Promise to the Living- Part Eight
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 Part Six Part Seven
John decided to follow the excellent advice provided by one of his training officers so many years ago: "Never let the bastards see you sweat." And combine it with another old adage: "Baffle them with bullshit."
Praying that he could achieve the miraculous and baffle Mycroft Holmes, he stiffened and snapped, "I won't be locked in my room like a child, even if you do leave me with some toys from home. At least let me have some exercise."
"Begging your pardon, sir," Anthea said, "your orders were to keep Dr. Watson as comfortable as possible. I saw no harm in an escorted walk. He's not a flight risk with the guards about."
John hated not being able to see. Technically neither he nor Anthea had lied. But they hadn't told the whole truth either, and inability to see Mycroft's face left him in a horrible state of suspense. He didn't know whether to start swinging (for all the good it would do) or continue the façade.
Tension-laden seconds passed before the other man spoke.
"Very well. If it's a daily constitutional you require, I'll be happy to accompany you. But not indoors. My dear, please locate a coat and shoes for John and meet us down in the foyer?"
"Right away, Mr. Holmes."
Anthea's slender fingers withdrew from John's upper arm, to be replaced by Mycroft's heavier ones. John went still: the other man's very touch resurrected images from the video and conflicting feelings- concern, shock, and residual anger- temporarily paralyzed him.
"Come, John." Mycroft nudged him toward the landing. As they slowly descended the staircase, the elder Holmes added in a low voice, "I know what you were up to. I should reprimand both of you severely, but I won't."
"Oh?" John swallowed. "What makes us so special?"
Mycroft paused. "Because with Sherlock gone, you two are all that matter to me on a personal level anymore."
John didn't know what to say except "I believe you."
And he did, which surprised him.
"Do you really?" Mycroft asked, his voice strangely thick. "Perhaps I should thank you for watching my expurgation session then. My words of regret never persuaded you, but the footage apparently has."
They reached the foot of the stairs and turned right.
"You're still conflicted, John. I can tell. We'll discuss it more during a stroll on the grounds."
"Can I ask where I am?"
"Yes, of course. The Holmes family estate in Yorkshire Dales. Sherlock and I grew up here. One moment." Mycroft stopped, so John followed suit. A knob clicked and a heavy door swung open on creaky hinges. "Here we are."
John's slippers now touched tiles instead of carpeting. Then the door closed behind them, and Mycroft undid his blindfold.
They stood in a bright, airy foyer, beneath a massive chandelier that threw rainbow patterns across the cream-colored walls. Frosted glass windows on either side of the hand-carved oak double doors flooded the room with natural light. A huge floral display sat on a marble-topped side table, its delicate fragrance adding to the overall impression of elegance.
John took it all in before looking at Mycroft. The elder Holmes had shed this morning's semi-casual garb in favor of his usual powerhouse attire: navy blue wool suit, waistcoat, and silk shirt and tie. Knowing that those pricey clothes covered bruises and cuts made him uneasy. Mycroft caught his once-over, and smiled tightly.
Anthea stood before the doors, with two coats over one arm and a pair of walking shoes in her other hand. She offered the latter to John immediately.
"I hope these will fit. I had to guess your size."
He put them on. Not surprisingly, they fit perfectly. She worked for Mycroft, after all.
"Well done," her boss praised. She smiled and handed him a black overcoat that John had seen once in a Harrod's display window. It was a cashmere-chinchilla blend that cost nearly five thousand pounds.
"Thank you, sir."
When she offered a second, identical coat to John, he exclaimed, "I've never even touched anything this expensive before."
"Now you own one." Mycroft buttoned up and adjusted his tie. "I had it messengered from London this morning."
He ran his fingers over it in awe. "Thank you."
Once John had donned the wearable fortune, Anthea approached him with a light pair of handcuffs, looking apologetic. He stepped back. "I'm not going to run for it."
"It's all right," Mycroft told her. He had taken his umbrella from a corner stand, and slid his other arm through John's. "I don't think those will be necessary."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." She pocketed the cuffs with visible relief. "How long shall you be gone, sir?"
"I don't know yet. I'll text you when we're twenty minutes from returning."
"Yes, sir." She opened the double doors and stood aside to let them pass. "Have a nice stroll, gentlemen."
Outside, the autumn wind felt cool and bracing on John's face. He inhaled deeply and smelled freshly cut grass, burning leaves, and clean earth. When had he last been in the country? Then he remembered: the Baskerville case. He gazed at the rolling countryside, which was studded here and there with tree groves, and in his mind's eye saw Sherlock everywhere.
That coy grin that remained identical whether he was proud of John or mocking him.
The dark curls that blew easily about in breezes like this one.
The tall, lanky form that cut through crowds like an icebreaker, Belstaff hem flapping in his wake.
Feeling moisture on his face, John glanced up at the cloudless sky, puzzled. It took him a second to realize that the droplets were tears, not rain. He drew a ragged breath.
"Christ. Look at me. One minute I'm fine. Now this."
Mycroft guided him along the circular drive, past a large graveled parking area, and onto the driveway, which was flanked by immaculately maintained lawns and shrub beds. Looking over his shoulder, John got his first exterior view of the manor: a three story, stately-looking stone building with mullioned windows and a gabled roof. Wild rose bushes bloomed along the walls, and pair of ancient oaks cast cool shadows across the lawn. Taken in its entirety, the Holmes manor looked like one of those elegant old homesteads that played host to summer weddings and corporate retreats. But John sensed that no happy events had taken place here in years.
"Sometimes I wish I could cry too, John. But it's not in my nature. So I cope in other ways."
"Like torturing yourself." John shook his head.
"Various world religions practice corporal mortification. Some Roman Catholic monks self-flagellate to make penance for their sins."
"Oh, come on. That was during the Dark Ages."
"Human nature has changed little since then. We still have wars. We continue to kill our enemies slowly and painfully. And we still make horrendous mistakes that apologies alone cannot atone for."
John said nothing.
"When you occupy the position I do, and have my responsibilities, your choices are never easy," Mycroft continued. "Moriarty used to call me the Ice Man, and I've had to fit the description when making decisions that cost lives. But that doesn't mean I never felt anything at the time or afterward."
He stopped and released John's arm long enough to pull a package of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket. John had seen him smoke once before- the day he broke the news about Irene Adler's fate- but indulgence in an addictive habit wasn't something he typically associated with Mycroft.
Not so with Sherlock. Cases, nicotine, danger…. The younger Holmes had lived only to satisfy his cravings and impulses. John only had one, and it (or rather, he) had been torn from him by death. He'd tried, and failed, to cope. Hence his presence here now.
"I'm not only devastated that Sherlock's gone, I'm also angry about it," he said. "I needed someone to blame for driving him to it, and you were the most convenient target."
Mycroft took a deep drag on his cigarette, and resumed walking. "I usually am." There was no bitterness or irony in his tone.
"But it wasn't just you. Fucking Donovan and Anderson lit the fuse. You just added fuel to the fire."
"I also didn't stop the explosion. And that probably upsets you the most."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't prevent Sherlock from jumping."
With a start, John acknowledged the truth of that gently worded accusation. He had been angry that the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes had not appeared at the last minute with a helicopter, net, anything that could have pulled Sherlock off the ledge or broken his fall. The man had always been around, it seemed, picking him and Sherlock up for inconveniently timed chats or visiting the flat to chastise his brother or offer him a case. But when he was really needed, where had he been?
"Contrary to popular belief," Mycroft continued, "I am only the British government. I'm not God."
"That's not the impression you always give, though."
"Touché, John."
They continued along the drive in silence, the only noise coming from the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. Finally John asked, "When will you stop doing it?"
"Voluntarily submitting to corporal punishment, you mean?" The elder Holmes gazed in the direction of the main road. "Now that we've spoken like this, it may not be necessary anymore."
"Good. Watching you do that to yourself was terrible."
"So was watching you walk toward the Pathology Building that day, John."
Before the doctor could answer, the faint noise of an approaching car reached their ears. John didn't bother to look, but Mycroft said, "That's odd. Someone from my office is coming." He released John's arm and extracted his phone. "But I've received no notification."
The vehicle drew nearer. It was a black Renault Kangoo, the same vehicle type that John had often seen Mycroft's people use for stakeouts and strike team transport. When it turned off the main road onto the drive, Mycroft quickly tapped something onto his phone keys. Then he pocketed the device, stood up straight, and watched the van approach.
When it was about twelve feet away, John saw Mycroft stiffen. "John," the elder Holmes said, keeping his voice level, "go back to the house. Now. Run."
"What?"
Mycroft swerved and shoved him. Hard. "Run!"
The van pulled over abruptly. Doors opened. Five men jumped out and rushed at them. They wore jeans and leather jackets, and their haircuts and maneuvers hinted at a military background.
One of them rushed John, but Mycroft was between them in an instant, swinging a sword that had formerly been his umbrella. The blade sliced across the attacker's chest, tearing leather and flesh indiscriminately. John tried to help, despite the physical lethargy caused by the high diazepam dosage, but two men seized his arms and easily pulled him to his knees. His hands were jerked behind his back and secured with twist ties.
When Mycroft tried to go to John's assistance, he was jumped from behind by the remaining two men and, during the ensuing struggle, fell against an ancient stone sheep wall that ran along the drive's lower length.
John heard a sickening thud. He saw Mycroft's head slide down the wall, smearing the stone with blood in its wake. When the older man reached the ground and rolled onto his back, moaning faintly, John saw it again. The same thing he'd been seeing in his nightmares since the funeral.
A white face, streaked with blood flowing from an ugly head wound. Wide, staring eyes. This time the hair was straight and reddish brown instead of dark and curly, but the horror was as paralyzing as before.
The last thing John was conscious of before blacking out was his own voice screaming.
Part Nine
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 Part Six Part Seven
John decided to follow the excellent advice provided by one of his training officers so many years ago: "Never let the bastards see you sweat." And combine it with another old adage: "Baffle them with bullshit."
Praying that he could achieve the miraculous and baffle Mycroft Holmes, he stiffened and snapped, "I won't be locked in my room like a child, even if you do leave me with some toys from home. At least let me have some exercise."
"Begging your pardon, sir," Anthea said, "your orders were to keep Dr. Watson as comfortable as possible. I saw no harm in an escorted walk. He's not a flight risk with the guards about."
John hated not being able to see. Technically neither he nor Anthea had lied. But they hadn't told the whole truth either, and inability to see Mycroft's face left him in a horrible state of suspense. He didn't know whether to start swinging (for all the good it would do) or continue the façade.
Tension-laden seconds passed before the other man spoke.
"Very well. If it's a daily constitutional you require, I'll be happy to accompany you. But not indoors. My dear, please locate a coat and shoes for John and meet us down in the foyer?"
"Right away, Mr. Holmes."
Anthea's slender fingers withdrew from John's upper arm, to be replaced by Mycroft's heavier ones. John went still: the other man's very touch resurrected images from the video and conflicting feelings- concern, shock, and residual anger- temporarily paralyzed him.
"Come, John." Mycroft nudged him toward the landing. As they slowly descended the staircase, the elder Holmes added in a low voice, "I know what you were up to. I should reprimand both of you severely, but I won't."
"Oh?" John swallowed. "What makes us so special?"
Mycroft paused. "Because with Sherlock gone, you two are all that matter to me on a personal level anymore."
John didn't know what to say except "I believe you."
And he did, which surprised him.
"Do you really?" Mycroft asked, his voice strangely thick. "Perhaps I should thank you for watching my expurgation session then. My words of regret never persuaded you, but the footage apparently has."
They reached the foot of the stairs and turned right.
"You're still conflicted, John. I can tell. We'll discuss it more during a stroll on the grounds."
"Can I ask where I am?"
"Yes, of course. The Holmes family estate in Yorkshire Dales. Sherlock and I grew up here. One moment." Mycroft stopped, so John followed suit. A knob clicked and a heavy door swung open on creaky hinges. "Here we are."
John's slippers now touched tiles instead of carpeting. Then the door closed behind them, and Mycroft undid his blindfold.
They stood in a bright, airy foyer, beneath a massive chandelier that threw rainbow patterns across the cream-colored walls. Frosted glass windows on either side of the hand-carved oak double doors flooded the room with natural light. A huge floral display sat on a marble-topped side table, its delicate fragrance adding to the overall impression of elegance.
John took it all in before looking at Mycroft. The elder Holmes had shed this morning's semi-casual garb in favor of his usual powerhouse attire: navy blue wool suit, waistcoat, and silk shirt and tie. Knowing that those pricey clothes covered bruises and cuts made him uneasy. Mycroft caught his once-over, and smiled tightly.
Anthea stood before the doors, with two coats over one arm and a pair of walking shoes in her other hand. She offered the latter to John immediately.
"I hope these will fit. I had to guess your size."
He put them on. Not surprisingly, they fit perfectly. She worked for Mycroft, after all.
"Well done," her boss praised. She smiled and handed him a black overcoat that John had seen once in a Harrod's display window. It was a cashmere-chinchilla blend that cost nearly five thousand pounds.
"Thank you, sir."
When she offered a second, identical coat to John, he exclaimed, "I've never even touched anything this expensive before."
"Now you own one." Mycroft buttoned up and adjusted his tie. "I had it messengered from London this morning."
He ran his fingers over it in awe. "Thank you."
Once John had donned the wearable fortune, Anthea approached him with a light pair of handcuffs, looking apologetic. He stepped back. "I'm not going to run for it."
"It's all right," Mycroft told her. He had taken his umbrella from a corner stand, and slid his other arm through John's. "I don't think those will be necessary."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." She pocketed the cuffs with visible relief. "How long shall you be gone, sir?"
"I don't know yet. I'll text you when we're twenty minutes from returning."
"Yes, sir." She opened the double doors and stood aside to let them pass. "Have a nice stroll, gentlemen."
Outside, the autumn wind felt cool and bracing on John's face. He inhaled deeply and smelled freshly cut grass, burning leaves, and clean earth. When had he last been in the country? Then he remembered: the Baskerville case. He gazed at the rolling countryside, which was studded here and there with tree groves, and in his mind's eye saw Sherlock everywhere.
That coy grin that remained identical whether he was proud of John or mocking him.
The dark curls that blew easily about in breezes like this one.
The tall, lanky form that cut through crowds like an icebreaker, Belstaff hem flapping in his wake.
Feeling moisture on his face, John glanced up at the cloudless sky, puzzled. It took him a second to realize that the droplets were tears, not rain. He drew a ragged breath.
"Christ. Look at me. One minute I'm fine. Now this."
Mycroft guided him along the circular drive, past a large graveled parking area, and onto the driveway, which was flanked by immaculately maintained lawns and shrub beds. Looking over his shoulder, John got his first exterior view of the manor: a three story, stately-looking stone building with mullioned windows and a gabled roof. Wild rose bushes bloomed along the walls, and pair of ancient oaks cast cool shadows across the lawn. Taken in its entirety, the Holmes manor looked like one of those elegant old homesteads that played host to summer weddings and corporate retreats. But John sensed that no happy events had taken place here in years.
"Sometimes I wish I could cry too, John. But it's not in my nature. So I cope in other ways."
"Like torturing yourself." John shook his head.
"Various world religions practice corporal mortification. Some Roman Catholic monks self-flagellate to make penance for their sins."
"Oh, come on. That was during the Dark Ages."
"Human nature has changed little since then. We still have wars. We continue to kill our enemies slowly and painfully. And we still make horrendous mistakes that apologies alone cannot atone for."
John said nothing.
"When you occupy the position I do, and have my responsibilities, your choices are never easy," Mycroft continued. "Moriarty used to call me the Ice Man, and I've had to fit the description when making decisions that cost lives. But that doesn't mean I never felt anything at the time or afterward."
He stopped and released John's arm long enough to pull a package of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket. John had seen him smoke once before- the day he broke the news about Irene Adler's fate- but indulgence in an addictive habit wasn't something he typically associated with Mycroft.
Not so with Sherlock. Cases, nicotine, danger…. The younger Holmes had lived only to satisfy his cravings and impulses. John only had one, and it (or rather, he) had been torn from him by death. He'd tried, and failed, to cope. Hence his presence here now.
"I'm not only devastated that Sherlock's gone, I'm also angry about it," he said. "I needed someone to blame for driving him to it, and you were the most convenient target."
Mycroft took a deep drag on his cigarette, and resumed walking. "I usually am." There was no bitterness or irony in his tone.
"But it wasn't just you. Fucking Donovan and Anderson lit the fuse. You just added fuel to the fire."
"I also didn't stop the explosion. And that probably upsets you the most."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't prevent Sherlock from jumping."
With a start, John acknowledged the truth of that gently worded accusation. He had been angry that the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes had not appeared at the last minute with a helicopter, net, anything that could have pulled Sherlock off the ledge or broken his fall. The man had always been around, it seemed, picking him and Sherlock up for inconveniently timed chats or visiting the flat to chastise his brother or offer him a case. But when he was really needed, where had he been?
"Contrary to popular belief," Mycroft continued, "I am only the British government. I'm not God."
"That's not the impression you always give, though."
"Touché, John."
They continued along the drive in silence, the only noise coming from the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. Finally John asked, "When will you stop doing it?"
"Voluntarily submitting to corporal punishment, you mean?" The elder Holmes gazed in the direction of the main road. "Now that we've spoken like this, it may not be necessary anymore."
"Good. Watching you do that to yourself was terrible."
"So was watching you walk toward the Pathology Building that day, John."
Before the doctor could answer, the faint noise of an approaching car reached their ears. John didn't bother to look, but Mycroft said, "That's odd. Someone from my office is coming." He released John's arm and extracted his phone. "But I've received no notification."
The vehicle drew nearer. It was a black Renault Kangoo, the same vehicle type that John had often seen Mycroft's people use for stakeouts and strike team transport. When it turned off the main road onto the drive, Mycroft quickly tapped something onto his phone keys. Then he pocketed the device, stood up straight, and watched the van approach.
When it was about twelve feet away, John saw Mycroft stiffen. "John," the elder Holmes said, keeping his voice level, "go back to the house. Now. Run."
"What?"
Mycroft swerved and shoved him. Hard. "Run!"
The van pulled over abruptly. Doors opened. Five men jumped out and rushed at them. They wore jeans and leather jackets, and their haircuts and maneuvers hinted at a military background.
One of them rushed John, but Mycroft was between them in an instant, swinging a sword that had formerly been his umbrella. The blade sliced across the attacker's chest, tearing leather and flesh indiscriminately. John tried to help, despite the physical lethargy caused by the high diazepam dosage, but two men seized his arms and easily pulled him to his knees. His hands were jerked behind his back and secured with twist ties.
When Mycroft tried to go to John's assistance, he was jumped from behind by the remaining two men and, during the ensuing struggle, fell against an ancient stone sheep wall that ran along the drive's lower length.
John heard a sickening thud. He saw Mycroft's head slide down the wall, smearing the stone with blood in its wake. When the older man reached the ground and rolled onto his back, moaning faintly, John saw it again. The same thing he'd been seeing in his nightmares since the funeral.
A white face, streaked with blood flowing from an ugly head wound. Wide, staring eyes. This time the hair was straight and reddish brown instead of dark and curly, but the horror was as paralyzing as before.
The last thing John was conscious of before blacking out was his own voice screaming.
Part Nine