Mycroft had a chartered a jet for the trip back to London.
John hoped to use the confusion of the airport as a way of dislodging the man long enough to send a coded message out. He needed to let his people know to go to ground. He'd been held incomunicado for four days, who knows what had happened in his absense. But they bypassed the main terminal entirely and drove right into a hanger farther down the access road.
John did his best to seem invisible, expressionless, watching the seemless dance of Mycroft's underlings. It seemed almost choreographed. As he exited the limo, four black clad minions (and John could only describe them as such, if they had rank or insignia, it wasn't visible on their uniforms) swarmed around him. A languid reach in one direction was answered immediately with a mobile being offered. A tap to Mycroft's temple and other people raced on some task or other. Mycroft managed to give the impression of relaxed, almost lackadaisical composure while dealing with one situation after another.
For the most sake Mycroft ignored him, allowing him to hang back a few feet, seemingly disinterested in what he was looking at. John scanned for holes in the security. The minions seemed to dismiss hs presence entirely, as though they thought him of no significance. As well they might if they considered him a slave rather than a prisoner. The hanger itself was large, and other than the limo it contained a single Lear Jet and not much else. Attempting to run to its wide open doorway would invite attention, but smaller movements, standing farther and farther off against one of the walls, for example, seemed to elicit no alarm. While Mycroft instructed the porter on the handling of his luggage, it seemed for just a moment that no one was watching at all.
John drifted, nonchallantly towards an unmarked door.
“John, stop,” said Mycroft casually. He hadn't even turned around. The porter craned his head over at him, curiously.
Startled, John held still and then tightened his lips as the thing in his head rewarded him. Distracting, annoying. Like a pat on the head every time he behaved like a dog. He didn't want to feel good every time he followed this man's orders.
“Come along then,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally turning around. Then glancing at the door John had considered he let his lips quirk up. “You wouldn't have gotten far. That door is locked, and even if it weren't it only leads to an office.”
John gave nothing away with his expression. He had no illusions of escape at this point, but an office had a phone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You might want to take a look at this before you do anything rash.” He reached out and a minion handed him a rolled up paper.
The headline read: LARGEST ABOLUTIONIST BUST IN LAST 25 YEARS. In smaller letters it went on to say that twenty three citizens had been apprehended and over a hundred runaway slaves had been liquidated in a series of raids. Mycoft finger slid down the column until it reached John Watson's name. “You've made it to the papers. Congratulations. Your fifteen minutes of fame.”
John hung his head. God. His family must have seen that.
Out of masochism, he read the article and silently checked off people who he'd worked with, liked, trusted. Dead. Dead. Dead. Most had been slaves. As property they were simply disposed of on site, no trial, no chance. Not even a grave. Those weren't used for medical research would have their useful organs removed and then burned to ash in the colonial run crematoriums. All their dreams and hopes simply ended. Friends. Gone.
“I do so love a happy ending,” said Mycroft, unironically. “Good triumphs over evil. Justice wins out. Very satisifying. But I suppose you wouldn't see it that way. Yet. Give it time, John.” He clapped John's shoulder in a sympathetic way.
John turned his head away.
Mycroft shrugged and turned away. “Now, step lively. Here we go.”
John hoped to use the confusion of the airport as a way of dislodging the man long enough to send a coded message out. He needed to let his people know to go to ground. He'd been held incomunicado for four days, who knows what had happened in his absense. But they bypassed the main terminal entirely and drove right into a hanger farther down the access road.
John did his best to seem invisible, expressionless, watching the seemless dance of Mycroft's underlings. It seemed almost choreographed. As he exited the limo, four black clad minions (and John could only describe them as such, if they had rank or insignia, it wasn't visible on their uniforms) swarmed around him. A languid reach in one direction was answered immediately with a mobile being offered. A tap to Mycroft's temple and other people raced on some task or other. Mycroft managed to give the impression of relaxed, almost lackadaisical composure while dealing with one situation after another.
For the most sake Mycroft ignored him, allowing him to hang back a few feet, seemingly disinterested in what he was looking at. John scanned for holes in the security. The minions seemed to dismiss hs presence entirely, as though they thought him of no significance. As well they might if they considered him a slave rather than a prisoner. The hanger itself was large, and other than the limo it contained a single Lear Jet and not much else. Attempting to run to its wide open doorway would invite attention, but smaller movements, standing farther and farther off against one of the walls, for example, seemed to elicit no alarm. While Mycroft instructed the porter on the handling of his luggage, it seemed for just a moment that no one was watching at all.
John drifted, nonchallantly towards an unmarked door.
“John, stop,” said Mycroft casually. He hadn't even turned around. The porter craned his head over at him, curiously.
Startled, John held still and then tightened his lips as the thing in his head rewarded him. Distracting, annoying. Like a pat on the head every time he behaved like a dog. He didn't want to feel good every time he followed this man's orders.
“Come along then,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally turning around. Then glancing at the door John had considered he let his lips quirk up. “You wouldn't have gotten far. That door is locked, and even if it weren't it only leads to an office.”
John gave nothing away with his expression. He had no illusions of escape at this point, but an office had a phone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You might want to take a look at this before you do anything rash.” He reached out and a minion handed him a rolled up paper.
The headline read: LARGEST ABOLUTIONIST BUST IN LAST 25 YEARS. In smaller letters it went on to say that twenty three citizens had been apprehended and over a hundred runaway slaves had been liquidated in a series of raids. Mycoft finger slid down the column until it reached John Watson's name. “You've made it to the papers. Congratulations. Your fifteen minutes of fame.”
John hung his head. God. His family must have seen that.
Out of masochism, he read the article and silently checked off people who he'd worked with, liked, trusted. Dead. Dead. Dead. Most had been slaves. As property they were simply disposed of on site, no trial, no chance. Not even a grave. Those weren't used for medical research would have their useful organs removed and then burned to ash in the colonial run crematoriums. All their dreams and hopes simply ended. Friends. Gone.
“I do so love a happy ending,” said Mycroft, unironically. “Good triumphs over evil. Justice wins out. Very satisifying. But I suppose you wouldn't see it that way. Yet. Give it time, John.” He clapped John's shoulder in a sympathetic way.
John turned his head away.
Mycroft shrugged and turned away. “Now, step lively. Here we go.”
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