Promise to the Living- Part Six
Promise to the Living
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five
John frowned, bewilderment temporarily subduing his anxiety. "You're bleeding." He stared at Mycroft's face, and his confusion increased.
The elder Holmes looked exactly as he did the night John confronted him about the tabloid leak. Cornered. Evasive. Cold blue eyes darted about like minnows, skimming everything in the room except John.
"I have a… cut… which apparently has more healing to do than my personal physician thought," he said testily. "I'll retire now and see to it."
"A cut?" How on earth could Mycroft have been hurt? Although he had done a masterful job of disabling John last night, such altercations were rare for him nowadays. Had there been a recent attempt on his life? An accident?
As a medical man, John knew that he should offer to examine the injury. The red smear on his fingers was not heavy, but an open wound that had bled enough to soak the cashmere was a serious infection risk. One look at the man, however, warned him to keep his distance.
"You may stay here and finish your breakfast," Mycroft said, all hard edges and cool manners once again. "Perhaps we will speak this evening, during dinner."
"I've had enough." John's appetite was gone, replacing by a rolling in his stomach that he couldn't blame entirely on his meltdown.
"You've had one piece of toast. That's far from enough." Mycroft stared past him, at the two minders. "Dr. Watson is to remain here until he's eaten… more than my brother would have."
Despite his anxiety, John bristled about being forced to remain at the table like a willful child. "Or what? No Little Red Hen before bedtime? Shame- you must read it so beautifully."
"I'm sure you know what a nasogastric tube is."
"Not first-hand."
"Let's keep it that way then, shall we?" Mycroft smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in it. "Good day, John."
After he left, John reluctantly sat down and spooned some eggs and sausage onto his plate. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't want to be force-fed either. Wiping the remaining tears from his face and refusing to look at either bodyguard, he ate automatically, tasting none of it.
He felt better when he finished. His head ached slightly from the crying jag, but on the whole he was calmer than he'd been in a long time. In five minutes, he had told Mycroft things that he'd been unable to discuss with Ella. She was a compassionate professional, but had never personally witnessed, and therefore could not understand, the emotionally-charged hybrid that Sherlock and John had been. With those painful revelations came a sense of release. Maybe he would be back in hell once the pain and tension rebuilt, but right now, his mind was quieter.
He kept thinking about the message Sherlock had left for Mycroft. Asking his omnipotent older brother to take care of John. Would the younger Holmes have done that if he blamed his misery entirely on Mycroft's indiscretion?
Was there more to this than he'd ever been allowed to know? With the Holmes brothers, it was a distinct possibility. He pushed his now-empty plate away and rubbed his temples.
"John?"
It was Anthea. She stood behind him, a glass of water in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Peering into it, he saw two pills.
"Diazepam? At that dose? No thanks."
"You have to take them, John. Or you'll be injected."
Mycroft wanted him compliant. Or at least too relaxed to bother finding new ways to escape or kill himself. Sighing, John placed the anti-anxiety pills on his tongue and chased them down with the water. He wasn't surprised when Anthea made him open his mouth, lift his tongue, and massage his face over the gum area.
"You've had to do this before, haven't you?" he asked.
The pretty brunette smiled wanly. "On occasion."
John remembered the dream from last night. "My room," he said, feeling strange using such a domestic term for his luxurious cell. "Sherlock stayed there before, didn't he? When he was detoxing."
"Mr. Holmes is the person you should address questions like that to, John."
"Of course. God forbid you should speak for yourself."
Anthea frowned, but her voice remained pleasant. "Are you finished with breakfast?"
"Yes. And I cleaned my plate, see? Do I still have to go back to my room?"
"For now. But you have some books and newspapers, as well as items brought from Baker Street."
John hated the thought of Mycroft's agents roaming through the flat, grabbing things they thought would entertain him during his captivity. But at the same time, he wanted something of his own here, an island of familiarity in this palatial but alien country house.
"Let's go, then," he said.
He allowed Anthea to blindfold him again and guide him into the hall. The diazepam was already having an effect: he felt languid and his nerves were not as raw. When he was back in his room and the blindfold was taken off, he glanced down at his hand and saw the blood still there. In his consternation, he'd forgotten to wipe it off.
"See this?" He held up his fingers. "Know where it came from? Your boss's chest. I might not be the only one who needs watching."
Anthea's mouth tightened when she glanced at the blood, but she merely said, "Someone will bring you a towel."
"Don't. Really. It's actually a pleasant reminder that even Mycroft Holmes bleeds."
John turned his back on her and approached the pile of books and newspapers on the chest of drawers.
"You think you know everything," Anthea snapped.
Her voice sounded so different from what he was used to that John halted in mid-step. He turned around slowly. She was glaring at him, her back ramrod-straight and a storm brewing behind her pretty features.
"Mr. Holmes is the reason why his brother didn't die a teenaged drug-addict. He's also the reason why you're still alive. Nothing he's ever done has been for himself. It's all been for Britain, or Sherlock, or you."
John just stared. He had never seen her so animated. There'd been times when he thought she ran on Duracell batteries.
"Talking to James Moriarty about Sherlock- what color does that make his halo?"
She shook her head. "You really understand nothing."
"You'd be surprised what I can understand, when someone gives me a straight answer instead of lines from a Boss's Day card."
That was harsh, and John knew it, but residual anger still boiled beneath the surface. He resented his freedom being curtailed, which was ironic, considering that he'd sent dozens of suicidal people, both military personnel and civilians, for mandatory psychiatric observation over the years. At the time he'd been relieved to know that they were safe and getting help. Now that he was the one being 'sectioned', he understood the hostile desperation behind their protests when they lost control of their own lives.
"I've said too much already." Anthea's mask reappeared. "I have to go now. Guards will be outside. If you need to use the toilet or require anything within reason, just knock."
When she was gone and the door's bolt slid noisily home, John sat on the edge of the bed. Perhaps it was the anti-anxiety meds at work, or maybe the pseudo-session with Mycroft had been more exhausting than he'd thought. He felt tired. Taking off his slippers, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. At least in his dreams there were no locked doors.
Why did you ask him to watch over me, Sherlock? Why do the mysteries persist even though you're gone?
John wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping before someone shook his shoulder.
"John, wake up." It was Anthea.
"What? What do you want?" He sat up, poised to snap at his sleep being interrupted. Her haunted expression made him hesitate. "Has something happened?"
"If you want to know why Mr. Holmes was bleeding this morning, come with me. And please don't think about running. You'd never get far."
Without waiting for a response, she walked out the open door into the hall. John hesitated only long enough to put his slippers on. Then he followed.
Part Seven
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five
John frowned, bewilderment temporarily subduing his anxiety. "You're bleeding." He stared at Mycroft's face, and his confusion increased.
The elder Holmes looked exactly as he did the night John confronted him about the tabloid leak. Cornered. Evasive. Cold blue eyes darted about like minnows, skimming everything in the room except John.
"I have a… cut… which apparently has more healing to do than my personal physician thought," he said testily. "I'll retire now and see to it."
"A cut?" How on earth could Mycroft have been hurt? Although he had done a masterful job of disabling John last night, such altercations were rare for him nowadays. Had there been a recent attempt on his life? An accident?
As a medical man, John knew that he should offer to examine the injury. The red smear on his fingers was not heavy, but an open wound that had bled enough to soak the cashmere was a serious infection risk. One look at the man, however, warned him to keep his distance.
"You may stay here and finish your breakfast," Mycroft said, all hard edges and cool manners once again. "Perhaps we will speak this evening, during dinner."
"I've had enough." John's appetite was gone, replacing by a rolling in his stomach that he couldn't blame entirely on his meltdown.
"You've had one piece of toast. That's far from enough." Mycroft stared past him, at the two minders. "Dr. Watson is to remain here until he's eaten… more than my brother would have."
Despite his anxiety, John bristled about being forced to remain at the table like a willful child. "Or what? No Little Red Hen before bedtime? Shame- you must read it so beautifully."
"I'm sure you know what a nasogastric tube is."
"Not first-hand."
"Let's keep it that way then, shall we?" Mycroft smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in it. "Good day, John."
After he left, John reluctantly sat down and spooned some eggs and sausage onto his plate. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't want to be force-fed either. Wiping the remaining tears from his face and refusing to look at either bodyguard, he ate automatically, tasting none of it.
He felt better when he finished. His head ached slightly from the crying jag, but on the whole he was calmer than he'd been in a long time. In five minutes, he had told Mycroft things that he'd been unable to discuss with Ella. She was a compassionate professional, but had never personally witnessed, and therefore could not understand, the emotionally-charged hybrid that Sherlock and John had been. With those painful revelations came a sense of release. Maybe he would be back in hell once the pain and tension rebuilt, but right now, his mind was quieter.
He kept thinking about the message Sherlock had left for Mycroft. Asking his omnipotent older brother to take care of John. Would the younger Holmes have done that if he blamed his misery entirely on Mycroft's indiscretion?
Was there more to this than he'd ever been allowed to know? With the Holmes brothers, it was a distinct possibility. He pushed his now-empty plate away and rubbed his temples.
"John?"
It was Anthea. She stood behind him, a glass of water in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Peering into it, he saw two pills.
"Diazepam? At that dose? No thanks."
"You have to take them, John. Or you'll be injected."
Mycroft wanted him compliant. Or at least too relaxed to bother finding new ways to escape or kill himself. Sighing, John placed the anti-anxiety pills on his tongue and chased them down with the water. He wasn't surprised when Anthea made him open his mouth, lift his tongue, and massage his face over the gum area.
"You've had to do this before, haven't you?" he asked.
The pretty brunette smiled wanly. "On occasion."
John remembered the dream from last night. "My room," he said, feeling strange using such a domestic term for his luxurious cell. "Sherlock stayed there before, didn't he? When he was detoxing."
"Mr. Holmes is the person you should address questions like that to, John."
"Of course. God forbid you should speak for yourself."
Anthea frowned, but her voice remained pleasant. "Are you finished with breakfast?"
"Yes. And I cleaned my plate, see? Do I still have to go back to my room?"
"For now. But you have some books and newspapers, as well as items brought from Baker Street."
John hated the thought of Mycroft's agents roaming through the flat, grabbing things they thought would entertain him during his captivity. But at the same time, he wanted something of his own here, an island of familiarity in this palatial but alien country house.
"Let's go, then," he said.
He allowed Anthea to blindfold him again and guide him into the hall. The diazepam was already having an effect: he felt languid and his nerves were not as raw. When he was back in his room and the blindfold was taken off, he glanced down at his hand and saw the blood still there. In his consternation, he'd forgotten to wipe it off.
"See this?" He held up his fingers. "Know where it came from? Your boss's chest. I might not be the only one who needs watching."
Anthea's mouth tightened when she glanced at the blood, but she merely said, "Someone will bring you a towel."
"Don't. Really. It's actually a pleasant reminder that even Mycroft Holmes bleeds."
John turned his back on her and approached the pile of books and newspapers on the chest of drawers.
"You think you know everything," Anthea snapped.
Her voice sounded so different from what he was used to that John halted in mid-step. He turned around slowly. She was glaring at him, her back ramrod-straight and a storm brewing behind her pretty features.
"Mr. Holmes is the reason why his brother didn't die a teenaged drug-addict. He's also the reason why you're still alive. Nothing he's ever done has been for himself. It's all been for Britain, or Sherlock, or you."
John just stared. He had never seen her so animated. There'd been times when he thought she ran on Duracell batteries.
"Talking to James Moriarty about Sherlock- what color does that make his halo?"
She shook her head. "You really understand nothing."
"You'd be surprised what I can understand, when someone gives me a straight answer instead of lines from a Boss's Day card."
That was harsh, and John knew it, but residual anger still boiled beneath the surface. He resented his freedom being curtailed, which was ironic, considering that he'd sent dozens of suicidal people, both military personnel and civilians, for mandatory psychiatric observation over the years. At the time he'd been relieved to know that they were safe and getting help. Now that he was the one being 'sectioned', he understood the hostile desperation behind their protests when they lost control of their own lives.
"I've said too much already." Anthea's mask reappeared. "I have to go now. Guards will be outside. If you need to use the toilet or require anything within reason, just knock."
When she was gone and the door's bolt slid noisily home, John sat on the edge of the bed. Perhaps it was the anti-anxiety meds at work, or maybe the pseudo-session with Mycroft had been more exhausting than he'd thought. He felt tired. Taking off his slippers, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. At least in his dreams there were no locked doors.
Why did you ask him to watch over me, Sherlock? Why do the mysteries persist even though you're gone?
John wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping before someone shook his shoulder.
"John, wake up." It was Anthea.
"What? What do you want?" He sat up, poised to snap at his sleep being interrupted. Her haunted expression made him hesitate. "Has something happened?"
"If you want to know why Mr. Holmes was bleeding this morning, come with me. And please don't think about running. You'd never get far."
Without waiting for a response, she walked out the open door into the hall. John hesitated only long enough to put his slippers on. Then he followed.
Part Seven