There's a pounding in his head and a dizziness about him that makes him sure that he's spinning around very quickly. He feels as if he's about to get sick, but the bed he's in is the most comfortable he's ever slept in and so he pulls the covers over his eyes and shuts the world out.
The next time he wakes up, it's dark outside and the headache is gone.
John felt no need to pull himself from the bed as of yet- the mattress was just the right firmness, the pillows neither too flat nor puffy, the sheets and blankets soft and cool on his skin. He was still feeling rather dizzy, as if he was at sea, and his brain was fuzzy enough for him to have very few qualms about not giving more thought about his surroundings.
Instead, he settled further into the pillows and wondered if he was actually on a boat or if he had just been drugged.
Faint memory of a needle against his skin, flinching but not fighting as he was injected with… something.
Wait a second, he had been drugged.
Where the hell was he?
His eyes drifted drearily open as he tried to pull himself out of bed, running his hands through air like syrup, using most of his willpower to keep his head up straight.
He poked his head out from the blankets, propping it up on the headboard in an attempt to ground himself.
The movement sends a sharp needle of pain through his right shoulder.
Had he been shot again? Or was that from the first time?
What was going on?
It was dark, and he was disoriented, but it looked like he was in a very impersonal but luxurious bedroom- the colours were either green or blue, the wallpaper fine and detailed. There was a desk to one side with a lamp on it and a metal cup of nice pens. To his right, a wooden wardrobe- his left, a floor mirror and the door. The window was behind him, casting light on the blanket in four quadrants. Green, then. The room had that distinct smell of being cleaned but not lived in for a very long time.
Baby steps; with his left arm he hoisted himself up, pushing himself against the headboard (solid wood) until his back rested solidly against it; he was wearing cotton pajamas, a button up shirt and bottoms that were just too big for him and thus felt twisted with sleep. With his left hand he pressed gingerly on his right shoulder- travelling further inward revealed a lump-like mass near his neck and a world of pain.
Broken collarbone. Maybe a week old.
Okay. He could deal with that.
Step two: secure the perimitre.
He could feel his head lilting from one side to the other as he slowly pulled his legs out from under the blankets- damn, they were a lot heavier than when he was under them- and, one foot at a time, found the floor. Carpet, plush.
He made to stand up and, without really knowing what took place in between the two points, found himself on the floor, comfortable save for the fact that his head was a dreidel. Even the carpet was more comfortable than he was used to- his body had started sinking, settling into it even after he'd fallen- but it wasn't where he'd wanted to be right now. On the floor was not exactly the best battle strategy.
He heart footsteps in the hall.
Shit.
He tried to prop himself up on his arms, which proceeded to flail wildly whenever he tried to move them precisely, until he finally got himself propped up, leaning against the bed.
There was a knock at the door. A woman's voice, slightly familiar, asking very quietly,
"Dr. Watson? Are you up?"
He grapsed the side of the end table very tightly, preparing to use it to ease himself onto his feet.
"Dr. Watson? Are you okay?"
He was halfway standing when the table flipped under his hand, sending him crashing down under a lamp, a glass of water and a few newspapers.
"I'm opening the door, Dr. Watson."
John tried to form the words in his mouth to let her know that he was okay, it was all okay, but instead ended up sounding more like a dial up connection in slow motion- he let his head drop onto the (now wet) carpet as the key turned in the lock and the legs of a young woman came into veiw.
"Oh."
"finnnnnneee…."
"Come on. Let me get you back on the bed."
She pulled him up by wrapping her arms under his armpits and hoisting him half onto the bed, then quickly swinging his legs after him; if he was a little more conscious he would have felt the need to help her, she was small and he was chivalrous, but he felt comfortable letting her do the work and she was stronger than she seemed.
It was then when he'd finally been able to see her face, place the voice- Anthea. Or, not Anthea.
"Well, hi there,"
She smiled, but only on one side of her face. Her eyebrows got lost under the fringe that now hanged in front of her forehead. She's mocking me, the voice in the back of his head informed him.
"How do you feel, Doctor?"
"I'm fine, really."
That was what John had imagined he'd said- from the look on her face, he'd obviously said something much different. She continued to speak as she bent over, uprighting the table and lamp. She picked up the glass (unbroken) and newspapers (now soggy) and held them in her hands as she stared down ad John;
"I'm going to ask you not to try and get out of bed, Dr. Watson. Just get some rest."
"okay…"
"Good night, John."
"Where- Where am I?"
She stopped to look at him, eyebrowed furrowed in an attempt to understand what it was he was trying to say.
"…Where?"
"Holmes manor, Dr. Watson. You're safe."
She gave him one more smile- this one on both sides of her face, but coated with pity and that thin, sheer film of condescension.
"Toilet's on your right."
And she shut the door behind her.
When he next woke up, it was daytime. The sun penetrated dimmly through the drapes but stronger rays had found cracks on the sides and in the centre, one dragging itself straight across John's face and through the thin skin of his eyelids.
He still had one hell of a headache, but when he went to sit up he found that he was actually in control of his body now.
He also had an urgent need for a toilet.
He rubbed his face as he pulled the covers off of him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stepping right into a wet spot on the carpet-
"What the…"
The night before came back into memory.
Holmes manor.
It really didn't surprise him that the Holmes family had a manor. At the moment, however, he was a little more interested in the fact that the washroom was, indeed, on his right.
Even the damn loo was lavish.
He swayed a bit as he stood, still a little dizzy, but he didn't feel as if he was about so fall over- almost as if he was a little drunk, and a little drunk was a state of mind that he could deal with expertly. He finished up and washed his hands and face, staring at the mirror for a long while at the sallowed face that stared him back. He hadn't eaten much in the past week, that much was certain- he had a hunger that only reached his stomach in a way that suggested that he'd been attatched to an IV for a while. His collarbone was broken- still healing, he should really have his arm in a sling.
And he was, if Anthea was to be trusted, in Holmes Manor.
He didn't trust her- she worked for Mycroft.
That was what got him here in the first place.
From just outside, John heard a soft rapping on the door, a silky voice-
"Dr. Watson, when you're available to speak I would like to have a few words with you."
Speak of the fucking devil.
"Yeah… yeah, I'll be right out."
John scowled into the towel he was using to dry his face before pulling off his (wet) socks and throwing them in the hamper by the shower, opening the door to stand face to face with Mycroft Holmes.
Even with a three piece suit and almost a foot against John, the soldier stood tall against the other man, looking as dignified as he could in pajamas.
They stared at each other for a long moment because Mycroft took in a sharp breath, turning on a heel to walk farther down the hall.
"This way, Dr. Watson,"
And John could do little else but follow.
They were sitting in almost the same office that John had sat in when he visited Mycroft at the Diogenes. There were very subtle differences- The uninspired (but probably original) romantic-era landscape hanged on the opposite wall, the bookshelf holding different books.
"Do sit down, Dr. Watson, when you're finished,"
The eldest Holmes had already sat himself behind his desk, reclining only as he sat- his back was straight, his suit pristine; it took a look down at his own self for John to remember that he was barefoot in pajamas he had been wearing for god knows how long.
He stood for a long moment, mostly out of a need to contradict anything Mycroft told him to do, before he finally took his seat. It was plush and leather, but not entirely comfortable- he'd figured that was, like everything else, on purpose.
Mycroft sat with his hands clasped on the desk, lips pursed and waiting. After an impatient moment, he quirked one eyebrow.
John opened his mouth, closed it, looked around as if the books or landscape would help him, and then turned back to the taller man- Well? He asked with a guesture of his arms. Well what? Mycroft replied with a roll of his eyes.
"Are you going to explain- anything? I mean, it's you, I can't expect anything coherent but you could at least-"
"Where would you like me to start, Dr. Watson? I am on a rather… Occupied schedule today, I can't be here all day as you fumble to express your dissatisfation."
Holmeses. They were intolerable.
"I jumped off of a building."
For a second only, Mycroft allowed himself to scowl, roll his eyes. It occurred to John that he might be one of the few people around whom the man allowed himself to break- he certainly had not scowled and rolled his eyes at John when he'd first abducted him. It did not make him feel special, or better-liked than the other people Mycroft may deal with; mostly just comfortably less significant.
"Yes, you did."
"Why?"
"We talked about this in the car, I thought."
"No, You told me that if I didn't jump from a building Sherlock would die. That was all."
"And that remains to be the reason."
"You're not going to explain? I just- I just jumped from a damn building on your word."
"I told you you were in safe hands-"
"No, you told me to trust the people who were about to abduct me. You could have at least explained a little."
"I didn't have enough time to explain. If I had wasted but a minute, Moriarty would have known something was wrong. We were on a very tight schedule and your questions were not condusive to it. You risked the lives of many involved with your persistence, Dr. Watson. My brother's included."
"So if I hadn't jumped from a building on your orders, Moriarty would have killed Sherlock."
"No, no, Moriarty was going to kill you anyways. It was originally his people that were to abduct you from 221B. I simply ensured that was not what happened. It had to seem to Moriarty that it was what happened, though. And to Sherlock."
"So he's okay, then, He didn't-"
John stopped, tilted his head slightly to the right in relevation.
"He thinks I'm dead."
Finally, Mycroft's face read.
"Your funeral was two days ago."
"He went to my funeral."
"No, he was arrested after the police were called when you jumped from the building. He remains in the hands of the law."
"You're not going to let him go? Don't try to tell me you don't have the power to throw a court hearing."
"I have the power to throw a court hearing, but not the opinion of every resident of London. Everyone believes in Richard Brook's story."
"Hm, I wonder why that's the case."
"John, I would much appreciate if you were to stick to one question, implied or otherwise."
John took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from becoming angry- well, too angry. A simple look at this man's face was enough for him to teeter over the edge, now.
But, as it happens, it was this man who had saved his life. He forced himself to feel an ounce of gratefulness for that.
"I thought Moriarty was after Sherlock."
"He is. His original plan was for Sherlock to commit suicide after sufficiently dragging his name into ruin."
"You helped him."
"I made it easy."
"You-"
He was dangerously close to shouting now. Mycroft was so calm, almost proud; a small half-smile on the right side of his lips as he spoke callously of his betrayal to his younger brother. Oh, he'd made it easy, all right- gave Moriarty all of the tools he needed to ruin Sherlock, bring him as low as a person could possibly go. He'd made it easy, well, that was an understatement-
Something snapped together in John's brain. Mycroft gave him a minute look, pinpointing the exact moment John caught on.
John continued.
"You made it too easy."
"I could count on Sherlock to continue challenging James Moriarty, but with a perfect hand even Sherlock was no match against him. He felt cheated from his big finish."
"So you knew that he was going to go after me instead."
"I didn't know. But it was the only plausible outcome."
"You- you ruined your brother's life to keep him from dying."
"Is there anything else you would like to ask me, Dr. Watson?"
He was pressed for time. John was suddenly filled with questions.
"Where is Moriarty?"
"In London, still working under the guise of Richard Brook. He's planted a substantial amount of evidence for this new character- he has help in very high places."
"What's his next plan? Do you know?"
"Judging by his past actions we are of the assumption that he will continue to play the role of Richard Brook until Sherlock is either found guilty of his crimes or someone comes up with enough substantial evidence of his fraud. Which, as I'm sure you can guess, is unlikely to happen unless Moriarty is given reason enough."
"What can I do to help?"
Mycroft sighed, though even that was half-hearted; of course he'd expected John to want to help. It was quite obvious that it wasn't what he'd wanted, however.
"Dr. Watson, I'm sure you understand the normal state of a man two days after his funeral-"
"I'm supposed to be dead. That doesn't mean I can't help."
"We'll see if there's something you can do. With your military experience and medical education you are not without merit, even with your physical and psychological injuries."
John opened his mouth just as Mycroft stood up, brushing his hands against his already-smooth vest.
"I'm afraid that's all of the time I have, Dr. Watson. I will be in touch with you soon."
"What am I supposed to do until then? Stay here?"
"I'm sure you'll find yourself perfectly comfortable here. We've taken good care to provide you with anything you may need during your stay. I will have to ask you not to leave the house, however- even to go outside."
He looked at John once more before picking up his overcoat and umbrella from near the door, a peculiar look in his eyes that John couldn't quite place but would label something very close to malice were he hard pressed.
"I've taken every step to ensure the success of this operation so far, Doctor. I would much appreciate if you followed instructions to the best of your ability with minimal hesitation. Good day."