Danger Nights- Chapter Three
Danger Nights
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Alexei Holmes, original male and female characters
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is losing one of Britain's most crucial resources: his mind. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade struggle to find a solution, the past comes back to haunt everyone. Sequel to Promise to the Living and The Devil in Devon.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two
John found him in the men's room. He was standing before the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror and ignoring the gush of water from the taps.
"John," he said without turning around. "I take it you failed to find Mr. Rafferty?"
The doctor wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Mycroft, please. You must have some idea of where he's gone."
"I don't, actually. But if you're that determined to disregard his wishes, you can obtain his real name by requesting to see his credit card receipt, although the bartender may not disclose it for privacy reasons. He's also staying within a ten-minute radius of this hotel, judging from the limited dirt accumulation on his new shoes and other indicators too numerous to mention."
Without taking his eyes off of Mycroft, John grabbed his mobile and called Lestrade. He told the ex-Yarder about Rafferty's strange behaviour and suspected suicidal intent.
"Did this bloke actually say he was going to kill himself?" Lestrade asked.
Time was of the essence, so John said impatiently, "Let's just say that he did."
"All right. Let me call someone I know at the Met. They'll get on it immediately. Is… is Mycroft any better?"
John stared at the elder Holmes, who hadn't moved once. "No. Now make that call, for God's sake. Before it's too late."
When he hung up, Mycroft said flatly, "Noble as ever, John."
"Listen to me." John pocketed the phone and touched his arm. "I don't want to hear any more bullshit. You're not well. You need to tell me what's happening with you."
Mycroft shook his head. "It will pass. It always does."
"What will? Please tell me."
The elder Holmes looked down at the gushing taps as if noticing them for the first time. Turning them off, he added, "We can talk in the car."
John escorted him back into the restaurant, keeping close enough to seize his arm if necessary. He knew that if the situation escalated into a struggle, Mycroft could easily overpower him long enough to escape. But staying close to his lover calmed his sense of helplessness somewhat.
While Mycroft donned his coat and exchanged some parting pleasantries with the maitre d', John gazed aimlessly around the restaurant- and immediately noticed that a man sitting alone at a corner table was watching them intently.
He hadn't been in the restaurant earlier: John was sure of that, as his table stood in the doctor's line of sight. He was young, dark-haired, and presentable enough to blend in with 140 Park Lane's upscale clientele. His eyes, on the other hand, were cold and devoid of curiosity, admiration, or any other benign motive for looking at them.
When John stared back, the man quickly turned away and feigned interest in the menu. But the former army doctor wasn't fooled: his years as a soldier and crime fighter had fine-tuned his ability to identify an enemy.
Mycroft touched John's shoulder. If he had noticed the stranger's scrutiny, he did not comment. "Let's go."
John did a visual sweep of the crowds and parked vehicles as they left the restaurant and got into the government car, but didn't detect anything suspicious. When the journey to the townhouse resumed, he relaxed a little while Mycroft took out his phone and started texting.
"I'm sending instructions to Anthea for tomorrow morning," he said.
"For what?"
"I'm going to see a doctor." In a feeble attempt at humour, Mycroft added, "Not in the same way I see you, of course."
While waiting for him to continue, John glanced out the rear window to see if they were being followed. They weren't, as far as he could see, but he still wished he had his army revolver on him. Just in case.
"Sherlock is not the only one who struggles with his moods, John. He merely happens to deal with his in self-defeating ways." The elder Holmes paused in mid-text and stared out the window. "Fortunately, it does not afflict me often. This is the first instance in over three years."
His voice trailed off. When he didn't resume, John said gently, "You're exhibiting the classic signs of a nervous breakdown, Mycroft. With all of your responsibilities and the schedule you keep, I'm surprised you don't experience one every three weeks, let alone years."
"I'm glad I don't, for the consequences would be severe. I wouldn't be able to do my job, and people would suffer." Mycroft finished composing his message, sent it, and put the phone away. "I experienced it more frequently when I was younger, and Sherlock was a constant source of worry. Nowadays, it's blessedly rare."
He seemed tired: his shoulders slumped and his chin lowered toward his chest. John felt guilty for questioning him, but he had to know more.
"Have you ever taken medication for it?" He tried to remember the contents of Mycroft's medicine cabinet. All that came to mind was a half-empty bottle of paracetamol and unfinished antibiotic prescriptions.
"No."
"Maybe you should. There's no shame in it, you know. Remember those mood stabilizers you encouraged me to take when I thought Sherlock was dead? They were a lifesaver. They helped me cope until I could manage on my own." He touched Mycroft's hand. "Is this doctor you're seeing tomorrow a psychiatrist?"
"Yes. Dr. Lowery. I've known him for over twenty years. He's discreet and trustworthy." Mycroft shifted on the leather seat and wrapped his arms around John in a weak hug. He moved slowly, as if at the limits of his physical endurance. "I'm terribly sorry if I've alarmed you tonight."
"Christ, Mycroft," John half-sobbed. He wanted to scream at the man for a lot of things right now: letting a suicidal individual walk out of the restaurant unchallenged, not taking better care of his mental health, pushing himself to the point where he was fainting and staring blankly at bathroom mirrors. But he couldn't bring himself to do it: in Mycroft's current condition, hard words would have an abnormally destructive effect. "I wish you'd told me sooner."
"I always hoped that I wouldn't have to. After three years, I fooled myself into believing that my personal demons had finally loosened their hold. Now I realize I was guilty of wishful thinking."
"What time are you seeing Dr. Lowery tomorrow? And where?"
"I've requested a ten o'clock appointment, and he will most assuredly make time for me. At St. Thomas's Hospital."
"I'm going with you."
"Of course. If you like." Mycroft paused. Then he added in an odd voice, "But the session sometimes exceeds two hours. You will be waiting awhile."
"I don't care if it takes two days." John pulled back and stared into that beloved but alarmingly weary face. "I just want you well."
"I want to be well too, John. If I ever fall, more will be lost than just my mind."
Upon arrival at the townhouse, the elder Holmes went straight to his bedroom while John, the driver, and the two bodyguards stationed outside the residence walked from room to room, deactivating some alarms and reinforcing others. As he keyed in codes and adjusted locks, John couldn't stop thinking about the man in the restaurant. He knew that Mycroft Holmes was watched by a number of subversive parties whenever he appeared in public, but something about that stranger with the glacial eyes had unnerved him.
When the employees left, he went upstairs to the master bedroom and found Mycroft standing before his open sleepwear drawer, looking confused.
"I can't choose," he complained in a small voice. "This is rubbish. Why can't I decide?"
"I've always liked you in this one," John said gently, taking out a pair of red silk pyjamas. "You're exhausted. I'll help you."
With atypical docility Mycroft let John remove his suit and dress him in the pyjamas. After John changed into his T-shirt and boxers, they went into the bathroom together and washed up.
"Thank you for assisting me," Mycroft murmured after spitting toothpaste into the sink. "I'm very embarrassed."
"Please. Don't be."
John knew that it was hard for a proud, normally controlled man like Mycroft Holmes to need help with such basic functions. Nearly two years ago he himself had been in a similar state: believing that Sherlock had died in a gruesome suicide, John had grieved and deteriorated to the point that even living was too much, and he'd planned his own death. Mycroft had retrieved him from the abyss and restored his will to live. When those dark days ended, their relationship had dawned, brilliant and healing and sustaining.
By the time they got into bed, the elder Holmes was too weary to talk, let alone indulge in their usual intimacies, so they simply lay there together. Mycroft rolled onto his side, rested his temple against John's shoulder and fell asleep almost immediately. His overburdened, failing mind was resting at last.
John watched him all night, heart swelling with love while worry bruised it almost beyond endurance.
When they woke up together shortly after seven, Mycroft seemed more alert, but there was a slowness to his speech and movements that signalled the depression's continuing grip. He showered, shaved, and dressed without assistance but refused to eat or even drink anything except small sips of water. "My stomach is slightly unsteady," he explained.
John frowned. "Have some dry toast then. You need to keep your strength up."
"I'll eat something later." Mycroft put his water glass down and pushed his hair out of his eyes. That was when John noticed that he hadn't applied the usual avalanche of product to keep his hair straight. It fell across his forehead in soft auburn waves, making him look more vulnerable.
Empty stomach. Dry, clean hair. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that surgery, not psychotherapy, was on the agenda.
"Mycroft," he said, "if Dr. Lowery recommends that you take medication, I hope you'll do it. It sounds like you should have been on some kind of mood stabilizer long ago."
"Of course," the elder Holmes answered in the same noncommittal tone that Sherlock used when he wanted John off his back. When John regarded him suspiciously, something inside Mycroft visibly folded. He walked slowly over to the table, where the doctor sat with his breakfast of tea and toast, and sank into the other chair.
"I must be honest with you. My appointment with Dr. Lowery is for a procedure, not psychotherapy."
"A procedure?"
"Yes." As he spoke, Mycroft's eyes glided all over the kitchen and dining area, taking in everything except John. "A man in my position must exercise extreme caution when seeking treatment for mental afflictions. Pharmaceutical intervention is too risky: tablets could be seen by unfriendly eyes, and even the most discreetly maintained prescription records could be accessed. Enemies would scent weakness, and my colleagues would question my competency. Dr. Lowery and I have an arrangement that has served both of us well: it's put his two daughters through Cambridge and enabled me to function without tablets or therapist visits."
John was mystified. "What exactly is this procedure?"
Mycroft's answer nearly sent the doctor into a faint.
"Electroconvulsive therapy."
Part Four
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Alexei Holmes, original male and female characters
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is losing one of Britain's most crucial resources: his mind. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade struggle to find a solution, the past comes back to haunt everyone. Sequel to Promise to the Living and The Devil in Devon.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two
John found him in the men's room. He was standing before the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror and ignoring the gush of water from the taps.
"John," he said without turning around. "I take it you failed to find Mr. Rafferty?"
The doctor wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Mycroft, please. You must have some idea of where he's gone."
"I don't, actually. But if you're that determined to disregard his wishes, you can obtain his real name by requesting to see his credit card receipt, although the bartender may not disclose it for privacy reasons. He's also staying within a ten-minute radius of this hotel, judging from the limited dirt accumulation on his new shoes and other indicators too numerous to mention."
Without taking his eyes off of Mycroft, John grabbed his mobile and called Lestrade. He told the ex-Yarder about Rafferty's strange behaviour and suspected suicidal intent.
"Did this bloke actually say he was going to kill himself?" Lestrade asked.
Time was of the essence, so John said impatiently, "Let's just say that he did."
"All right. Let me call someone I know at the Met. They'll get on it immediately. Is… is Mycroft any better?"
John stared at the elder Holmes, who hadn't moved once. "No. Now make that call, for God's sake. Before it's too late."
When he hung up, Mycroft said flatly, "Noble as ever, John."
"Listen to me." John pocketed the phone and touched his arm. "I don't want to hear any more bullshit. You're not well. You need to tell me what's happening with you."
Mycroft shook his head. "It will pass. It always does."
"What will? Please tell me."
The elder Holmes looked down at the gushing taps as if noticing them for the first time. Turning them off, he added, "We can talk in the car."
John escorted him back into the restaurant, keeping close enough to seize his arm if necessary. He knew that if the situation escalated into a struggle, Mycroft could easily overpower him long enough to escape. But staying close to his lover calmed his sense of helplessness somewhat.
While Mycroft donned his coat and exchanged some parting pleasantries with the maitre d', John gazed aimlessly around the restaurant- and immediately noticed that a man sitting alone at a corner table was watching them intently.
He hadn't been in the restaurant earlier: John was sure of that, as his table stood in the doctor's line of sight. He was young, dark-haired, and presentable enough to blend in with 140 Park Lane's upscale clientele. His eyes, on the other hand, were cold and devoid of curiosity, admiration, or any other benign motive for looking at them.
When John stared back, the man quickly turned away and feigned interest in the menu. But the former army doctor wasn't fooled: his years as a soldier and crime fighter had fine-tuned his ability to identify an enemy.
Mycroft touched John's shoulder. If he had noticed the stranger's scrutiny, he did not comment. "Let's go."
John did a visual sweep of the crowds and parked vehicles as they left the restaurant and got into the government car, but didn't detect anything suspicious. When the journey to the townhouse resumed, he relaxed a little while Mycroft took out his phone and started texting.
"I'm sending instructions to Anthea for tomorrow morning," he said.
"For what?"
"I'm going to see a doctor." In a feeble attempt at humour, Mycroft added, "Not in the same way I see you, of course."
While waiting for him to continue, John glanced out the rear window to see if they were being followed. They weren't, as far as he could see, but he still wished he had his army revolver on him. Just in case.
"Sherlock is not the only one who struggles with his moods, John. He merely happens to deal with his in self-defeating ways." The elder Holmes paused in mid-text and stared out the window. "Fortunately, it does not afflict me often. This is the first instance in over three years."
His voice trailed off. When he didn't resume, John said gently, "You're exhibiting the classic signs of a nervous breakdown, Mycroft. With all of your responsibilities and the schedule you keep, I'm surprised you don't experience one every three weeks, let alone years."
"I'm glad I don't, for the consequences would be severe. I wouldn't be able to do my job, and people would suffer." Mycroft finished composing his message, sent it, and put the phone away. "I experienced it more frequently when I was younger, and Sherlock was a constant source of worry. Nowadays, it's blessedly rare."
He seemed tired: his shoulders slumped and his chin lowered toward his chest. John felt guilty for questioning him, but he had to know more.
"Have you ever taken medication for it?" He tried to remember the contents of Mycroft's medicine cabinet. All that came to mind was a half-empty bottle of paracetamol and unfinished antibiotic prescriptions.
"No."
"Maybe you should. There's no shame in it, you know. Remember those mood stabilizers you encouraged me to take when I thought Sherlock was dead? They were a lifesaver. They helped me cope until I could manage on my own." He touched Mycroft's hand. "Is this doctor you're seeing tomorrow a psychiatrist?"
"Yes. Dr. Lowery. I've known him for over twenty years. He's discreet and trustworthy." Mycroft shifted on the leather seat and wrapped his arms around John in a weak hug. He moved slowly, as if at the limits of his physical endurance. "I'm terribly sorry if I've alarmed you tonight."
"Christ, Mycroft," John half-sobbed. He wanted to scream at the man for a lot of things right now: letting a suicidal individual walk out of the restaurant unchallenged, not taking better care of his mental health, pushing himself to the point where he was fainting and staring blankly at bathroom mirrors. But he couldn't bring himself to do it: in Mycroft's current condition, hard words would have an abnormally destructive effect. "I wish you'd told me sooner."
"I always hoped that I wouldn't have to. After three years, I fooled myself into believing that my personal demons had finally loosened their hold. Now I realize I was guilty of wishful thinking."
"What time are you seeing Dr. Lowery tomorrow? And where?"
"I've requested a ten o'clock appointment, and he will most assuredly make time for me. At St. Thomas's Hospital."
"I'm going with you."
"Of course. If you like." Mycroft paused. Then he added in an odd voice, "But the session sometimes exceeds two hours. You will be waiting awhile."
"I don't care if it takes two days." John pulled back and stared into that beloved but alarmingly weary face. "I just want you well."
"I want to be well too, John. If I ever fall, more will be lost than just my mind."
Upon arrival at the townhouse, the elder Holmes went straight to his bedroom while John, the driver, and the two bodyguards stationed outside the residence walked from room to room, deactivating some alarms and reinforcing others. As he keyed in codes and adjusted locks, John couldn't stop thinking about the man in the restaurant. He knew that Mycroft Holmes was watched by a number of subversive parties whenever he appeared in public, but something about that stranger with the glacial eyes had unnerved him.
When the employees left, he went upstairs to the master bedroom and found Mycroft standing before his open sleepwear drawer, looking confused.
"I can't choose," he complained in a small voice. "This is rubbish. Why can't I decide?"
"I've always liked you in this one," John said gently, taking out a pair of red silk pyjamas. "You're exhausted. I'll help you."
With atypical docility Mycroft let John remove his suit and dress him in the pyjamas. After John changed into his T-shirt and boxers, they went into the bathroom together and washed up.
"Thank you for assisting me," Mycroft murmured after spitting toothpaste into the sink. "I'm very embarrassed."
"Please. Don't be."
John knew that it was hard for a proud, normally controlled man like Mycroft Holmes to need help with such basic functions. Nearly two years ago he himself had been in a similar state: believing that Sherlock had died in a gruesome suicide, John had grieved and deteriorated to the point that even living was too much, and he'd planned his own death. Mycroft had retrieved him from the abyss and restored his will to live. When those dark days ended, their relationship had dawned, brilliant and healing and sustaining.
By the time they got into bed, the elder Holmes was too weary to talk, let alone indulge in their usual intimacies, so they simply lay there together. Mycroft rolled onto his side, rested his temple against John's shoulder and fell asleep almost immediately. His overburdened, failing mind was resting at last.
John watched him all night, heart swelling with love while worry bruised it almost beyond endurance.
When they woke up together shortly after seven, Mycroft seemed more alert, but there was a slowness to his speech and movements that signalled the depression's continuing grip. He showered, shaved, and dressed without assistance but refused to eat or even drink anything except small sips of water. "My stomach is slightly unsteady," he explained.
John frowned. "Have some dry toast then. You need to keep your strength up."
"I'll eat something later." Mycroft put his water glass down and pushed his hair out of his eyes. That was when John noticed that he hadn't applied the usual avalanche of product to keep his hair straight. It fell across his forehead in soft auburn waves, making him look more vulnerable.
Empty stomach. Dry, clean hair. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that surgery, not psychotherapy, was on the agenda.
"Mycroft," he said, "if Dr. Lowery recommends that you take medication, I hope you'll do it. It sounds like you should have been on some kind of mood stabilizer long ago."
"Of course," the elder Holmes answered in the same noncommittal tone that Sherlock used when he wanted John off his back. When John regarded him suspiciously, something inside Mycroft visibly folded. He walked slowly over to the table, where the doctor sat with his breakfast of tea and toast, and sank into the other chair.
"I must be honest with you. My appointment with Dr. Lowery is for a procedure, not psychotherapy."
"A procedure?"
"Yes." As he spoke, Mycroft's eyes glided all over the kitchen and dining area, taking in everything except John. "A man in my position must exercise extreme caution when seeking treatment for mental afflictions. Pharmaceutical intervention is too risky: tablets could be seen by unfriendly eyes, and even the most discreetly maintained prescription records could be accessed. Enemies would scent weakness, and my colleagues would question my competency. Dr. Lowery and I have an arrangement that has served both of us well: it's put his two daughters through Cambridge and enabled me to function without tablets or therapist visits."
John was mystified. "What exactly is this procedure?"
Mycroft's answer nearly sent the doctor into a faint.
"Electroconvulsive therapy."
Part Four