Chapter 15

John knew of at least three safe houses in the greater London area when he'd last worked with Sherlock, but he had no idea if they were still valid. He didn't dare waste time trying to find out if they would take them in. He might try finding a hotel somewhere, but he didn't trust such an easily available area. So, ended up calling the one person he knew he could count on to deliver him from his immediate mess even though it galled him to do so. Mycroft Holmes. He had to get his mother somewhere safe.

He'd ushered his mother out the front door with barely a glance at the man he'd left mangled and bruised. He'd only knocked Moran out, he knew, and he'd wake soon enough. They had to be gone long before that. John texted Mycroft's number with one hand and pushed his mother into the front seat of her aging sedan with the other. He hopped into the front seat hoping there was enough petrol in the car she kept in the small, attached garage of her house to get them away safely.

His mother rarely drove it these days, opting instead to take public transportation. The keys hung by the door where they'd been since his father had last driven the beast, as they called it. He hoped to god it still ran. He turned the engine over and it coughed, spluttered and caught. The gas gauge showed half a tank. Thank heaven for small mercies, he thought and actually grinned at his mother. She stared back stoically and said, "You'd better get going, son."

After he'd driven a few miles in random directions, he pulled into a small shopping center and looked at his phone. Mycroft had returned his urgent message with a short message and an address. John punched the address into his smart phone and began weaving his way through London traffic. While the calm, cultured voice of an electronic woman began giving him directions to the safe house, John thought over Mycroft's message: Safe house on Portland Street available. Marble wainscoting. It was a code word he and Sherlock had devised to assure the other that the message from another person was valid and true. The Holmes brothers were working together again and John wasn't sure if that were a good or bad thing. But, at least he could trust that he'd be safe at the Portland Street house.

They arrived in front of a modest two story Tudor style home in West Croydon. John's first urge was to ask his mother to wait in the car while he checked the place out first. But, moments after he arrived, a black sedan pulled in behind him and a slim, dark haired woman got out. John couldn't believe Mycroft would send his personal assistant, "Anthea" to greet him. He'd never actually discovered her real name so he'd just kept calling her that in his head. She came up to the driver's side window and assured him the house had been checked and was considered safe. She pointed a remote control at a garage sitting next to the house and the door raised. John drove the car into it and cut the engine.

After getting his mother settled in with a cup of tea and some very tasty biscuits, he sat down with Anthea at the kitchen table to discuss the situation.

"We retrieved Moran from your mother's house, John. He'd managed to crawl to the front door, but we intercepted him before he got out. You really brained him," she said with more than a little admiration in her voice. "He outweighs by a considerable amount and he's got black ops training. He's in a security hospital under heavy guard. He apparently acted of his own accord in trying to take you."

"What was he trying to do?" John asked, worry still buzzing through him.

"He wanted leverage, John. You are all Sherlock cares about in this world now," Anthea said placing one slender, white hand over one of his.

At one time, a gesture like that from a woman as beautiful as Anthea would have given John a shiver of desire, but her touch only spoke of friendship and empathy. He felt nothing more for her than gratefulness. John smiled a lopsided grin at her and ducked his head.

"Mycroft is infinitely sorry," she continued, and when she looked up at him there were tears in her beautiful, brown eyes. "You weren't around after…After he thought he'd lost Sherlock. He deflated into a shell of himself. He stopped eating, sleeping and working. We'd thought we'd lost him too for a while. When Sherlock died, he'd lost the only person in the world he cared for. He felt he'd let him down, both of you down, you see. He took all the blame on himself. He still does, John."

John had honestly been so wrapped up in his own feelings and problems during his ordeals, he'd only spared a thought or two for Sherlock's older brother. "At the time, I felt he deserved what he got after he cornered me at that club of his. The collar…" John began feeling the old resentments and anger welling up again.

"Was a mistake," Anthea said evenly, gripping his hand in her own. Only a select few of us knew about the collar, John. I want you to know, none of us agreed with its use on you. Mycroft kept assuring us he'd never actually blow the device, but he needed insurance that you'd stay with Sherlock and keep him motivated to track down Moriarty."

John nodded. It felt good to hear her say it aloud. He went a long way toward helping John forgive the Holmes brothers. He knew if he could forgive, he might find his way back to a solid life here in London. Only the sands of time could wash away all the fury, and feelings of helplessness he'd felt over the past few years. He found the more he tried to run away or bury the past he'd had with Sherlock, the more it clawed its way back to haunt him. He needed to resolve things with the detective. He had to try.

"I would have stayed with him," John said softly. "I know that now. For all my talk of moving out, I would have always been there for him. But, we'll never know now, will we?"

"We know. Mycroft and I know what you're made of, John. Sherlock has always known, but we should have treated you better. And, for what it's worth, he's sorry."

"Who?" John asked.

"Both of them," Anthea answered. She smiled finally, took a tissue out of her briefcase, and wiped her eyes.

For the first time since this began, John felt contrition from someone about his treatment. It may have come from the wrong person, but it felt good all the same. He squeezed the hand she held over his and cleared his throat. What do we do now?" he asked. "I can't just hide here with my Mum."

"Both of them have given me orders to keep you here until we get the results of today's raid."

"How did it go today in Australia?" John asked. The results of the raid had been bubbling in the back of his brain. So far, no one had mentioned how it had gone.

"We don't have any reports yet," she said biting her bottom lip. "The compound proved to be very well protected. We had some trouble infiltrating it and lost several men and women."

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"He stayed put in Sydney. The team broke in, and they found one vehicle had managed to escape to a nearby river. Whoever it was, drove an SUV to a boat and used it to evade capture. Mycroft is sure it was Moriarty and two of his men."

John huffed out a breath. "Is Sherlock safe?"

"We don't know," Anthea admitted finally. "He made contact about an hour ago from his hotel room. Mycroft informed him of your attack, and he provided the code word we used. But, we've since lost contact with him."

John stood suddenly. "Why are we here? Let's get to Sydney!" Another itch developed deep in his chest. His intuition screamed there was something wrong on Sherlock's end of things.

"You've changed your tune, John," Anthea said smiling. "You want to help find him?"

"I will find him," John said resolutely. Each passing second magnified the sensation that something was dreadfully wrong. "I should have been there with him in the first place."

"We'll get you on a flight to Sydney, John."