June

Barts Hospital

Notes:

You're seeing a bit of my head canon here. Anthea HAD to have been in on the secret. There's no way that Mycroft could have personally made all of the arrangements that needed to be made without raising questions-but Anthea certainly could. There also would have been no way for Mycroft to have continued to be the support behind the scenes on his own, without attracting deadly attention.

The second part is that I think Anthea knows and likes Sherlock. She's clearly been with Mycroft for some time, which means she almost certainly ended up as Assistant Sherlock Wrangler a time or three. And it's clear from the way they interact in TEH that they know each other, and seem somewhat fond of each other.

Chapter Text

The day his brother "died" was the second-worst day of Mycroft Holmes' life. Not because of the necessity to respond appropriately to the well-meant offerings of condolences, the offers of help, the careful handling he, as the "bereaved", apparently required. The worst part (after the terror of that awful half-hour when he did not know if Sherlock had actually survived his fall) was knowing that, at its heart, every bit of this was his fault, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do to redeem the situation.

It wasn't often that he made miscalculations—he was, after all, known for the very deliberate pace of his decision-making for a reason. In this case, though, the miscalculation was of such a staggering magnitude that it shook the foundations of his inner self-worth. He had been criminally remiss, both in underestimating the malignant abilities of James Moriarty at the outset, and in not rectifying his error, with extreme prejudice, before the madman endangered the life of his baby brother.

He should have listened more closely to Sherlock. That initial fascination should have been the clearest of indications that this attraction that Moriarty had was deadly, and that Sherlock's infatuation with the cleverness of it all would ensure that he continued to engage throughout the ever-escalating scenarios.

He should have followed his instincts (much though he normally descried such reactions) and had the man killed, quickly and quietly.

Now, though, the only action he could take would be to do his utmost to keep his brother alive, healthy and marginally sane throughout the ordeal to come. He doubted, though, that Sherlock realized yet just how much of an ordeal this would be.

He reached St. Bart's roughly 45 minutes after Sherlock's leap. He couldn't leave his office until he had been officially "told" of the tragedy, though he had received both Sherlock's texts and, an excruciating 30 minutes later, another from Molly Hooper, a simple yes, letting him know that Sherlock was in her morgue, alive.

Anthea, the only other person aware of the plot, quickly ran interference, cancelling all of his appointments and ushering his well-meaning co-workers out of the way while he sat in his office "composing" himself. In reality he had phoned his parents on a secure line, to let them know that the plan was in play, and that Sherlock was alive. For his parents, that had been the greatest fear—that something would go wrong with the leap and Sherlock would die in truth.

Anthea drove him to Barts herself; Mycroft didn't know if he could have borne lying to Andrew, his long-time driver who had known Sherlock since his brother was a teenager. He would be able to later, of course, but he was painfully aware that he was not at his best today. Knowing the leap was not fatal helped, but he had no idea of his brother's state of mind. Sherlock was, in some ways, surprisingly fragile.

He left Anthea with the car, parked behind the hospital building near the morgue entrance. He felt a trickle of guilt when he saw the police tape and technicians working around a spot just next to the ambulance entrance, but made no comment.

Pasting a somber expression on his face was not difficult; although he was not grieving in the conventional sense, he nonetheless felt grief for what had happened. His equilibrium was shaken when he reached the last corridor to the morgue and saw Greg Lestrade standing vigil at the doorway. They had never been friends, exactly, but they had shared a common goal for more than 5 years now, and from Greg's point of view they had just failed, in spectacular fashion.

Lestrade was distracted, clearly, and didn't notice Mycroft until he was nearly to him. Then his head shot up, and his brow creased, and his face worked. "Oh, God, Mycroft. I am so fucking sorry," he moaned. His eyes filled and he put his hand over his mouth.

Mycroft was profoundly disconcerted to feel his own eyes prickling, for no reason he could understand. "I…it wasn't your fault," he managed to say. It was, in some small measure, but it would serve nothing to say so. If not Lestrade, Moriarty would have found some other pawn to achieve the same end.

Greg shook his head. "Molly has…I told my folks not to let anyone else by until you came. She's with him," he choked, his voice utterly wrecked. He reached out and tapped on the door, and a subdued Molly Hooper soon opened it. When Lestrade tried to enter with him, though, Mycroft put a restraining hand gently on his arm. "I should like…I need to do this by myself," he said, surprised to hear the hoarseness in his own voice. He had to stop him—Lestrade could not be in on the secret, not in light of what was almost certainly to come for him. Yet another thing Mycroft added to his list of things to feel guilty for. For someone who lived a life filled with expediency and pragmatism it was a rare and unpleasant experience. Guilt, an unaccustomed burden, tasted greasy and vile.

Greg, thankfully, just nodded his head and moved back without argument.

Molly Hooper moved silently away so he could enter, then relocked the doors behind him. She had been crying, it was clear; she was not one of those women who could do so prettily, and her face reflected the strain of the past day. Mycroft looked around the room for his brother, and saw nothing. He turned and looked inquiringly at the pathologist.

"Oh," she said. "He's not…I put him back in the storage room. I have the only key. He wasn't…" she looked at him earnestly, her brows knit. "He's not doing very well," she said, on a hitched breath.

Mycroft couldn't subdue a frisson of alarm. "He was hurt?" he said carefully.

She shook her head uncertainly. "I don't think so, but he wouldn't let me check. But he's, he was, he was very upset," she stammered. "I thought…there's a mattress in the storage room that I use sometimes when I'm running tests very late. After a bit I got him to lie down on it. He was very shocky." She wrung her hands and rocked from one foot to the other in agitation. "Maybe you can get him to let me check him over?"

Mycroft gave her a magisterial smile. "Thank you, most sincerely, for your help, Miss Hooper. Can you take me to him?" he asked, as if inquiring about a scheduling change of some sort.

The distant tone worked. Molly gave herself a little shake and gestured for him to follow, then strode off through the rear doors to a dimly-lit corridor. At the end was an unmarked door; she took out the key and handed it to him. "I'll be out front," she said simply, and walked away.

The room, when Mycroft opened the door, was quite dim, lit only by a small lamp on the wall. He saw a lump against the far side sitting on the mattress and addressed himself to it. "Sherlock?" he said, in a careful, quiet tone. The lump rustled and shifted position a bit. Mycroft smelled blood, fairly strongly, and a slight undertone of vomit.

As his eyes adjusted, Mycroft could see his disheveled brother clearly, sitting with his back against the wall and his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. "Are you all right?" he said hesitantly.

The answer was a bitter laugh. "What do you think?" Sherlock said roughly. There was a pause, then he continued in a more-subdued tone. "How is John? And the others?"

Mycroft moved forward and crouched in front of his brother. He could see, now, how far from "all right" he was. He had wept at some point, his fair skin blotchy and pink. But his face was obscenely obscured by the dried blood that trailed from his hairline and across his cheeks and chin. His pupils were dilated, both by the dim light and from the high-strength muscle relaxant still present in his system.

"John is under care upstairs," Mycroft said quietly. "He has a mild concussion, so they will keep him overnight. I have already set up surveillance for when he is released, as well as for your other friends. Inspector Lestrade is out in the hallway; he is distraught but physically well. His sniper is dead, as is the man targeting Mrs. Hudson." He paused momentarily, unsure if he should impart the next bit of news while his brother was still so obviously impaired.

To give himself a bit of time to consider the matter, he rose and walked to the small sink at the back of the storeroom, wetting a towel in warm water before returning. "Here," he said, holding out the damp towel. "Wipe your face." There was no sound or movement from his brother, still wrapped tightly in his coat despite the warmth of the room. Mycroft sighed, then knelt beside his brother and wiped his face, scrubbing at his hairline a bit before putting the now-stained towel aside.

He continued to debate with himself, while Sherlock blinked slowly and breathed. Sherlock looked up, though, and finally spoke. "There's something else. What is it?" he said, his speech slightly slurred.

Mycroft sighed again. There were times when his brother's powers of observation were not an advantage.

"The third sniper, the one assigned to John, is on the run. He killed the agent tracking him and escaped. It is critical that we find him—it was Moran." He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. His brother moved slightly, made an abortive attempt to get his legs under him, and subsided. Head down, he cleared his throat and said, very, very quietly, "I need help to get up. I am apparently having a reaction to the muscle relaxant."

Yes, Mycroft thought to himself. And one or two other things as well. Aloud, though, he said none of that. He rocked back on his heels and stood gracefully, holding out his hands to his brother. When that brought no reaction, he leaned forward and put his hand under Sherlock's right elbow and lifted firmly. His brother stood momentarily, before his eyes fluttered, his knees went, and his entire weight suddenly fell into Mycroft's arms. It wasn't until that point that Mycroft saw the large bloodstain on the mattress, underneath where Sherlock's left arm had previously been.

The next few minutes were somewhat fraught. Mycroft, after carefully lowering his brother back down on the blood-stained mattress, hurried back to the front to enlist the help of Molly Hooper, who looked aghast at the size of the stain but snapped into action nonetheless. Between them, they cut Sherlock's coat and shirt sleeves off to expose the left arm (Mycroft flinched when he saw how sodden with blood the left coat sleeve was, the dark fabric having been an effective camouflage, and again when the scissors cut away fabric and exposed the small slice of bone protruding through the skin of Sherlock's forearm).

Molly gaped at the bone as well. "That's…very bad," she said faintly. "That's going to require surgery, and that can't happen here, can it?" she asked. At Mycroft's quiet "No" she carefully handed Sherlock's limp arm to his brother to support and stood, then rummaged on the storeroom shelves for supplies. She came back and had Mycroft hold the arm in place while she poured a liquid antiseptic over the wound, wrapped and padded it liberally with gauze, followed by a hard plastic brace, and then wrapped the entire arm closely to Sherlock's chest for additional support.

Once Sherlock was laid back down, Molly and Mycroft considered their options. The original plan had called for Sherlock to be secreted in the outgoing laundry, while a coffin with the look-alike corpse made its way to the funeral home in a temporary casket. Their parents had already left to go into seclusion in France with Uncle Rudy, so the funeral was to be held in London rather than Surrey.

This most-recent calamity, however, called for a complete reworking. Mycroft called Anthea inside and explained the situation, while Molly bundled up the stained clothing and leftover bandage material into a medical waste bag for disposal.

In the end, as always, the solution presented itself once Mycroft had the opportunity to consider the matter closely. The lookalike body went into the laundry, but the "laundry truck" belonged to the security services, and was re-routed to follow the vehicle with the casket. Sherlock was heavily sedated and loaded into the casket (with air holes strategically arranged, out of view but functional), and the route was revised to take the "remains" to Surrey after all. Ten miles out of town in a secluded lay-by, Sherlock was removed from the casket (which then continued on, with the lookalike inside, to Surrey) and placed on the rear seat of Anthea's car. A "medical emergency" was then declared that led to the arrival of a medical response crew. That crew picked up Sherlock, now "Agent Scott", and drove him to a landing pad from which a helicopter flew him to the MI6 medical facility near Sevenoaks. Mycroft couldn't follow, of course—he had to remain in London to deal with funeral planning. Mycroft did not see his brother again for almost two weeks.

Sherlock hated waking up in hospitals. They all smelled the same. They all had the same nausea-inducing lighting; they all had too many machines ticking, beeping, chirping without ceasing. In this case it was also disorienting, since he simply could not remember how he got here. He had waited, eyes closed, for nearly five minutes trying to make some sort of connection in his memory. The last thing he remembered was speaking with Mycroft in the storeroom at Bart's. Granted, in his memory that conversation had a hallucinatory quality to it—apparently he had a very low tolerance for muscle relaxants. But he didn't remember any kind of injury; some pain, certainly, but nothing out of keeping with the magnitude of his fall into the bag. The stuntman had told him that strained muscles and ligaments were inevitable, after all.

He finally opened his eyes; memory was a dead end, so external information was required. Unfortunately, that proved just as useless. A hospital room; not Bart's, going by the paint scheme and upscale furniture. Not likely that he was being held captive, either—no criminal would expend this kind of funds on a glorified cell.

He was, however, under some form of video monitoring. Within two minutes of opening his eyes, Anthea (or "not-Anthea", as John liked to call her) opened the door and strode in. "Finally," she said. "You've been asleep for the better part of a day now. Your brother was getting very anxious." She smiled. "I would ask you how you were feeling, but going by your eyes, you're not quite sure yet, are you?" She noticed his convulsive swallowing and hurried to offer him some ice chips from the table next to the cot.

Sherlock sucked a bit, then frowned. He hated feeling slow, but this was like thinking through syrup. "Why am I here?" Another long, slow pause before another thought bubbled up. "Where is here?"

"'Here' is an unnamed medical facility that doesn't officially exist, near Sevenoaks," she said breezily. "You're here because you had surgery yesterday afternoon on your left forearm." She gave him a stern look. "You don't believe in half-measures when it comes to injury, do you?"

Sherlock just blinked at her. "Oh," she said finally. "That will be the anesthesia. Your brother said you don't metabolize it well. You should be feeling more yourself in a few hours." She reached into a bag Sherlock hadn't noticed she was carrying. "In the meantime, I need to catch you up to date. Nothing too complex yet—you'll just forget it. But I can give you the basic structure." She pulled a comfortable chair over and sat next to the cot. "Let's start with this. What do you remember from yesterday?"

Sherlock swam through the sludge in his brain. "The roof. You could hear as it was recorded?" he asked. Anthea nodded. "Then Molly…the morgue. I was in a room, on a mattress. And then Mycroft was there." He strained for anything more and came up empty.

"Well, that gives me a baseline," Anthea said briskly. "To summarize, since you may or may not remember all of this: Moriarty is dead, you and all of your friends are alive. You landed slightly awry and your left arm apparently impacted the pavement. Compound fracture of the ulna with considerable blood loss. The surgery was uncomplicated; you now have a metal plate in your arm, but you'll be fine with a bit of physical therapy. Two of the three snipers are dead; we will speak of the third when you're a little more yourself." She paused a moment. "Your parents are in France; they know you survived, but don't know of your injury. Mycroft thought it best not to tell them."

Sherlock agreed with that, certainly. He did remember the meeting at which he and Mycroft had explained what was coming. It had been years since he'd seen his mother cry; it hadn't gotten any easier to bear.

"John and Mrs. Hudson have gone back to Baker Street. They are under both physical and electronic surveillance, and will be for the foreseeable future. Mrs. Hudson's sister has come to stay for a time." She checked her Blackberry quickly. "Inspector Lestrade has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation." She heard Sherlock's quick intake of breath at that. "You knew that would happen, my dear," she said gently. "We discussed this."

Sherlock did know, yes. But the combination of surgery, general anesthesia and, he now realized, a really delightful level of pain medication had eroded his normal emotional filters to a degree.

Anthea sighed. "There's just no point in having this conversation right now, is there?" Sherlock blinked at her; was that a rhetorical question, or did she expect an answer? It was very difficult to be sure, especially since his eyelids seem to be getting exceptionally heavy. It was distracting.

She leaned over and placed her palms on either side of his face, tilting his head up until he had no choice but to look at her. "You really must remember one thing before you go back to sleep, Sherlock. Your name now is Will Scott, and you must respond only to that name. You are an MI6 agent normally stationed in Budapest. Can you repeat that for me?"

"Will Scott," Sherlock slurred dutifully. "Budapest." And then he lost the battle with his problematic eyelids.

The next time he woke things were very different. Judging by the filtered light coming through the blinds it was now late afternoon. Someone, presumably a nurse, had just deposited a dinner tray next to him; his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the thought, so he immediately abandoned any idea of touching it.

His thought processes were much improved. He still had that pleasant floaty feeling that came only from excellent drugs, but it was no longer piggy-backing on the remnants of the anesthesia. He remembered an earlier conversation with Anthea—he was now Will Scott, from Budapest. And his friends were alive and, if not well, at least safe for the moment. There was clearly something looming that Anthea had intended to share, but his earlier confusion had precluded that.

Speaking of—just at that moment the PA swept back into the room. "Thank God," she sighed. "I was afraid I was going to have to spend another night here." She looked interestedly at his dinner tray, removing the covers to reveal what looked like restaurant-class cuisine. She gave him a critical look. "Would you like some of this?" His not-entirely-fake gag was a good enough answer. She pulled the tray over next to her and got out the silverware, while pushing a cup of juice in his direction with a pointed glance. He picked it up and took a cautious sip, then put the cup aside to see if it stayed down before taking any more. Anthea opened a laptop on the side of Sherlock's cot and began, talking and chewing in a wholly unselfconscious way. They had known each other a long time, after all.

"Do you remember your brother telling you about the third shooter? The one assigned to John?" she asked, while working on a slice of chicken in sauce. Sherlock thought about it a bit; yes, he did remember Mycroft saying something about that. Something, something— "Moran!" he gasped. "It's Moran, and he got away."

Anthea nodded her head while she swallowed, then continued. "Yes, unfortunately. The good news is, we're positive he hasn't left the country. The bad news is, that means John may still be at risk." She saw the look on Sherlock's face and hurriedly continued. "Relax. He's not leaving Baker Street at the moment." She gave him an apologetic look when he flinched. "Sorry. But we have every confidence that we can protect him in the short run—Moran will have gone to ground, waiting to find out what really happened. No one knows yet what became of 'Richard Brook', after all—no autopsy has been posted yet and the press hasn't gotten wind of the body being found since the rooftop scene was strictly an MI5/MI6 purview; we're delaying that release of information as long as we can. Obviously when he doesn't hear from Moriarty within the next few days, Moran will reach his own conclusions about that. But it does give us time to plan, and you time to heal a bit."

And Sherlock would need that time, unfortunately. He looked now at his left arm, and noticed his fingers, swollen like a cluster of sausages peeking out of the bandages and soft splint. He tried moving them experimentally and jerked—even through the haze of morphine it hurt. He sighed.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Anthea said smugly. "Wait until your doctor tells you before trying to move it." She had now moved on to the slice of cake, savoring every bite, evidently. "This is very good. You'll like the food once you get to feeling better."

She pushed the tray back and recovered the plates, then pulled the laptop forward. "Now I'm going to leave this with you. There are a number of files here for you to study—the most important being your cover identity, obviously, which you need to memorize as soon as possible. There's also a complete dossier, up to date through today, on what we know about Moran and his movements since yesterday. That will be out of date by the time you get out of here—" she looked up and caught his eyes—"which will be roughly a week from now, just so you know." Sherlock scowled. "Not my fault," she said airily.

Sherlock sipped moodily at his juice while she slid the laptop up onto his table that extended over the cot. "Um. Sherlock," she started, and he raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "I also left you a special gift, but you mustn't tell Mycroft that I did it. He'll be very cross if he finds out." She opened the laptop and pointed at the screen with her chin while she opened a nondescript icon to one side, marked "photos." And what popped up was an app that would give him access to the voice feed from 221B.

She started bundling up her things while Sherlock stared at the screen. "Voice only, I'm afraid—both live and taped, your choice. The video goes through a second router, and it's too difficult to access this way. You have to promise me to limit the use," she said firmly. "It's monitored on the other end occasionally—I just have a back-door link, so don't be obvious." Sherlock nodded distractedly. She sighed. "I'll be back in two days. We can talk about tactics at that point, and I'm sure I'll have messages from your brother to pass on. I'm on record as your handler, so it's fine to contact me. Use the laptop, but be circumspect about what you say." Sherlock lifted his head and glared at that stupidity. She ignored it. "You already have an email account set up in your cover identity. Once you access the cover story files, they will erase as soon as you close them. Make sure you close the internet connection before you look at them, and don't open it again until you're done." This earned an eye roll. "All RIGHT," she snapped. "I know you know. But I still have to say it. Deal with it." And at that she finished gathering her things, gave him a quick (and unexpected) peck on the check, and swept out.

The next 36 hours were busy. Sherlock was routed to various therapy appointments, tests, x-rays, and all of the other ills associated with a serious injury. He was pleased to hear that his time in a cast would be minimal, most likely 2-3 weeks—the advantages of the inserted metal plate. He was less pleased when his therapy, which started shortly after Anthea left, was both painful and lengthy. The morning after Anthea left his morphine drip was removed and he was placed on oral medications, which meant that the pleasant floaty feeling dissipated quickly once therapy began.

That afternoon, then, he hurt, at a moderate but unrelenting level. He had already memorized all of the files on the laptop. He hesitated briefly—no matter what Anthea thought, he did have some common sense when it came to unauthorized computer access—but the siren call was too strong. He clicked the link, and found himself listening to John's voice. And what he heard made him close the link, and then send an urgent email to his "handler".

"No," said Anthea as soon as she pushed the door open at lunchtime the next day. "You are not going to be well enough to make that kind of trip in two days' time. And the funeral was only this morning—your brother won't even have the stone in place until sometime tomorrow, which means there might well be reporters still lurking about when John shows up on Thursday."

"I am going," Sherlock said bluntly, with an expression anyone who knew him well recognized and feared. "With you or without you." He dropped his chin and looked up at her through his lashes. "Though it would be more comfortable with you," he said quietly.

Anthea snorted. "Does that ever work with anyone who knows you?" she asked snarkily. "I have helped pull you out of many a scrape, Sherlock Holmes, and I know when you're having me on. Save the puppy eyes for your adoring public."

Sherlock's face froze, and she realized what she'd just said. "Oh, Christ," she sighed. "That was a horrible thing to say, even if I didn't think. I'm sorry, dear heart." Sherlock gave a jerky nod, but said nothing. After an uncomfortable minute or two Anthea have another sigh, a resigned one this time. "God, I'm going to regret this, but I feel so guilty now I have to say yes, don't I? Your brother will never let me live it down." She looked at Sherlock sternly. "We can do this on one condition. You let me speak to your doctor, by myself," she said, giving him a minatory eye, "and make sure it's not going to cause you serious problems." Sherlock nodded, pleased.

Two days later, Sherlock was carefully bundled into the back of one of Mycroft's cars, driven this time by an agent he had never seen before. Anthea climbed in after him and helped him get settled, bundling the extra pillows under his bandaged arm and sling and setting the bag of snacks, water and medication on the floor between them. He was in pain, but eager to be on the way. He had long since decided that pain was preferable to confusion, and was pragmatic enough to know that taking opiates any longer than he had to was a dangerous thing to do. He liked morphine, far too much for his own mental comfort.

The trip took roughly an hour. Sherlock enjoyed it, to a degree. Anthea had always been good company (well, away from his brother's repressive influence, anyway)—he never had to pretend around her. They had a lively argument about martial arts styles that their driver also joined after a bit—not really a problem, but a good reminder for Sherlock that he was "Will" now, and he needed to order his speech accordingly.

They reached the cemetery in good time—Anthea had checked in with the surveillance team, who confirmed that John and Mrs. Hudson had just passed the last cross road leading up to the entrance. Their driver followed Anthea's directions and parked on a side access road next to a large group of evergreens. Anthea got out, and carefully helped Sherlock out as well. She insisted on walking him out to his observation point—he had discovered, once he was able to get out of bed, that the stuntman had been quite right, and he had a number of ligaments in his hips and knees that were badly stretched and very painful when walking. He tried to ignore her, but when he tripped on a tree root and almost fell he was embarrassingly grateful for her quiet presence.

They finally reached a quiet spot next to a narrow opening in the trees. In front of them, no more than twenty feet away, was a handsome black stone with gold lettering. Just his name—Mycroft apparently thought that was all that was required, under the circumstances.

Sherlock found himself oddly uncomfortable. Seeing that stone, with his name on it. Anthea, who knew him well, picked up on that. "It was very expensive," she teased, gently. "I made him opt for the black granite. I almost talked him into an angel," she said, and grinned. After a second, Sherlock managed to smile back.

And then he caught his breath—two figures were walking slowly towards the monument. He moved deeper into the shadow of the trees, close enough to hear but not be seen. He looked pleadingly at Anthea, who shook her head but walked away, leaving him alone.

He couldn't quite hear all of the conversation—Mrs. Hudson was a bit teary, so it wasn't clear. But then she walked away, sobbing, and John was alone.

Sherlock listened, dimly aware that John would be horrified to know that he was overheard. He remembered distantly something his mother would say during the (many) times Sherlock was apprehended listening in on private conversations as a child— "eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves." But that wasn't true now, and it was painful to hear, and he shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have.

When John turned sharply on his heels, came to attention, and then marched off, Sherlock stayed for a moment, unsure what to do or what he felt. Then he wanted, urgently, to be gone from here. He started carefully back towards the car on his own, knowing that Anthea would be upset with him for risking a fall and not caring a bit. When she came bustling up and put her arm around his waist he didn't object. She didn't speak, either—apparently something in his face warned her off.

It was a silent ride back. Sherlock was in pain, and agitated (he couldn't define why) and desperately unhappy. He saw Anthea shooting him worried looks, but she kept her own counsel and occupied herself with her Blackberry for a time. When they were nearly back to the facility, though, she couldn't bear it any longer. "Are you glad you went?" she asked hesitantly. He thought for a moment, and answered honestly. "No." And the conversation died there.

When they got back to his room, the driver helped him undress, and he refused dinner, and juice, and any other kind of sustenance, Anthea kissed his cheek and left.

And shortly thereafter, when the nurse offered him morphine, he took it.