These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me…and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
But I'll put the kettle on any time they wish to call …
THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET
CH. 13
This story refers back to events that occurred in my first book, THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not yet had the opportunity to read GRACE, you might not "get" all the references in BOYS and your reading experience will not have the same intensity I labored so hard to create for you. I suggest you stop here, go out and read GRACE, then come back to BOYS. (Don't make me beg.)
###
The second time John Watson dies, he visits Nirvana, forgives a monster, and solves a medical mystery.
This is how it happens.
###
Four point five Hours Later:
David Brisco is so-o ready to lock up the place and leave. It has been a very long twelve-hour shift in the lab. Blast Siler for sicking out on him anyway. Second day in a row, the sod. Brisco actually has his jacket in his hands and is fumbling for change for the tube when he gets the phone call from HER.
He has her on a special ring on his mobile because – well, just because. She may be the boss's "girl" and may be totally completely out of his league – he's not a complete idiot - but she is still 100% gorgeous, 100% sexy, all long leg and warm breast and damn it, he's a man isn't he? So, yes, she who he knows only as Callista has her own special ring on his mobile. (He knows this is not her real name and he often fantasizes about what her real name can be. Harmless entertainment.)
And he thinks, as he thumbs the button to answer, it's not as if anyone is going to know she has her own ring. It's his little secret.
"Doctor Brisco, we're sending over some blood samples – along with a few other items - by special courier and we would greatly appreciate it if you can have the analysis to us as quickly as possible."
"Um. All right. When can I expect it?" He glances at his watch and mentally says goodbye to a late evening at the pub watching the football and possibly downing a pint with a few chums.
"It should be there within ten minutes or less. Dispatched a while ago. Please ring me as soon as you have the results. This analysis takes priority over anything else you might have going."
He now says goodbye to his dinner, as well. "Um. All right. Happy to help. By the way–"
"Yes, Doctor?" She sounds impatient.
"Can you tell me what it is I'm supposed to be looking for?"
"Anything. And everything. And please hurry . A man's life and sanity is at stake. There are certain – substances - that you will undoubtedly find are present in the samples. You're looking for everything else. It's all in the paperwork."
She hangs up.
He sighs, says goodbye to getting home at any decent hour, to sleeping, to eating, to the game and a pint. Goodbye to all of it.
David Brisco tosses his jacket down, turns all the laboratory lights back on, makes certain the door is unlocked, and waits for the courier to arrive.
Damn it. But it does sound urgent and maybe – who knows? – if he can get this job done and do it quickly and get her the results immediately, just maybe -
You just never know. This may be the time she actually notices.
Hasn't happened yet. But he's not ready to give up hope.
Brisco starts the coffee maker and tries to ignore his empty stomach. There's always that small bag of crisps – and the damned yoghurt in the fridge, his hold-out stash. If it drags on too long, he'll call for takeout. He looks up at the door as it opens. And sighs.
Around the seventh hour, he grips one of the vials of blood in his gloved hand, holds it up to the light, then picks up one of the syringes, stares at it and frowns. He glances at his various printouts again, then shakes his head.
What the hell?
The poor sod. The poor stinking sod.
Then he laughs, but it's a humorless sound and he chalks it up to being so bloody tired.
Actually, all things considered, he thinks there must be any number of Uni students who would pay good money to have this shite running through their veins. He shakes his head, prepares his report and emails it to HER.
Then he picks up his phone, hits the button and calls her direct, hoping he has come through in record time and that she might – actually – notice.
You just never know.
She who is neither Callista nor Anthea picks up on the first ring.
###
John's heartbeat fades quietly away … and he says goodbye, mentally, to the One.
His soul fills with agony, while he falls into a soft, dark oblivion.
Then John Watson begins to plead. He can never remember with Whom – or why.
# # #
John walks down the street, notes that the chestnuts have grown riotously tall and that they now spread their branches and shade over the walks in front of the neat little row of houses.
He whistles as he walks, his hands in his pockets. It's an utterly gorgeous day. Early summer, he thinks. Nothing like it. He shoves his fists in his pockets and continues to whistle tunelessly as he makes his solitary way along.
John passes groups of kids, some of them kick a ball around, some of them ride their bicycles, some of them call across the street to each other, "Come have a catch. Hurry before Mum calls us."
None of them pay him any attention.
He smiles at the familiar sounds and at the row of neat little houses he passes. Finally, he stops in front of one house in particular and stares at the peeling white and blue paint, at the small overgrown garden, at the two battered bikes, one pink and one blue, that lie in the yard, obviously tossed down by their owners and temporarily forgotten.
John stares at the house — and something in him, a feeling of foreboding, makes him want to walk on by. But some things just seem to be dictated.
And rules are rules.
So he sighs, passes through the gate, and makes his way up the path to the front door. At the door, he contemplates the white painted wood for a few seconds, then just – passes - through the door and finds himself in the living area.
John is aware that off to his left and off to his right, is a kitchen, hallway, bedrooms, loo, pantry. He ignores all of it.
John stands and quietly considers the man who sits in the brown chair in front of the telly. The man is a little taller than John, has light brown hair, shot through with a few strands of blonde – and gray. A single brown bottle sits on the floor next to the chair. The man leans over, picks up the bottle, drinks, then sets the bottle back down on the floor.
John frowns. He wants to go away from this place. He does not want to talk to this man. But he cannot leave. The rules – he has to wait.
He doesn't have to wait for long. A young girl, around 13 or so, comes running down the hall, laughing as she runs. She skids to a stop as the man turns his head.
"Where do you think you're runnin' off too?" he demands.
The girl is short, with dark blonde curling hair. She seems frighteningly small as she stands there, her small chest heaves. She brushes her hair out of her eyes and stares down at her feet.
"Just – outside to ride my bike—" she begins.
"Thought I told you to clean up that mess you made earlier," the man takes another swallow of beer, then sets the bottle carefully next to him in the chair. He never takes his eyes off the telly.
John watches the interaction quietly. A feeling of dread snakes through his spine and he wants to scream at the girl, the young Harriet, to run – and hide.
"Come 'er," the man demands.
Young Harry Watson walks quietly up to the man in the chair, her eyes on the carpet. She does not lift her head to look at him.
The man does not touch the young girl – instead, he begins to yell abuse at her.
"What did I tell you bout runnin' off and leaving your poor Mum to handle all this, hmm!"
He looks hard at Harry, who just continues to stare at her feet.
John notes the ancient trainers and the threadbare jeans. He winces. "Run…just get away," he screams in his head.
Neither the man nor young Harry note him. The man continues to holler, to berate.
As John stands there, a boy, younger than Harry but with the same dark blonde hair, badly in need of a haircut, comes down the hallway. He comes to a stop behind the chair the man sits in.
His eyes widen as the man, their father, reaches out to his sister, grabs her by her thin shoulders and begins to shake her small frame.
Young John's eyes widen; his stomach churns. His hands slowly clench into fists by his side. He takes a deep breath and suddenly moves to his sister's defense . He yanks her back out of their drunken father's reach.
"Leave her alone," young John screams. Harry Watson stumbles and falls to her knees. She looks up at her younger brother – then at their father's face. Her eyes widen and she scrambles backwards, away from the man and the boy.
In his head, John screams at young John and Harry to run – just run, get out, go – NOW – before he –
None of the three pay attention to him. And as he looks on, the man grabs at young John – grabs at his previously broken wrist and begins to twist. There is a sound of a slap. And other sounds.
John turns away, sickened. He is immediately outside the house. He looks around the yard in desperation.
Behind him, he hears young John begin to cry. And hears Harriet begin to plead.
John waits a few heartbeats, then makes his way around the side of the house to one window in particular. He considers it for a moment, then simply walks through the walls and into the small bedroom.
He stands and watches. Harriet Watson kneels by the side of a small bed. Young John lies on the bed, his eyes closed. His breath comes out in small groans. Harry wipes his face with a warm wet cloth, then talks desperately to her brother.
"Come on, Johnny, just wake up, okay? Do it for me. Wake up, Johnny." She continues to do her best with the cloth.
John watches as the boy finally opens his dark blue eyes, turns his head to stare at his sister, who cries quietly, and begins to wonder what has happened to him. He stares at Harriet Watson – and realizes that somehow, some way, he has just accomplished the impossible.
He has "gone away" during one of their father's tirades.
John stares at young John as he comes to grip with this revelation - and at young Harry. Young John continues to watch his sister cry, even as his mind begins to go over possibilities.
As he watches this scene, John frowns.
The scene changes.
John now stands in their small garden. He walks over to a worn bench, sits down, and contemplates the bright blue sky. He stares as butterflies and bees make their jerky way between the struggling blossoms.
He is aware that the man comes out of the side door, stares for a moment, then comes over and sits down heavily next to John.
For some reason, this does not disturb John. He just sits. And waits.
The two sit in silence for a few moments. John does not look at the man. He continues to stare at the insects, particularly the bees. He loves the communal humming sound they make.
He wonders why this simple sound fills him with quiet, expectant joy.
"Just lost my job, did'n I?" The man says in a rough voice. He kicks at the green grass with one foot. John stares at the worn brown leather shoe as it kicks into the grass.
"Didn't know what we were goin' to do. Not much good after I'd had a few. But then, you and your sister know that much." The man continues to kick at the grass. He finally clasps both hands in his lap and stares at the insects and the flowers.
"Not saying any of – that – was okay. It wasn't. Just saying …" his rough voice breaks off.
A beat.
Now John turns his head to study the man next to him. And he realizes, with a small shock, this is not a monster. This is just a man. A tired, broken man.
John understands broken. Not any more, of course. But once ... he understands.
"What you did was wrong - what you did - to both of us - was wrong."
The man flinches but remains silent. Waiting.
John turns his head as a single bee passes in front of his eyes. He follows it's path wonderingly, until he cannot see it anymore.
"But it didn't break me. And now I've got someone - " His voice breaks off. There are some things so precious, so important, that they cannot be shared. Even at times like this. They should remain private ... be hugged to the heart.
In the end, all he says is: "I've got so much more than I ever thought I'd have. And - it's all right," John says. He looks around the garden at the flowers and the insects, the grass that desperately needs to be cut, at the bright blue sky.
He tilts his head all the way back and stares into the deep, deep blue.
"What?" the man turns to John and stares at him. His voice is hesitant, wavering.
"It's all right," John says again. "We made it. Both of us. And we're stronger because of it." John finally turns his head to look into the dark blue eyes of the man who sits next to him.
"I can't speak for Harry, can I?" he says quietly. "But as for me – "
John's voice breaks off and he turns his head to watch the bees again.
Suddenly he smiles. "It's going to be all right. Everything, Dad, everything, is going to be just fine."
The man nods once. Then he just vanishes – his atoms dissolve into nothingness.
John continues to sit. He shuts his eyes and listens to the quiet hum of the bees. For some reason, the sound puts him in mind of ebony curls – and silver eyes.
He slowly becomes aware that the humming sound is now accompanied by a familiar beat, which grows stronger by the second.
John smiles.
###
Galen Dennison rushes into their room, sees Sherlock as he performs chest compressions on John Watson, glances once at John's face, then bats the detective's hands away from the doctor's chest.
"Mr. Holmes – Sherlock! Stop it! He's breathing – stop now!"
Sherlock looks at Dennison, then down at his hands locked into position on John's chest. He shakes his head. What? Stop? What!
Dennison drops down on the carpet next to John and thumbs a dark blonde eyebrow. John reacts slightly to the touch but he does not open his eyes. Dennison leans over, puts his ear on John's chest, and his fingers encircle the doctor's wrist. Finally, he gently pulls back one eyelid and checks John's pupil reaction. He stares, confused, and not a little perturbed. If he didn't know any better-
Then he nods once, and straightens up.
"Heart rate is slow but it's steady and strengthening. Let's give him a few."
He continues to count beats under his fingers and watch the sweep second hand of his watch. Then he looks at Sherlock and notes the panic in the detective's eyes.
"He's breathing on his own. Heart rate's coming back up. Let's get him into bed and you can tell me what's happened here."
Sherlock pulls John into his arms again, then straightens and stands up with the unconscious body of his partner. Galen hurries to pull the covers back and John is gently placed on the bed. Sherlock moves to remove his boots, while Galen listens to John's heartbeat again, this time with a stethoscope he fishes out of his kit.
"Okay. Slow, but coming along." He straightens, glances at John and frowns.
"Can you give me any idea on how long you think he wasn't breathing? I have to know. Oxygen deprivation can –" He breaks off at the look on Sherlock's face.
"Mr. Holmes – are you all right?"
Sherlock stands at the foot of the bed and stares at John's face.
"He was speaking, mumbling really. Then he just hit the floor. He wasn't breathing. I thought –"
The detective' voice breaks off. Focus. He considers for a moment. "Less than a minute really. I called you immediately and didn't notice his heart – stop – for another minute."
He stops again and continues to stare at John.
"It's all right. You did fine. Let's give the man a few more minutes." Galen glances at Sherlock, who appears atypically shaken.
Both men wait and watch John Watson. Galen watches for reactions across John's face as his heart rate becomes stronger, then steadies. He uses the stethoscope again and nods, pleased.
"Can you get that jumper and button-down off him and those jeans - does he have a tee or pajamas or something we can get him into – make him more comfortable?"
Sherlock nods, crosses to their cubby and pulls out John's flannel drawstrings and a cotton tee. Galen stands back, crosses to the small desk and jots down a few quick notes on his pad, while John is carefully undressed, redressed and finally covered with the bed clothes.
During this, John actually murmurs something once, without opening his eyes, and Sherlock has never been so glad to hear a mumbled whisper in his life.
His own heart rate finally settles down. He swipes one hand through his curls and regards the sleeping doctor. He considers Galen as he moves in to check John's heart rate again.
"Did you give John an injection earlier today?"
"Absolutely not. Not after the one he received this morning – not after Maggie – Doctor Oakton gave him the one in the library." He looks at his watch. "And he's not due for one for another six hours from now." He glances at Sherlock. "That is, if we decide to continue on this course of medication."
The two men regard each other in silence for a moment and each pursues his own thoughts.
Dennison shakes his head slightly, then looks keenly up at the detective. "Actually, I was going to ask you if it's at all possible that John, Doctor Watson, has been, let us say, self-medicating?"
Sherlock's eyes narrow at Dennison and he glances from Galen to the medical kit that now sits on the writing desk in the far corner of the room.
"Doctor Dennison, do you want to explain that?"
Dennison regards the tall detective. "I just want to know if it is possible that he has taken – anything – anything at all on his own."
"Not even an aspirin," Sherlock says definitively.
Dennison notices Sherlock glance, again, at his medical kit that sits on the writing desk.
"Mr. Holmes, I am telling you he has not had an injection since early this morning. I still have three of the original hypos left in my bag."
Galen continues to listen to John's heartbeat through his stethoscope.
Sherlock watches his movements carefully. Something rings a bell in his mind.
He shuts his eyes momentarily. Focus, idiot.
Dennison nods to himself, then covers John with the duvet. He straightens, then goes to open his bag and glances in at the smaller case that's inside it. He moves to hand the case to the detective, who takes it, looks in and hands it back to Dennison.
"Mr. Holmes, I really recommend that John – Doctor Watson be readmitted to hospital so he can be monitored. "
"Not an option." Sherlock says determinedly. "Not yet, at any rate."
He pulls the French chair next to John's bedside, sits down and leans forward, his hands clasped. He regards John's still form for a moment, then looks up at Dennison.
"Our family physician should be here shortly. I want him to examine John and I'll be guided by whatever he recommends concerning John's condition."
He frowns again at John's sleeping face, then sighs. "My brother will be here, as well, but it will be much later this evening. If John needs to go back, we'll get him back quickly. I can have a helicopter here within a short –"
"A helicopter? You mean a Life Flight," Dennison interjects.
Sherlock glances at Dennison. "Not really, but call it what you will. My brother's people will get him where he needs to be as quickly as possible. If he needs to be remanded to a hospital, we can't take the time to drive him there. Right now, he's breathing –"
Sherlock's voice breaks off and again, he wipes a hand through his hair. He considers John, then looks back up at Dennison, who now stands at the foot of their bed. He feels suddenly out of his depth. A common feeling where John Watson is concerned.
"You must know, Doctor Dennison, that the only reason John was removed from St. Anne's, is that Dr. Merit deemed him fit enough to be discharged. And you must also know that we are all – here – because of a direct threat against my family," he looks long and hard at John Watson, "and those who are close to us."
He shakes his dark head. "Bloody hell, we had a plan, and this place was deemed to be as safe – safer than anywhere I can get him to right now. Damn it, the man was attacked while he was IN the bloody hospital and while one of my brother's men stood guard outside the door."
Sherlock looks at Galen. "You can understand why neither one of us, John or myself, are rushing to get him back to that environment. Not until this threat is neutralized."
Dennison frowns, then moves to pull up the chair from the writing desk.
"Mr. Holmes, I know there are a lot of things that have occurred – and that are going on now – that you and your brother feel I do not need to know. I accept that." His voice is quiet as he considers the sleeping man in the bed for a moment.
"The plan was, as I understand it from Mags – Doctor Oakton – to bring Doctor Watson here, where he can be guarded twenty-four hours a day by your brother's men, where he can continue his recuperation from his recent maltreatment and get started on the treatment for his – addiction."
Dennison sweeps his hand at his medical case. "That is why Doctor Oakton and I worked on his course of treatment and counseling sessions together. We are slowly attempting to move John away from the horrid responses he has had to Franks' drug to another –"
"Yes," Sherlock interrupts. He looks at Dennison again. Something rings a small bell in his brain. Something that Denison has done – just now – just a moment ago, really – as well as the first day he arrived here. Hell, was that only three days back?
Sherlock regards Galen Dennison, frowns, then turns to look at John's quiet form.
Why can't he think? Have his mental processes all been shot to hell because of this damn mess? Is he doomed to be mentally – dense – around John the rest of their lives together?
He thinks back quickly to the night they left St. Anne's Hospital … to John's attack in the van, the exploding car, Donovan's death. His eyes narrow and he stares at John.
Something – he's missed something, something basic. But what in bloody hell Is it?
Suddenly, Sherlock looks up at Galen. "Please stay with John." He crosses to the door, then glances back. "I need to have a little talk with Doctor Oakton."
###
Agent Roaman stands at the countertop in the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. It's going to be a long night.
Enders comes in. Roaman looks up and raises an eyebrow.
Enders just sighs. "Just got the call. Two trucks' on their way. Should be here shortly. We need to get through these two fast. I'm knackered and have to get some sleep soon. Jake is already out."
Roaman nods, picks up his steaming cup and regards Enders. "Food service? Laundry? Not the cleaning crew?"
Enders sighs again and just looks at him. "Food and Laundry. Cleaners will be back in the morning, early."
"Bloody hell," Roaman says.
Enders just nods. "I'll go with. Each of us can take one truck, get them all started. I'll take Food. That'll be fastest. In and out. You take Laundry – just get them out of here quickly. That leaves the cleaning crew in the morning. Lynn and Williams can take that one. It took a sodding eight hours to go through this place the first time and between us, we're not using even half the damned space here, less than that even. Williams is still outside Oakton's door, right?
Roaman nods. "Waste of resources. She's not going anywhere soon."
Enders nods, swipes a hand through his short hair. "I don't see her as a viable threat either, but we won't know for certain until Dennison – or someone – can figure out what the hell happened to Watson this morning." He glances out the window at the late afternoon light. If they could just get a break from this sodding cold.
He thinks for a moment, then turns to Roaman. "She called earlier. Mr. Holmes is coming out here later this evening. I think he wants to have a word with Oakton."
Dead silence. Roaman raises an eyebrow. Bloody hell. He wonders if they need to set aside a room, one that can be monitored and locked, just in case. He looks at Enders. Both men think the same thing.
Roaman hoists his mug, takes a sip of coffee, and sets it down in the sink. "All right. Let's go."
As the men turn to leave the kitchen, Enders says, "Make certain you check with Holmes first before anyone goes up there, all right? Dennison is in there now with both of them. I think Watson brought their clothes down earlier this morning and dropped them in the laundry room. Not certain about his suits. You may have to collect those, when you bring up the fresh ones."
Roaman just nods and follows him out of the kitchen. As both agents walk toward the side entrance, they thumb through their mobiles at the photos of both the food service and laundry personnel's files, reacquainting themselves with the digital photographs of the workers involved.
Roaman sighs. So Holmes will be here shortly. That makes for an interesting evening for all concerned.
###
Maggie Oakton sits at the desk in her room and goes through her notes. This is the twentieth time she has done so. She shakes her head. None of this makes any sense.
The door opens – and Sherlock Holmes comes into the room. Behind him, one of Mycroft's men stares in at her, then stands back as Holmes nods at the man, and shuts the door quietly behind him.
Holmes crosses the carpet and comes to stand in front of Oakton. He glances at the pad of writing in front of her, then looks into her deep green eyes.
"Where is it, Doctor Oakton?" he demands quietly.
Maggie frowns. "Mr. Holmes – what –"
"The case with the hypos – the shots you gave me the night we left St. Anne's. It had four shots in it. I used one on John in the van. That left three."
He keeps his hands by his side and just watches her reaction. She frowns, thinks.
"Mr. Holmes – you never gave the case back to me." She looks up into his near crystalline gaze. "And it never occurred to me to ask you for it. Once Galen arrived, which was the first day, he changed John's – Doctor Watson's medication immediately."
She looks at him and her heart pounds in her chest. "It just never occurred to me to ask for it back. Until now."
Sherlock considers her for a moment and thinks. Finally, he nods and pulls out his mobile, types quickly and hits Send. He drops the mobile back into his pocket, looks at her curiously, then crosses to the door. He opens the door and stands there to wait.
Maggie watches him. She sits and waits too.
###
Mycroft moves away from Greg Lestrade while the D.I. speaks hurriedly over his mobile. He glances around, spots the single figure that sits more or less in the exact middle of one row. The military haircut marks him as a possible former chum of John's. His Blackberry buzzes in his pocket and he has it out and in his hand in one practiced move.
"Yes, my Dear?"
"The man arrested earlier for the car bombing? Yanni?"
"Yes?" He continues to glance around the hall, notes that Lestrade has finished his phone call and waits, impatiently, to have a word.
"We won't need to put him through the process. He's singing like a bird, to coin a phrase," she says dryly.
"So soon? Excellent. Anything we can use?"
He hears her hesitate. Then, "Possibly. He met with two men, always the same two, who gave him his orders, but only has ever heard one name. Undoubtedly an alias. He did give descriptions of both, however. And something else extremely interesting."
"Tell me," Mycroft says quietly. At the same time, he gestures to Lestrade. The DI nods at him and begins to make his way through the crowd, which has deepened. More people than either one of them expected have made their way to the service for the former Army Captain, Mycroft notes.
She talks. Mycroft raises one eyebrow. A cold regard begins to worm its way through his brain. There can only be one individual who – corresponds – to one of the descriptions she relays. British Lord be damned. He will personally kill the sod if it turns out –
"Understood. My dear, you have, as always, been invaluable. I'll call you shortly."
He hangs up, drops the phone into his trousers pocket and turns to the DI as he comes up to his side.
"Mycroft, that man in the middle of the pew on the right –" murmurs Lestrade.
Mycroft notes it is the same individual he noticed earlier. He nods.
"Something?" he says quietly to Greg.
"Nothing specific. Just – hell, cop's intuition. I'm keeping an eye. He didn't give me his name. But the bells rang. I've had to cut loose two of my people to make calls but I know you've the available manpower to –"
"All right. I'll ask one of my men to 'chat him up' and see where it leads."
Mycroft holds great respect for the DI and anything the former military man feels is off deserves a second look.
He looks at Lestrade, notes more gray in the dark strands than he saw the last time they spoke and sighs. It goes with the territory and he wonders for the hundredth time why he isn't as grey-haired as the DI.
"Detective Inspector –"
Greg looks up at Mycroft and raises an eyebrow.
"The man your people arrested for Sgt. Donovan's death –" Mycroft breaks off when he sees the ill-concealed fury in Lestrade's gaze. But Greg just nods at him to continue.
"This Yanni individual, your people have already questioned him, although it turns out not much in the way of 'formal' interrogation was needed. He is speaking out readily enough."
Greg sighs. There is absolutely no use asking how Mycroft knows these details when he himself has not even spoken to his own people in the last hour, not since the arrest.
"Apparently, he was the male nurse seen in the recordings of Doctor Watson's – torment – under Moriarty's hands. He was down there in the Wellington, working alongside Lori Hansen."
Greg stares at Mycroft, his eyes wide. "Holy Hell."
Mycroft Holmes just nods. "Exactly. As it turns out, Ms. Hansen's testimony will be invaluable in this instance. And something else –"
He glances at one of his men, gestures imperceptibly to the long figure who still sits alone in the middle pew. His man nods, makes his way slowly through the crowd toward the man with the military haircut and unseasonable tan.
Mycroft looks back at Greg. "I or some of my people will need to speak with Ms. Hansen, possibly this evening. And the nature of the conversation will necessitate our informing her that John – Doctor Watson - has not died but rather, is alive and being held at a safe house location."
"Not necessary," Lestrade says quietly. "She saw Sherlock that night that Sgt. Donovan was killed and did not believe the news stories the next morning that reported Watson's death. She told Joe – Joe Rodriguez, one of my men and her fiancée - as much. She knows Watson's not dead."
Mycroft considers this information in silence. He doesn't like not knowing every single aspect of a situation and this particular bit is news to him.
He frowns. "As it turns out, we also have two members of your perpetrator's family to put in protective custody, as well, as he insists they were being threatened."
Greg nods at Mycroft sympathetically. Seems like the troubles associated with this arrest will be shared between the two men and their respective organizations.
Somehow, it doesn't give the D.I. a warm and fuzzy feeling.
He glances toward the front of the hall. "Looks like we're beginning." Both men stand and watch as an individual dressed in the uniform of John's former regiment makes his way to the front of the hall.
Greg looks at Mycroft, who shakes his head. "We kept this as hush hush as possible, but of course, some of it leaked out." He sighs, aggrieved. "When this is all over, John is going to be - perturbed - "
"To say the least," Greg nods sympathetically. He wonders, again, just exactly what Mycroft hopes to accomplish with this farce. They have the bastard responsible for Sally's death in custody and – Greg's thoughts break off. He is looking forward to a very long conversation with that sod and quite soon.
"Photographs," Mycroft says quietly while both men turn to walk toward a pew and take their seats, as the veteran begins to speak. Lestrade wonders if telepathy runs in the Holmes family as Mycroft has patently answered his thought before he voiced it. Same as Sherlock often does, he muses. He wonders how the detective - and the Army doctor - are doing.
Greg frowns at the thought. Out loud all he says is, "Photographs?"
Mycroft looks wryly at Greg Lestrade. "What did you expect, Inspector? A Wild West shootout? Mass arrests? Every single individual who has come through the front door of this hall has been photographed. Our facial recognition experts are going through the photos as we speak."
Greg Lestrade looks at Mycroft Holmes and shakes his head. "What do you hope to accomplish ? I thought most of that software was considered a failure, particularly after the London Borough of Newham studies—"
"Greg," Mycroft glances down at the DI, "we have taken that technology a great deal farther, I can assure you. Besides," here he looks around at the gathering again, "we have rather extensive files on current terror cabals operating within the British Isles. It will be interesting to see what the software and our experts turn up."
The D.I. nods, then glances toward two of his men who stand off to his side. They make eye contact and Greg softly nods in the direction of the military-type who still sits – more or less – alone three seats in front of him and Mycroft. He can see that Mycroft's agent has seated himself a few spaces down from the man.
He doesn't know what about this individual bothers him, just that something does. Their encounter was brief, but the D.I. sits there and tries to think of who the man reminds him of - his thoughts break off and his eyes widen when he realizes why the man and his movements, even his general appearance, seems familiar.
Holy buggering Hell…is it possible? And so soon? Can they possibly have Sebastian Moran's successor on their hands? Or has he finally gone round the twist?
But Lestrade says nothing as the first speaker now stands at the podium, next to the enlarged photograph of John Watson.
"We are all here today to pay our final respects to a good man, a decent man, an extraordinary man, Capt. John H. Watson, known to many of you as Doctor John Watson. As we continue, I ask anyone who cares to speak to please come up and say a few words –"
The speaker continues to drone on. As he speaks, Mycroft and Lestrade glance around the room. Then Mycroft's attention is caught by a single profile, a man with dark hair and receding hairline, immaculately dressed, who has taken a seat across the aisle and one aisle up from where he and Lestrade sit.
Mycroft studies the profile, then raises one eyebrow. Quietly he fishes his Blackberry out of his pocket and begins to text.
Behind him, one of his man glances at the screen of his mobile, nods, then quietly rises and makes his way past Mycroft – and sits down one aisle back of the individual in question.
Mycroft nods. Most excellent.
The speaker continues to laud Doctor Watson's attributes both as a Captain in the RAMC and an Army doctor, including his recent service in Afghanistan.
Lestrade sighs. He itches to get out of there and confront Sally's killer. He rubs a hand over his eyes. God, he can't remember the last time he slept. Actually, yes he can. It was three nights ago, before the world got shot to hell.
And tomorrow, I get to do this all over again. Only this time, it will be for real.
Beside him, Mycroft Holmes seemingly pays attention to the speakers, all the while watching a certain individual out of the corner of his eye.
The two men, the former military man and Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, and he who is, basically, the British Government, sit in companionable silence, each consumed with his own disturbing thoughts.
###
Lori Hansen knows her man. And something did not add up.
Hence, three days earlier, when news of Doctor John H. Watson's death first makes the late morning news feeds, she at first goes into a minor state of shock. When the news first comes on, she and Joe sit at their kitchen table and talk while Joe finishes his morning coffee, preparatory to reporting for his morning shift at the Yard.
She has spent most of the early morning, crying over Sally Donovan's death. She raises her head at the name "Doctor John Watson," listens to the story incredulously.
It's too much. She cannot assimilate it. Lori's eyes widen in shock, then before Joe can say anything, she runs from the room and loses her breakfast in the toilet. She grabs at fistfuls of tissues, then throws herself on their bed and starts to cry her heart out.
"I failed," she thinks quietly, as her breath hitches against the sobs that tear through her small chest. "Failed. I tried. And for what? He saved my life – and he's gone. And now, Mr. Holmes is injured and alone –"
She begins to sob quietly again, tearing tissue after tissue from the box.
It isn't fair. It just isn't fair. First Sally, now this.
Dimly, she hears Joe's mobile phone ring. She hears murmurs of a quiet conversation. Then Joe comes into their bedroom and sits down on the edge of the mattress. She sits up and he pulls her into his chest and begins to rub her back quietly.
"Sweetheart –" he says.
"Don't, Joe," she manages to sob, though her chest hitches. "Just don't. There's nothing you can say that will help this."
Joe nods and stares over her head at the wallpaper.
Her breath hitches. "First Sal—Sally. And now Doctor Watson. I can't – Joe, it just isn't fair."
Joe nods. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. I know you and Doctor Watson had a connection."
His voice is quiet, matter of fact. At the nearly dry tone, Lori frowns through her tears.
Lori never knows quite what it is that makes her lean back and stare into her intended's quiet eyes. Maybe it's the deadpan tone of voice. Maybe it's the fact that Joe does not seem too upset at the news of Doctor Watson's death.
Or maybe it's just that Lori Hansen knows her man.
She stares into Joe's dark brown gaze. And narrows her eyes.
"Joe Rodriguez – what in bloody hell is going on?"
He stares back at her, confused. Holy hell, he keeps forgetting that this diminutive woman he loves is also an Army 'brat' – and one hell of a formidable person in her own right.
"Ah, nothing is going on. I don't know what you –"
She stares at him. Then blows her nose and clears her thoughts. Her mind races.
Wait. Just wait. Mr. Holmes was there, right there, she saw him there by the side of the car just a few hours earlier. She clearly saw him through the window as he walked by in the dark. He saw her as she sat there huddled in the blanket - and he nodded for her to stay put in the car.
And if Mr. Holmes was there, then that meant that Doctor Watson …
Lori stares at Joe Rodriguez.
"Joe, you have one minute to explain what the bloody hell is going on before I deck you."
Rodriguez stares into his love's eyes and gives it up as a lost cause. He has no experience in lying, particularly to the woman in his arms, the woman who currently looks at him as if she will take him apart any second now.
He clears his voice, mentally apologizes to the D.I. and begins to speak.
Lori's eyes widen.
That was three mornings ago. Now she sits at their kitchen table and watches the news feeds. And waits for her mobile to ring. She crosses her fingers that the D.I.'s people will be able to find the stinking sods who are responsible for Sally Donovan's death.
She wonders how Doctor Watson's "memorial" service is going.
And not for the first time, wishes that she could be of help to the quiet doctor who saved her life back there – at the risk of his own - in the lower levels of the Wellington.
Lori looks up as she hears her text chime ring. Where? Oh yes. In the pocket of her purse. She pulls her purse to her by one strap and fishes out her mobile.
And stares at the words on the small screen.
###
"Excuse me, Detective Inspector." Lestrade nods as Mycroft rises, and quietly makes his way across the short aisle. He seats himself next to the man in the expensive Italian suit. He is aware that his agent sits more or less directly behind them.
Mycroft and his companion sit together for a few moments, as the second speaker takes the podium to recite praises to John Watson.
Mycroft never even turns his head as he speaks. "Awfully good of you, Bennett, to pay your respects in person this way."
The man just nods, then turns slightly to glance at Mycroft. "Always willing to acknowledge a decorated member of our Armed forces," he says quietly. But his hands begin to fidget in his lap.
Mycroft listens to the speaker for a moment. Then turns to contemplate the man sitting next to him.
"But I have to wonder, Bennett, what brings a member of the House of Lords out to a gathering such as this. And please don't tell me you attend the memorials for all our fallen young heroes. That would be incredibly meretricious of you."
The other man's voice is quiet. "I do not believe I have to explain my actions to you, Mycroft." He turns to look Mycroft in the eye. "Now or at any other time."
He returns his attention to the speaker in front of the room. "Besides, I might say the same thing about you. What brings Mycroft Holmes to this rather sad little service?
"Curiosity, mainly," Mycroft says. His tone is one of an aggrieved, put upon civil servant. He sighs, crosses one leg over the other and brushes an invisible bit of lint off his trouser leg. "You know how these things go. Someone – higher up – always wants to be certain we make a good show." He clears his throat. "Even if the little sod was just a stinking' little pansy."
Dead silence. Mycroft's companion stares at the speaker, who is now extolling Capt. John Watson's many brave acts. He clears his throat.
"Yes, I had heard that about the former Captain." He sighs. "But I'm rather surprised, Mycroft, to hear how little regard you have for the man who, as I understand it, was to become your future brother-in-law."
There is a pause. And then Mycroft Holmes smiles a slow deliberate smile. The smile does not reach his eyes. He turns to consider the man next to him. Bug under a microscope.
"And tell me, Lord Crandall, just exactly how you came by this news? As far as I and Mummy are aware, only one individual outside our immediate family is in possession of that information."
Lord Crandall frowns. His hands stop fidgeting in his lap. And he turns his head to look into Mycroft Holmes's dark steel eyes.
Behind him, Mycroft's man pulls out his mobile, sends a text, than drops his phone into his pocket.
The agent who stands at the door to the hall pulls out his phone, glances at the screen, nods, and then maneuvers around quietly to sit directly to the left of Lord Bennett Crandall.
"Bennett, we can do this the easy way," Mycroft speaks quietly to his companion, who continues to look straight ahead, "or we can do this the hard way. Your call."
Lord Bennett Crandall becomes very still. He turns his head to stare at Mycroft, who stares coldly back at him.
###
Agent Enders finishes with the Food Service people and sees the truck and its occupants on their way. His text chime sounds. He reads the screen, then hastens to meet Sherlock at Doctor Oakton's room.
When he arrives, Sherlock stands in the doorway, in quiet conversation with Williams.
He nods at Williams, then gestures for Enders to come into the room.
Enders stands inside the door while Holmes shuts it, then turns to contemplate Doctor Oakton.
"Agent Enders, do you recall the case full of hypos that I handed you the night we left St. Anne's – the night Doctor Watson had his attack in the van?"
Enders just nods. He glances at Oakton, then puts his attention on Holmes.
"Yes sir, of course. When we arrived that night, I kept the case in my possession. I gave it to Doctor Dennison the next afternoon as I understood that he would be the one to be in charge of Doctor Watson's medications."
Sherlock thinks for a few seconds. "All right. Thank you. You can go. I imagine you are exhausted."
"Thank you, sir. Good night." Enders nods at Holmes, considers Oakton curiously for a moment, then leaves. He shuts the door quietly behind him.
Outside the room, he and Williams exchange brief looks. Then Enders makes his way down the hall.
Sherlock stands in thought for a moment. Then he looks up at Maggie Oakton.
"Our family physician will be here shortly," he says curtly. "I imagine he will have a few questions for you, Doctor Oakton. I advise you to be forthcoming with the answers."
"Mr. Holmes –" Maggie breaks off when she sees the stormy look in his eyes. She ducks her head. "Of course. I'll answer any questions he may have."
Sherlock nods once, opens the door and leaves. Behind him, Agent Williams pulls the door closed. Then takes up his position outside once more.
Sherlock makes his way quickly back to their own room, one hallway over.
###
John Watson struggles back to consciousness. But he just can't open his eyes.
He is exhausted, weary beyond belief. He feels as if he has run a race. And lost.
He can hear quiet sounds around him. He believes he hears the voice of the One. But he's not certain. His thoughts drift off. And come back again.
He has no idea what has happened to him. John just knows his head hurts and he wishes he could wake up and that someone would give him some cold water to drink.
Bloody hell, but he's thirsty.
###
Sherlock opens the door to their room and glances around. Galen Dennison sits at the writing desk in the far corner, by the window, a pad and pen in front of him. He looks up from his notes at the detective as he comes into the room.
Sherlock looks at Dennison as if he is a curious specimen under his microscope.
"Doctor Dennison, I believe Agent Enders gave you a case of hypos the afternoon you arrived here." His voice begs the question.
Dennison looks at Sherlock. And simply nods. "Yes, he did. I understood the shots to be those that Maggie – and Doctor Merit - had prepared for Doctor Watson the night you left St. Anne's. Maggie told me that you had to use one on John – Doctor Watson that night during the trip here. I have them in safekeeping in my room."
He looks steadily at the detective. "Did you need to see them, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock frowns at the doctor's ingenuous answer. This reply is not exactly what he expected. He stares at Dennison for a moment, then crosses over to look down at John Watson's tired face. John's hands lay outside the covers. They twitch slightly as he sleeps. The detective considers the unconscious man, then looks back at Dennison, his thoughts unclear.
Before Sherlock can say a word, the door opens behind him.
"Sherlock, good to see you lad."
Both men glance around at the older, white-haired man who stands in the doorway. He smiles genially at them both, walks all the way in to the room and comes to stand over John Watson's bed. He looks down at the unconscious man.
"Now then, what's all this?" he asks.
###
Lori reads the text on her screen. And her heart soars. She hurriedly types a reply, then rushes into their shared bedroom, locates a suitcase in Joe's closet, and begins to throw her clothes and personal products into it as quickly as possible.
Once she's done, she goes into the bathroom, showers and changes into fresh clothes, then comes back out, sets the suitcase by the front door, and sits down with her mobile to call Joe.
He answers on the second ring.
###
Doctor Thomas Fields sets his rather large medical case down on the floor next to the bed. He nods at Galen Dennison, then shakes the psychiatrist's hand as Sherlock makes the introduction.
He nods at Sherlock. Fields does not shake the detective's hand, but instead looks him up and down in what Dennison thinks is a rather engaging manner. Fields cocks an eyebrow at the younger Holmes.
"Grown a bit since the last time I saw you," he remarks dryly. Then he turns his attention to John Watson.
Sherlock says nothing. He just stands, hands in pockets, and watches Dr. Fields as he removes a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, dons them, then bends over John and takes his wrist in his strong fingers.
Sherlock fills him in on John's condition and all the while Doctor Fields just listens and nods his head at the information. Mycroft has already told him all of this but if it makes Sherlock happy, he's willing to listen to it all over again.
Fields opens his case, removes his stethoscope and bends over John's quiet form. He listens for a few minutes, moves the instrument around John's chest. Then he loops the stethoscope around his neck and peels back the bed covers. He lifts the cotton tee shirt, examines the tape and padding around John's ribs, and pokes gently at John's rib area with a practiced fingertip. Finally, he wraps both hands around John's rib area and oh-so-gently palpitates, feeling for the healing breaks with his fingers.
Satisfied, he pulls the tee shirt back down to cover John's chest.
Finally, Thomas Fields gently peels back one of John's eyelids and stares at the pupil reaction. He lets it go and repeats the action with John's other eye. He looks up at Sherlock, then glances across the room to where Galen Dennison sits at the desk. Both doctors stare at each other – and nod.
Fields sighs. He lets John's eye close, then sits down in the chair next to the bed. He regards the Detective who stands next to the bed.
"Higher than a kite," Fields says quietly.
Sherlock looks at Fields and his eyes widen. "What the hell—"
Dr. Fields leans back, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. "Sherlock, I've seen enough of this crap to last a lifetime." He slips his glasses back on, then regards the younger Holmes with forbearance.
"I have no idea, yet, what else is present in this man's bloodstream, but I assure you, at least some of whatever it is appears to be hallucinogenic. This man is patently flying."
He glances at John's quiet face again and shakes his head. "Given the fact that he is currently on medication to fight his addiction to whatever this substance was that you told me of – well, I'm astonished his heart didn't stop."
Sherlock looks from Dr. Fields' tired face to John Watson's familiar one. The detective's gaze meets Galen Dennison's' across the room.
"You knew," he said quietly.
Dennison shakes his head. "I suspected. When you said your family physician was on his way, well, I wanted to wait to get a second opinion."
Sherlock looks from one man to the other, then back to John's face.
A cold fury takes possession of his limbs and heart and mind. He forces himself to look away from John's face to the older doctor's friendly visage.
"Any ideas on how it was administered?"
Fields thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Injection is the obvious answer." He looks up at Sherlock, then frowns. "But you appear to have ruled that out, right?"
Sherlock just looks back at Fields. Something niggles at his memory – again.
"Well, let's find out, shall we?" Fields says. The doctor moves to open his medical bag again. He removes a hypodermic, an IV port, several syringes and alcohol swabs. He lays all of this out on the bed next to John's quiet form. Fields glances up at Sherlock, who just raises an eyebrow. Fields regards the detective with a steady gaze.
"I've got one of your brother's people waiting outside to courier these over to a lab in the city. I was pretty certain we'd need blood analyses done. "
He looks down at John's face. "We need to find out what's going on with this young man. And quickly."
And this is when John Watson finally wakes up. He opens his eyes in time to see Doctor Thomas Fields' steady hand, which currently holds a hypodermic and an IV port, as it crosses his range of vision.
"So that's how they're doing it," he thinks with sudden clarity.
John looks at the Doctor, who notes his patient is now awake. Fields raises one eyebrow. And looks right back at him with a friendly gaze. John notices that this man has comforting brown eyes. He does not know who this person is, but he trusts him immediately.
John next becomes aware that he is alive. Awake. Aware. And in the world once more.
And most importantly, Sherlock comes into his range of view almost immediately.
Excellent. He has been having the most horrid nightmare. Thank God, it was just that – a bad dream.
Doctor Fields smiles at him.
"Hello there, John," he says quietly. "Now just lie still, there's a good lad. Just taking a blood sample or two. Won't be a moment."
He bends over John's arm. As the hypo pierces his skin, John turns his head to meet Sherlock's steady gaze. He looks at Sherlock. And mentally sighs. Apparently, he has not yet regained the power of speech. By the telepathy they both seem to share, John tries to wordlessly communicate with his partner.
For god's sakes, Sherlock, wake up, he stares. We've both been idiots.
Sherlock stares back at John, instantly furious at the doctor for – nearly – leaving him again.
Then he really, REALLY looks into his Army doctor's eyes.
Sherlock looks from John's steady blue gaze, to the hypo in Doctor Fields' hands, then back to John.
Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow.
And he curses himself for being ten times a fool.
He nods once at John, "Got it, John," he says quietly. John sighs and shuts his eyes again.
Sherlock looks at Galen Dennison, then at the back of Thomas Fields' head.
"Doctor Fields – Doctor Dennison, I'll be right back." At the door, he turns to fix both men with his determined crystalline stare. "Don't leave this room, either of you," he admonishes. "And Doctor Fields, hold that courier."
Sherlock rushes out of the room, past Mycroft's new agent/courier, who stares at him. As he reaches the hallway end, Sherlock begins to run.
Doctor Fields shakes his head at the young man's sudden exit, then straightens with the blood samples, labels them carefully in a steady hand, places them in a small plastic case, then opens the door to hand them to the man who stands outside in the hallway.
"Please wait. We might have something else for you, as well."
Mycroft's man nods, accepts the case, then goes back texting one of his fellow agents.
###
Sherlock nods at Agent Williams outside Maggie Oakton's door. He taps at the door to her room and at her quiet "Come in," opens her door. He notes that she is dressed for bed, in night clothes, robe and slippers. She sits at the writing desk again, apparently going over the notes she made earlier.
"Where are they, Doctor Oakton?"
Maggie's eyes widen. "Mr. Holmes, we've been over this—" she says tiredly.
He shakes his head. "No. Not the hypos from St. Anne's." He crosses to stand in front of her and looks down at the psychologist. She tilts her head back and looks up at him with a frown on her face.
"The hypodermics, Doctor Oakton. The hypos you and Dennison have been using to inject John, the hypos you filled with the contents of the vials of medication. Where are they?" he demands.
Maggie looks at him as if he has lost his mind. Then her eyes widen. And she groans out loud.
"Good Lord," she murmurs. "Every single one of us has been thick."
She stands, crosses to the French louvered doors, opens them, then reaches in for a cardboard box. She brings the box out and hands it to Sherlock.
Sherlock places the box on the bed, lifts the flaps, glances inside, then lifts out a single smaller box full of unopened packages of hypodermic needles. He looks at it with a frown.
Maggie crosses to stand next to Sherlock. "Be careful," she says quietly. "If you're right, if this is how it's being done, you'll need gloves."
She goes back to the cubby, extracts a box of latex examination gloves, pulls out a pair and hands them to the detective.
Sherlock looks at her quickly, nods once, then sets the box down. He snaps on the gloves, then reaches back into the cardboard box and pulls out a single small plastic bag. He stares at it and raises one eyebrow. The bag has been opened at one end and there are one or two hypos missing. He places the open bag back in the box. He withdraws another bag of hypos, this one full. And sealed.
Both of them stare at the bag. One end appears to be somewhat flattened. Sealed but flat where the other end is rounded.
Sherlock looks down at Oakton as she looks at the small plastic bag in his hand. She looks sick to her stomach.
"Where did you get these?" he asks.
Maggie tells him.
Sherlock nods. It's what he expected. He places the unopened bag of hypos back in the box, places the smaller box inside the larger one, carries it toward the door, then hesitates. He looks at Maggie Oakton and comes to an instant decision.
"Doctor Oakton, I need you to accompany me to our room. Our family physician is here to attend to Doctor Watson. And I want you on hand to answer any questions he might have."
Maggie's eyes widen. She looks at Sherlock, then nods once.
"May I change first?' she says quietly.
The detective considers her, then nods curtly. "Please hurry," he says.
She crosses to the small bathroom.
###
Mycroft pays a visit to the Diogenes Club, one hour before he is slated to make the long drive to the Manor house. His mood is grim.
He takes his accustomed seat in The Stranger's Room, the one room that allows speech, places his briefcase carefully on the floor next to him, then nods at the attendant, who brings him his usual single malt in a cut crystal glass. While Mycroft sits, he fingers a small white box. It sports a tiny blue bow, obviously a gift box. Finally, he sets it on the table next to him, picks his drink up again, and waits.
He sits and sips his Scotch and stares at the empty chair opposite him.
A few minutes later, another man seats himself in the empty chair, nods at the attendant.
Mycroft waits until his companion has his own drink. The two men sit in easy silence for a moment.
Mycroft considers the man in front of him, then pulls a file folder from the briefcase at his feet, hands it to the other man, who raises one eyebrow, leans forward to take it from Mycroft. He sets his own drink down, then opens the folder Mycroft has just handed him.
He reads the single sheet, considers it for a moment, then closes the folder and sits there with it in his hands. Finally, he hands the folder back to Mycroft, who takes it and drops it in his briefcase. He takes up his drink again and takes a healthy swallow. He looks back at Mycroft, then sighs.
"I take it the little coward was, shall we say "apprehended" by your people?" he says dryly.
Mycroft considers the man opposite him. "Actually, Reggie, it was Detective Inspector Lestrade's people who made the arrest."
"Of course." Reggie holds his glass up to the light, swirls the liquid around in the cut crystal, admires the way the dark gold hues reflect back the light.
"And where do we go from here?" he asks quietly.
"You tell me," Mycroft says. He sets his own drink down, hesitates, then picks up the tiny white box that sits next to his elbow. He peruses the tiny box with its blue bow, then raises his eyes to Reggie, who watches him with what Mycroft would swear is quiet amusement.
"Mycroft, this was never about the 'gay' question and 100% about the Holmes boys. You do know that, right?"
"It did occur to me that, yes, the obvious scenario was the wrong one." Mycroft looks from the tiny white box in his hand to his companion's steady gaze. "A blind. All a blind. And a bloody damned good one too, Reggie. I commend you on that."
He continues to fiddle with the tiny box.
Both men stare at the white box in Mycroft's long fingers. Reggie sighs. He puts his glass down, then leans back slightly and places both his arms along the chair rests.
"You realize, Mycroft, I could fight this. A British Lord fighting in the courts to bring down the mad Holmes boys – particularly the one daft one who more or less runs –"
"No, Reggie, I don't think so," Mycroft murmurs. He looks up from the box in his hands at his companion. "At least, you might have done." Here Mycroft looks the other man in the eyes and his glance is pure cold steel. "But you see, Reg, you tried to kill my little brother. And I – and Mummy – take a dim view of anyone who tries to harm Sherlock."
Reggie stares back at Mycroft. A frisson of tension ices his spine.
Mycroft ignores the stare and goes on. "And the 'daft' Holmes' boys, as you put it, at least the one sitting in this chair, are old friends of this monarchy. Our father has not been forgotten by the current regime. And as for Mummy and her Majesty," he glances at Reggie, then sits back tiredly, fingers the tiny box in his palm. "Let's just say you haven't got a prayer. You'll just embarrass yourself, embarrass Dorothea, drag your entire family through the muck —"
"All right. You don't have to paint a bloody picture." Reggie runs one finger around the rim of his glass. He looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he looks across at Mycroft.
"You don't really expect me to name names do you? Because I can promise you, old man, that –"
"No. Reggie. That's not what I expect you to do. We pretty well know who put you up to this. Although I can assure you, that if names were what we wanted, I can get those."
He turns the tiny white box over and over in his fingers. Finally, he leans forward and places the small box on the table next to Reggie's right arm.
Both men look at it for a moment. Then Reggie sighs and picks up his glass again.
He looks at Mycroft steadily. "No crossed swords? No dueling pistols at sunrise? You disappoint me, Mycroft."
"Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid." Mycroft nods at the box, then toys with his own glass. "I could take you right here. Have you escorted out and have my people lend a hand. But I have too much respect for Dorothea."
He looks carefully at the other man. "And for the Diogenes, as well. I believe it's been 37 years since the last arrest was made under this roof. It isn't on, Reg. It just isn't."
Reggie looks at Mycroft, then comes to a decision. He nods once, tiredly. "All right."
He picks up the tiny box, removes the lid, stares at the contents. On a small pad of white cotton, there resides one miniscule sugar cube, slightly darkened. He looks up at Mycroft.
"Hardly original, old man." His voice is quiet but still sounds disappointed in the staid atmosphere of the Diogenes.
"Apologies. But this is really the best way. Least amount of trouble to all concerned and –" Mycroft looks him in the eyes, "least amount of bother to you. A moment or two of - let us say discomfort - and Dorothea's future – and that of your two children – is assured. I believe your eldest is at Cambridge, right?"
Reggie nods. He takes the tiny sugar cube in his fingers, glances at it, then carefully drops it in his glass. The amber liquid foams up for a second, then settles back down. He puts the lid back on the box, hands it back to Mycroft, who nods, takes the box, and drops it in his briefcase. The entire interaction has taken less then a few seconds and none of the other men seated in that particular room of the Diogenes has noted a thing.
Mycroft and Reggie consider the glass for a moment.
"I am assured that the discomfort is extremely temporary and passes off quickly," Mycroft murmurs. He takes up his own glass, glances at the contents, then finishes it in one gulp.
Reggie picks up his glass, swirls it round and round, holds it up to the light one last time, nods once at Mycroft, who does not nod back, then downs the remainder of his drink. He sets the cup on the table to his side. And leans back.
"I find your company tiring, Mycroft. You might give me these last few –"
"Of course," Mycroft murmurs. He bends over, drops his cloth serviette over Reggie's empty glass, places both in his briefcase, picks up the case, then stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back.
Behind him, Reggie's eyes close. His right hand convulses, once, on the arm rest. Then he becomes quite still.
The other occupants of the only room in the Diogenes that allows speech do not notice a thing untoward. They are used to members nodding off in the quiet atmosphere.
Everyone minds their own business in the Diogenes.
###