Promise to the Living- Part Twelve
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 Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven
Moran toppled forward, gun hitting the floor as he clutched his shattered shoulder. At the same time, three men in dark uniforms and Kevlar vests piled into the room, automatic weapons ready. They were followed by a fourth man, this one in civilian clothes and clutching a police service revolver. His dark eyes were wide and sweat plastered his silver hair to his forehead.
Lestrade.
"John!" he exclaimed, lowering his weapon. "Thank God you're all right."
"Greg? What are you doing here?"
"I came up from London to visit you, see how you were making out with Mr. Holmes, and arrived at the house in time to see part of the cavalry head out." He nodded over his shoulder at Anthea, who now hovered in the doorway. "I invited myself along for the ride."
"We're glad you could make it." Mycroft sat slowly back in the chair that had been his intended funeral bier. "Pardon me if I sit, gentlemen, but I'm feeling a little faint. Our hosts didn't exactly give me a warm welcome."
Moran struggled weakly when two of Mycroft's men pulled him upright. Blood streamed down the left side of his chest; John didn't need to examine the wound to know that it would be fatal without immediate treatment. Although he must have been in tremendous pain, Moran seethed, "This isn't over."
"Over?" Mycroft echoed. "I don't think it ever really started."
"Who's this?" Lestrade asked. John saw smoke curling slowly from his gun barrel; he must have fired the lucky shot.
"Friend of Moriarty's," John said grimly. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to rush Moran while he still had the chance, and beat the ex-sniper into a bloodier mess. The horror of the past few hours demanded retribution. If Lestrade hadn't been there, he wouldn't have hesitated.
John realized with a start that he had crossed a line. Transformed.
As a doctor and soldier, he'd been on intimate terms with violent death for years. At medical school he'd seen the aftermath of murder, suicide, and accidents, and on the battlefields of Afghanistan his own weapon had blown men apart. Then he met Sherlock, and dangerous cases prompted him to take equally drastic measures: shooting the cabbie, for instance. But he'd never actually wanted to kill someone.
Now he did. He actually trembled with the urge to close his fingers around Moran's neck and press down until life was extinct. Men like Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty could only be dealt with one way. Prison was useless. Even stringent military detention would only make Moran laugh.
He noticed Mycroft watching him. Mycroft understood.
"You're nothing," John told Moran in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "No wonder Jim never mentioned you to Sherlock or I. You're a houseboy. A pet."
Mycroft smiled.
"When you leave here, you're going to be interrogated. And when that's over, you'll receive the same treatment that all inept criminals get."
He wanted to say, "You'll get a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave" but once again restrained himself for Lestrade's benefit. The DI was unconventional compared to his more regimented brethren, but he would probably find Mycroft's methods unpalatable.
Moran screamed, "Fuck you, Watson!" Despite his wound, he jerked free from his captors, reached into his pocket, and lunged for John. Something metallic flashed in his grip. John felt a sudden pain slice coldly through his right arm, sending him stumbling back against Lestrade.
Mycroft was out of the chair in an instant. Although he looked- and probably felt- like he'd survived a train wreck, his moves were lightning fast. He grabbed Moran by the back of his head and the base of his chin and twisted sharply, snapping his neck. The knife that had been intended for John's throat clattered loudly to the floor, followed by a much-heavier corpse.
Lestrade's jaw dropped at the speed and brutality of the deed. Mycroft stood over the now-silent body and said calmly, "He attacked Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector."
"I know, Mr. Holmes. I saw. But…. Christ."
"Are you all right, John?"
John peeled the sliced fabric away from his right bicep, which throbbed. The wound was ugly but superficial. "I'll need stitches and it hurts like hell, but I'm fine."
A loud exhale of relief. "Good. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll have my long-overdue fainting spell."
Mycroft, whose face speedily lost what little color the adrenaline rush had provided, closed his eyes and pitched forward. John caught him with his uninjured arm before he could hit the floor and gently lowered him onto his back.
Anthea exclaimed and hurried over. She dropped to her knees and grabbed her boss's hand. Lestrade pulled his jacket off and folded it under his head. "John? Is he going to be all right?"
John checked Mycroft's pulse, which was weak but steady. "I think so. He was beaten quite badly earlier, and sustained a head injury. He needs to go to hospital."
"Begging your pardon, Dr. Watson," one of Mycroft's men said. "Mr. Holmes has standing orders to be treated privately. No public facilities."
"I'm ringing for a medical team to meet us at the manor." Without letting go of Mycroft's limp hand, Anthea took out her Blackberry and dialed. Her manner was efficient and calm, but John could see that she was struggling to contain herself. Mycroft, like Sherlock, could inspire intense devotion, it seemed.
"Fuck." Lestrade shook his head. "Sherlock always said that his brother was important, but I never thought it was like…" He gestured at the room, the armed guards, and Moran's body before staring directly at John. "I presume that since everything seems to be well in hand, there's no need to mention this to my superiors?"
John smiled gratefully. "None at all, Greg."
The ultimate authority already knew everything.
Mycroft regained consciousness when the medical retrieval team arrived, and refused to get on the stretcher. "No thank you, I can walk," he said in a huffy, stubborn manner that brooked no argument.
"Are you sure, sir?" Anthea asked.
"Quite." The elder Holmes got carefully to his feet, with John and Lestrade supporting either arm. "But I would appreciate it if we moved slowly, gentlemen."
Anthea and a pair of armed guards led the way out. John saw that Moran had taken them to an abandoned factory approximately fifteen miles from the Holmes manor. As they emerged into the fading daylight, he spotted the former army medic -who had essentially saved their lives- standing to one side, talking to more of Mycroft's men. The elder Holmes nodded at him and called, "Our agreement holds. Please go with these gentlemen, Mr. Penner. I'll make the necessary calls."
The man looked sincerely grateful. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. And thank you." Then he saluted John, who automatically returned the gesture.
For the first time, John willingly climbed into the sleek government car that waited for them. Anthea sat beside the driver while Lestrade joined John and Mycroft in the back. Official-looking documents were scattered all over the seat; the DI cleared them up apologetically.
"Sorry. These are mine. Recent cases I brought up with me. Thought you might want a look, John."
"Me?"
"Of course you. Maybe you have some ideas. Sherlock wasn't responsible for all the good you did as a team, you know."
John understood. Lestrade attributed his depression not only to grief, but also the loss of excitement and purpose: the emotionally crippled soldier missing the war. And maybe he was right. When they were all seated and the car began to move, John reached for the folder automatically. Lestrade smiled and handed it over, while Mycroft rested his head against John's shoulder and closed his eyes.
The first file pertained to a jeweler, allegedly murdered, whose body had been found in Highgate Cemetery. John was scanning the forensics report when Mycroft murmured, "Bit obvious, that one."
John started: he hadn't been aware that the other man was reading over his shoulder.
"It is?" Lestrade frowned, bewildered.
"Yes." Mycroft stifled a yawn. "Look into his financial background and you'll find that he had difficulties. He was robbing graves, and hit his head on a stone."
"But no stones in the vicinity were bloodstained."
"Because he didn't drop immediately. John, look at the report. How far could a man walk after sustaining that kind of head trauma?"
John chewed his lower lip as he considered. "I don't know about how far, but he could have staggered along for five minutes at most. Then the bleed in his brain would have done him in."
"Just so. Detective Inspector, if you search within a five-minute radius of where the body was found, I'm sure you'll find the location of the accident. Death was by misadventure, not murder, and hardly worth your time."
Mycroft closed his eyes for a few seconds, allowing John and Lestrade to have an unobserved moment.
"Just like old times," Lestrade said.
John nodded sadly. "Almost."
Mycroft stirred again. "Who was your man on forensics, Mr. Lestrade?"
"Anderson."
The elder Holmes snorted. "That explains a lot. Every village needs its idiot, I suppose, even Scotland Yard."
John was about to laugh when he saw- or thought he saw- a dark-clad figure standing beside the hedges that marked the entrance to the manor's private drive. It disappeared quickly, but his immediate impression was of a tall man with a white face, high cheekbones, and curly black hair.
Is that you, Sherlock? Welcoming us back, in spirit?
John's throat tightened. If he'd been alone, he probably would have wept. But he did not despair, like he would have only days before.
Perhaps there was hope after all.
Part Thirteen
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 Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven
Moran toppled forward, gun hitting the floor as he clutched his shattered shoulder. At the same time, three men in dark uniforms and Kevlar vests piled into the room, automatic weapons ready. They were followed by a fourth man, this one in civilian clothes and clutching a police service revolver. His dark eyes were wide and sweat plastered his silver hair to his forehead.
Lestrade.
"John!" he exclaimed, lowering his weapon. "Thank God you're all right."
"Greg? What are you doing here?"
"I came up from London to visit you, see how you were making out with Mr. Holmes, and arrived at the house in time to see part of the cavalry head out." He nodded over his shoulder at Anthea, who now hovered in the doorway. "I invited myself along for the ride."
"We're glad you could make it." Mycroft sat slowly back in the chair that had been his intended funeral bier. "Pardon me if I sit, gentlemen, but I'm feeling a little faint. Our hosts didn't exactly give me a warm welcome."
Moran struggled weakly when two of Mycroft's men pulled him upright. Blood streamed down the left side of his chest; John didn't need to examine the wound to know that it would be fatal without immediate treatment. Although he must have been in tremendous pain, Moran seethed, "This isn't over."
"Over?" Mycroft echoed. "I don't think it ever really started."
"Who's this?" Lestrade asked. John saw smoke curling slowly from his gun barrel; he must have fired the lucky shot.
"Friend of Moriarty's," John said grimly. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to rush Moran while he still had the chance, and beat the ex-sniper into a bloodier mess. The horror of the past few hours demanded retribution. If Lestrade hadn't been there, he wouldn't have hesitated.
John realized with a start that he had crossed a line. Transformed.
As a doctor and soldier, he'd been on intimate terms with violent death for years. At medical school he'd seen the aftermath of murder, suicide, and accidents, and on the battlefields of Afghanistan his own weapon had blown men apart. Then he met Sherlock, and dangerous cases prompted him to take equally drastic measures: shooting the cabbie, for instance. But he'd never actually wanted to kill someone.
Now he did. He actually trembled with the urge to close his fingers around Moran's neck and press down until life was extinct. Men like Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty could only be dealt with one way. Prison was useless. Even stringent military detention would only make Moran laugh.
He noticed Mycroft watching him. Mycroft understood.
"You're nothing," John told Moran in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "No wonder Jim never mentioned you to Sherlock or I. You're a houseboy. A pet."
Mycroft smiled.
"When you leave here, you're going to be interrogated. And when that's over, you'll receive the same treatment that all inept criminals get."
He wanted to say, "You'll get a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave" but once again restrained himself for Lestrade's benefit. The DI was unconventional compared to his more regimented brethren, but he would probably find Mycroft's methods unpalatable.
Moran screamed, "Fuck you, Watson!" Despite his wound, he jerked free from his captors, reached into his pocket, and lunged for John. Something metallic flashed in his grip. John felt a sudden pain slice coldly through his right arm, sending him stumbling back against Lestrade.
Mycroft was out of the chair in an instant. Although he looked- and probably felt- like he'd survived a train wreck, his moves were lightning fast. He grabbed Moran by the back of his head and the base of his chin and twisted sharply, snapping his neck. The knife that had been intended for John's throat clattered loudly to the floor, followed by a much-heavier corpse.
Lestrade's jaw dropped at the speed and brutality of the deed. Mycroft stood over the now-silent body and said calmly, "He attacked Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector."
"I know, Mr. Holmes. I saw. But…. Christ."
"Are you all right, John?"
John peeled the sliced fabric away from his right bicep, which throbbed. The wound was ugly but superficial. "I'll need stitches and it hurts like hell, but I'm fine."
A loud exhale of relief. "Good. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll have my long-overdue fainting spell."
Mycroft, whose face speedily lost what little color the adrenaline rush had provided, closed his eyes and pitched forward. John caught him with his uninjured arm before he could hit the floor and gently lowered him onto his back.
Anthea exclaimed and hurried over. She dropped to her knees and grabbed her boss's hand. Lestrade pulled his jacket off and folded it under his head. "John? Is he going to be all right?"
John checked Mycroft's pulse, which was weak but steady. "I think so. He was beaten quite badly earlier, and sustained a head injury. He needs to go to hospital."
"Begging your pardon, Dr. Watson," one of Mycroft's men said. "Mr. Holmes has standing orders to be treated privately. No public facilities."
"I'm ringing for a medical team to meet us at the manor." Without letting go of Mycroft's limp hand, Anthea took out her Blackberry and dialed. Her manner was efficient and calm, but John could see that she was struggling to contain herself. Mycroft, like Sherlock, could inspire intense devotion, it seemed.
"Fuck." Lestrade shook his head. "Sherlock always said that his brother was important, but I never thought it was like…" He gestured at the room, the armed guards, and Moran's body before staring directly at John. "I presume that since everything seems to be well in hand, there's no need to mention this to my superiors?"
John smiled gratefully. "None at all, Greg."
The ultimate authority already knew everything.
Mycroft regained consciousness when the medical retrieval team arrived, and refused to get on the stretcher. "No thank you, I can walk," he said in a huffy, stubborn manner that brooked no argument.
"Are you sure, sir?" Anthea asked.
"Quite." The elder Holmes got carefully to his feet, with John and Lestrade supporting either arm. "But I would appreciate it if we moved slowly, gentlemen."
Anthea and a pair of armed guards led the way out. John saw that Moran had taken them to an abandoned factory approximately fifteen miles from the Holmes manor. As they emerged into the fading daylight, he spotted the former army medic -who had essentially saved their lives- standing to one side, talking to more of Mycroft's men. The elder Holmes nodded at him and called, "Our agreement holds. Please go with these gentlemen, Mr. Penner. I'll make the necessary calls."
The man looked sincerely grateful. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. And thank you." Then he saluted John, who automatically returned the gesture.
For the first time, John willingly climbed into the sleek government car that waited for them. Anthea sat beside the driver while Lestrade joined John and Mycroft in the back. Official-looking documents were scattered all over the seat; the DI cleared them up apologetically.
"Sorry. These are mine. Recent cases I brought up with me. Thought you might want a look, John."
"Me?"
"Of course you. Maybe you have some ideas. Sherlock wasn't responsible for all the good you did as a team, you know."
John understood. Lestrade attributed his depression not only to grief, but also the loss of excitement and purpose: the emotionally crippled soldier missing the war. And maybe he was right. When they were all seated and the car began to move, John reached for the folder automatically. Lestrade smiled and handed it over, while Mycroft rested his head against John's shoulder and closed his eyes.
The first file pertained to a jeweler, allegedly murdered, whose body had been found in Highgate Cemetery. John was scanning the forensics report when Mycroft murmured, "Bit obvious, that one."
John started: he hadn't been aware that the other man was reading over his shoulder.
"It is?" Lestrade frowned, bewildered.
"Yes." Mycroft stifled a yawn. "Look into his financial background and you'll find that he had difficulties. He was robbing graves, and hit his head on a stone."
"But no stones in the vicinity were bloodstained."
"Because he didn't drop immediately. John, look at the report. How far could a man walk after sustaining that kind of head trauma?"
John chewed his lower lip as he considered. "I don't know about how far, but he could have staggered along for five minutes at most. Then the bleed in his brain would have done him in."
"Just so. Detective Inspector, if you search within a five-minute radius of where the body was found, I'm sure you'll find the location of the accident. Death was by misadventure, not murder, and hardly worth your time."
Mycroft closed his eyes for a few seconds, allowing John and Lestrade to have an unobserved moment.
"Just like old times," Lestrade said.
John nodded sadly. "Almost."
Mycroft stirred again. "Who was your man on forensics, Mr. Lestrade?"
"Anderson."
The elder Holmes snorted. "That explains a lot. Every village needs its idiot, I suppose, even Scotland Yard."
John was about to laugh when he saw- or thought he saw- a dark-clad figure standing beside the hedges that marked the entrance to the manor's private drive. It disappeared quickly, but his immediate impression was of a tall man with a white face, high cheekbones, and curly black hair.
Is that you, Sherlock? Welcoming us back, in spirit?
John's throat tightened. If he'd been alone, he probably would have wept. But he did not despair, like he would have only days before.
Perhaps there was hope after all.
Part Thirteen