These lads in their current incarnation do not belong to me but to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
But they can do whatever they want in these pages…Right? Damn Straight!
THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET
CH. 14
WARNINGS: Angst; Language; Violence; Murder; Chemical Interrogation; One body part - detached; Con-Drug use; Non-Con drug use; and a really lovely bit where bedroom furniture attempts to hold a conversation with Doctor Watson.
Two dark chapters left dear Readers. Then the light gets so bright – you're gonna need shades …
###
John opens his eyes again just after Dr. Fields finishes withdrawing the blood samples. Apparently, Sherlock has not returned to their room yet, as John can neither see nor hear him. He turns his head slightly to the left to stare into the deep brown eyes of Thomas Fields, who sits by his side and nods encouragingly at him. John nods back, then shuts his eyes immediately. Lord, he is just so dizzy and so very thirsty.
But although John would like to remain awake and speak to this person with the warm sympathetic gaze – he reminds John of his grandfather, who was a doctor and whom John dearly loved – it is immediately obvious to John that he needs to close his eyes and keep them closed for a tad longer…as the bedside lamp has inexplicably sprouted a mouth – and is urgently trying to communicate with John.
John mulls this over for a bit, comes to the conclusion that this is just a trifle odd and decides to lie still, eyes closed, just for a little while, just until someone brings him some water – and makes the lamp shut the fuck up.
###
"Something doesn't add up," Mick Billings speaks quietly into his mobile.
"Facts, Mick," his employer asks.
Billings stares around the lot. All his instincts are on alert.
"Listen, Jim, I'm not so certain that the "late, departed" Doctor Watson is either late or departed. This just isn't – right."
"All right, Mick, but spare me your intuition. I need information," James Moriarty's voice is calm, detached. A first for him, thinks Billings. He imagines Jim seated in the hideously expensive conference room as he stares out at the hideously expensive view.
Billings leans casually against his rental car and tries not to show too much interest as the tall dark man in the expensive suit – "posh" thinks Billings – stands outside the Memorial Hall with the gray-haired Detective Inspector from the Yard. Both men are deep in conversation.
Billings frowns. He busies himself with his car keys.
"Mick, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short. I am expecting the Ambassador any minute now."
Billings straightens up at Moriarty's overtly casual tone. "But what about Watson ? If I'm right and he's not dead –"
"Well, that's the question, isn't it? I put into play an interesting scenario a few weeks ago concerning our good doctor. If he's – late – in every sense of the word, it was obvious wasted effort and funds. But if he's not –"
Billings knows better than to interrupt Jim's musings. He just waits.
"If he's not – then I think a small note to Holmes the younger is definitely in order. Just find out. And quickly."
Billings sighs. And just how the hell is he supposed to do that? A few yards away, first posh suit shakes the D.I.'s hand and enters a second dark car. The D.I. nods once at him and watches as the car drives out of the lot. Then he deliberately turns to stare directly at Mick Billings, his hands in his pockets.
Billings opens the car door – and tries to ignore the itching sensation between his shoulder blades. The familiar sensation that means he is being watched.
"Interesting," thinks Billings. Aloud all he says is, "All right, Jim."
The door to the conference room opens. James Moriarty glances up from his perusal of the scenery outside the window.
"Get me the information. Try not to be boring about it. Then get some rest, Mick. Eat. I will speak with you later. The Head of State I was expecting has arrived."
James Moriarty hangs up, places his mobile phone carefully on the top of the conference table in front of him next to two other mobiles that lie there, then nods at the older woman, who stands, ramrod straight, next to the polished teak conference table. Her pale blond hair, shot through with white, is pulled away from her angular face, in an intricately-woven braid, now coiled on top of her head. She faces Jim, her hands crossed in front of her. She wears a thoroughly disgusted expression – and a pair of blue latex gloves.
There is a large soft-sided cooler on the teak surface next to her.
"Well, go on then, let's not keep the Ambassador waiting."
She zips open the top of the cooler, grimaces, then reaches in and lifts out a severed human head, holding it by the dark thatch of hair with two shaking hands. She has to lean over slightly in order to get – and keep - a grip on the thing. It is surprisingly heavy, she thinks. She keeps her head turned to the side so she doesn't have to look directly at the obscenity.
James Moriarty stares into the face of the former Ambassador of a certain island nation - which will remain nameless - and smiles grimly.
"That'll teach the stinking sods to steal from ME," he says with quiet satisfaction.
He nods at her. She keeps her head turned as she slowly lowers the Ambassador's head back into the cooler, tears the latex gloves from her hands, drops both of them on top of the head, then zips the cooler closed.
She swallows and stands there, awaiting orders. And dear God but she hates this little monster. But the pay is good. Unbelievable, actually. Still, first chance she gets …
"Most excellent, my dear. Now please take three photos, from all angles, and send them immediately to the names we discussed – don't forget the President - accompanied with the text I just sent you," Jim murmurs.
He swivels his chair to stare out the huge plate glass wall in front of him.
"I imagine the payment they are withholding will be forthcoming quite soon. That will be all, at least until tea time. Earl Grey, I think. And pop some Mozart in, will you? I'm feeling – expansive – today."
She nods without speaking, lifts the heavy cooler and turns toward the door.
As the door opens and shuts behind him, he mentally dismisses her, as he leans back and admires the seven million pound (British) view.
He sighs. So hard to get and keep good help these days. Not for the first time he thinks, Oh, Sebastian, you dumb bastard, I do miss you.
Which reminds him of Sherlock Holmes again – and of a certain Doctor.
"I promised him payback for Sebastian and if Watson is alive, then I can only assume my little 'gifts' have come in quite handy. Watson was quite amusing, really. Bloody shame our time together was cut short."
James Moriarty's thoughts break off as he leans back in the ergonomic swivel chair and smiles at his reflection in the glass. He swivels, reaches for one of the three mobile phones, then holds it momentarily, as his fingers tap on the screen. He nods and grins. Yes, that will do nicely.
But not yet. Not just yet. Give Billings time to report back. Then …if Watson is alive … if this is all a ruse … then –
He smiles again as the strains of Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major drift through the room.
Outside, the placid surface of Lake Lucerne reflects a deepening blue sky.
###
Greg Lestrade watches as Mycroft Holmes drives away. Their planned early evening drink has been postponed by the news that Sally Donovan's killer is not only in custody – but apparently ready, willing and able to bring down everyone with him who had a part in her murder. He cannot wait to get his hands on – amend that - to question the sod himself. He nods as a panda car pulls up.
As they drive to the Yard, Lestrade wonders what Mycroft's facial recognition program will turn up. And he wonders – again – about the man he spoke briefly with in the Hall.
The man that reminds the D.I. so very much of a certain late Sebastian Moran.
###
Mycroft pulls his mobile out, then considers for a moment before he calls her.
As always, she answers on the first ring.
"My dear, I need to make a quick stop by the office to – acquire - a few necessary items. And then go on to the Diogenes, before the drive to the mansion this evening."
Her voice is warm in his ear. "What do you need?"
He tells her.
One hour later, he tucks the tiny white box with its blue bow into his suit pocket, then seats himself in the black car and taps idly on the door handle as his driver loads his case into the trunk, along with a few other items. This is going to be an interesting evening, Mycroft thinks coldly.
He thinks of Reggie first, considers the probable outcome of their conversation, then dismisses him from his mind.
He then considers Sherlock's demand that John be provided with nursing care. He sighs and pulls out his mobile again. She answers immediately. They confer briefly. Then both of them hang up, satisfied that a viable solution to the problem has been met.
He thinks of Maggie Oakton. And frowns in the dark interior of the car.
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"We're coming up on the Diogenes."
"Very good." Mycroft fingers the box in his pocket.
###
Sherlock returns to their room with the box of hypodermic syringes, followed hesitatingly by Maggie Oakton and then by Agent Williams. Sherlock introduces Oakton to Fields, who nods and shakes the doctor's hand. She stands back, just slightly outside the room, not certain yet of her role here and just watches. She is very aware that Mycroft's man stands directly behind her. He stares at the back of her head coolly, then turns to have a word with the other man who waits outside in the hallway.
Sherlock glances over at John, who appears to be asleep again. Galen Dennison gathers up his notes, then crosses over to the two men. He raises an eyebrow at the box of syringes, looks momentarily startled, then his eyes widen and he stares straight into Sherlock's eyes.
"Good Lord, don't tell me—" Dennison swears.
The detective just nods at him. He hands the box to Thomas Fields, who just raises one white eyebrow.
"Thomas, we have every reason to suspect that these syringes are tainted in some fashion, perhaps laced with something that caused John's collapse, as well as several of the other symptoms he has experienced. I need them to be analyzed by the same lab that will analyze John's blood samples."
Fields nods, takes the box from Sherlock's hands. He frowns, glances at John, then back to the detective. He includes Dennison in his conversation.
"Sherlock, if what you suspect is true, than I have no way of knowing exactly how to help this man until the analysis is done. The best we can do is watch him, keep him hydrated, and hope whatever he has been subjected to works its way through his system quickly."
Dennison nods at this, but he continues to stare at the box of hypodermics. He shakes himself and then addresses Sherlock.
"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Oakton and I need to confer on how many of these hypos were used to inject Doctor Watson." He does not say aloud, "Is she still under house arrest?" He has no wish to embarrass Maggie further. Frankly, he feels she has the beginnings of a wondrously rewarding lawsuit.
Sherlock's eyes narrow as he looks from Dennison to Fields, then back to John who appears restless. He wonders if John is beginning to come round again. Mycroft won't be here for several hours and he's loathe to allow Oakton the free run of the mansion. Still – he remembers her startled reaction when he asked for the syringes.
He steps back to stare at Maggie Oakton, who stands silently in the doorway, flanked by both of Mycroft's men.
"Thomas, I need Doctor Dennison – and Doctor Oakton – to speak with each other about the number of shots John was given using these," he waves his hand at the box that Fields holds. "I wonder if you would be kind enough to accompany both of them back to Doctor Oakton's room and sit in on that conversation."
Fields glances from Maggie to Sherlock. His eyes widen, then he just nods.
"My pleasure," he says. "But I want to check his heart rate again. And would someone please bring him some fresh water."
At the door, Agent Williams nods and leaves to accede to Fields request.
Fields looks at Sherlock closely. He shakes his head. "I'm not exactly sure what is going on here, my boy, although both you and your brother have put me in the immediate picture. I have a few questions. And I'm not certain I want to leave my patient at the moment."
Sherlock smiles at the affectionate term. "Thomas, I understand and I appreciate your coming here to help us out." He looks across to John's quiet figure. The doctor has settled back down.
Then he glances up to surprise a look of interested perusal on Thomas Fields' friendly face. It has been at least six years, no, seven, since he has seen the Holmes family physician. And then it was under circumstances that were less than ideal. Sherlock is grateful that Fields has not referred to that time – the insane years, Sherlock thinks.
He finds the man as comforting as he remembers.
"I'll stay with John. I won't leave him unless you or Doctor Dennison are back in the room with us."
Fields stares into Sherlock's quiet gaze. He nods. "That works. All right. Let's get these samples sent off now. And then get some water into John. The man's dehydrated."
Fields turns to hand the box of syringes to the agent who stands outside the door. They talk for a moment, the man nods, takes the syringes, along with the case that holds John's blood samples. As they finish, Williams returns with a carafe of water, a glass and a few straws. He hands these to Fields at the door, then takes up his position outside the door as the first agent leaves with all of the samples.
Fields moves back to John, carefully sets the water and glass on the bedside table, then pulls the stethoscope from around his neck again. Sherlock watches him closely.
Galen Dennison crosses to Maggie Oakton where she stands to the side of the door and places one comforting arm around her shoulder.
Sherlock stares at both of them – and frowns.
###
Joe's tone is incredulous, to say the least.
"I don't like it," he repeats for the second time.
Lori is adamant. "Joe, I need to do this. He saved my life. I know he doesn't remember it, but I'm here, alive, because of Doctor Watson. And you are I are together because of him, as well."
"I don't like it," Joe repeats. Third time now, she notes. She grips her phone tightly. She has to make him understand. Lori sighs. Then she modifies her tone of voice. Relationships are, after all, about compromise.
"Joe – I'll be traveling with Mr. Holmes – with Sherlock's brother. There are several of his men at the mansion. I'll be perfectly safe. In fact," she hates to dig at him like this, but if it will make him see things clearly, "in fact, Joe, I'll be far safer there, then I will be here." She glances around Joe's small house. Soon to be their small house.
She listens for him to say something. Anything.
"I can tell that we are going to go round and round about this," he sighs.
She smiles in spite of his tone. Or maybe because of it. She's won and she knows it.
"No, Joe. We're not going to fight about this. Or about anything. At least I hope not. But I have to do this. I have to. Please understand."
She holds the phone as close to her ear as possible. Hears his sigh of acceptance. And shuts her eyes in relief. She is going to go anyway, but it's – nice – to know that it is with her fiancée's blessing. Well, maybe not his blessing. But at least he sees that she has to do this.
"All right, Lori. Do I pick you up and drive you somewhere or—"
"Nope. Mr. Holmes is picking me up here at the house." She glances at her watch. "In about an hour."
Joe Rodriguez knows when he's beaten. "All right. But you better call me as soon as he arrives and you're safely on your way."
"Of course, Joe."
"And call me when you're half-way there so I know you're all right."
"Of course, Joe."
"And call me as soon as you get there, so I know—"
"Yes, Joe, of course I will."
He huffs. "I love you, Sweetheart. You know that."
She smiles against the phone. "And I love you, Joe Rodriguez. And You know that."
As she hangs up, Lori's grins. She goes to make herself a cup of coffee, then check the supplies she will take with her. It's going to be a long drive.
###
Thomas Fields checks John's heart again, confers briefly with Dennison, then picks up his large medical bag and leaves with both Dennison and Oakton, followed by Agent Williams. At the door, he turns to admonish the younger Holmes one more time.
"As soon as he wakes, get that water into him. Call me if there is any significant change. None of this text nonsense."
Sherlock nods. The door shuts. And finally, finally, he and John are alone.
Sherlock crosses over to look down at his Army doctor.
"John, they're gone. All of them. You can open your eyes now. John?"
John Watson sighs. His voice is slightly hoarse when it comes.
"That depends, Sherlock," he says tiredly.
"On what?" Sherlock pulls the chair over and sits down. He reaches for the glass and pours some water into it, plunks in a straw. He turns his head to stare at the doctor, who has not responded.
"On what, John?"
John's voice is aggrieved. "On whether or not the wallpaper is still watching me."
Dead silence.
Sherlock contemplates the good doctor for a moment. He has to actually steel himself not to glance at the green silk walls.
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I think it's pretty much a given that the wallpaper has not grown eyes in the last hour or so."
"All right. But I'm not opening my eyes. Not yet."
Sherlock sighs. He lowers the glass and bends the straw in the middle.
"John, just drink this water. It will help you feel better. And I guarantee you that at the first sign of sentience on behalf of the wallpaper – or any other part of the room - I'll make certain you are the first to know."
John sighs. He reaches up a hand to feel for the straw. Sherlock guides it into his mouth.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?" He sets the glass down on the table.
"Can you do something for me?"
"Of course, John."
"Can you turn off the bloody light and get into bed. That may make the sodding lamp stop talking."
More dead silence.
"All right, John. Only in the interest of science, you understand."
"In the interest of science, then," murmurs John Watson.
###
"Ms. Hansen?" The man at the door stands to the side so Lori can clearly see the dark car at the curb – and its occupant, who now stands next to the car. Lori recognizes Mycroft Holmes immediately.
"Yes, I just need to get my case and a few supplies."
She comes back to the door, her arms loaded. He takes her suitcase from her, then the two boxes she hands him. Lori holds onto her purse, coat and medical kit.
She locks the door behind her. And walks down the path toward Mycroft Holmes.
###
One hour and two full glasses of water later, John seems to feel better. But he keeps his eyes closed, for good measure.
The two men lie entwined in their bed. Sherlock holds onto John's quiet form and watches as the light outside the window changes from dark blue to pale violet, then finally to a very dark blue. He wonders if John will feel well enough shortly to get out of bed and eat.
In the meantime, there are worse ways to spend one's time.
The detective curves around his partner, front to back, while they continue the discussion about John's current – problem. Mainly John does the talking and Sherlock does the listening.
I should be quite good at this, he thinks. This is, after all, a topic that he is intimately familiar with.
"Sherlock – what if – what if I can't…" The doctor's voice breaks off and he takes a breath. Tries again.
"What if I can't get over this and I – and we - oh bloody hell!" John curses. "I can't even – fucking - verbalize anymore."
Sherlock frowns in the dark against John's head. He listens to what John says and tries to deduce what John is not saying.
John steels himself. And tries again.
"Sherlock – I don't understand what's happened. We know the syringes were probably messed with. But we don't know what the hell was in them. Other than the obvious. And I don't know how they've affected me – in the short and long run. And I have no bloody idea how any of this is going to change the treatment Dennison has outlined."
Sherlock says nothing. He just holds onto his Army doctor and listens.
"Sherlock …" John's voice drops, hesitant. The detective has to strain to hear it.
"Yes, John," he whispers against the silky hair.
"Just listen, okay? Just listen, Love, and don't say anything. I can't seem to think straight. And that's been going on for more than a day. I - you didn't sign up for this and I just want you to know that—"
Pressed up against his partner, one arm draped over John's chest, Sherlock can feel that John's hand has gone hesitantly to the dog tag that hangs around his neck.
'I just want to tell you, that – well, if you feel -"
The younger man's eyes narrow in the darkening room. He feels a deep burn in his chest – and a sudden flash of anger. And more than a little fear.
"John Hamish Fucking Watson, don't even try to pull this crap on me." Sherlock raises up on one arm to consider the blonde head next to him. The doctor's form goes entirely still.
"I swear to Christ, John, if you finish that statement, I'll knock you down. As soon as you can stand, that is. In fact, you probably need to get the hell out of this sodding bed right now, so we can have this out. I know I can land one decent punch before you take me out. Get out of bed, John. I mean it. Get out of bed now so I can punch you!"
He balances himself on one arm and stares bloody murder at the back of his Army doctor's quiet head. His heart pounds in his chest.
Christ, this is all I need right now. John trying to back out just because of this sodding - -
John – Don't.
The doctor turns over in bed until he faces Sherlock. His dark eyes are open. The detective can see them in the light from their window.
John's voice is resigned, but filled with quiet amusement.
"You and whose army?"
Sherlock stares at the other man. Then he suddenly grins and collapses back onto the bed. He curls his left arm around the doctor's head and shoulders.
John's hand drops from the dog tag. He reaches to grip the younger man's thigh as it nestles up against his right leg. He squeezes the muscles of Sherlock's leg, then just lets his hand lie there.
Imminent crisis averted, Sherlock tries to relax, but his nerves still thrum. He pulls John's head toward him with his left arm until the doctor's head lies on his pale chest. He sighs and bends his head toward John's, shuts his eyes and inhales his partner's scent.
John continues as if the tiny – rift – never happened.
"Sherlock, I just don't know how to – this is new territory for me. And I'm - scared. Scared shitless, if you want to know. The last time I felt like this, I had just deployed."
And bloody hell, right now, it's his muddled thought processes that scare him the most.
John shifts his weight slightly. The detective is curled around his right side and he moves to allow Sherlock to inch even closer. Right now, he needs the assurance of the six feet of warm body that all but covers his own. He keeps his hand on Sherlock's thigh. He can feel the muscles shift under his fingers as the detective tenses up, then relaxes again.
In the dark, Sherlock Holmes considers John Watson. He has never heard John admit to any fear. He has seen this man walk into hell – and face down demons. And he knows that this admission is not to be dismissed lightly. He considers his response. Is one even needed?
Six different platitudes rise to his lips. He discards all of them as being trite, and therefore, unworthy of the man who lies next to him.
Instead, he reaches for familiar territory. Terrain they both know by heart.
Sherlock buries his nose in John's soft hair and shuts his eyes. His deep voice whispers against the soft strands. "The first time I overdosed, Mycroft found me."
He offers no explanation, no apology. John knows these things about him – these facts. They've been through all of this. He made it a point to make certain the doctor knew about the insane years, the suicidal years. First at Eton, then later at the three universities Sherlock attended – had no choice but to attend – each time he cocked it up. Each time that his brother and Mummy – but usually Mycroft - always Mycroft - had to make apologies for him – change his school – get him back into rehab.
Each time the elder Holmes brother did whatever he had to do to keep the younger Holmes brother from self-destructing.
"I really owe Mycroft a lot," he thinks, not for the first time. He frowns in the dark against John's still head. "The insufferable git."
John knows all this. They've discussed all of this – all these things – back when they began this crazy relationship.
But maybe it's time to say it again, he thinks. Maybe it will make it easier for John to assimilate what has happened to him. To them, he amends. To them.
"Heroin." John's voice is quiet. Sherlock can feel that his Army doctor's breathing has calmed somewhat. He can feel it through the palm of his right hand, currently wrapped protectively over John's upper chest. He begins to finger through the soft hairs on John's chest.
"Heroin," the detective agrees, in a low murmur. "My tolerance was not – what I calculated. Although during those days, I usually experimented with morphine and later, of course, cocaine."
John's body stiffens slightly. Sherlock can hear his breath as it huffs out. But John says nothing, only tightens his right hand slightly where it lies on the detective's hip, as Sherlock's clever fingers continue to softly stroke through John's chest hair - over his heart.
"Locked me in the damned wing – my wing – at my own request. He saw that I was fed and watered, like a bloody cat. I didn't much care at the time if I ate or not. But he was right there. He never left me. I'm afraid I trashed the wing. I was, of course, attempting to stop it – all of it - at one time. I believe the term is cold turkey."
He keeps his breathing slow and stable against John's back, hoping to keep the doctor's own heart rate slow and steady.
"I bet Mummy was not pleased."
"Mummy was not pleased," Sherlock agrees. "She was away at the time – on the continent. She only saw the past evidence of my – problem – when she returned. Thank goodness she didn't have to deal with the worst of it. Mycroft saw to that."
John thinks about this for a moment. He feels a faint tremor in his left hand but he ignores it. He's heard all this before, including the Why's and Wherefores' of Sherlock's various drug dependencies.
He is very well acquainted with the detective's nightmare years in school, and later, at the various universities he attended. Years of taunts, of bullying and of his mental – and on occasion – physical torture. He knows about Sherlock's horrid "trial by chemicals" insisted upon by countless psychiatrists – at the behest of the younger Holmes' own mother. He winces when he replays these memories. But at least these memories are clear, John thinks.
This cannot be easy for Sherlock to relive.
But the familiarity of the conversation is helping him mentally work through his own insecurities. And for that, he is extremely grateful to his partner.
"And the second time? When Lestrade –"
"Lestrade found me the second time. If he'd showed up five minutes later, in all probability, we would not be having this discussion."
At the matter of fact statement, so coolly uttered, John's entire body shudders against Sherlock's long frame. His thoughts take a different turn and he considers, briefly, a life in which he never meets Sherlock Holmes. He frowns and pulls his mind back from the brink of the unthinkable.
"Cocaine," John thinks.
"Cocaine," Sherlock agrees quietly, voicing aloud John's thought.
The detective says nothing else. His clever lips nuzzle their way around John's neck. The doctor bends his head into the pillow to give him better access.
Neither man speaks for a few minutes. Finally, John takes a steadying breath. Sherlock waits.
"Sherlock – I brought up going cold to Dennison, during our session yesterday."
"And?" Sherlock's hand stiffens, slightly, on John's chest. But he says nothing.
"Galen spoke with Dr. Merit at St. Anne's and they both said, given the intense cardio response, that it would not be —" he stops. Jesus, but this is just so bloody hard. John sighs and shuts his eyes more tightly. The headache is nearly gone. But he can feel tiny tremors under his skin. And his left hand –
"Not good?" Sherlock asks. He sounds strangely relieved.
"Not good," John agrees.
The detective's hand continues to stroke over John's chest. Sherlock bends his left arm to form a protective cocoon around John's head and bad shoulder. His long beautiful fingers find their way into John's hair. They begin to stroke and lift the strands of silk, let them fall, then stroke through them again. He comforts John Watson the way a parent comforts a sick child.
John's breathing slows. He feels himself start to drift. He could sleep, now, here in the cool darkness, the blessed silence of their room. Sleep with Sherlock, except - a slow fire begins to grow in his mind. He frowns.
"What did you decide?" Sherlock's voice is calm. Is John shuddering? Is he cold?
Or is this the beginning of an attack?
"John?"
John sighs. Sherlock's tone is quietly patient. He has not taken charge or tried to advise John on what to do. But he has not divorced himself from the situation either. John feels the frown lines between his eyes begin to relax.
But the small tremors increase.
"Galen's urging me to continue with his medication – a derivative of – it's a form of -" John's voice halts as it betrays his growing inner confusion.
He cannot believe, cannot fucking believe, that he is lying here, having this conversation with Sherlock. And for once, it's not about Sherlock. It's about him. John Hamish Watson, M.D. – at least, that is how he still thinks of himself. He is a doctor, damn it, no matter what that sodding letter says.
He can get through this explanation. He owes this to his partner.
John takes a steadying breath to try again. But Sherlock is there before him.
"Methadone?" he murmurs.
John nods, relieved. He leans into the clever fingers that continue to stroke through his hair. At the same time, Sherlock's right hand rubs softly over John's chest, stops to finger the strands of his soft chest hair, then his fingers splay out and rub gently over the muscles again.
Insanity, John thinks. I've slipped into the fucking Twilight Zone. And taken Sherlock right along with me.
Some part of John feels the only appropriate reaction to this nightmare is to get out of bed, throw open the sodding door - and run. Run until he breaks. Run until his heart gives out. Or until he gives up. All three.
But there is some part of him - the part that he hopes wins - that just wants to curl up under this man's outstretched arm and never, ever leave this bed or this room.
The part of him that wants to stay like this forever. Forever with Sherlock.
John H. Watson, M.D. and addict. He shakes his head slightly. He hates the path his thoughts have taken.
Stop it. Just stop this right now. I'll be a doctor again. Once we get through this, I can always re—
"You can always revalidate," Sherlock murmurs, again displays the uncanny way he has of answering John's thoughts before John has a chance to verbalize them. In the darkening room, John smiles. Then he begins to think over the challenges, the difficulties ahead.
A half dozen arguments rise in John's mind, but he voices none of them.
"Yes," he says quietly. "I can always revalidate."
Sherlock nods slightly against John's head. "And you will, John."
He stops stroking through the blonde strands and lays his left hand against John's forehead, begins to rub tiny circles there, to ease the headache that has tightened John's forehead.
Under his right hand, he can feel his Army doctor's heart beat under his fingertips. He shuts his eyes and lets the beat fill his mind.
At the same time, he can feel micro tremors as they begin to work their way through John's body.
"John?"
"Sherlock – I think I'm about to—"
The detective launches himself out of their bed, grabs his mobile off the table as he does so. He's thumbing Dennison's number before John can even react.
"Sherlock! Stop. Don't bother calling Galen – "
He looks up from his mobile to stare at John, whose eyes are wide open. He can see them in the soft light from their window.
"John! You'll need an injection."
John frowns as the tremors increase. He moves his legs under the blankets.
"And are you 100% certain – absolutely certain – that those injections are safe? Are you?"
He moves the blanket off his shaking form and tries to sit up. He'll be damned if he pours sweat into the clean sheets. Bloody hell, he needs to sit up!
I have to get out. Out of this fucking bed and this fucking room and away from this –
Startled at John's outburst, Sherlock drops the mobile and grabs John Watson by his shoulders. The tremors are more violent now; they shake the doctor's entire body.
John swears, then doubles up, wraps both arms around his midsection. He tries to stop the groans. Jesus, how much longer –
Sherlock pushes him back down on the mattress and grabs both wrists. "John. John!"
"Sherlock – I can't – just forget anything I say. Don't pay any – Oh dear fucking God!"
Sherlock's eyes narrow at the doctor's shaking form. He removes his right hand from John's wrist and reaches to click on the bedside lamp, then grabs the doctor's hand again as he tries – and fails – to take a swing at the detective.
"John, not certain this is a really good idea."
But bloody hell, John's right. He isn't 100% certain about Dennison's injections. Oh, sodding hell!
In the sudden light, John blinks. He struggles furiously against Sherlock's restraining hands. Finally, he goes limp and his dark eyes stare murder up at Sherlock Holmes.
"You fucking bastard! I know you've got it here. Known all along. I know you can get me some help! What good – what sodding good are you!"
"No, John. Just – No!" Sherlock holds on grimly. And shuts his mind.
They ride out the attack.
###
Three hours later, Mycroft Holmes and Lori Hansen arrive at the mansion.
One of Mycroft's men meets the car, and at Mycroft's request, escorts Lori to her room, off the same hallway as Maggie Oakton's room. The agent asks if she is hungry and offers to show her around the mansion, to show her to and from the kitchen. Lori shakes her head. She ate earlier before she left the house, and frankly, she's too excited to think about food. They both decide that introductions can wait until morning.
Lori immediately asks about Doctor Watson and is assured that he is being looked after that night. She's escorted to her room. She tries – and fails – to memorize the number of hallways, stairs, steps to her room.
"Oh my," she thinks. And "Sweet Mary Mother of God," when she opens the door to what will be her room.
Lori sets out the items she has brought with her, then stares around the room in wonder. First, she calls Joe to assure him she is all right. She hangs up her phone, places it on the bedside table and then just sits there.
Eventually she gets over it and begins to think about the trip she has just made with Mr. Holmes. A very quiet Mr. Holmes, who didn't say more than twenty words to her the entire trip. An extremely subdued Mr. Holmes who asked if she was comfortable and warm enough and then basically left her to her own thoughts while they drove through the evening.
She shakes her head, goes through her suitcase to find her night clothes. But once she's changed, she can't sleep. Finally, she props herself up with pillows in the huge bed and just watches the evening light through the window. She's not exactly certain what she expected from the trip out here. Perhaps some quiet conversation about Doctor Watson. Perhaps a word or two about what happened to them in the Wellington. But – nothing.
Lori sighs, sets her mobile alarm to wake her early and tries to settle down. Sometime during the night she wakes up suddenly, stares at the ceiling, and realizes she is going to miss Sally Donovan's funeral.
Lori turns over in bed and starts to cry.
###
Mycroft sees that the tiny nurse is escorted to her room and then immediately asks for his brother. And to see Maggie Oakton.
Sherlock meets Mycroft in the library. The detective stands in front of one of the tall windows and stares out at the night sky. For once, he is not the one pacing.
Mycroft makes a turn of the room, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, then turns to face his brother.
"After the – revelation – concerning the hypodermics, do you still feel that Doctor Oakton had anything to do with it?"
He watches his brother's tall form as he turns to face him. Sherlock's expression is totally unreadable. And that irritates the bloody hell out of Mycroft.
Both brothers stare each other down.
"I cannot trust her around John unless I know for certain, Mycroft. And she is the one who had the syringes in her possession."
"Which came from St. Anne's, Sherlock."
Sherlock nods. "So she says." He crosses to sit in the chair that John favors, the one set a little back from the window. Mycroft sits in the facing chair and observes his brother.
Sherlock leans forward, his arms on his knees and stares at his clasped hands.
"Mycroft, Oakton is the one who showed up, out of the blue, to help us. Oakton is the one who was given the box of hypodermics at St. Anne's. Oakton is the one who injected John on multiple occasions."
He raises his head to stare straight into Mycroft's steely gaze.
"And Oakton is the one who injected John here in this library, when she was not even supposed to have a hypo in her possession. And she used the batch of medication that I had asked Dennison to stop using, just the night before."
Mycroft steeples his hands under his chin in an unconscious imitation of Sherlock's default thinking position. He shuts his eyes briefly, nods once, then opens them to pin the younger Holmes with his gaze.
"All right. Given the same set of circumstances, I would undoubtedly come to the same conclusion as you, Sherlock. It can all be circumstantial – or not."
Sherlock just stares back at his brother.
Mycroft taps his fingers against the arm rest, then nods again. He looks across at his brother. "How is John now?"
"He had an attack earlier this evening. We – rode it out. No injection. He seems to be all right now. They're - exhausting."
Mycroft raises one eyebrow. But Sherlock just shakes his head.
'Neither one of us could be certain about Dennison's injections either. I think they're all right. John seemed to feel a lot better after the first two Dennison gave him. But we need to know for certain."
"And is John –"
"John's sleeping. Thomas Fields is sitting with him." Sherlock glances at his watch. "I need to get back to him, see if I can get him to eat something. And Doctor Fields needs to get some rest."
"It's not that late, brother. And I do have some questions," Mycroft says. His mind is full of the evening's events. Not the least of which is his meeting with a traitor at the Diogenes Club. He frowns, momentarily deep in thought. Then he glances up at Sherlock.
"First things, first. The fax you received had a number printed at the top. That number came from an office supply store – in Lucerne."
Sherlock nods. It is what he has expected.
"If Maggie – if Oakton tells the truth, and those hypos were given to her by someone at St. Anne's, you need to ask Lestrade to put someone on it right now. Probably too late, but there might be traces."
"Lestrade. Why not one of your men?" Sherlock demands.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Do you think I have an unlimited supply of agents? That we have nothing else to do with our time? Let Lestrade's people earn their salary. But I'm willing to bet –"
Sherlock interrupts before Mycroft can finish his sentence. "That the needles came from a pharmaceutical house in Switzerland – Lucerne to be exact."
"Exactly."
Both brothers sit for a moment, then Sherlock frowns. "That begs the question: how were they singled out and used just on John? Why weren't they put into general use?"
Mycroft shakes his head. "Easily done. But Lestrade can figure that one out."
Sherlock looks at him closely. "Mycroft, if he's there, as we think, why haven't your people run him to ground yet?"
Mycroft sighs. "Because, brother mine, the reports that Merit has been receiving – and passing on to Oakton and by default, I assume, to you, come from a legitimate source and so far, there are no signs that—"
"Your people are incompetent," Sherlock snaps. "If they can't handle even a simple investigation—"
"Sherlock, I'll thank you not to pursue this line of thought. We've already requested that two bodies of Frank's "victims" be disinterred. I can tell you right now, that has not gone over well with the families. The third is no problem. There is no family. And now the fourth –"
"Fourth." The younger Holmes' eyes narrow at the news. He steeples his fingers and thinks. "That leaves three more. And John."
Mycroft nods. "As you say. And my people have not been idle. There has, apparently, been a change of management over the pharmaceutical house located in Lucerne, but there are five other of Franks' – let us say, "enterprises" for want of a better term – scattered throughout the continent. These have to be investigated, as well."
Sherlock shakes his head. "You're wasting your time with those. The fax came from an office supply in Lucerne, a simple phone call will probably tell us where the hypos came from. The reports are being issued from the house in Lucerne." He drops his hands and regards his brother steadily.
"Sodding hell, Mycroft, do I have to tell you how to do your job?"
Mycroft stares at Sherlock, takes a deep breath to get himself under control.
He stands up. Sherlock immediately stands and not for the first time, curses that extra half-inch that Mycroft has over him.
"Sherlock, I would remind you that I have lost agents – good people – in the course of this cursed investigation, for want of a better term. Don't push."
He glares at the younger Holmes. "I think it's time I questioned Maggie Oakton."
Sherlock stares into his brothers' eyes. He itches to ask about Mycroft's investigation into the destruction of their flat. He wants to bring up the envelope that somehow made its way to the mansion, with no postmark. He stares into his brother's eyes – and says none of these things. Instead, he nods curtly at the library doors. Mycroft follows him out into the hallway.
###
"You have got to be kidding," Maggie Oakton exclaims. She sits at the desk in her room – and stares at Mycroft Holmes, who stands in front of her, his hands in his pockets.
"You can't just—Mycroft, it's me! It's Maggie. Old acquaintances, remember? Jesus!" she exclaims.
She stands up, agitated, and stares out of the window at the night sky. Another beautiful evening. She can even see a star or two. She shakes her head and is aware her heart beats far too rapidly in her chest.
"Apologies, Maggie, but here is what has to happen," Mycroft states in his quiet voice. He watches the American psychologist as she tries to come to grips with what he has just told her. Finally, he sighs, pulls over the extra chair and sits. He crosses one elegant trouser leg over the other, smooths out a crease, and crosses his hands.
Maggie stares out the window at the dark grounds, then sighs and turns to look at the man she thought she knew. Finally, she pulls out the chair to the writing desk and sits down, unconsciously mimicking his gesture. She's suddenly very, very tired. And not a little scared. And yes, she has to admit, intrigued as well.
She taps her fingernail on the writing desk and finally nods at Mycroft.
"Okay, Mycroft, please go over it one more time."
Mycroft sighs. "Maggie, you have been implicated in a rather serious crime, by your actions—" he holds up one manicured hand as she opens her mouth to protest.
"Hear me out, please." She shuts her mouth, and nods.
He smiles grimly. "Your actions, innocent or not, have brought about a series of attacks upon Doctor John Watson's health. They may have seriously compromised his health, not only his current state of well-being but his future one, as well."
Mycroft frowns and stares at the carpet for a moment. Then he looks up at the psychologist.
"So we can do this one of two ways. I can take you with me when I leave in the morning, turn you over to the authorities, make my charges – and believe me, Maggie, when I assure you they will stick – at least temporarily, until proven otherwise. You can fight this legally and I have no doubt, given the circumstantial nature of the evidence, that you will win your case."
Mycroft lifts his head to stare at the psychologist directly. "But the damage will have been done. No matter what the outcome, and I am nearly 100% certain it will go in your favor, you will still have been branded, let us say. Your reputation will be tarnished. All your hard work will be –"
"Flushed down the toilet," the American says quietly. Her voice is quiet. But there's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. All her years – all of it – wasted. And for what? Because she was trying to help a good man.
Mycroft reads her thoughts as they flash across her face as clearly as he reads his morning newspaper. He sighs again.
Maggie Oakton thinks for a moment, then looks him right in the eye "And now tell me the second way again? My mind blanked out when you said interrogation."
"Apologies," Mycroft says. He regards her curiously. "We use an effective method in my organization to root out the truth, when need be. I have undergone this treatment once myself, as has my personal assistant – at her own behest. Yes, it is chemical in nature –"
Maggie flinches at this news but she just nods for him to continue.
"However, we have never lost a single subject and no one has ever suffered any type of let us say damage from it, emotional, mental or physical. It is patently innocuous. The side effects can be a bit unpleasant. But nothing that a good night's sleep doesn't cure."
He stares at her, his hands clasped in his lap.
Maggie considers her options. She stares at the floor for a moment, then raises her head to look at Mycroft. "And if I choose this second option? This 'process,' as you call it and pass, which I will, of course. What then?"
Mycroft smiles. "Then I can assure you, Doctor Oakton, that not only will your reputation remain intact, but doors will open to you that you would never have been able to walk through in your lifetime otherwise. "
He tilts his head and stares into her brilliant green eyes. "I can also assure you the offer of let us say long-term employment within my organization. And believe me, when I say, Maggie, that life will never be dull."
He stops speaking and lets her think things over.
Maggie frowns. "And if I refuse this 'process' –"
Mycroft sighs. "I assure you, Doctor Oakton, if you refuse to undergo this procedure – and there is no way on this earth that I can or would force you to undertake it – then you and I both will get a good nights' sleep; hopefully, partake of a decent breakfast in the morning and depart together. Once we reach London, however, I am afraid—"
"Yes, yes, you've told me that," Maggie says quietly.
She drums her fingers on the table, then is startled – they both are – by urgent pounding on her door. It opens – and Galen Dennison rushes into the room, followed closely by Agent Williams. The little psychiatrist stops in his tracks when he sees Mycroft Holmes, a man he has never met, then he turns to see Maggie where she sits by the desk.
"Sir, I'm sorry. He was adamant and through the door before I could—"
Mycroft just waives Williams aside. The agent nods once, then goes out and shuts the door behind him.
Dennison ignores him and crosses the room to stand by Maggie Oakton and puts an arm around her shoulder.
"Maggie – I don't know exactly what the bloody hell is going on here," he stares back at Mycroft Holmes, "But I know Sherlock – Mr. Holmes - said his brother was questioning you in your room and I came to—"
"To protect me," Maggie says quietly. She smiles softly and places her left hand over Galen's hand where it rests on her shoulders. She looks up at Mycroft, who has been watching these proceedings with something akin to amusement.
"Mycroft Holmes, this is Doctor Galen Dennison," she says quietly.
"Charmed," Mycroft says. He sits still and watches the pair of them. And raises one eyebrow.
"Wish I could say the same," Galen says. "But I don't much like your methods, Mr. Holmes."
"Galen, please." Maggie defers. She looks straight across at Mycroft. And nods once.
"Mycroft, I accept your second proposition. I'll undergo this process, as you call it. Where do we go? Here or—"
Mycroft smiles. "I would recommend the library. The seats in there are most comfortable and it will be warm enough, once we start a fire in the—"
"Mags, what in bloody hell are you going on about?" Dennison stares down at the dark-haired psychologist. "What process?"
###
Sherlock enters their room as quietly as possible but there is no need. John Watson sits in one of the chairs, talking quietly with Doctor Thomas Fields. The two men look up at him when he comes in. And John smiles at him.
Sherlock smiles back. He glances toward the elderly physician.
"Thomas, I thought you and John might want to come to the kitchen with me. I'm not much of a cook, John can tell you that, but my partner assures me I make a tolerable grilled cheese sandwich."
John shakes his head and groans. "What, now? No. Thomas, just say no. The last time he cooked, he set the kitchen on fire."
John stands up. Sherlock notes he is steady on his feet and his eyes are clear.
"John, that was for an experiment," Sherlock protests. He is patently delighted the doctor is awake, aware and hungry. He glances at Thomas Fields.
"Well, Thomas? Feel like taking your life in your hands?"
Fields just laughs. He stands up slowly, removes his glasses and puts them back in his shirt pocket. Then he crosses to the door. Sherlock moves aside so the elderly man can go first.
"Lead on, McDuff," Fields says.
John shakes his head and follows them out. "I'll do the sodding cooking," he says quietly. "You are not going to poison your family doctor."
###
"Bloody hell!" protests Galen Dennison. "Maggie, there is no way on earth I will allow you to be – to be railroaded into this so called 'process'. "
He stares from Mycroft Holmes quiet figure to Maggie Oakton's determined face.
"Maggie, this is – we're talking putting chemicals in your body that you know nothing about. Good God woman, are you daft?"
Maggie shakes her head, more determined than ever to follow Mycroft to the library.
"Galen, you can go with us, and act as my – protector – if you will. Or you can remain here and wait for me to come back."
She looks up at Mycroft. "That's right, isn't it? He can go be with me if I wish?"
Mycroft hesitates only for a moment. Then he relents. "If that is your wish, Maggie, I have no objections." He stares at Dennison.
Dennison looks from Oakton to Mycroft and shakes his head. "Madness. Sheer madness."
Maggie stands. "I'm ready, Mycroft." She walks quietly to the door and goes out. Galen Dennison follows her, shaking his head all the while.
"Madness," he whispers. But he follows them both the down hallway, followed closely by Agent Williams.
###
"Doctor Oakton – Maggie? Wake up." Mycroft's voice rings out in the quiet atmosphere of the library. The fire snaps and pops and has warmed the room considerably.
Galen sits in a chair close by Maggie's side and puts one hand on her arm as she sighs, and opens her eyes. She lifts her head, glances toward Mycroft Holmes, who sits in the chair opposite her, glances around the room, then looks up at Galen's concerned face.
"How'd I do?" she says quietly.
Mycroft smiles. "Splendidly. " He nods at Agent Williams, who comes quietly forward to hand Maggie two white tablets and a glass of water. Then he bends over and places a glass filled with a dark liquid and ice cubes on the table next to her side.
She looks at the tablets in her hand. Mycroft nods and she swallows them. She looks at the glass next to her and raises one eyebrow.
"Iced Diet Coke," Williams says softly. "Believe me, it helps."
He smiles into the psychologists' eyes and stands back. She stares at him, thinking what a change in his attitude from just – has it only been 30 minutes? She glances at her watch.
"Good grief," Maggie Oakton says. She picks up the glass and drinks the Diet Coke.
Mycroft Holmes just smiles at her, rather fondly she thinks.
Galen looks from her to Mycroft. Comes to a decision.
"Now me," he says quietly.
Mycroft just raises one eyebrow. "Doctor Dennison, your actions are not under scrutiny in this particular circumstance."
Maggie just shakes her head. "Galen – your heart," she says quietly.
He looks at her and patently does not remove his hand from hers. "Mags, I might have handled those hypos, as well, and Sherlock – Mr. Holmes will never be quite certain about me if I don't undergo this – process."
He looks up at Mycroft. "Me next, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft considers the psychiatrist and sighs. "Doctor Dennison, Doctor Oakton just indicated you have a heart condition of some sort. I do not recommend this in your instance. And besides, I do not believe this situation warrants it."
He stands, stretches and smiles at both of them. "Let's see what the kitchen has to offer, shall we?"
Maggie laughs tiredly. "Okay, Mycroft. I am hungry. But I'm afraid we do our own cooking here."
"Good God, why?" Mycroft demands. He makes a note to ask Anthea to get a decent cook on staff immediately. Then he bends over, picks up the small digital tape recorder off the table, drops it in his pocket and says, "After you both, please." They precede him out of the library.
He just nods at Williams as they pass him. The agent nods back. He takes out his mobile and sends a text to the other agents currently on duty in the mansion.
Doctor Maggie Oakton has been cleared.
He hits Send. And follows them out to the kitchen.
###
Mycroft leaves in the early morning. But not before he receives a phone call from Anthea to give him the results of the analysis on John Watson's blood samples – and of the hypodermics.
The hypodermics that have been traced to St. Anne's and from there, to a pharmaceutical house in Lucerne, Switzerland.
The hypodermics that are coated on the inside with a crystalline form of Dr. Marcus Franks' drug .
And of a hallucinogen. Psilocybin, to be exact.
And every single one of John's blood samples reinforces the fact that Franks' drug is alive and well in his bloodstream.
Mycroft receives the grim news. And goes in search of his brother.
He leaves the mansion twenty minutes later.
Three hours, 31 minutes and an odd number of seconds later – Sherlock finally snaps.
###
Sherlock snaps.
But his brother's visit – and departure - has nothing whatsoever to do with it.
One hour and 14 minutes after Mycroft leaves, Sherlock meets with Doctors Dennison, Oakton and Fields in the library. He leaves John in Lori Hansen's care, so he can talk with the three professionals. They fill him in as to John Watson's probable current and future physical, mental and emotional states - since all lab results now confirm that the good doctor has been injected – and repeatedly re-exposed to Marcus Franks' filthy drug - the drug that, in base form, has been used in microscopic crystalline doses to coat the interior of the hypodermics.
This is in addition to trace amounts of psilocybin … manufactured with hallucinogenic mushroom traces (which most probably accounts for John's sudden breathing problem and definitely account for his wandering mental state for the past 18 hours.)
Amateur hour all the way around.
But it did the job. And that's all James Moriarty wanted – and paid for. Just another twist of the knife. Payback for Sebastian Moran. And for the loss of his enterprises and investment in the Wellington Museum.
Sherlock stands, fists clenched in the pockets of his trousers and listens while each individual talks – first the Psychiatrist; then the Psychological counselor, finally, his family physician, Dr. Thomas Fields.
He stands and listens as Dennison goes over the results of the lab tests on the hypodermics and on John's blood samples. The blood sample results match almost exactly with Sherlock's own lab results on John's blood. He just nods.
Galen also stresses that the effects of psilocybin should be temporary, are not usually long-reaching, and John will shortly excrete most of the substance. However, the long-term damage from Franks 'drug remains. Both Galen and Maggie have been making a list of how many injections John has probably received using the tainted hypodermics. But they have not come up with a definite answer yet. They believe the number to be over 12 and not more than 15. Sherlock nods.
Sherlock stands and listens, as Doctor Maggie Oakton and Doctor Galen Dennison tell him what to – possibly - expect in John's emotional and mental behavior. And what they have already observed. This matches what Sherlock has observed. He nods.
They both have copies of the latest reports from Franks' clinic in Switzerland – reports which now show that four "test subjects" have died from the long-term effects. And that the last two experienced increased mental confusion and emotional turmoil. Sherlock declines to read them. The two doctors look at each other. Then place the reports back in their folders.
He respectively faces Dr. Fields and listens as the good doctor firmly, yet kindly, tells Sherlock what physical responses he can expect from John. And what the probable outcome may be. May be, Dr. Fields stresses, unless someone working away on the problem somewhere can find something – anything - to reverse the damage already done. Or unless one of them thinks of something that they haven't thought of at this point in time.
When he is done speaking, Thomas Fields removes his glasses, folds them carefully, places them in his shirt pocket, and regards the younger Holmes with compassion.
No one speaks. They all wait for Sherlock to respond. In his trouser pocket, Sherlock's text chime sounds. He fishes it out, glances at the screen. And his back stiffens. He drops the phone back into his pocket. He turns back to stare out the window. His tumbled curls glow a dark auburn in the morning light.
After a full minute of silence during which no one says a single word, Sherlock Holmes turns to look at all three doctors. His eyes blaze in his face, a near crystalline blue frost. Maggie Oakton is extremely tired and her head still buzzes. More than anything in the world, she just wants to go to her room and sleep. But when she sees the detective's eyes, she swallows. And looks away.
Sherlock regards all three medical professionals with a cold stare. He nods, says "I see." And "Thank you."
He then moves to stand in front of Maggie Oakton – and asks for one of her nearly spent asthma inhalers, if she can spare it. Startled, Maggie fishes one out of her purse. She hands it to the detective, who nods curtly. And leaves the library.
He makes a quick trip to his laboratory. He does not go to check on John in their room.
He leaves no note for anyone, not even John. He does not answer his mobile.
Sherlock snaps.
And leaves.
###
Agent Enders sends a hurried text to Mycroft when Dennison comes out of the library and comes to find him. Enders then rushes to the garage – where he is just in time to watch as Sherlock commandeers one of the vehicles - and drives away. Destination unknown.
Enders stands and stares after the SUV as it roars down the long drive. He loses sight of the taillights long before it comes to the end of the long drive. He thinks it might turn left. Left toward the main road. Left toward London. But he's not certain.
As Mycroft reads Enders' text, he thinks, "I should have expected this. My brother's behaviour for the past two months has been altruistic, to say the least. He's taken near total charge of John's care since his kidnapping. There have been no cases to occupy his facile mind."
As Mycroft picks up his phone and dials D.I. Lestrade, he thinks again, "I should have expected this." He hopes that his men will be able to pick up Sherlock's trail and wonders where his brother has driven off to. The phone rings and D.I. Lestrade answers.
As Lestrade hangs up from speaking with Mycroft, he thinks, "Bloody hell. I am about to bury an officer and a close friend. I do not need Mycroft Bloody Holmes asking me to babysit his near insane younger brother." Then his thoughts break off and he stares out the window of his office. She would have been in by now. Both of them would have sat here, in his office, drinking their morning tea and going over cases.
Greg shakes his head. He will have to put someone on this. The Yard will benefit, of course, they always do when Sherlock gets involved. But bloody hell. He sighs, calls in Officer Cates and asks him to go through the cold case files, to kindly pull every one he can, box them up and have them ready for the courier that Mycroft Holmes has dispatched.
Greg does not want to speak with Mycroft again. So he picks up his mobile, sends a quick text to Mycroft, one of the few times he has ever done so; in fact, he thinks it may be the only time he has ever texted the elder Holmes. He hits Send. And forgets about it.
Agents Lynn and Williams both read their texts from Enders – and immediately split up. Jake Lynn goes to the room to escort Doctor Watson to his session with Dennison in the library. Williams goes in search of Enders and Sherlock.
Outside the mansion, Enders stands and stares after the rapidly disappearing vehicle Sherlock Holmes drives. He turns to meet Williams. And fills him in. Neither one of them are certain what to do at this point. Enders notes the weather is warmer. And Williams goes to his room to catch up on some much needed sleep. At least, until they hear otherwise from the boss. This is, after all, not his shift.
Maggie Oakton leaves the library dispiritedly and sits at the long counter in the kitchen, and nurses a cup of lukewarm tea. She reads her text from Agent Enders. And frowns. She glances down at her notes. Before Mycroft showed up, it was a toss-up as to whether or not she remained in the mansion to be of help to Doctor Watson – or left and proceeded to sue the holy hell out of everyone she can think of and their dog. But now, the world has changed.
She reads through her notes of her one full session with John. And shakes her head. A man's sanity is at stake here. She gathers up her notes and then sends a quick text to Galen to let him know where she'll be. Maggie then tiredly makes her way to her room to sleep.
Galen Dennison checks his text from Maggie and smiles grimly. She definitely needs her rest. He sits in the chair in the library and waits for John to make his session. He wonders if he should go in search of the doctor, if it's possible that Watson has followed Holmes in his mad dash from the mansion. But then the doors open and John comes in, followed silently by Agent Lynn.
Lynn glances around the library, sees Dennison, nods in his direction, then shuts the doors and takes up a position outside in the immediate hallway. He wonders how Enders and Williams are doing in their pursuit of Sherlock.
Williams sends a text to Agent Roaman, just to fill him in, although he is certain Roaman is sound asleep. This is not, after all, Roaman's shift either. Agent Roaman checks his text, then rolls over and goes back to sleep. Presumably the other three have it all in hand. Just in case, he sleeps with one ear open.
Doctor Thomas Fields makes his solitary way to his room, sits on the bed, removes his shoes, and thinks of silencing his phone. He – almost – does not check for messages. He makes it a practice never to send texts. He hates texts. Fields sits in his room and stares at his clasped hands. And shakes his head. In the past, answers have come to him when he just lets his mind relax. So he lets it relax. He imitates the now unconscious Agent Roaman and prepares to lie down and sleep.
Just before he goes to sleep, Doctor Fields, ever the good doctor, dutifully checks his messages. He has received one text, the only text message anyone has sent him in several months. Everyone calls the doctor, rather than texting him. He reads his one text – and raises an eyebrow.
All he can think is, "Oh, Sherlock, my boy, now what have you gone and done?"
TAKE CARE OF HIM
- FOR ME
SH
John Watson comes into the library, accompanied by Jake Lynn, and seats himself opposite Galen Dennison. He has no idea – yet – that Sherlock has left. So although everyone has texted , more or less, well, everyone - no one has texted John. Someone will have to tell him in person, but no one wants to be the one. This is because John does not currently have a mobile phone and cannot send or receive texts from anyone.
John's mobile was lost or misplaced the day John was shot by Sebastian Moran.
And therein lies the rub.
###
Sherlock drives steadily toward his destination. He frankly does not care whether any of his brother's agents follow him or not. As he nears London – and the airport – he glances at his petrol gauge. He pulls over to fill up. Then places a demanding call to his brother.
Their conversation is brief, during which Mycroft rages at his brother, then cautions him, then – finally – provides all the information he needs, mainly because Sherlock adopts an attitude of supreme icy indifference, which leads to the detective ultimately having all of his demands met. Sherlock hangs up on Mycroft, then pulls up the previous message he received in the library and reads it again. A cold unwavering fury fills his head. And heart. He allows the emotion to remain as it helps him focus on the task at hand.
He deliberately parks John Watson in a far corner of his mind and does not think of him again for another five hours. Except once, for seven seconds, during the trip.
Sherlock gets back in the car and tosses his mobile on the seat next to him.
As Sherlock drives toward the nearest airport, his mind goes over and over the message he received in the library.
A message sent from the phone that was nowhere to be found the day that John was taken.
The phone that Sherlock considered to be lost in the lower levels of the Wellington Museum. Lost forever.
The phone that at one time belonged to Doctor John H. Watson.
HOW IS OUR "FORMER" DOCTOR'S MENTAL STATE?
OR SHOULD WE JUST SECTION HIM –
AND BE DONE WITH IT?
JW
###
As Sherlock drives, his mind considers actions and probable outcomes. He comes up with eleven different deadly scenarios in 42 seconds – and dismisses them all as being unimaginative and too humane.
By the time Anthea calls him back to tell him all arrangements have been made, and which runway Sherlock should proceed to, the detective abandons his newest consideration - flailing alive by means of razor thin knives – and begins to seriously contemplate all possible variations of the Biblical term "An Eye for An Eye."
By the time he boards the private jet, his plans are in place. He exchanges a few words with the pilot, nods at the co-pilot, a man he has met once before, and settles in his seat, the only passenger. He stares out the window and fingers Maggie's asthma inhaler in his trouser pocket. He allows himself to think of John Watson for exactly seven seconds. Then he pushes him out of his mind and shuts his eyes. He sleeps for one hour and ten minutes exactly.
###
One hour and 25 minutes later, a private jet lands at Zurich Airport, Switzerland.
A single passenger disembarks.
###