Danger Nights- Chapter Seven
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 Part Five Part Six
"You've got to be joking," John said. "If you want someone to do you a favour, never mind save your life, you don't kidnap them and treat them like prisoners."
Mayberry took in the room with a broad gesture. "Does this look like a prison cell to you, Dr. Watson?"
"Depends. Let me walk out of here and I'll give you an answer." Receiving no response, he sighed. "No. Didn't think so. Out with it then. What do you want Alexei to do, specifically?"
"Whatever it is, it's clearly not something I'd do voluntarily," the teenager commented. "That's why you took John too, isn't it? To ensure my compliance."
"Right again, young man. It pains me to say this, but refusal to cooperate will result in grave consequences for Dr. Watson." Then Mayberry smiled, as if to soften the threat. "I'm sure it won't come to that, though. In two weeks, this will all be over and we can get on with our lives."
John didn't believe him. But for now he and Alexei were prisoners, and he felt too wretched for more verbal combat. He ached all over, and the prospect of a hot bath was almost as good as freedom.
"I'll leave you two to freshen up and settle in. I have to see to the 'departure' of my temporary guests." Mayberry checked his watch. John's heart sank as he realized that their abductors- men who'd blindly obeyed orders- were entering the last hour of their lives. "Tomorrow we'll talk about what I expect from you, Alexei."
Then he left.
The two bulky minders approached the bed. "Follow us," one of them ordered.
Alexei's response surprised John. "Very well," the teenager replied, sounding uncharacteristically meek. He crawled to the foot of the bed, slid his feet to the cold stone floor, and stood. "Let's go, John. We're both filthy and I'm getting hungry. We'll find out what this is all about soon enough."
John had been living with one Holmes and in a relationship with another long enough to know phony compliance when he saw it. Alexei's voice and bearing were docile, but his eyes gleamed faintly with cunning as they were escorted into the hall. The boy's lightning-fast glances took in every closed door and open entryway, memorizing everything for later examination and analysis.
John didn't follow suit: his headache had developed into a raging migraine, and all he wanted was a warm soak, followed by darkness and quiet. He shuffled along, content to let Alexei pinpoint a future avenue of escape while he tried to ignore the pain.
The guards led them into a spacious chamber that radiated moisture and heat. Like the bedroom and hallway, it had stone walls, a high ceiling, and vintage furnishings.
We're in a castle or ancestral home that's older than Lestrade's jokes, John thought dully. But where?
Two large copper tubs stood side by side before a glowing fire. They were filled with steaming water and had thick white towels draped over the side. Too desperate for relief to feel embarrassed, John pulled off his ruined clothes, threw them aside, and climbed shakily into one of the tubs.
"Any chance I could have some paracetamol?" he asked as he shifted so that he wasn't facing the fire's glare. The roiling in his stomach had developed into full-blown nausea, making him bite back a groan. When the guards didn't respond immediately, he added, "If not, I hope you don't mind cleaning up vomit. Headache's getting worse."
One of the men made a disgusted face and told his partner, "Be back shortly."
"Yeah, fine." The other man had a soft Eastern European accent that contrasted with his cohort's rough Scottish burr.
John closed his eyes and listened to Alexei undress and climb into the other tub. He concentrated on breathing through his nose and letting the water relax him. His thoughts turned to Mycroft, who'd suffered an equally excruciating headache after the ECT.
Mycroft must know by now that we've been kidnapped. Dear God, what he must be going through.
His heart rate accelerated, sending a vicious jab of pain through his left temple. Wincing, he brought a hot, wet hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the tight muscles there.
When Alexei remained silent, John cracked his eyes open and glanced over at the boy, who was reclining in the tub and watching the fire. "You okay?" he asked throatily.
"I'm thinking about my mother." Alexei swallowed. "I miss her."
That comment was so unexpected that John opened his eyes wider- and promptly closed them when the firelight assaulted his vision. He wanted to urge the boy not to be so candid around the remaining guard, but felt too unsteady for a potential confrontation.
"I don't think she expected to die of old age," Alexei continued. "But cancer? It was the last thing she would have anticipated."
John would have nodded in sympathy if his throbbing head had allowed it. Elena Nowak had been a fighter: for her beliefs and for her son. She had crossed dangerous men to champion both, only to be betrayed in the end by her own body. No one deserved to die from cancer, but in Elena's case the blow had been especially ironic.
John knew that Alexei missed her, but the teenager had not spoken of her in months. Why now, when they were prisoners under close surveillance?
Alexei let out a shaky sigh and said something in Russian. Whatever it was, it got a reaction out of the remaining guard. The man, who was in his mid-twenties and had wavy, ginger-coloured hair, left his post by the doorway and approached Alexei.
"When did your mother die?" he asked.
"Last year."
A strange expression flitted across the guard's face. His next words were in Russian. Alexei replied in English, "Often, yes."
Something was afoot. John struggled to pay attention despite his percolating brain. Before the conversation could continue, the other guard returned with a bottle of painkillers and Styrofoam cup of water. When the man saw his partner standing beside Alexei's tub, he asked warily, "What's going on?"
Alexei reached for a block of soap on the tub shelf. "I was asking your friend what was taking so long for John's tablets. Perhaps efficiency isn't your strong point."
The Scotsman glared. "Watch it, kid," he warned as he handed John the water and pills with the bedside manner of a Hun.
"I think you're the one who needs to watch it. Mr. Mayberry is disposing of some temporary staff as we speak." Alexei lathered himself up, filling the room with the smell of patchouli. "You'd better hope that he doesn't give you a bad performance review one day."
"You shut your mouth."
"Alexei," John groaned. "Not now." Not when I'm in no shape to stop him from drowning you.
The teenager shrugged. "Fine. I'm sorry, John."
The Russian guard resumed his former post by the door, but continued to watch Alexei with a troubled and intrigued expression.
John swallowed two of the extra-strength tablets and sank to his chin in the water. Mayberry said they had two weeks before his use for them would be over. Closing his eyes, he silently willed the Holmes brothers and Lestrade to hurry.
Greg Lestrade edged closer to Sherlock on the car seat, not trusting the younger Holmes to wait until the vehicle stopped before vaulting out.
"Sherlock," he said gently, "I'm worried too. But you won't be much use to John or Alexei if you break your damned leg."
The younger Holmes kept staring into the distance, growing more agitated as Mycroft's Knightsbridge home appeared. "Can't this car go any faster?" he snapped at the chauffeur.
"We're nearly there, Mr. Holmes."
"Nearly is not good enough! Hurry it up."
Lestrade caught the man's eye in the mirror and made a sympathetic face. Like Sherlock, he was desperate to learn what exactly had happened. Unlike Sherlock, he refused to vent his anxiety by making someone else miserable.
When the sedan stopped in front of the stately building, Sherlock threw the door open and bounded up the stone steps three at a time. After apologizing to the chauffeur, Lestrade ran after him.
Anthea met them in the entrance, her face pale and drawn. "Mr. Holmes will be so relieved to see you both."
Sherlock ignored her and ran for the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Lestrade asked, "What can you tell me?"
"John and Alexei left Mr. Holmes' hospital room with a woman who appeared to be a nurse," she answered as they hurried after Sherlock. "When they didn't come back after an hour, I sent someone to see what was delaying them."
"And?"
"The doctor who supposedly summoned them was found unconscious in his office. There were signs of a struggle. The nurse is apparently not employed at the hospital."
"Did you check the hospital's security cameras?"
"All down at the time John and Alexei disappeared."
As they neared Mycroft's bedroom, the shouting began. The two bodyguards stationed at the door didn't even turn their heads: Lestrade figured that they were used to fraternal screaming matches by now.
"Out with it, Mycroft! How could you have let this happen to them?"
"Christ," Lestrade muttered.
Mycroft was lying on his enormous four-poster bed, looking alarmingly diminished. He wore a purple quilted robe and reclined on a stack of pillows like a dying feudal lord. Sherlock hovered over him, shouting and gesticulating wildly.
"Answer me, you idiot! What happened? Where are they? What have you done to get them back?"
Mycroft didn't answer. He seemed dazed and in shock, which alarmed Lestrade more than Sherlock's hysterics. He'd seen Mycroft navigate crises before: the elder Holmes turned into a commando, barking orders, disappearing in his car in at all hours, coming back with the occasional bruised knuckle or blood-speckled shirt. Sherlock's shouting should have unleashed a torrent of cold and angry recriminations. But all Mycroft did was stare out the window.
"It's my fault," he said in a low voice.
"Yes, that much is blatantly obvious!" Sherlock yelled. "But why aren't you getting out of bed and doing something?"
"Things are being done, Sherlock," Anthea said coldly.
He ignored her. "How can you just lie there like a lazy arse when John and Alexei are missing?"
Ordinarily, Lestrade would have intervened by that point, but he wanted to know the answer to that question too. He was actually tempted to check Mycroft for a pulse. Anthea had said on the phone that the elder Holmes had gone to the hospital to be checked over after his fainting spell the night before, but something about that story didn't sit right. Mycroft Holmes wouldn't go to a NHS hospital for a mere physical or even blood work. He had a private physician who came to his home.
Sherlock's accusation seemed to rekindle a spark of life. "I am being tortured too," Mycroft said.
"You deserve it!"
"I agree."
"You agree? A bit late, isn't it?" Sherlock bent down until their faces were inches apart. "The stupidest thing John ever did was fall in love with you. He's been a walking target ever since."
Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, but he saw a flash in Mycroft's eyes that meant only one thing.
Danger.
No one in the room saw the elder Holmes move, but the crack of palm against cheek was sharp and loud, like a rifle shot. Sherlock reeled backward, pressing his gloved hand to his face while Mycroft sat up straight, face a mask of sluggish fury.
"How dare you," he hissed. "What would you know about love, you ignorant child?"
The brothers stared at each other. Then Sherlock leaped on the bed, fists flying and swearing like a lorry driver.
"Fucking useless wanker!"
The gratuitous profanity warned Lestrade that Sherlock had gone off the deep end. He'd heard the younger Holmes shout at his brother in the past, but the insults were usually razor-sharp and even funny (unless you were on the receiving end). These exclamations were desperate and panic-stricken.
The former DI had seen Sherlock this hysterical only once before: when the young detective was detoxing from cocaine for the last time. He'd helped the clinic staff hold Sherlock down as the latter kicked and sweated and screamed for the drug he believed he needed to survive. Now the younger Holmes was struggling and indirectly crying out for the safe return of two people who were more precious to him than cocaine had ever been.
Lestrade joined the bodyguards in rushing toward Sherlock, but Mycroft beat them to it. The elder Holmes threw Sherlock face down on the tall mattress and twisted his arm behind his back. The speed and suddenness of the move stopped everyone in their tracks.
"I'm so sorry," Mycroft whispered in his brother's ear. "For letting this happen. For hitting you. For what I just said."
Sherlock stilled.
"You were right. I'm not a safe man to care about. But neither are you." He swallowed. "Since he met us, 'normal' is only a word in the dictionary for him. John's a saint, Sherlock, and we are lucky that he stays with us."
Anthea gestured for the bodyguards to leave. They did, closing the door behind them.
"And Alexei." Mycroft nearly choked. "I never knew how badly I wanted a family until I learned about him. I thought he'd want to stay safe after the life he's led. I never thought he would… would act like we did at his age."
Lestrade assumed that he was referring to the teenager's crafty escape from Baker Street. Alexei had told Sherlock that he was going downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson, but when she brought a tea tray up an hour later, they learned that she hadn't seen him at all that morning. Pandemonium had reigned until Sherlock received a call from Anthea letting them know that Alexei was safe.
Temporarily, as it turned out.
Sherlock remained silent. When Mycroft relaxed his hold, the younger Holmes pulled free and sprang to his knees, face white and eyes turning red around the edges. Lestrade could almost feel his fear.
"Please, Mycroft," he begged, grabbing his brother's sleeve. "Do whatever it takes to get them back. I'll help you. Just tell me what you need me to do."
The elder Holmes drew his brother close. "Here's what you can do. When we find out who abducted John and Alexei, you can hold them down while I put a bullet in their brain."
Even though he wasn't the aforementioned target, hearing those words made Lestrade shiver.
Part Eight
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 Part Five Part Six
"You've got to be joking," John said. "If you want someone to do you a favour, never mind save your life, you don't kidnap them and treat them like prisoners."
Mayberry took in the room with a broad gesture. "Does this look like a prison cell to you, Dr. Watson?"
"Depends. Let me walk out of here and I'll give you an answer." Receiving no response, he sighed. "No. Didn't think so. Out with it then. What do you want Alexei to do, specifically?"
"Whatever it is, it's clearly not something I'd do voluntarily," the teenager commented. "That's why you took John too, isn't it? To ensure my compliance."
"Right again, young man. It pains me to say this, but refusal to cooperate will result in grave consequences for Dr. Watson." Then Mayberry smiled, as if to soften the threat. "I'm sure it won't come to that, though. In two weeks, this will all be over and we can get on with our lives."
John didn't believe him. But for now he and Alexei were prisoners, and he felt too wretched for more verbal combat. He ached all over, and the prospect of a hot bath was almost as good as freedom.
"I'll leave you two to freshen up and settle in. I have to see to the 'departure' of my temporary guests." Mayberry checked his watch. John's heart sank as he realized that their abductors- men who'd blindly obeyed orders- were entering the last hour of their lives. "Tomorrow we'll talk about what I expect from you, Alexei."
Then he left.
The two bulky minders approached the bed. "Follow us," one of them ordered.
Alexei's response surprised John. "Very well," the teenager replied, sounding uncharacteristically meek. He crawled to the foot of the bed, slid his feet to the cold stone floor, and stood. "Let's go, John. We're both filthy and I'm getting hungry. We'll find out what this is all about soon enough."
John had been living with one Holmes and in a relationship with another long enough to know phony compliance when he saw it. Alexei's voice and bearing were docile, but his eyes gleamed faintly with cunning as they were escorted into the hall. The boy's lightning-fast glances took in every closed door and open entryway, memorizing everything for later examination and analysis.
John didn't follow suit: his headache had developed into a raging migraine, and all he wanted was a warm soak, followed by darkness and quiet. He shuffled along, content to let Alexei pinpoint a future avenue of escape while he tried to ignore the pain.
The guards led them into a spacious chamber that radiated moisture and heat. Like the bedroom and hallway, it had stone walls, a high ceiling, and vintage furnishings.
We're in a castle or ancestral home that's older than Lestrade's jokes, John thought dully. But where?
Two large copper tubs stood side by side before a glowing fire. They were filled with steaming water and had thick white towels draped over the side. Too desperate for relief to feel embarrassed, John pulled off his ruined clothes, threw them aside, and climbed shakily into one of the tubs.
"Any chance I could have some paracetamol?" he asked as he shifted so that he wasn't facing the fire's glare. The roiling in his stomach had developed into full-blown nausea, making him bite back a groan. When the guards didn't respond immediately, he added, "If not, I hope you don't mind cleaning up vomit. Headache's getting worse."
One of the men made a disgusted face and told his partner, "Be back shortly."
"Yeah, fine." The other man had a soft Eastern European accent that contrasted with his cohort's rough Scottish burr.
John closed his eyes and listened to Alexei undress and climb into the other tub. He concentrated on breathing through his nose and letting the water relax him. His thoughts turned to Mycroft, who'd suffered an equally excruciating headache after the ECT.
Mycroft must know by now that we've been kidnapped. Dear God, what he must be going through.
His heart rate accelerated, sending a vicious jab of pain through his left temple. Wincing, he brought a hot, wet hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the tight muscles there.
When Alexei remained silent, John cracked his eyes open and glanced over at the boy, who was reclining in the tub and watching the fire. "You okay?" he asked throatily.
"I'm thinking about my mother." Alexei swallowed. "I miss her."
That comment was so unexpected that John opened his eyes wider- and promptly closed them when the firelight assaulted his vision. He wanted to urge the boy not to be so candid around the remaining guard, but felt too unsteady for a potential confrontation.
"I don't think she expected to die of old age," Alexei continued. "But cancer? It was the last thing she would have anticipated."
John would have nodded in sympathy if his throbbing head had allowed it. Elena Nowak had been a fighter: for her beliefs and for her son. She had crossed dangerous men to champion both, only to be betrayed in the end by her own body. No one deserved to die from cancer, but in Elena's case the blow had been especially ironic.
John knew that Alexei missed her, but the teenager had not spoken of her in months. Why now, when they were prisoners under close surveillance?
Alexei let out a shaky sigh and said something in Russian. Whatever it was, it got a reaction out of the remaining guard. The man, who was in his mid-twenties and had wavy, ginger-coloured hair, left his post by the doorway and approached Alexei.
"When did your mother die?" he asked.
"Last year."
A strange expression flitted across the guard's face. His next words were in Russian. Alexei replied in English, "Often, yes."
Something was afoot. John struggled to pay attention despite his percolating brain. Before the conversation could continue, the other guard returned with a bottle of painkillers and Styrofoam cup of water. When the man saw his partner standing beside Alexei's tub, he asked warily, "What's going on?"
Alexei reached for a block of soap on the tub shelf. "I was asking your friend what was taking so long for John's tablets. Perhaps efficiency isn't your strong point."
The Scotsman glared. "Watch it, kid," he warned as he handed John the water and pills with the bedside manner of a Hun.
"I think you're the one who needs to watch it. Mr. Mayberry is disposing of some temporary staff as we speak." Alexei lathered himself up, filling the room with the smell of patchouli. "You'd better hope that he doesn't give you a bad performance review one day."
"You shut your mouth."
"Alexei," John groaned. "Not now." Not when I'm in no shape to stop him from drowning you.
The teenager shrugged. "Fine. I'm sorry, John."
The Russian guard resumed his former post by the door, but continued to watch Alexei with a troubled and intrigued expression.
John swallowed two of the extra-strength tablets and sank to his chin in the water. Mayberry said they had two weeks before his use for them would be over. Closing his eyes, he silently willed the Holmes brothers and Lestrade to hurry.
Greg Lestrade edged closer to Sherlock on the car seat, not trusting the younger Holmes to wait until the vehicle stopped before vaulting out.
"Sherlock," he said gently, "I'm worried too. But you won't be much use to John or Alexei if you break your damned leg."
The younger Holmes kept staring into the distance, growing more agitated as Mycroft's Knightsbridge home appeared. "Can't this car go any faster?" he snapped at the chauffeur.
"We're nearly there, Mr. Holmes."
"Nearly is not good enough! Hurry it up."
Lestrade caught the man's eye in the mirror and made a sympathetic face. Like Sherlock, he was desperate to learn what exactly had happened. Unlike Sherlock, he refused to vent his anxiety by making someone else miserable.
When the sedan stopped in front of the stately building, Sherlock threw the door open and bounded up the stone steps three at a time. After apologizing to the chauffeur, Lestrade ran after him.
Anthea met them in the entrance, her face pale and drawn. "Mr. Holmes will be so relieved to see you both."
Sherlock ignored her and ran for the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Lestrade asked, "What can you tell me?"
"John and Alexei left Mr. Holmes' hospital room with a woman who appeared to be a nurse," she answered as they hurried after Sherlock. "When they didn't come back after an hour, I sent someone to see what was delaying them."
"And?"
"The doctor who supposedly summoned them was found unconscious in his office. There were signs of a struggle. The nurse is apparently not employed at the hospital."
"Did you check the hospital's security cameras?"
"All down at the time John and Alexei disappeared."
As they neared Mycroft's bedroom, the shouting began. The two bodyguards stationed at the door didn't even turn their heads: Lestrade figured that they were used to fraternal screaming matches by now.
"Out with it, Mycroft! How could you have let this happen to them?"
"Christ," Lestrade muttered.
Mycroft was lying on his enormous four-poster bed, looking alarmingly diminished. He wore a purple quilted robe and reclined on a stack of pillows like a dying feudal lord. Sherlock hovered over him, shouting and gesticulating wildly.
"Answer me, you idiot! What happened? Where are they? What have you done to get them back?"
Mycroft didn't answer. He seemed dazed and in shock, which alarmed Lestrade more than Sherlock's hysterics. He'd seen Mycroft navigate crises before: the elder Holmes turned into a commando, barking orders, disappearing in his car in at all hours, coming back with the occasional bruised knuckle or blood-speckled shirt. Sherlock's shouting should have unleashed a torrent of cold and angry recriminations. But all Mycroft did was stare out the window.
"It's my fault," he said in a low voice.
"Yes, that much is blatantly obvious!" Sherlock yelled. "But why aren't you getting out of bed and doing something?"
"Things are being done, Sherlock," Anthea said coldly.
He ignored her. "How can you just lie there like a lazy arse when John and Alexei are missing?"
Ordinarily, Lestrade would have intervened by that point, but he wanted to know the answer to that question too. He was actually tempted to check Mycroft for a pulse. Anthea had said on the phone that the elder Holmes had gone to the hospital to be checked over after his fainting spell the night before, but something about that story didn't sit right. Mycroft Holmes wouldn't go to a NHS hospital for a mere physical or even blood work. He had a private physician who came to his home.
Sherlock's accusation seemed to rekindle a spark of life. "I am being tortured too," Mycroft said.
"You deserve it!"
"I agree."
"You agree? A bit late, isn't it?" Sherlock bent down until their faces were inches apart. "The stupidest thing John ever did was fall in love with you. He's been a walking target ever since."
Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, but he saw a flash in Mycroft's eyes that meant only one thing.
Danger.
No one in the room saw the elder Holmes move, but the crack of palm against cheek was sharp and loud, like a rifle shot. Sherlock reeled backward, pressing his gloved hand to his face while Mycroft sat up straight, face a mask of sluggish fury.
"How dare you," he hissed. "What would you know about love, you ignorant child?"
The brothers stared at each other. Then Sherlock leaped on the bed, fists flying and swearing like a lorry driver.
"Fucking useless wanker!"
The gratuitous profanity warned Lestrade that Sherlock had gone off the deep end. He'd heard the younger Holmes shout at his brother in the past, but the insults were usually razor-sharp and even funny (unless you were on the receiving end). These exclamations were desperate and panic-stricken.
The former DI had seen Sherlock this hysterical only once before: when the young detective was detoxing from cocaine for the last time. He'd helped the clinic staff hold Sherlock down as the latter kicked and sweated and screamed for the drug he believed he needed to survive. Now the younger Holmes was struggling and indirectly crying out for the safe return of two people who were more precious to him than cocaine had ever been.
Lestrade joined the bodyguards in rushing toward Sherlock, but Mycroft beat them to it. The elder Holmes threw Sherlock face down on the tall mattress and twisted his arm behind his back. The speed and suddenness of the move stopped everyone in their tracks.
"I'm so sorry," Mycroft whispered in his brother's ear. "For letting this happen. For hitting you. For what I just said."
Sherlock stilled.
"You were right. I'm not a safe man to care about. But neither are you." He swallowed. "Since he met us, 'normal' is only a word in the dictionary for him. John's a saint, Sherlock, and we are lucky that he stays with us."
Anthea gestured for the bodyguards to leave. They did, closing the door behind them.
"And Alexei." Mycroft nearly choked. "I never knew how badly I wanted a family until I learned about him. I thought he'd want to stay safe after the life he's led. I never thought he would… would act like we did at his age."
Lestrade assumed that he was referring to the teenager's crafty escape from Baker Street. Alexei had told Sherlock that he was going downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson, but when she brought a tea tray up an hour later, they learned that she hadn't seen him at all that morning. Pandemonium had reigned until Sherlock received a call from Anthea letting them know that Alexei was safe.
Temporarily, as it turned out.
Sherlock remained silent. When Mycroft relaxed his hold, the younger Holmes pulled free and sprang to his knees, face white and eyes turning red around the edges. Lestrade could almost feel his fear.
"Please, Mycroft," he begged, grabbing his brother's sleeve. "Do whatever it takes to get them back. I'll help you. Just tell me what you need me to do."
The elder Holmes drew his brother close. "Here's what you can do. When we find out who abducted John and Alexei, you can hold them down while I put a bullet in their brain."
Even though he wasn't the aforementioned target, hearing those words made Lestrade shiver.
Part Eight