intervened today- unless they were not ready to see Mycroft or Lestrade die just yet.
If Sherlock were still alive, Mycroft would have been tempted to pin it on him. When he turned eighteen and obtained his share of the family assets, Sherlock withdrew a huge sum in cash and vanished from his older brother's radar for six months. The disappearance was not complete: the younger man delighted in spying on Mycroft from afar and sending him teasing commentary via text. Just before revealing himself again, he'd sent Mycroft a message stating, I can see you at the corner table and so can that Russian assassin near the window. Lure him into the toilet and get rid of him immediately- we need to talk about the Brighton house.
Mycroft dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Sherlock's body had never been recovered, but if he had survived, there was no way he would have let John and Mycroft suffer like they had. His self-proclaimed sociopathy had its limits, much as he'd always liked to claim otherwise.
Mycroft hoped that the video footage Anthea was assembling for them provided answers instead of more questions. He wasn't handling uncertainty too well any more.
When they arrived at the manor, Mycroft was too weary to protest when Parker fussed over him and swapped his hospital scrubs for silk pajamas. He let himself be put to bed like an invalid. But when Gregory was about to leave the room to change, he summoned enough energy to plead, "Stay with me?"
Lestrade smiled gently. "I was planning to, Myc. Be right back."
Myc.
While he waited, Mycroft burrowed deeper into the pillows and embraced the nickname like a precious talisman. He had always been Mycroft, Mr. Holmes, Sir, or one of Sherlock's infantile insults. Myc... it sounded like something Gregory would call him after they had been together for years, after Mycroft had gone gray and Gregory had gone, well, grayer.
When Gregory returned and slid under the covers next to him, Mycroft rolled partway onto his undamaged side and buried his face against the other man's flannel pajama shirt. Lestrade gently embraced him and stroked his back until he fell asleep.
