Prompting Part XXXII
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GUIDELINES
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Before he could shout "Get the light!" the floodlight went dark. Its abrupt absence left him temporarily blinded.
"Ge'down," Lestrade panted below him, a painfully frail sound. "Go,John."
"Shut up, Greg," John replied.
John sensed rather than saw the muffled impact as one of the team members met the immovable object of Mycroft Holmes and failed to guide his long form into a protective crouch.
"Sir, this area's not secure," the unnamed would-be protector protested.
"Then secure it." John saw Mycroft's mobile shine to life for an instant and then disappear as Mycroft curled forward to block its glow.
"Explain," Mycroft demanded into the phone. "The Carlsons never return to the scene… I see. Yes, the two youngest may have gone rogue, acting contrary to orders. Are they alone?"
"Toman'Kenny," Lestrade slurred, almost too faint to hear. "Theylikepliers."
John balanced against the lip of the boot and lowered his hand into the darkness, groping for and then closing around Lestrade's shoulder. The man was shivering beneath the makeshift cover of John's jacket.
"Do you have their position?" Mycroft continued.
After a beat, his voice dropped an octave and two dozen degrees. "They may be juveniles, Major, but they're responsible for adult crimes and capable of adult violence, and they pose an immediate mortal threat. You're authorised to use whatever force you deem necessary. Contain them." The briefest of pauses. "Good. Keep me informed."
"Mycroft," John said, "I need your coat."
A rustle of heavy wool, and half-seen hands folded the garment over John's arm. He replaced his pistol at his waistband and set about tucking the coat over and around Lestrade, acting by touch alone, wary of jostling the broken hands now curled uselessly at the man's chest and back.
"It's best if we stay as quiet and still as possible for the moment," Mycroft said softly into the night. "The team will have them soon."
"Alive or dead?" John asked, once again taking Lestrade's pulse, judging the clammy coolness of his flesh.
"I don't particularly care," Mycroft said.
"Yeah," John agreed. "Look, about the ambulance-"
"It's still en route," Mycroft answered. "Unfortunately, we're in a remote spot with less-than-optimal roads, and it's travelling dark, so as not to alert anyone watching. Both factors impact its speed."
John slipped his hand under layers of cloth and ran his fingers along Lestrade's abdomen, above the press of bandages and knees against stab wounds. Muscles that had been badly bruised and tender minutes before now were beginning to strain in rigid defence of hidden injuries. John's gentle prodding of his hurts tore a weak, hopeless sound from Lestrade.
"I estimate-" Mycroft continued.
"Doesn't matter. Cancel it." John said. "There's a flat patch of pasture just east of us. Call for a helicopter instead."
"John…"
"Mycroft, we don't have time to wait."
More shouts and another volley of fire became echoes devoid of any clues as to distance or direction. John drew a deep breath and reminded himself of where and when he was. The cloying scent of gore didn't help the part of him that remained trapped in the sands of Afghanistan, but God, this wasn't the time...
"Greg, stay with us, yeah?" he said.
"'Msorry," came the fragile reply. "Not… notyourfault."
John couldn't be sure for which failure Lestrade was now holding himself accountable or absolving John. Something told him it wasn't merely this God-forsaken night.
"Not your fault either, Greg," John said. "None of it. And I'm sorry, too."
As Mycroft made arrangements for immediate assistance, John bowed his head over his patient.
***
TBC...
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Thanks so much for sticking with this story and commenting. I really appreciate it!
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He stared into the water as it ran down the drain, feeling the man's broken chest give under his palms, his bloody breath wheeze under his fingers.
It took him a moment - or was it minutes? - to realise another man had entered the lavatory.
"Is there news?" he asked Mycroft, as he pushed away from the sink and straightened.
"No, there's no update as of yet." Mycroft held out a neatly stacked bundle. "Anthea took the liberty of visiting your flat. She thought you might prefer a change of clothing."
"Oh, God, yes," John agreed. "Ta very much."
"She gave up going through boxes to find something suitable, and she brought these instead."
As he accepted the Christmas jumper, vest, and jeans, John said, "Right. At the moment I honestly don't give a toss how I look."
He didn't question how Mycroft appeared freshly shaved, washed, and dressed in what was obviously a newly-laundered suit. John was too knackered to handle the big mysteries just now.
Stripping off and redressing with quick efficiency, John said, "Mycroft, what I said earlier, about not being your minion anymore -"
"You've never been my minion, John. I'm keenly aware of the fact, I assure you." Mycroft lurked in the corner like a disconcertingly benevolent gargoyle, hands folded before him and anchored on the handle of his umbrella.
"Yeah, well. If you need me in the future… I won't shut the door in your face. At least without hearing you out first. Though you can save the showing-up-on-my-doorstep routine for emergencies. I do have a phone." John gathered up his soiled clothing and stared blankly at his armful, and at last surrendered it to the rubbish bin. "You can ring me up. On my phone."
"Understood." Mycroft turned his head on one side. "My staff members are trained in first aid, but none could have managed what you accomplished: resuscitating Lestrade, stabilising him. Your skill saved his life."
"I'm just…" John shook his head and then returned to the sink to splash water on his face. Droplets clung to his jumper and glittered there like melting snowflakes. "I'm sick of seeing good men die."
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"Good. That’s good."
There was more. John gave Mycroft time until he added, "If Lestrade survives… which I'm optimistic he will… Well. I've been considering the road to recovery that lies before our good detective inspector. I'd appreciate your input about the manner of care he will require."
"He'll need more than a daily check-in, for certain," John said, back on firm ground in his area of specialty. "His system's been compromised in half a dozen ways, and he'll require considerable physical therapy. Most importantly, he won't be able to use his hands while his fingers heal; that will be a nightmare all its own for someone as self-sufficient as Greg. And that helplessness won't only be inconvenient; it'll be dangerous."
"Mmmm, my thoughts exactly." The elder Holmes inspected his own shoes, his umbrella, the turn of his cuffs. He did not meet John's eyes.
"An idea," Mycroft said. "I have a spare room that would be available for the short term, in a home well guarded around the clock by trained security forces. More than one room, as a matter of fact, should he need someone with medical expertise nearby for those first critical weeks, someone who wasn't… settled… elsewhere. I may not be in London or even in the country the entire time, but I wouldn't need to be, would I?"
John gaped. Shifted his weight. Clasped his hands behind his back. "Who are you, and what the hell have you done with Mycroft Holmes?"
The grin that met him was shark-like. "I've made two young men disappear in the last few hours, John. Permanently. Without a trace. I've met my morning quota for Orwellian activity. At this rate, I won't need to foment a foreign revolution until teatime." The expression faded, and Mycroft glanced away. "And I, too, prefer not to see good men die. Not certain good men, in particular."
"I'll - right, yeah," John said. "An arrangement like that… it might be workable. Um. Something to keep in mind."
"Yes, do that." With a decorous nod, Mycroft left John blinking at himself in the mirror.
***
To Be Concluded soon...
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"Mmmm, my thoughts exactly." The elder Holmes inspected his own shoes, his umbrella, the turn of his cuffs. He did not meet John's eyes.
Aww.
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Oh, thank you so much for this! *bounces happily*
Aww.
:D
I really appreciate your reading and commenting. Thanks!
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The picture he'd taken revealed two men. Ordinary. Dull. Altogether remarkable.
The one reclined in the bed was grey-faced and silver-haired and attached to an alarming number of tubes and wires, but he was breathing on his own, finally in recovery after the last of a marathon of surgeries. The other man curled in a chair by his side, head tilted back and mouth hanging open in exhausted sleep.
The photo offered proof of life.
Vulnerable life, currently in Mycroft's charge.
The mobile vibrated in Mycroft's hand. The text read, "The room is secure?"
Mycroft typed, "My own handpicked guards stand watch. Only MH, MrsH & a few of my staff know who is here. When he can be moved safely, they'll both be taken to one of my secure locations."
Lestrade made a soft sound of complaint and frowned in what was obviously less-than-comfortable slumber, shifted a heavily-bandaged hand, and then sighed as he descended back into drugged oblivion.
Another text followed: "I will send the Carlsons a message."
"I was under the impression I already had," Mycroft replied.
"It's worth repeating," came the response.
John's head rocked slightly and found another position. The fingers on his left hand flexed open and then closed into a fist. His snores became snuffles.
"The more names you add to your list, the longer you delay your return," Mycroft noted in his next text. "I will handle this." He couldn't resist adding, "It's not always about you."
The reply was abrupt: "Yes it is."
Attached to this text was a grainy picture obviously taken from a distance as daylight surrendered to dusk. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. The older of the two men on the hotel balcony, stocky and florid-faced and cradling a bottle between meaty hands, was Jay Carlson, the patriarch of the Carlson clan.
The slim man who leaned against the railing at his side was at least a generation younger, with a mild, boyish face that easily could have shifted from bland to quite fetching, given the right context. His slight smile in the photo, however, was as unsettling as his dark eyes were cold. Sebastian Moran.
"I see," Mycroft typed, after a moment's pause at the revelation. "Do as you will. You always do. But be careful."
"You should worry about L & J. I'm holding you responsible for their safety."
Mycroft glanced up at the two men. They held rare distinctions, these empty-handed refugees from the natural disaster known as Jim Moriarty, whether they knew it or not. They had Sherlock's concern, and they had Mycroft's trust.
Of course, they had paid for both. Dearly and repeatedly.
Mycroft's word, in this case at least, was his bond. He texted, "I will."
And he would. Constantly.
They were, after all, his allies.
THE END
Tremendous thanks to all of you who've read this!
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This is all I could've hoped for and more. Here at the end, I especially love the contrast between the awkward and understated alliance in the scene between Mycroft and John and the cool, practical "I'll send them a message" interaction between Mycroft and Sherlock (I mean, these are the good guys, and they're talking about eliminating people, and it's perfectly IC). Protective!Mycroft is as awesome as cold-blooded!Mycroft, and the balance here is just right. His concern and John's for the awesome Lestrade, who's so alone, is the best. I love this! THANK YOU.
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This was so much fun to write. I'm grateful for the awesome prompt. :D
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I totally did not expect it to end with Sherlock. That was an awesome twist.
I kind of hanker to see their household set up after this. :)
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I kind of hanker to see their household set up after this. :)
Oh gosh: stubbornrecovery!Lestrade, medicalBAMF!John, and scaryprotective!Mycroft. I can only imagine. That's quite a potent combination! :)
I'm really grateful for your kind words. Thanks again for reading!
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And fussyworriedfrustrated!Sherlock, trying to caretake and scold from afar.
That would be a great story. *thinks about it*
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(Honestly, I've reread this section three times, and still can't manage a coherent response. I've enjoyed this story so much! Like the other anon, I'd love to see more, if you ever feel like writing it.)
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