Danger Nights- Chapter Four
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 Part Three
Although not a psychiatrist, John Watson knew about the controversy surrounding ECT. Some doctors lauded it as a quick-acting miracle for difficult cases while others decried it as archaic and unreliable in its efficacy. No medical authority could explain exactly how it worked to treat mental illness either. That bothered John more than anything.
"You can't be serious," he breathed.
"I assure you that I am."
For a moment John was too stunned to continue. Then he stammered, "Y-you're telling me you've been treated with ECT before?"
"Twice. The first time was in 2002. The second was three years ago. Not long before we met." Mycroft laced his fingers tightly together and gazed out the window into the back garden, where three armed bodyguards patrolled. "John, I love you, and I appreciate how worrying this must be. But I must inform you that my decision has been made. I will be seeing Dr. Lowery at ten. If you would rather not accompany me, I shall understand."
Not even depression could soften the iron will of Mycroft Holmes, it seemed. His blue eyes shifted from the window to John, assessing the doctor's reaction.
John had always accepted that he'd never know everything about Mycroft's past or even his present. The elder Holmes was the shadow side of the British government, responsible for activities and projects that outsiders could never learn about and live. But nothing could have prepared John for discovering that Mycroft's singular brain had been assaulted by 240 to 400 volts of electricity- at his own direction.
John wanted to argue, to remind him that ECT, while not the medically sanctioned torture of fifty years ago, was mainly a treatment of last resort for bipolar disorder and drug-resistant depression. The known risks were potentially catastrophic: diminished learning ability, permanent loss of some memories, and shock-induced heart complications. But Mycroft would already be aware of all that. Unlike Sherlock, he rarely rushed headlong into danger zones.
"How many treatments have you actually received?" John finally asked.
"Six in total. Three the first time, and another three the second. In both instances I improved greatly after the third session, so no more were necessary."
Although upset, John couldn't help but be curious from a medical perspective. "And you had no adverse effects?"
"I was quite uncomfortable each time I woke up, but experienced no memory loss or cognitive impairment. The rapid elevation in mood was remarkable. Dr. Lowery has a theory that the shocks serve the same purpose as antidepressant tablets. The way that the brain processes mood-regulating chemicals is altered for the better."
"God, Mycroft." Objectively speaking, John knew that ECT would not alter Mycroft's personality, his essence. He would not wake up a different man. But what John realized from a scientific perspective and what he feared as a loving partner were two different things. He wanted to argue and plead and dissuade until his throat bled.
"I appreciate how distressing this must be for you," Mycroft continued. "But it really is the best way for me to handle this problem. I've already explained why I cannot afford to be treated pharmaceutically. And even if taking tablets would not put my career and potentially my life at risk, I'm not at liberty to wait weeks for the dosage to take proper effect. My responsibilities are too immediate and urgent."
"Does… does Sherlock know?"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow.
"No," John sighed, "I didn't think so."
The elder Holmes placed his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "The situation in Prague was apparently a nightmare even by my standards."
"Can you tell me why?"
Mycroft raised his eyes. John saw pain in them. "I had to kill a man. He was definitely spying against Britain. But I knew him for over twenty years, John. We joined MI6 together."
"That must have been terrible. But why did you have to be the one to kill him?"
"He was pointing a gun at me. Still…." Mycroft shook his head apparently puzzled. "This is, regrettably, not the first time I've been forced to kill someone who was once a friend. But it has never affected me like this. I was relatively fine at the time, but when I woke up in my hotel room yesterday morning, I was debilitated. Fortunately Anthea helped me conceal the worst of it from my associates."
John touched his hand. "Can I ask you what brought on your other two collapses?"
"Sherlock."
John remembered what Mycroft had said during their first meeting in the draughty warehouse. I worry about him constantly. Enough, he now knew, to erode Mycroft's steely resolve twice.
"Listen." He pushed his chair closer to Mycroft's and drew him close in a one-armed hug. "I'm upset, but I trust your judgment. You're not reckless, like Sherlock. I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm doubting you. But the risks involved with ECT worry me. If anything ever happened to you…. God, I don't even want to imagine it."
"I run greater risks going to the office every day. If anything ever gives me brain damage, it will be a bullet, not an electrode." Mycroft smiled to soften the harsh words. "I will not be harmed or altered in any way that is not beneficial."
"So basically your mind is made up. You intend to do this."
"Yes. The alternative is not an option. I will not stay like… this. I cannot, John."
The thought of watching a medical team transmit electricity into the brain of this powerful, brilliant man was agonising, but John's heart reminded him where his duty lay.
"Please accompany me to the hospital," Mycroft begged, guessing his thoughts for the hundredth time since they'd known each other. "You will, won't you?"
John struggled to speak over the lump in his throat. "Just try keeping me away."
Three hours later, John was standing in a small white room that glowed from the brilliance of the overhead light. Cold sweat pooled on his forehead and ran down his face despite the warmth. He hadn't been this terrified since Russian subversives had temporarily turned him into a human explosive device last summer.
He'd sent texts to Sherlock, Lestrade, and Alexei, telling them that he was accompanying Mycroft on a visit to the man's personal physician. There was no way he could tell them the truth, especially Sherlock. Even if Mycroft hadn't sworn him to secrecy, he didn't want to subject them to the same anxiety and dread that he was feeling now.
Anthea stood beside him, her Blackberry temporarily forgotten. Her poise and self-control were flawless, but John knew that she was afraid too. She swallowed rapidly and watched the medical team like a hawk. One hand absently stroked the jacket pocket where she carried her gun.
Mycroft was lying on a gurney in the middle of the room, an IV in his right hand and eyes unfocused. His responses were coherent whenever Dr. Mark Lowery, a kind-faced Welshman with blue-grey hair, spoke to him, but he was clearly groggy from the preliminary sedation. Monitor leads ran from his forehead and behind his ears to a machine which would monitor the seizure activity. When a nurse lowered the collar of his hospital gown and hooked him up to the heart monitor, he said mildly, "Careful, my dear. My partner is in the room."
John's own heart lurched, but he remained stoic. When Mycroft turned his head on the pillow and smiled at him, John mouthed the words, "Love you."
As Dr. Lowery and his assistant, Dr. Malone, worked with the anaesthesiologist and two nurses to get their patient and the equipment ready, John explained each step to Anthea, who seemed comforted by the insights. He found that clarifying a medical procedure brought his doctor persona to the fore and made him feel less helpless.
The anaesthesiologist opened a valve on the IV. A few seconds later Mycroft's eyes closed and he relaxed. A breathing mask was applied to his face while Dr. Lowery injected the contents of a large syringe into a tube on the back of Mycroft's hand. "That's succinycholine: it's a muscle relaxant," John told Anthea. "It paralyzes the muscles so they don't contract during the treatment and cause bones to fracture." He shuddered inside at the imagery but retained his composure.
When the elder Holmes began to twitch rapidly, Anthea's hand flew to her mouth. "It's all right: that's just an initial response to the relaxant," John assured her, although his eyes never left the heart monitor. Both of them exhaled slowly when Mycroft finally went limp.
A nurse opened Mycroft's mouth, inserted a flat rubber piece, and then gently pressed his jaws together to keep it in place. The anaesthesiologist began touching and stroking his closed eyelids and limp forearms. John explained, "The doctor's checking his reflexes to make sure that the paralytic has taken effect before the treatment starts."
The anaesthesiologist looked at Dr. Lowry. "We're ready."
Anthea turned white. Her hand grasped John's.
While the anaesthesiologist held the breathing mask in place and kept Mycroft's jaw closed against the mouth guard, Dr. Malone picked up two black-handled electrodes attached to the ECT machine by long, curled cords. He positioned one on the crown of Mycroft's head and the other on his right temple, and held them in place.
"Ready, Mark," Dr. Malone said.
Dr. Lowry turned to the ECT machine, checked its settings, and pressed a button. An eerie electronic trill filled the small room. After less than a second had passed, Dr. Malone stepped back, the lowered electrodes in his hands.
John clenched his teeth so tightly that pain shot up his jaw. He stared down at Mycroft's bare foot, which protruded from under the blanket, and observed that the toes were curled and quivering lightly. The seizure lasted just under a minute. Then Mycroft's foot relaxed and the machine ceased its unearthly noise.
Anthea released John's hand and wiped her face. They watched as the anaesthesiologist continued to hold the oxygen mask in place. "He won't be able to breathe unaided until the paralytic wears off, which usually doesn't take long," John said, grateful for this opportunity to talk so clinically.
Soon Mycroft began to stir. The anaesthesiologist removed the mouth guard and leaned forward. "Mr. Haines," he said gently (Mycroft had used a pseudonym to conceal his identity from Lowery's staff), "the treatment's over now. Can you open your eyes for me?"
John hurried to the gurney and joined the nurses in tapping and rubbing key muscles to gauge Mycroft's recovering reflexes. He stroked Mycroft's face, which was damp and warm beneath the overhead light, and said, "It's me. It's John. It's all over. Wake up now."
Mycroft shifted and groaned at his voice. His eyes fluttered open and he gazed at the faces hovering over him, looking vacant and confused.
"We're going to take you to a private recovery room," John told him. So far Mycroft's responses were normal for someone waking up from anaesthesia, but the doctor was desperate for confirmation that the man he loved had not been changed on an invisible level. "Nod if you understand me."
Mycroft's blue eyes slowly reflected his return to awareness. He licked his lips and whispered in a raspy voice, "Can't nod. Hurts."
"Your head hurts?"
"Yes." He winced at the overhead lights. "Need dark. Please, John."
"Okay. Let's get you moved." While the nurses raised the bed rails and Dr. Malone removed the monitor leads, John turned to Lowry. "I'm going to stay with him. Can you have someone fetch painkillers for his headache?"
"Of course, Dr. Watson." Lowry drew him aside and spoke in lower tones. "He's rallied very quickly every time the treatment's been applied, but he's usually ill afterward from the anaesthetic. I'll provide a Compazine dose for you to administer if necessary."
"Thanks," John said gratefully. Behind him, Anthea's Blackberry went off. She hurried out of the treatment room into the hallway to answer it.
Mycroft had dozed off again, seeking refuge from the pain in sleep. The nurses and Dr. Malone wheeled the bed and IV stand out of the room into the hallway. As he and Dr. Lowry followed, John saw Anthea standing near a window, speaking rapidly into her phone and looking stricken. When she saw him, she concluded the call.
"John, a word, please?" She kept her voice calm for the benefit of the medical team, but John could tell that she was frantic.
"He'll be in room 713," Lowry said. John nodded and hurried over to Anthea.
"What is it?"
"Is your phone off? Sherlock's been trying to reach you."
He fished it out of his pocket. "Battery's dead. What's happened?"
Mycroft's normally unflappable assistant trembled.
"It's Alexei. He's been taken."
Part Five
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 Part Three
Although not a psychiatrist, John Watson knew about the controversy surrounding ECT. Some doctors lauded it as a quick-acting miracle for difficult cases while others decried it as archaic and unreliable in its efficacy. No medical authority could explain exactly how it worked to treat mental illness either. That bothered John more than anything.
"You can't be serious," he breathed.
"I assure you that I am."
For a moment John was too stunned to continue. Then he stammered, "Y-you're telling me you've been treated with ECT before?"
"Twice. The first time was in 2002. The second was three years ago. Not long before we met." Mycroft laced his fingers tightly together and gazed out the window into the back garden, where three armed bodyguards patrolled. "John, I love you, and I appreciate how worrying this must be. But I must inform you that my decision has been made. I will be seeing Dr. Lowery at ten. If you would rather not accompany me, I shall understand."
Not even depression could soften the iron will of Mycroft Holmes, it seemed. His blue eyes shifted from the window to John, assessing the doctor's reaction.
John had always accepted that he'd never know everything about Mycroft's past or even his present. The elder Holmes was the shadow side of the British government, responsible for activities and projects that outsiders could never learn about and live. But nothing could have prepared John for discovering that Mycroft's singular brain had been assaulted by 240 to 400 volts of electricity- at his own direction.
John wanted to argue, to remind him that ECT, while not the medically sanctioned torture of fifty years ago, was mainly a treatment of last resort for bipolar disorder and drug-resistant depression. The known risks were potentially catastrophic: diminished learning ability, permanent loss of some memories, and shock-induced heart complications. But Mycroft would already be aware of all that. Unlike Sherlock, he rarely rushed headlong into danger zones.
"How many treatments have you actually received?" John finally asked.
"Six in total. Three the first time, and another three the second. In both instances I improved greatly after the third session, so no more were necessary."
Although upset, John couldn't help but be curious from a medical perspective. "And you had no adverse effects?"
"I was quite uncomfortable each time I woke up, but experienced no memory loss or cognitive impairment. The rapid elevation in mood was remarkable. Dr. Lowery has a theory that the shocks serve the same purpose as antidepressant tablets. The way that the brain processes mood-regulating chemicals is altered for the better."
"God, Mycroft." Objectively speaking, John knew that ECT would not alter Mycroft's personality, his essence. He would not wake up a different man. But what John realized from a scientific perspective and what he feared as a loving partner were two different things. He wanted to argue and plead and dissuade until his throat bled.
"I appreciate how distressing this must be for you," Mycroft continued. "But it really is the best way for me to handle this problem. I've already explained why I cannot afford to be treated pharmaceutically. And even if taking tablets would not put my career and potentially my life at risk, I'm not at liberty to wait weeks for the dosage to take proper effect. My responsibilities are too immediate and urgent."
"Does… does Sherlock know?"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow.
"No," John sighed, "I didn't think so."
The elder Holmes placed his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "The situation in Prague was apparently a nightmare even by my standards."
"Can you tell me why?"
Mycroft raised his eyes. John saw pain in them. "I had to kill a man. He was definitely spying against Britain. But I knew him for over twenty years, John. We joined MI6 together."
"That must have been terrible. But why did you have to be the one to kill him?"
"He was pointing a gun at me. Still…." Mycroft shook his head apparently puzzled. "This is, regrettably, not the first time I've been forced to kill someone who was once a friend. But it has never affected me like this. I was relatively fine at the time, but when I woke up in my hotel room yesterday morning, I was debilitated. Fortunately Anthea helped me conceal the worst of it from my associates."
John touched his hand. "Can I ask you what brought on your other two collapses?"
"Sherlock."
John remembered what Mycroft had said during their first meeting in the draughty warehouse. I worry about him constantly. Enough, he now knew, to erode Mycroft's steely resolve twice.
"Listen." He pushed his chair closer to Mycroft's and drew him close in a one-armed hug. "I'm upset, but I trust your judgment. You're not reckless, like Sherlock. I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm doubting you. But the risks involved with ECT worry me. If anything ever happened to you…. God, I don't even want to imagine it."
"I run greater risks going to the office every day. If anything ever gives me brain damage, it will be a bullet, not an electrode." Mycroft smiled to soften the harsh words. "I will not be harmed or altered in any way that is not beneficial."
"So basically your mind is made up. You intend to do this."
"Yes. The alternative is not an option. I will not stay like… this. I cannot, John."
The thought of watching a medical team transmit electricity into the brain of this powerful, brilliant man was agonising, but John's heart reminded him where his duty lay.
"Please accompany me to the hospital," Mycroft begged, guessing his thoughts for the hundredth time since they'd known each other. "You will, won't you?"
John struggled to speak over the lump in his throat. "Just try keeping me away."
Three hours later, John was standing in a small white room that glowed from the brilliance of the overhead light. Cold sweat pooled on his forehead and ran down his face despite the warmth. He hadn't been this terrified since Russian subversives had temporarily turned him into a human explosive device last summer.
He'd sent texts to Sherlock, Lestrade, and Alexei, telling them that he was accompanying Mycroft on a visit to the man's personal physician. There was no way he could tell them the truth, especially Sherlock. Even if Mycroft hadn't sworn him to secrecy, he didn't want to subject them to the same anxiety and dread that he was feeling now.
Anthea stood beside him, her Blackberry temporarily forgotten. Her poise and self-control were flawless, but John knew that she was afraid too. She swallowed rapidly and watched the medical team like a hawk. One hand absently stroked the jacket pocket where she carried her gun.
Mycroft was lying on a gurney in the middle of the room, an IV in his right hand and eyes unfocused. His responses were coherent whenever Dr. Mark Lowery, a kind-faced Welshman with blue-grey hair, spoke to him, but he was clearly groggy from the preliminary sedation. Monitor leads ran from his forehead and behind his ears to a machine which would monitor the seizure activity. When a nurse lowered the collar of his hospital gown and hooked him up to the heart monitor, he said mildly, "Careful, my dear. My partner is in the room."
John's own heart lurched, but he remained stoic. When Mycroft turned his head on the pillow and smiled at him, John mouthed the words, "Love you."
As Dr. Lowery and his assistant, Dr. Malone, worked with the anaesthesiologist and two nurses to get their patient and the equipment ready, John explained each step to Anthea, who seemed comforted by the insights. He found that clarifying a medical procedure brought his doctor persona to the fore and made him feel less helpless.
The anaesthesiologist opened a valve on the IV. A few seconds later Mycroft's eyes closed and he relaxed. A breathing mask was applied to his face while Dr. Lowery injected the contents of a large syringe into a tube on the back of Mycroft's hand. "That's succinycholine: it's a muscle relaxant," John told Anthea. "It paralyzes the muscles so they don't contract during the treatment and cause bones to fracture." He shuddered inside at the imagery but retained his composure.
When the elder Holmes began to twitch rapidly, Anthea's hand flew to her mouth. "It's all right: that's just an initial response to the relaxant," John assured her, although his eyes never left the heart monitor. Both of them exhaled slowly when Mycroft finally went limp.
A nurse opened Mycroft's mouth, inserted a flat rubber piece, and then gently pressed his jaws together to keep it in place. The anaesthesiologist began touching and stroking his closed eyelids and limp forearms. John explained, "The doctor's checking his reflexes to make sure that the paralytic has taken effect before the treatment starts."
The anaesthesiologist looked at Dr. Lowry. "We're ready."
Anthea turned white. Her hand grasped John's.
While the anaesthesiologist held the breathing mask in place and kept Mycroft's jaw closed against the mouth guard, Dr. Malone picked up two black-handled electrodes attached to the ECT machine by long, curled cords. He positioned one on the crown of Mycroft's head and the other on his right temple, and held them in place.
"Ready, Mark," Dr. Malone said.
Dr. Lowry turned to the ECT machine, checked its settings, and pressed a button. An eerie electronic trill filled the small room. After less than a second had passed, Dr. Malone stepped back, the lowered electrodes in his hands.
John clenched his teeth so tightly that pain shot up his jaw. He stared down at Mycroft's bare foot, which protruded from under the blanket, and observed that the toes were curled and quivering lightly. The seizure lasted just under a minute. Then Mycroft's foot relaxed and the machine ceased its unearthly noise.
Anthea released John's hand and wiped her face. They watched as the anaesthesiologist continued to hold the oxygen mask in place. "He won't be able to breathe unaided until the paralytic wears off, which usually doesn't take long," John said, grateful for this opportunity to talk so clinically.
Soon Mycroft began to stir. The anaesthesiologist removed the mouth guard and leaned forward. "Mr. Haines," he said gently (Mycroft had used a pseudonym to conceal his identity from Lowery's staff), "the treatment's over now. Can you open your eyes for me?"
John hurried to the gurney and joined the nurses in tapping and rubbing key muscles to gauge Mycroft's recovering reflexes. He stroked Mycroft's face, which was damp and warm beneath the overhead light, and said, "It's me. It's John. It's all over. Wake up now."
Mycroft shifted and groaned at his voice. His eyes fluttered open and he gazed at the faces hovering over him, looking vacant and confused.
"We're going to take you to a private recovery room," John told him. So far Mycroft's responses were normal for someone waking up from anaesthesia, but the doctor was desperate for confirmation that the man he loved had not been changed on an invisible level. "Nod if you understand me."
Mycroft's blue eyes slowly reflected his return to awareness. He licked his lips and whispered in a raspy voice, "Can't nod. Hurts."
"Your head hurts?"
"Yes." He winced at the overhead lights. "Need dark. Please, John."
"Okay. Let's get you moved." While the nurses raised the bed rails and Dr. Malone removed the monitor leads, John turned to Lowry. "I'm going to stay with him. Can you have someone fetch painkillers for his headache?"
"Of course, Dr. Watson." Lowry drew him aside and spoke in lower tones. "He's rallied very quickly every time the treatment's been applied, but he's usually ill afterward from the anaesthetic. I'll provide a Compazine dose for you to administer if necessary."
"Thanks," John said gratefully. Behind him, Anthea's Blackberry went off. She hurried out of the treatment room into the hallway to answer it.
Mycroft had dozed off again, seeking refuge from the pain in sleep. The nurses and Dr. Malone wheeled the bed and IV stand out of the room into the hallway. As he and Dr. Lowry followed, John saw Anthea standing near a window, speaking rapidly into her phone and looking stricken. When she saw him, she concluded the call.
"John, a word, please?" She kept her voice calm for the benefit of the medical team, but John could tell that she was frantic.
"He'll be in room 713," Lowry said. John nodded and hurried over to Anthea.
"What is it?"
"Is your phone off? Sherlock's been trying to reach you."
He fished it out of his pocket. "Battery's dead. What's happened?"
Mycroft's normally unflappable assistant trembled.
"It's Alexei. He's been taken."
Part Five