Danger Nights- Chapter Five
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 Part Four
"Taken?" John echoed. His heart, which had finally calmed after the ECT treatment ended, resumed its furious pounding. "Oh, God. It must have been the Consortium. Mycroft will-"
"I wasn't taken," a third voice piped up. "I merely disappeared so I could come here."
John and Anthea spun around in unison, shoes squealing on the floor and gasping in shocked relief. Alexei stood at the other end of the corridor, near the lifts. His narrow face was solemn and his hands rested in the pockets of the Armani leather jacket John and Mycroft had bought him at Harrods.
"What the hell are you doing here?" John demanded as he and Anthea hurried toward the teenager.
"I'm worried about Mycroft."
John knew that Alexei had come into Mycroft's life so unexpectedly, and at such an advanced age mentally as well as physically, that the traditional parent-child formalities never took root. They were on a first-name basis, and Alexei's freedom was only curtailed by necessary security measures. This liberal indulgence bothered John almost as much as the obsessive vigilance that Mycroft used to maintain over his younger brother. All kids, in his opinion, needed to know their limits. When asked about it, the elder Holmes said quietly, "He's not Sherlock. I don't need to worry so much."
This little stunt had definitely changed that.
Anthea wasn't as reticent as her boss. She reached Alexei before John did, her lovely face tight with anger, and grasped the boy's upper arm. "This is unacceptable," she declared. "You've given everyone a fright."
Alexei stared down at the place where her fingers dug into his sleeve. John thought he looked surprised and relieved: his eyes lowered and his assertiveness dropped several notches.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I will call Sherlock and Gregory and tell them I'm fine."
"No, I will do that while you explain yourself to John," Anthea said sharply. She released him and strode away a short distance, tapping at her Blackberry. "Then you're spending the rest of the weekend in your room."
"At Baker Street, it's technically John's room," Alexei said. He would have elaborated, but she turned around and favoured him with a glare that silenced him immediately.
John was both surprised and impressed: he was pretty sure that Anthea didn't have children, but she clearly knew how to handle them when they got out of line. Maybe she had younger siblings who'd forced her to play mother.
Something Alexei apparently needed right now.
John pointed to one of the plastic chairs that lined the corridor. Although desperate to rejoin Mycroft, this took priority. When Alexei sat, John crossed his arms and said, "I'm waiting."
"I knew where you were because I attached a GPS tracker to your coat last night. Before you left."
"What?" John rummaged in his pockets and patted his sides. "Where?"
"Under your collar."
"Damn." John found and extracted the small device, pricking his fingers on the pin in the process. As he pocketed it, he declared, "What were you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that Mycroft was drugged before he flew back to London yesterday."
That answer evaporated John's anger instantly. "What are you talking about?"
Alexei's eyes lit up, the way Sherlock's did when a deduction excited him. "After he fainted, when he was sitting on the sofa, he kept touching his right shoulder. Rubbing it. Didn't you notice?"
"No. What are you getting at?"
Unlike Mycroft, Alexei rarely got straight to the point. He was proud of his deductive skills, and enjoyed showing them off. It was another trait he and Sherlock shared. Normally John was an appreciative, even awestruck, audience, but not now. Not when he was anxious to reach Mycroft's side before the anaesthetic wore off.
"I do the same thing whenever I'm vaccinated. Did you happen to see him with his shirt off later?"
"Yes, but I wasn't exactly looking for needle marks, Alexei."
"I think we should do that now." The teenager stood up so quickly that his auburn hair -a genetic gift from his father- fell across his face. When John hesitated, he exclaimed, "John, you know that something was done to him. That's why you're at this hospital, isn't it?"
John felt torn. How do you tell a boy- no matter how intelligent- that his father had undergone electroconvulsive therapy for severe depression? Especially when said father wanted his affliction kept secret? But even if John didn't come right out and say it, Alexei would know the moment he saw Mycroft unconscious in a hospital bed, traces of gel on his right temple and medical personnel monitoring him. Realizing that he had no choice, he finally said, "Come with me. I'll take you to him."
As they walked down the corridor, John checking the number on each door, Anthea caught up to them.
"I've told Sherlock and Mr. Lestrade that we'll bring Alexei back to Baker Street in a couple of hours," she said. "They're not very pleased with you at the moment, young man."
Alexei just lowered his head and nodded. It's like he's grateful for the structure, John thought. It was also likely that the boy missed his mother's loving discipline. Elena had been separated from her son once the Consortium learned that she had terminal cancer, but before then, she must have imposed rules and limits. Mycroft had to learn to do that. Alexei may not have been Sherlock, but he wasn't a seasoned adult either.
When they reached room 713, they found Mycroft up to his chin in blankets, sleeping soundly. A middle-aged nurse sat in a plastic chair beside his bed, making notes in a chart. She looked up as they came in.
"He's still asleep, Dr. Watson," she said, standing up and setting the chart on the side table. "If he's nauseous when he wakes up, there's a Compazine injection in the drawer. Dr. Lowry left it for you."
Alexei went straight to Mycroft's bedside and scanned the relaxed face and blanket-covered body. Keeping one eye on him, John said to the nurse, "Thank you. I'll take over from here."
"Dr. Lowry said he'll check on Mr. Haines in an hour. If you need him before then, have someone at the nurse's station locate him."
"I will. Thank you."
When she left, Alexei slowly and reverently pulled the blankets down to Mycroft's waist. He lifted up the sleeve of the thin blue hospital gown and peered closely at the sleeping man's right shoulder. A second later his green eyes widened in alarm.
"John, come here. I was right. There's a puncture mark."
"What?" John hurried over with Anthea close behind. Sure enough, the skin was discoloured and slightly swollen around a tiny puncture. Estimating that the mark was no more than two days old, John turned to Anthea, who looked as worried as he felt. "Do you know if he had any vaccinations while in Prague? To prepare him for a Top Secret trip I'm not supposed to know about?"
She shook her head. "No, absolutely not. He'd have had me schedule it for him."
Alexei's eyes were glued to Mycroft's still face. "I know what he's been treated with here. ECT." He bit his pale lip. "I can tell because I've had it performed on me too."
"What?" John exclaimed.
Alexei nodded slowly as he raised the blankets back to Mycroft's shoulders. "When the Consortium separated me from Mum… after she became ill… I kept trying to escape. A dodgy psychiatrist recommended a round of ECT treatments. They wanted to wipe my memory of her illness and tell me that she'd died during a mission. So I would resign myself to staying there."
John's jaw dropped.
"They did it to me twice," the boy said bitterly. "Then stronger medical minds prevailed and told my keepers that ECT at my age could damage my cognitive development. They certainly didn't want that, so they settled for keeping me under lock and key. I'm positive that some damage was done, because I've suffered from migraines ever since."
John knew about the migraines, but learning their probable source sickened him. "That's… that's inhuman."
"Yes, it is." Alexei's voice lowered to a soft growl. "And one day there shall be a reckoning."
Before the conversation could continue, Mycroft shifted on the bed and moaned.
Anthea touched his shoulder while John grasped his hand and took his pulse. "Mr. Holmes? Sir? You're all right."
Mycroft swallowed convulsively. His complexion turned a horrible shade of green. "Sick…."
John grabbed the blue plastic basin on the side table. "Over here," he said gently.
Keeping his eyes closed against the painful influx of light, the elder Holmes was violently sick. When he finally stopped heaving and lay back down, John carried the basin into the adjacent toilet, emptied it, and came back with two wet facecloths. He laid one, which had been run under cold water, across Mycroft's forehead and wiped his mouth and face with the second, which was so warm that it steamed.
"Mycroft," he said softly, "do you remember where you are and why you're here?"
"Yes. St. Thomas Hospital. I came here to be treated by Dr. Lowry." Mycroft sounded frail. "Please, John, turn off the light."
Anthea removed her shoes so that the click of high heels would not aggravate her boss's temporarily heightened senses, and padded to the light switch in her stockinged feet. When the room plunged into dimness, a solemn-faced Alexei went to the window and drew the curtains.
John opened the side table's drawer. "I'm giving you some Compazine for the nausea," he said, taking the pre-filled syringe out and injecting the contents into the IV port. "I imagine your head hurts too?"
"Horribly."
John pulled the drawer open wider, and saw a sealed package containing two paracetamol tablets. As he opened it and poured water from the pitcher into a glass, he was once again grateful for the professional persona that always took over in a hospital setting. The puncture mark on Mycroft's arm provided an alternative explanation for the sudden and mysterious onset of depression, and if their suspicions were correct, it could only mean one thing.
Danger ahead.
Alexei hovered near the window, clearly reluctant to let his father know he was there. There didn't appear to be any danger of that happening: Mycroft actually tugged on the damp facecloth until it covered his closed eyes as well as his forehead.
John placed the tablets on his tongue and helped him take small sips of water through a straw. The doctor observed that his pulse was normal and he appeared to be coherent, although still groggy.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. She was young and attractive, with long red hair and a body that made her uniform tight in all the right places.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes?" At one time- before he fell in love with Mycroft- John would have tried to chat her up. Now he only reacted to her charms with weary appreciation. Alexei wasn't as subdued: his eyes fell to her chest and stayed there.
"Dr. Lowery would like to see you in his office. I'll show you the way."
"All right." He turned back to the elder Holmes and touched his hand. "Mycroft, I'll be back in a moment. Anthea will stay here with you."
There was no response. John gingerly lifted the edge of the facecloth from his eyes, and saw that they were closed. Tenderness flooded through him, along with a protective impulse so strong that his adrenaline levels spiked. If Alexei's suspicions were correct and Mycroft's suffering had been induced by someone with a dark agenda, the guilty party would swiftly and painfully find out that John was a soldier as well as a doctor. He would kill to protect those he loved.
When he followed the angel-faced nurse into the corridor, Alexei followed.
"You're new to nursing, aren't you?" the boy asked her.
She flashed him a pleasant but surprised smile. "It's my first day. How did you know?"
"Your shoes." He pointed at her white stiletto heels. "You won't be able to stay on your feet for hours in those."
"I know. I have another pair in my locker." She winked. "I just like making a memorable first impression."
"Clearly."
Dr. Lowry's office was in a remote section of the wing. Knowing that Mycroft trusted the man, John intended to tell him about the puncture mark. They'd have to do a blood test: whatever the elder Holmes had been injected with was probably still in his system and therefore detectable.
John saw Mark Lowry the moment he and Alexei followed the nurse into the office, but the doctor wasn't at his desk. He was lying on the floor beneath it, unconscious and bleeding from a wound behind his right ear.
John was a veteran of too many scenes like this to react the way most people would: confront the nurse and demand an explanation. Instead, he curled his right hand into a fist and whirled around to punch the assailant or assailants that were surely behind him by now. Beside him, Alexei bellowed in surprise and fury.
"Let go of me!"
There was a soft thud that sounded like a knee hitting a crotch, and a man grunted in pain.
John wasn't so lucky. Before he could strike, something fast and solid landed against his left eye, knocking him to the floor. He tumbled against the desk and tried to retaliate, but pain erupted again, this time in the side of his head, and then all was dark and silent.
Part Six
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 Part Four
"Taken?" John echoed. His heart, which had finally calmed after the ECT treatment ended, resumed its furious pounding. "Oh, God. It must have been the Consortium. Mycroft will-"
"I wasn't taken," a third voice piped up. "I merely disappeared so I could come here."
John and Anthea spun around in unison, shoes squealing on the floor and gasping in shocked relief. Alexei stood at the other end of the corridor, near the lifts. His narrow face was solemn and his hands rested in the pockets of the Armani leather jacket John and Mycroft had bought him at Harrods.
"What the hell are you doing here?" John demanded as he and Anthea hurried toward the teenager.
"I'm worried about Mycroft."
John knew that Alexei had come into Mycroft's life so unexpectedly, and at such an advanced age mentally as well as physically, that the traditional parent-child formalities never took root. They were on a first-name basis, and Alexei's freedom was only curtailed by necessary security measures. This liberal indulgence bothered John almost as much as the obsessive vigilance that Mycroft used to maintain over his younger brother. All kids, in his opinion, needed to know their limits. When asked about it, the elder Holmes said quietly, "He's not Sherlock. I don't need to worry so much."
This little stunt had definitely changed that.
Anthea wasn't as reticent as her boss. She reached Alexei before John did, her lovely face tight with anger, and grasped the boy's upper arm. "This is unacceptable," she declared. "You've given everyone a fright."
Alexei stared down at the place where her fingers dug into his sleeve. John thought he looked surprised and relieved: his eyes lowered and his assertiveness dropped several notches.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I will call Sherlock and Gregory and tell them I'm fine."
"No, I will do that while you explain yourself to John," Anthea said sharply. She released him and strode away a short distance, tapping at her Blackberry. "Then you're spending the rest of the weekend in your room."
"At Baker Street, it's technically John's room," Alexei said. He would have elaborated, but she turned around and favoured him with a glare that silenced him immediately.
John was both surprised and impressed: he was pretty sure that Anthea didn't have children, but she clearly knew how to handle them when they got out of line. Maybe she had younger siblings who'd forced her to play mother.
Something Alexei apparently needed right now.
John pointed to one of the plastic chairs that lined the corridor. Although desperate to rejoin Mycroft, this took priority. When Alexei sat, John crossed his arms and said, "I'm waiting."
"I knew where you were because I attached a GPS tracker to your coat last night. Before you left."
"What?" John rummaged in his pockets and patted his sides. "Where?"
"Under your collar."
"Damn." John found and extracted the small device, pricking his fingers on the pin in the process. As he pocketed it, he declared, "What were you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that Mycroft was drugged before he flew back to London yesterday."
That answer evaporated John's anger instantly. "What are you talking about?"
Alexei's eyes lit up, the way Sherlock's did when a deduction excited him. "After he fainted, when he was sitting on the sofa, he kept touching his right shoulder. Rubbing it. Didn't you notice?"
"No. What are you getting at?"
Unlike Mycroft, Alexei rarely got straight to the point. He was proud of his deductive skills, and enjoyed showing them off. It was another trait he and Sherlock shared. Normally John was an appreciative, even awestruck, audience, but not now. Not when he was anxious to reach Mycroft's side before the anaesthetic wore off.
"I do the same thing whenever I'm vaccinated. Did you happen to see him with his shirt off later?"
"Yes, but I wasn't exactly looking for needle marks, Alexei."
"I think we should do that now." The teenager stood up so quickly that his auburn hair -a genetic gift from his father- fell across his face. When John hesitated, he exclaimed, "John, you know that something was done to him. That's why you're at this hospital, isn't it?"
John felt torn. How do you tell a boy- no matter how intelligent- that his father had undergone electroconvulsive therapy for severe depression? Especially when said father wanted his affliction kept secret? But even if John didn't come right out and say it, Alexei would know the moment he saw Mycroft unconscious in a hospital bed, traces of gel on his right temple and medical personnel monitoring him. Realizing that he had no choice, he finally said, "Come with me. I'll take you to him."
As they walked down the corridor, John checking the number on each door, Anthea caught up to them.
"I've told Sherlock and Mr. Lestrade that we'll bring Alexei back to Baker Street in a couple of hours," she said. "They're not very pleased with you at the moment, young man."
Alexei just lowered his head and nodded. It's like he's grateful for the structure, John thought. It was also likely that the boy missed his mother's loving discipline. Elena had been separated from her son once the Consortium learned that she had terminal cancer, but before then, she must have imposed rules and limits. Mycroft had to learn to do that. Alexei may not have been Sherlock, but he wasn't a seasoned adult either.
When they reached room 713, they found Mycroft up to his chin in blankets, sleeping soundly. A middle-aged nurse sat in a plastic chair beside his bed, making notes in a chart. She looked up as they came in.
"He's still asleep, Dr. Watson," she said, standing up and setting the chart on the side table. "If he's nauseous when he wakes up, there's a Compazine injection in the drawer. Dr. Lowry left it for you."
Alexei went straight to Mycroft's bedside and scanned the relaxed face and blanket-covered body. Keeping one eye on him, John said to the nurse, "Thank you. I'll take over from here."
"Dr. Lowry said he'll check on Mr. Haines in an hour. If you need him before then, have someone at the nurse's station locate him."
"I will. Thank you."
When she left, Alexei slowly and reverently pulled the blankets down to Mycroft's waist. He lifted up the sleeve of the thin blue hospital gown and peered closely at the sleeping man's right shoulder. A second later his green eyes widened in alarm.
"John, come here. I was right. There's a puncture mark."
"What?" John hurried over with Anthea close behind. Sure enough, the skin was discoloured and slightly swollen around a tiny puncture. Estimating that the mark was no more than two days old, John turned to Anthea, who looked as worried as he felt. "Do you know if he had any vaccinations while in Prague? To prepare him for a Top Secret trip I'm not supposed to know about?"
She shook her head. "No, absolutely not. He'd have had me schedule it for him."
Alexei's eyes were glued to Mycroft's still face. "I know what he's been treated with here. ECT." He bit his pale lip. "I can tell because I've had it performed on me too."
"What?" John exclaimed.
Alexei nodded slowly as he raised the blankets back to Mycroft's shoulders. "When the Consortium separated me from Mum… after she became ill… I kept trying to escape. A dodgy psychiatrist recommended a round of ECT treatments. They wanted to wipe my memory of her illness and tell me that she'd died during a mission. So I would resign myself to staying there."
John's jaw dropped.
"They did it to me twice," the boy said bitterly. "Then stronger medical minds prevailed and told my keepers that ECT at my age could damage my cognitive development. They certainly didn't want that, so they settled for keeping me under lock and key. I'm positive that some damage was done, because I've suffered from migraines ever since."
John knew about the migraines, but learning their probable source sickened him. "That's… that's inhuman."
"Yes, it is." Alexei's voice lowered to a soft growl. "And one day there shall be a reckoning."
Before the conversation could continue, Mycroft shifted on the bed and moaned.
Anthea touched his shoulder while John grasped his hand and took his pulse. "Mr. Holmes? Sir? You're all right."
Mycroft swallowed convulsively. His complexion turned a horrible shade of green. "Sick…."
John grabbed the blue plastic basin on the side table. "Over here," he said gently.
Keeping his eyes closed against the painful influx of light, the elder Holmes was violently sick. When he finally stopped heaving and lay back down, John carried the basin into the adjacent toilet, emptied it, and came back with two wet facecloths. He laid one, which had been run under cold water, across Mycroft's forehead and wiped his mouth and face with the second, which was so warm that it steamed.
"Mycroft," he said softly, "do you remember where you are and why you're here?"
"Yes. St. Thomas Hospital. I came here to be treated by Dr. Lowry." Mycroft sounded frail. "Please, John, turn off the light."
Anthea removed her shoes so that the click of high heels would not aggravate her boss's temporarily heightened senses, and padded to the light switch in her stockinged feet. When the room plunged into dimness, a solemn-faced Alexei went to the window and drew the curtains.
John opened the side table's drawer. "I'm giving you some Compazine for the nausea," he said, taking the pre-filled syringe out and injecting the contents into the IV port. "I imagine your head hurts too?"
"Horribly."
John pulled the drawer open wider, and saw a sealed package containing two paracetamol tablets. As he opened it and poured water from the pitcher into a glass, he was once again grateful for the professional persona that always took over in a hospital setting. The puncture mark on Mycroft's arm provided an alternative explanation for the sudden and mysterious onset of depression, and if their suspicions were correct, it could only mean one thing.
Danger ahead.
Alexei hovered near the window, clearly reluctant to let his father know he was there. There didn't appear to be any danger of that happening: Mycroft actually tugged on the damp facecloth until it covered his closed eyes as well as his forehead.
John placed the tablets on his tongue and helped him take small sips of water through a straw. The doctor observed that his pulse was normal and he appeared to be coherent, although still groggy.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. She was young and attractive, with long red hair and a body that made her uniform tight in all the right places.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes?" At one time- before he fell in love with Mycroft- John would have tried to chat her up. Now he only reacted to her charms with weary appreciation. Alexei wasn't as subdued: his eyes fell to her chest and stayed there.
"Dr. Lowery would like to see you in his office. I'll show you the way."
"All right." He turned back to the elder Holmes and touched his hand. "Mycroft, I'll be back in a moment. Anthea will stay here with you."
There was no response. John gingerly lifted the edge of the facecloth from his eyes, and saw that they were closed. Tenderness flooded through him, along with a protective impulse so strong that his adrenaline levels spiked. If Alexei's suspicions were correct and Mycroft's suffering had been induced by someone with a dark agenda, the guilty party would swiftly and painfully find out that John was a soldier as well as a doctor. He would kill to protect those he loved.
When he followed the angel-faced nurse into the corridor, Alexei followed.
"You're new to nursing, aren't you?" the boy asked her.
She flashed him a pleasant but surprised smile. "It's my first day. How did you know?"
"Your shoes." He pointed at her white stiletto heels. "You won't be able to stay on your feet for hours in those."
"I know. I have another pair in my locker." She winked. "I just like making a memorable first impression."
"Clearly."
Dr. Lowry's office was in a remote section of the wing. Knowing that Mycroft trusted the man, John intended to tell him about the puncture mark. They'd have to do a blood test: whatever the elder Holmes had been injected with was probably still in his system and therefore detectable.
John saw Mark Lowry the moment he and Alexei followed the nurse into the office, but the doctor wasn't at his desk. He was lying on the floor beneath it, unconscious and bleeding from a wound behind his right ear.
John was a veteran of too many scenes like this to react the way most people would: confront the nurse and demand an explanation. Instead, he curled his right hand into a fist and whirled around to punch the assailant or assailants that were surely behind him by now. Beside him, Alexei bellowed in surprise and fury.
"Let go of me!"
There was a soft thud that sounded like a knee hitting a crotch, and a man grunted in pain.
John wasn't so lucky. Before he could strike, something fast and solid landed against his left eye, knocking him to the floor. He tumbled against the desk and tried to retaliate, but pain erupted again, this time in the side of his head, and then all was dark and silent.
Part Six