The Devil in Devon Part Thirteen
The Devil in Devon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve
John waited for it: the crushing impact of a bullet against his chest, followed by blossoming blood and pain, and finally darkness that no emergency surgery could rescue him from.
All of it would have happened if Elena hadn't suddenly opened her eyes and lashed out with one bare foot, catching her son behind the knee and knocking him into the grass. The bullet struck an overhead branch instead, sending some nesting birds into a frenzy.
"Alexei, no!" she cried weakly.
The boy struggled to all fours, still gripping the gun. John grabbed his wrist, forced him to drop it, and locked both arms around his slender body.
"Let go of me!" Alexei hissed. He tried to head-butt John, but the doctor moved his face out of the way.
"Calm down, son, I'm not one of them!"
"I'm NOT your son! An IQ test would confirm that instantly!"
Elena, her pale face now blanketed with sweat, struggled onto one elbow and touched Alexei's knee. The boy instantly stilled. "John's a friend," she said hoarsely. "He's here to help-"
Her green eyes, their lustre now absent, rolled back in her head and she collapsed again.
"Mum!" Alexei cried, sounding like a frightened child for the first time since John had laid eyes on him. "Let me go to her! Please!"
The gun was now out of his reach, so John released him carefully. They both crouched beside Elena, who looked more dead than alive. Her lips were bloodless and her skin had an ashy hue. John felt her pulse, which was weak and unsteady, and checked for a bullet wound, but couldn't see blood anywhere.
"I'm a doctor. What happened to her?" he asked the boy, who was squeezing her hand and gently returning her head to his lap.
"I don't know. She wasn't shot. She's got cancer- that's why they separated us. Maybe she's having a relapse. Oh God, Mum." Alexei's thin lips, which were identical to Mycroft's, trembled and tears hung from his lashes.
Their conversation was interrupted by two sets of footsteps hurrying down the path. John heard Mycroft calling anxiously, "John? John, I heard you. Where are you?"
Alexei tensed, eyes flashing over the ground for a potential weapon. "It's all right, they're with me," John assured him before raising his voice. "I'm here. With Diabel and someone else."
The Holmes brothers joined them a moment later. They were both sweating: Mycroft from exertion, Sherlock due to lingering nausea. When he saw Elena, Mycroft fell to his knees beside John and Alexei.
"What's happened?" he exclaimed.
"Her pulse is low and her breathing is irregular," John told him. "We've got to her to a hospital."
"She just collapsed when we were running through the garden, trying to get away from those men," the boy answered without taking his eyes off of his mother. John felt chills at the sight of a man and his secret son kneeling side by side, their attention so focused on the woman who united them that they barely acknowledged each other.
Sherlock wasn't so oblivious. John watched his gaze flit from Mycroft to Alexei and back, lingering over their hair, lips, and other physical features they had in common. Then the younger Holmes surveyed Elena, and the concerned, almost reverent way that Mycroft touched her wrist. His brow furrowed and his mouth tightened.
Oh Christ, John thought, his heart sinking. He's guessed it.
For once, though, Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself. But the next second he overstepped a different boundary.
"Can we move her or is she going to die right here?"
"Sherlock!" John hissed.
Alexei looked up, his fair skin colouring with rage. "She's not going to die!" he yelled. "You bloody bastard!"
Before John or Mycroft could grab him, the boy carefully laid Elena's head on the soft ground and sprang to his feet. He leaped at Sherlock, whose response time remained slow due to the earlier injection, and struck him on the cheekbone. The younger Holmes stumbled back several steps, nearly crashing into a rose bush, but blocked a second attack by seizing Alexei's wrists, spinning him around, and securing him in an armlock.
"Don't make me hurt you!" Sherlock huffed.
"As if you could! You're only dangerous in the laboratory, you failed chemist!"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to grow red in the face. "Don't try to out-deduce me! I've got years of experience on you."
Mycroft rose with a panther's dangerous grace. "Stop it, both of you!" he barked. Alexei instinctively responded to the authority in his voice and paused; Sherlock followed suit, although the latter's face darkened with contempt.
"You're her son, aren't you?" Mycroft queried in a softer tone. When Alexei nodded after a venomous backward glare at Sherlock, he said, "I can tell. You look like her. Now please listen. Neither of you will be harmed. We're going to take you somewhere safe. Petra too."
The boy brightened. "Aunt Petra is all right? I saw them shoot her."
"She's wounded but not too badly, I understand." The elder Holmes looked at John for confirmation. When the doctor nodded, Mycroft continued, "Sherlock, let him go."
"Gladly. Maybe he'll get your face on the next round." Sherlock lowered his arms and touched his cheek, which was a livid shade of purple. Staring icily at Alexei, he said, "If she's your mother, where's your father? I'm sure he's worried about you, unless he doesn't know you exist yet."
John closed his eyes.
The teenager glared daggers at him. "None of your business." Facing John and Mycroft, he added, "I never knew my father. Now, please, let's go. She needs help."
"Of course." The elder Holmes crouched, arranged Elena carefully in his arms, and stood. She groaned softly but did not wake up. "Let's head out. We-" He hesitated at the distress evident on the doctor's face. "John?"
"Sorry, I'm all right. Just a headache."
John loved Sherlock, and had once been prepared to die rather than face life without him. But there were times, like this, when he wanted to join the majority opinion and cheerfully strangle his best friend. Sherlock was so driven once he got an idea in his head. He would aggressively explore and test his theories until he was proven right or wrong, not caring less whose sensitivities he pulverized in the bargain. His only soft spot was John- anyone (even a newly discovered nephew) and anything else was fair game for his ruthless curiosity.
Mycroft led the way back to the house. John kept himself between Alexei and Sherlock while he wondered what was going to happen now. Although he refused to say it aloud, his brief examination of her was enough to tell him that Elena's relapse was serious, and she did not have six months left. Six weeks was more likely.
His heart thudded in his chest, reminding him that six weeks was more than he had, unless Mycroft's resources were able to determine which explosive had been planted in him and how to disable it… if disabling it was possible.
As they walked through the house, John recalled something from his medical school days. For months, he'd been fanatical about hot sauce, probably because it enabled him to stay relatively alert during 36-hour shifts at the hospital. He'd poured it over his sandwich meats instead of ketchup or mustard, and even mixed it into the microwaveable soup cups he'd survived on. But one day Mike Stamford caught him adding hot sauce to his morning coffee, and kidded him by posting a photocopied picture on his locker door. It was a police photograph of a woman's charred remains: a caption below identified it as an alleged case of spontaneous human combustion. The implication was clear- any more hot sauce and all that would be left of John Watson one day was a pile of smouldering embers.
The thought wasn't so funny any more. He was a hair's breadth from another breakdown, but maintained his composure for Mycroft's and Alexei's sakes.
Lestrade, Morrell, and other guards waited out by the car, keeping an eye on the glowering Russian prisoner in the back seat. When he saw Elena, Lestrade hurried over.
"What's happened? Has she been shot?"
"No, but she needs medical attention urgently," Mycroft said. "Gregory, please call Anthea and tell her I'll need a medical team sent to the manor at once. For a patient in an advanced stage of terminal cancer. Tell her I want Dr. Bruckman if he's available. I'll also need a cleanup crew to remove the body in this house and restore the premises to acceptable shape in case the owner drops by unexpectedly."
"You got it." Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialled.
The elder Holmes turned to the bodyguards next. "Take the prisoner to Containment and return to the manor afterward. Mr. Morrell, I want you to ride with them as far as the spot where we left the other car. Drive it back here and pick us up."
"Yes, Sir." Morrell glanced at John. "Did that young woman regain consciousness?"
"Yes. But she knows we're all on the same side. Just make sure you identify yourself as you approach the car."
Alexei stared at the handcuffed prisoner, blue eyes flashing with resentment. "He and the other men who followed me here are with the Consortium. And if you want to know more about them, I'll be happy to oblige. I accessed several of their databases before coming here. It's how I knew where to find my mother."
John felt a pang. A fourteen-year-old boy shouldn't see handcuffed prisoners, gun-toting bodyguards, and references to containment centres as normal. Alexei was above average, but he was still a child. Did Mycroft and Sherlock have their childhoods abridged under similar circumstances?
"You're a resourceful young man," Mycroft told Alexei while Lestrade spoke to Anthea on his mobile and the bodyguards drove off with the Russian. "We shall definitely talk after we ensure that your mother is comfortable."
Sherlock edged up to John. "I may not know who that boy is, but what he is- that's obvious. I'm surprised Mycroft doesn't see it."
John glanced worriedly at the elder Holmes, but he was talking to Lestrade now and didn't appear to be listening. "Not now, Sherlock. Please."
"His appearance, his speech, the fact that he knew I am a chemist, although I resent the insinuation that I'm a failure. It all adds up. Mycroft even admitted that he knew the woman well."
John raised both hands. "Just stop, all right?"
The younger Holmes frowned. "You've gotten more bad news, haven't you? You have that line on your forehead that you always get when you're in trouble. It generally goes away after 24 hours, so the news is recent. What is it?"
John realized that Sherlock didn't know about the bomb yet. Not wanting to have the discussion on the front lawn of a recent battleground, he said wearily, "You're right, Sherlock, but I can't talk about this now. Wait until we get to Mycroft's place. Can you do that for me?"
Sherlock nodded reluctantly, but continued to survey him from top to bottom, clearly seeking clues. John turned away, only to face another pair of scrutinizing eyes.
"Everyone calls you John," Alexei said thoughtfully. "And you're a doctor. I'm not normally this slow when it comes to reaching conclusions, but are you Dr. John Watson?"
"Yes," John answered slowly. "How do you know about me?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. He too was interested in the response.
The boy's eyes widened. "You're the one they programmed."
"How do you know about that?" Sherlock demanded.
Alexei ignored him. "When I hacked into the Consortium databases, trying to determine where Mum was, I accessed her most recent mission profile. It had a subsection with your name on it and outlined the steps they took to modify you. So you'd kill a Mycroft Holmes."
"Which is me," Mycroft announced, joining the conversation. "Did you just say you know what's been done to John?"
"Yes. Listen, Mum's name is your trigger. But I suspect you know that already. I heard you refer to her as Diabel."
John nodded. "I was triggered yesterday, but brought out of it by hypnosis. Now I have twenty-nine days left to undo their fail-safe."
"The corporeal timer bomb," Alexei said.
"What?" Sherlock faced John, eyes wide. "John!"
Mycroft handed Elena to Lestrade, whose stare was glued to the boy's face. "Alexei, I need you to think very carefully. Did the file indicate which bomb they used?"
Alexei's response elicited a collective gasp. "Yes, it did, and I know how to destroy it."
Part Fourteen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve
John waited for it: the crushing impact of a bullet against his chest, followed by blossoming blood and pain, and finally darkness that no emergency surgery could rescue him from.
All of it would have happened if Elena hadn't suddenly opened her eyes and lashed out with one bare foot, catching her son behind the knee and knocking him into the grass. The bullet struck an overhead branch instead, sending some nesting birds into a frenzy.
"Alexei, no!" she cried weakly.
The boy struggled to all fours, still gripping the gun. John grabbed his wrist, forced him to drop it, and locked both arms around his slender body.
"Let go of me!" Alexei hissed. He tried to head-butt John, but the doctor moved his face out of the way.
"Calm down, son, I'm not one of them!"
"I'm NOT your son! An IQ test would confirm that instantly!"
Elena, her pale face now blanketed with sweat, struggled onto one elbow and touched Alexei's knee. The boy instantly stilled. "John's a friend," she said hoarsely. "He's here to help-"
Her green eyes, their lustre now absent, rolled back in her head and she collapsed again.
"Mum!" Alexei cried, sounding like a frightened child for the first time since John had laid eyes on him. "Let me go to her! Please!"
The gun was now out of his reach, so John released him carefully. They both crouched beside Elena, who looked more dead than alive. Her lips were bloodless and her skin had an ashy hue. John felt her pulse, which was weak and unsteady, and checked for a bullet wound, but couldn't see blood anywhere.
"I'm a doctor. What happened to her?" he asked the boy, who was squeezing her hand and gently returning her head to his lap.
"I don't know. She wasn't shot. She's got cancer- that's why they separated us. Maybe she's having a relapse. Oh God, Mum." Alexei's thin lips, which were identical to Mycroft's, trembled and tears hung from his lashes.
Their conversation was interrupted by two sets of footsteps hurrying down the path. John heard Mycroft calling anxiously, "John? John, I heard you. Where are you?"
Alexei tensed, eyes flashing over the ground for a potential weapon. "It's all right, they're with me," John assured him before raising his voice. "I'm here. With Diabel and someone else."
The Holmes brothers joined them a moment later. They were both sweating: Mycroft from exertion, Sherlock due to lingering nausea. When he saw Elena, Mycroft fell to his knees beside John and Alexei.
"What's happened?" he exclaimed.
"Her pulse is low and her breathing is irregular," John told him. "We've got to her to a hospital."
"She just collapsed when we were running through the garden, trying to get away from those men," the boy answered without taking his eyes off of his mother. John felt chills at the sight of a man and his secret son kneeling side by side, their attention so focused on the woman who united them that they barely acknowledged each other.
Sherlock wasn't so oblivious. John watched his gaze flit from Mycroft to Alexei and back, lingering over their hair, lips, and other physical features they had in common. Then the younger Holmes surveyed Elena, and the concerned, almost reverent way that Mycroft touched her wrist. His brow furrowed and his mouth tightened.
Oh Christ, John thought, his heart sinking. He's guessed it.
For once, though, Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself. But the next second he overstepped a different boundary.
"Can we move her or is she going to die right here?"
"Sherlock!" John hissed.
Alexei looked up, his fair skin colouring with rage. "She's not going to die!" he yelled. "You bloody bastard!"
Before John or Mycroft could grab him, the boy carefully laid Elena's head on the soft ground and sprang to his feet. He leaped at Sherlock, whose response time remained slow due to the earlier injection, and struck him on the cheekbone. The younger Holmes stumbled back several steps, nearly crashing into a rose bush, but blocked a second attack by seizing Alexei's wrists, spinning him around, and securing him in an armlock.
"Don't make me hurt you!" Sherlock huffed.
"As if you could! You're only dangerous in the laboratory, you failed chemist!"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to grow red in the face. "Don't try to out-deduce me! I've got years of experience on you."
Mycroft rose with a panther's dangerous grace. "Stop it, both of you!" he barked. Alexei instinctively responded to the authority in his voice and paused; Sherlock followed suit, although the latter's face darkened with contempt.
"You're her son, aren't you?" Mycroft queried in a softer tone. When Alexei nodded after a venomous backward glare at Sherlock, he said, "I can tell. You look like her. Now please listen. Neither of you will be harmed. We're going to take you somewhere safe. Petra too."
The boy brightened. "Aunt Petra is all right? I saw them shoot her."
"She's wounded but not too badly, I understand." The elder Holmes looked at John for confirmation. When the doctor nodded, Mycroft continued, "Sherlock, let him go."
"Gladly. Maybe he'll get your face on the next round." Sherlock lowered his arms and touched his cheek, which was a livid shade of purple. Staring icily at Alexei, he said, "If she's your mother, where's your father? I'm sure he's worried about you, unless he doesn't know you exist yet."
John closed his eyes.
The teenager glared daggers at him. "None of your business." Facing John and Mycroft, he added, "I never knew my father. Now, please, let's go. She needs help."
"Of course." The elder Holmes crouched, arranged Elena carefully in his arms, and stood. She groaned softly but did not wake up. "Let's head out. We-" He hesitated at the distress evident on the doctor's face. "John?"
"Sorry, I'm all right. Just a headache."
John loved Sherlock, and had once been prepared to die rather than face life without him. But there were times, like this, when he wanted to join the majority opinion and cheerfully strangle his best friend. Sherlock was so driven once he got an idea in his head. He would aggressively explore and test his theories until he was proven right or wrong, not caring less whose sensitivities he pulverized in the bargain. His only soft spot was John- anyone (even a newly discovered nephew) and anything else was fair game for his ruthless curiosity.
Mycroft led the way back to the house. John kept himself between Alexei and Sherlock while he wondered what was going to happen now. Although he refused to say it aloud, his brief examination of her was enough to tell him that Elena's relapse was serious, and she did not have six months left. Six weeks was more likely.
His heart thudded in his chest, reminding him that six weeks was more than he had, unless Mycroft's resources were able to determine which explosive had been planted in him and how to disable it… if disabling it was possible.
As they walked through the house, John recalled something from his medical school days. For months, he'd been fanatical about hot sauce, probably because it enabled him to stay relatively alert during 36-hour shifts at the hospital. He'd poured it over his sandwich meats instead of ketchup or mustard, and even mixed it into the microwaveable soup cups he'd survived on. But one day Mike Stamford caught him adding hot sauce to his morning coffee, and kidded him by posting a photocopied picture on his locker door. It was a police photograph of a woman's charred remains: a caption below identified it as an alleged case of spontaneous human combustion. The implication was clear- any more hot sauce and all that would be left of John Watson one day was a pile of smouldering embers.
The thought wasn't so funny any more. He was a hair's breadth from another breakdown, but maintained his composure for Mycroft's and Alexei's sakes.
Lestrade, Morrell, and other guards waited out by the car, keeping an eye on the glowering Russian prisoner in the back seat. When he saw Elena, Lestrade hurried over.
"What's happened? Has she been shot?"
"No, but she needs medical attention urgently," Mycroft said. "Gregory, please call Anthea and tell her I'll need a medical team sent to the manor at once. For a patient in an advanced stage of terminal cancer. Tell her I want Dr. Bruckman if he's available. I'll also need a cleanup crew to remove the body in this house and restore the premises to acceptable shape in case the owner drops by unexpectedly."
"You got it." Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialled.
The elder Holmes turned to the bodyguards next. "Take the prisoner to Containment and return to the manor afterward. Mr. Morrell, I want you to ride with them as far as the spot where we left the other car. Drive it back here and pick us up."
"Yes, Sir." Morrell glanced at John. "Did that young woman regain consciousness?"
"Yes. But she knows we're all on the same side. Just make sure you identify yourself as you approach the car."
Alexei stared at the handcuffed prisoner, blue eyes flashing with resentment. "He and the other men who followed me here are with the Consortium. And if you want to know more about them, I'll be happy to oblige. I accessed several of their databases before coming here. It's how I knew where to find my mother."
John felt a pang. A fourteen-year-old boy shouldn't see handcuffed prisoners, gun-toting bodyguards, and references to containment centres as normal. Alexei was above average, but he was still a child. Did Mycroft and Sherlock have their childhoods abridged under similar circumstances?
"You're a resourceful young man," Mycroft told Alexei while Lestrade spoke to Anthea on his mobile and the bodyguards drove off with the Russian. "We shall definitely talk after we ensure that your mother is comfortable."
Sherlock edged up to John. "I may not know who that boy is, but what he is- that's obvious. I'm surprised Mycroft doesn't see it."
John glanced worriedly at the elder Holmes, but he was talking to Lestrade now and didn't appear to be listening. "Not now, Sherlock. Please."
"His appearance, his speech, the fact that he knew I am a chemist, although I resent the insinuation that I'm a failure. It all adds up. Mycroft even admitted that he knew the woman well."
John raised both hands. "Just stop, all right?"
The younger Holmes frowned. "You've gotten more bad news, haven't you? You have that line on your forehead that you always get when you're in trouble. It generally goes away after 24 hours, so the news is recent. What is it?"
John realized that Sherlock didn't know about the bomb yet. Not wanting to have the discussion on the front lawn of a recent battleground, he said wearily, "You're right, Sherlock, but I can't talk about this now. Wait until we get to Mycroft's place. Can you do that for me?"
Sherlock nodded reluctantly, but continued to survey him from top to bottom, clearly seeking clues. John turned away, only to face another pair of scrutinizing eyes.
"Everyone calls you John," Alexei said thoughtfully. "And you're a doctor. I'm not normally this slow when it comes to reaching conclusions, but are you Dr. John Watson?"
"Yes," John answered slowly. "How do you know about me?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. He too was interested in the response.
The boy's eyes widened. "You're the one they programmed."
"How do you know about that?" Sherlock demanded.
Alexei ignored him. "When I hacked into the Consortium databases, trying to determine where Mum was, I accessed her most recent mission profile. It had a subsection with your name on it and outlined the steps they took to modify you. So you'd kill a Mycroft Holmes."
"Which is me," Mycroft announced, joining the conversation. "Did you just say you know what's been done to John?"
"Yes. Listen, Mum's name is your trigger. But I suspect you know that already. I heard you refer to her as Diabel."
John nodded. "I was triggered yesterday, but brought out of it by hypnosis. Now I have twenty-nine days left to undo their fail-safe."
"The corporeal timer bomb," Alexei said.
"What?" Sherlock faced John, eyes wide. "John!"
Mycroft handed Elena to Lestrade, whose stare was glued to the boy's face. "Alexei, I need you to think very carefully. Did the file indicate which bomb they used?"
Alexei's response elicited a collective gasp. "Yes, it did, and I know how to destroy it."
Part Fourteen