Danger Nights- Chapter Two
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.
Part One
Mycroft regained consciousness while John and Lestrade were positioning him face-up on the sofa with his feet elevated. He protested weakly, seeming embarrassed, until John reluctantly helped him sit up.
"I'm fine," he said, although his waxy pallor suggested otherwise. "I've just had a very long and stressful day."
"You don't look fine. Your colour is terrible," Lestrade told him. "John, is there any orange juice in the refrigerator?"
"I think it was all used as a vodka mixture tonight," Sherlock admitted. "Even the batch I added the mold cultures to."
Alexei declared, "Tea with lots of sugar will be sufficient." He got out of his chair and headed for the kitchen. "I'll get it."
Mycroft rubbed his right shoulder. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Only a few minutes," John said.
"Deplorable," the elder Holmes muttered. "I apologize for my rather alarming reaction. As I stated, I've had an abnormally difficult day. I know that the cocaine didn't belong to anyone living here. The moment I stepped through the front door it was apparent to me that someone had decided to witness London's nightlife without leaving the flat." He looked pointedly at Sherlock. "Guests to such events typically bring their own party favours."
"It was for a case, Mycroft."
"Yes, I suspected the usual."
"We may have collected enough data to confirm that a woman was murdered."
"I see. How did she supposedly die? From a drug overdose at a party where liquor was provided to minors?"
Sherlock scowled. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
Although Mycroft was scolding his brother with his usual condescending finesse, John could tell that he hadn't rallied completely from his collapse. He kept blinking rapidly and taking quick, discreet breaths through his nose. Colour was slowly returning to his face, but a fine layer of sweat remained.
"I'm going back to the townhouse with you tonight," John said, taking his hand. "Bed for you as soon as we arrive. Doctor's orders."
Mycroft managed to smile. "I don't need a doctor, John. I just need you."
Glancing toward the kitchen, where Alexei was unplugging the whistling electric kettle, John said in a low voice, "I'll be in the bed too."
Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Must you, John? Really?"
Although the younger Holmes accepted his only friend's relationship with his brother, John knew that he was desperate to avoid reminders of its physical aspect. The doctor privately enjoyed dropping the occasional vivid hint whenever Sherlock misbehaved, and tonight had definitely been one of his more obnoxious moments.
"Tea for anyone else?" Alexei called. When everyone except Mycroft declined, he came into the living room with a single steaming mug. As he held it out to his father, he admitted, "It's sweeter than you normally take it, but you need the sugar."
Mycroft smiled weakly. "Thank you." He took a sip. "So how did you enjoy your first teenaged rebellion?"
Alexei was really a teenager only in terms of age: Holmesian intelligence and years spent under the purview of a terrorist group called the Consortium had left him fourteen going on thirty. He and Mycroft related to each other more like equals than father and son. Curfews and other teenage-oriented restrictions were unnecessary where he was concerned, so Mycroft focused instead on guiding and protecting him.
The elder Holmes worried constantly that the Consortium would try to reclaim the boy: Alexei had been one of its most promising assets before his mother, Mycroft's former lover, rebelled against its leaders and enabled his escape. Alexei was never left alone: his bedroom at his father's townhouse had its own security system, and whenever he stayed at Baker Street overnight, he either shared John's bed or slept on the living room sofa while Sherlock worked in his kitchen chemistry lab. No discernible attempts to kidnap him had been made yet, but Mycroft's vigilance continued.
"I hadn't intended it as a rebellion," Alexei replied. "Sherlock was right: this was for a case. Justice for a murder victim depended on us getting certain types of data."
John tried not to smile, and failed. Only Alexei could make an underage drinking party sound like a tool for justice. Even Sherlock looked impressed.
"You must show me how you do that one day," he told his nephew.
"Do what?"
"Come up with answers that stop Mycroft's tedious lectures."
"It's called being sincere."
Lestrade laughed. "That might be a good one for you to learn, Sherlock."
"Sincerity doesn't work for me, apparently. Whenever I'm honest, someone tells me to piss off or tries to hit me."
"Your reaction was perfectly understandable given the fact that Sherlock is a former addict," Alexei told Mycroft. "But please don't worry on my behalf. I have no interest in trying cocaine or any other drug. Ever."
John believed him. Alexei wasn't prone to black moods and boredom-induced depressions, both of which had driven Sherlock to the cocaine needle while he was still in his teens. The boy was a little too strong-willed at times, but when it came to avoiding illicit temptation, John and Mycroft both considered that to be a good thing.
"I know," Mycroft said, taking another gulp of the over-sweetened tea before setting the cup on the coffee table. "Again, I apologize." He rubbed his right shoulder and looked around. "My driver is still outside. John, perhaps we should leave now?"
"Of course." John kept his voice light, but he was still concerned. Mycroft seemed dazed. He kept staring at his hands and other objects in an obvious attempt to appear focused. When they were alone, John intended to ask him more personal questions, to determine whether or not he was actually ill or coming down with something. Finding cocaine in the building, although an upsetting occurrence, should have resulted in a furious tirade at his brother, not a fainting spell.
John knew that he was not alone in his worry. Alexei and Sherlock were watching the elder Holmes closely, expressions neutral but eyes narrowed.
Mycroft stood up carefully and took a deep, slow breath. "Alexei, Mr. Cullen will come to collect you tomorrow afternoon and bring you home. I trust that you won't be planning on holding any more public events here?"
Alexei gave him an obligatory smile. "I believe that we collected enough data this evening."
"Very well. I shall hold you to it. Let's go, John. Gregory, your home is en route: may we offer you a ride?"
"Thanks, but no. I reckon I'll stay and help clean up," Lestrade replied, giving John an odd, worried look.
John didn't bother packing anything: an extra set of everything he needed was at the house. As they exited the flat, he could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes upon his back. Mycroft, whose powers of observation were normally so astute that he could instantly spot a new addition to the messy bookshelf or a replaced shirt button, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny.
After some initial faltering, he walked with his usual brisk step, one arm linked with John's while he carried his umbrella in the other hand. But he remained subdued and distracted as they left the house and walked across the pavement to the government sedan idling at the curb. Neither of them spoke until they were seated in the car and cruising through London, en route to Knightsbridge.
"Mycroft," John said, shifting on the seat to face him, "are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired." The elder Holmes reached for John's hand and grasped it tightly. "I'm beyond happy to see you. I really am. Please forgive me if I'm not showing it with my usual enthusiasm."
"Just checking."
"Always so thoughtful." Mycroft leaned forward and brought their lips together. "You're my rock, John."
As he returned the kiss, John murmured, "I missed you."
"Likewise."
The car was travelling along Park Lane when Mycroft, who'd been gazing out the window and stroking the back of John's hand with his thumb, sat up straight on the seat. "Cullen," he called to the driver. "I need to make a stop."
"Certainly, sir. Where?"
"The bar at 140 Park Lane, please."
The vehicle eased out of traffic and approached the stately stone building that housed the London Marriott Hotel and the aforementioned bar / restaurant.
"What are we doing here?" John asked, surprised. 140 Park Lane was Mycroft's preferred dining spot next to Apsley's at the Lanesborough, but the hour was late. "Haven't you eaten dinner yet?"
"No. I have had a curious sensation in my stomach all day. I'm hoping it's nothing that some tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti won't ameliorate."
140 Park Lane wasn't crowded, as the dinner rush had concluded hours ago. When Mycroft and John entered the restaurant section, the staff welcomed them enthusiastically and escorted them to Mycroft's favourite corner table.
"Mr. Holmes," the maître d' beamed. "We haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been travelling in places where the food isn't exactly divine, so it's my pleasure to be back, Ronald." Mycroft shook his hand and sat down. "I'll start with a bottle of Burgundy: 2001 Domaine Ramonet and two glasses, please. We should be ready to order when you return."
John's worry persisted. The elder Holmes was coherent, affable, and where John was concerned, affectionate. But there was an autopilot undertone to his behaviour. His eyes lacked their usual animation and his facial expression, while pleasant, was comparatively lifeless.
"Tell me about Prague," John urged, hoping that conversation would rejuvenate him.
"Lovely city, from what I saw of it. I was in closed meetings throughout most of my stay." Mycroft gazed toward the bar. When he smiled wanly at someone there, John turned around.
An elegantly-dressed but otherwise average-looking man was sitting alone at the richly polished countertop, sipping amber liquor poured over ice. He nodded at John before eying Mycroft, who continued to smile at him.
"Do you know him?" the doctor asked, confused.
"I've never seen him before. But I know what he is." Mycroft toyed with the silverware, an empty- and for him, atypical- gesture.
"What do you mean? What is he?"
The man turned away and whispered to the bartender.
"Tonight," the elder Holmes said, "he's a kindred spirit of mine."
The maître d', Ronald, returned with the linen-wrapped bottle of wine and two glasses. John recognized the label: Mycroft had ordered it before, and it had added nearly two thousand pounds to the final bill. After a glass had been poured for each of them, Mycroft asked for the tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti. John ordered the lemon sole.
"Excellent choices, gentlemen," Ronald said with a grin that practically hung from his earlobes. When he left, John leaned forward to say something- only to be interrupted by a waiter bearing two liqueur glasses.
"Our finest Lillet blanc. Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," the man explained. John was confused, but Mycroft waved at their watching benefactor and accepted the drinks. As he handed one to John, he said, "Please convey my thanks for his generosity."
After the waiter left to deliver the message, John frowned. "I thought you said you don't know him."
Mycroft sipped the aperitif. "I don't."
"Then why did you just accept drinks from him?"
"To make him happy. Besides, he's not doing it only for us." Mycroft nodded toward the bar and John turned around. Sure enough, the same waiter was bringing two more glasses to a middle-aged couple sitting at the other side of the restaurant. They were surprised, but accepted. The husband lifted his drink in a toast, which the man at the bar happily returned.
John was puzzled. "He's buying drinks for people he doesn't know. What's he trying to do- go through his money until he's got nothing left?"
"That's precisely what he's doing."
John didn't understand, but he drank the vermouth anyway. It warmed his stomach, but did nothing to ease his concern.
The waiter appeared a second time.
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Rafferty is buying for all the patrons."
"Glenlivet. No ice," Mycroft said. John didn't answer: he was too busy staring around and counting the other diners. There were twenty-two in all.
"I'm fine with what I've got right now." He nodded down at his wine glass. "But tell him I said thanks."
The waiter turned to leave, but Mycroft stopped him. "Ask Mr. Rafferty if he will join us at our table."
"What?" John hissed. When the waiter walked into the bar area, he hissed, "What are you doing? Mycroft, something's wrong with you. We should just leave-"
Before he could finish, the aforementioned Mr. Rafferty appeared at the table, carrying his drink. He was thirty-five at most, and had thinning sandy hair. His suit was from Saville Row, but he wore it uneasily, as if stylish dressing was not his usual habit.
"Thanks for inviting me to join you, guys," he said in a broad American accent. "It was getting a bit lonesome sitting there."
"Your company is most welcome. Do sit down." Mycroft gestured toward one of the empty chairs. "I'm Mycroft Holmes and this is my dearest friend, Dr. John Watson."
"Lionel Rafferty." The man shook hands with both of them and sat.
A carnival atmosphere suddenly descended over their table. While John stared from one to the other in growing confusion and worry, Mycroft and Rafferty drank to each other's health and chatted like old friends. When the maitre d' and two waitresses brought their food, the elder Holmes insisted that the American order anything on the menu: at his expense.
Rafferty told them that he was from Chicago, and had come to London for a month to recover from a broken heart. "My mom is from London, so I decided to go as far away as possible while still retaining a sense of home," he explained. He said that last week, while walking near Marble Arch, he'd met a wonderful woman. Her name was Anna, and he planned to meet her at a trendy bar in Soho later that night.
"She's gorgeous, guys, and a fantastic listener. Twice we stayed up all night talking…."
John listened politely, but privately thought that the man seemed odd. Rafferty described his new lady love as if she were a goddess, and too perfect to be real. He didn't appear to be drunk, but there was something in his stare that was a little too vacuous, reminding John of a small child blowing a story out of proportion for his own gratification.
Mycroft listened to him with rapt attention, asking questions that made Rafferty squirm with delight and go into further detail. Finally, after two hours had passed, the American stood up.
"I have to be going," he said, offering his hand to each of them. "Thank you, Mycroft and John, for a great evening."
"Have a good time with Anna," John said politely, shaking his hand. As Mycroft did the same, the elder Holmes said, with a trace of sadness, "Have a safe journey, Lionel."
Rafferty hesitated. His smile slipped, and he looked at the two men warily, like he expected to be detained. When neither of them moved from the table, he smiled again, bade them goodnight, and left the restaurant.
"What was that?" John demanded, turning to Mycroft.
"Our good deed for the evening, John."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. And what did you mean by wishing him a safe journey? He's not leaving London for awhile yet, he said."
Mycroft stared at the tablecloth. "Not alive, anyway."
John's breath froze in his throat. "What?"
"I thought it was rather obvious." Now that Rafferty was gone, the elder Holmes lost his animated air and seemed depressed. "He's not accustomed to dressing so well: liquor stains on his shirt cuffs and right knee indicate that he is usually more casually attired when drinking. He's in an expensive restaurant outside Hyde Park, buying drinks for people he doesn't know. He's clearly living beyond his means while in London, but by the time the credit card bills arrive, he won't have to worry about paying them."
"What are you saying?"
"He's going to kill himself tonight, John. I knew it after he sent us the first drink. That's why I invited him to our table: he deserved to have one last enjoyable night. It was the least I could do for a kindred spirit."
"Jesus Christ!" John leaped away from table, ignoring the stares of the other diners, and ran to the restaurant's front door. He looked up and down Park Lane, heart hammering, but there was no sign of Lionel Rafferty.
When he turned back into the restaurant, there was also no sign of Mycroft Holmes.
Part Three
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.
Part One
Mycroft regained consciousness while John and Lestrade were positioning him face-up on the sofa with his feet elevated. He protested weakly, seeming embarrassed, until John reluctantly helped him sit up.
"I'm fine," he said, although his waxy pallor suggested otherwise. "I've just had a very long and stressful day."
"You don't look fine. Your colour is terrible," Lestrade told him. "John, is there any orange juice in the refrigerator?"
"I think it was all used as a vodka mixture tonight," Sherlock admitted. "Even the batch I added the mold cultures to."
Alexei declared, "Tea with lots of sugar will be sufficient." He got out of his chair and headed for the kitchen. "I'll get it."
Mycroft rubbed his right shoulder. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Only a few minutes," John said.
"Deplorable," the elder Holmes muttered. "I apologize for my rather alarming reaction. As I stated, I've had an abnormally difficult day. I know that the cocaine didn't belong to anyone living here. The moment I stepped through the front door it was apparent to me that someone had decided to witness London's nightlife without leaving the flat." He looked pointedly at Sherlock. "Guests to such events typically bring their own party favours."
"It was for a case, Mycroft."
"Yes, I suspected the usual."
"We may have collected enough data to confirm that a woman was murdered."
"I see. How did she supposedly die? From a drug overdose at a party where liquor was provided to minors?"
Sherlock scowled. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
Although Mycroft was scolding his brother with his usual condescending finesse, John could tell that he hadn't rallied completely from his collapse. He kept blinking rapidly and taking quick, discreet breaths through his nose. Colour was slowly returning to his face, but a fine layer of sweat remained.
"I'm going back to the townhouse with you tonight," John said, taking his hand. "Bed for you as soon as we arrive. Doctor's orders."
Mycroft managed to smile. "I don't need a doctor, John. I just need you."
Glancing toward the kitchen, where Alexei was unplugging the whistling electric kettle, John said in a low voice, "I'll be in the bed too."
Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Must you, John? Really?"
Although the younger Holmes accepted his only friend's relationship with his brother, John knew that he was desperate to avoid reminders of its physical aspect. The doctor privately enjoyed dropping the occasional vivid hint whenever Sherlock misbehaved, and tonight had definitely been one of his more obnoxious moments.
"Tea for anyone else?" Alexei called. When everyone except Mycroft declined, he came into the living room with a single steaming mug. As he held it out to his father, he admitted, "It's sweeter than you normally take it, but you need the sugar."
Mycroft smiled weakly. "Thank you." He took a sip. "So how did you enjoy your first teenaged rebellion?"
Alexei was really a teenager only in terms of age: Holmesian intelligence and years spent under the purview of a terrorist group called the Consortium had left him fourteen going on thirty. He and Mycroft related to each other more like equals than father and son. Curfews and other teenage-oriented restrictions were unnecessary where he was concerned, so Mycroft focused instead on guiding and protecting him.
The elder Holmes worried constantly that the Consortium would try to reclaim the boy: Alexei had been one of its most promising assets before his mother, Mycroft's former lover, rebelled against its leaders and enabled his escape. Alexei was never left alone: his bedroom at his father's townhouse had its own security system, and whenever he stayed at Baker Street overnight, he either shared John's bed or slept on the living room sofa while Sherlock worked in his kitchen chemistry lab. No discernible attempts to kidnap him had been made yet, but Mycroft's vigilance continued.
"I hadn't intended it as a rebellion," Alexei replied. "Sherlock was right: this was for a case. Justice for a murder victim depended on us getting certain types of data."
John tried not to smile, and failed. Only Alexei could make an underage drinking party sound like a tool for justice. Even Sherlock looked impressed.
"You must show me how you do that one day," he told his nephew.
"Do what?"
"Come up with answers that stop Mycroft's tedious lectures."
"It's called being sincere."
Lestrade laughed. "That might be a good one for you to learn, Sherlock."
"Sincerity doesn't work for me, apparently. Whenever I'm honest, someone tells me to piss off or tries to hit me."
"Your reaction was perfectly understandable given the fact that Sherlock is a former addict," Alexei told Mycroft. "But please don't worry on my behalf. I have no interest in trying cocaine or any other drug. Ever."
John believed him. Alexei wasn't prone to black moods and boredom-induced depressions, both of which had driven Sherlock to the cocaine needle while he was still in his teens. The boy was a little too strong-willed at times, but when it came to avoiding illicit temptation, John and Mycroft both considered that to be a good thing.
"I know," Mycroft said, taking another gulp of the over-sweetened tea before setting the cup on the coffee table. "Again, I apologize." He rubbed his right shoulder and looked around. "My driver is still outside. John, perhaps we should leave now?"
"Of course." John kept his voice light, but he was still concerned. Mycroft seemed dazed. He kept staring at his hands and other objects in an obvious attempt to appear focused. When they were alone, John intended to ask him more personal questions, to determine whether or not he was actually ill or coming down with something. Finding cocaine in the building, although an upsetting occurrence, should have resulted in a furious tirade at his brother, not a fainting spell.
John knew that he was not alone in his worry. Alexei and Sherlock were watching the elder Holmes closely, expressions neutral but eyes narrowed.
Mycroft stood up carefully and took a deep, slow breath. "Alexei, Mr. Cullen will come to collect you tomorrow afternoon and bring you home. I trust that you won't be planning on holding any more public events here?"
Alexei gave him an obligatory smile. "I believe that we collected enough data this evening."
"Very well. I shall hold you to it. Let's go, John. Gregory, your home is en route: may we offer you a ride?"
"Thanks, but no. I reckon I'll stay and help clean up," Lestrade replied, giving John an odd, worried look.
John didn't bother packing anything: an extra set of everything he needed was at the house. As they exited the flat, he could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes upon his back. Mycroft, whose powers of observation were normally so astute that he could instantly spot a new addition to the messy bookshelf or a replaced shirt button, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny.
After some initial faltering, he walked with his usual brisk step, one arm linked with John's while he carried his umbrella in the other hand. But he remained subdued and distracted as they left the house and walked across the pavement to the government sedan idling at the curb. Neither of them spoke until they were seated in the car and cruising through London, en route to Knightsbridge.
"Mycroft," John said, shifting on the seat to face him, "are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired." The elder Holmes reached for John's hand and grasped it tightly. "I'm beyond happy to see you. I really am. Please forgive me if I'm not showing it with my usual enthusiasm."
"Just checking."
"Always so thoughtful." Mycroft leaned forward and brought their lips together. "You're my rock, John."
As he returned the kiss, John murmured, "I missed you."
"Likewise."
The car was travelling along Park Lane when Mycroft, who'd been gazing out the window and stroking the back of John's hand with his thumb, sat up straight on the seat. "Cullen," he called to the driver. "I need to make a stop."
"Certainly, sir. Where?"
"The bar at 140 Park Lane, please."
The vehicle eased out of traffic and approached the stately stone building that housed the London Marriott Hotel and the aforementioned bar / restaurant.
"What are we doing here?" John asked, surprised. 140 Park Lane was Mycroft's preferred dining spot next to Apsley's at the Lanesborough, but the hour was late. "Haven't you eaten dinner yet?"
"No. I have had a curious sensation in my stomach all day. I'm hoping it's nothing that some tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti won't ameliorate."
140 Park Lane wasn't crowded, as the dinner rush had concluded hours ago. When Mycroft and John entered the restaurant section, the staff welcomed them enthusiastically and escorted them to Mycroft's favourite corner table.
"Mr. Holmes," the maître d' beamed. "We haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been travelling in places where the food isn't exactly divine, so it's my pleasure to be back, Ronald." Mycroft shook his hand and sat down. "I'll start with a bottle of Burgundy: 2001 Domaine Ramonet and two glasses, please. We should be ready to order when you return."
John's worry persisted. The elder Holmes was coherent, affable, and where John was concerned, affectionate. But there was an autopilot undertone to his behaviour. His eyes lacked their usual animation and his facial expression, while pleasant, was comparatively lifeless.
"Tell me about Prague," John urged, hoping that conversation would rejuvenate him.
"Lovely city, from what I saw of it. I was in closed meetings throughout most of my stay." Mycroft gazed toward the bar. When he smiled wanly at someone there, John turned around.
An elegantly-dressed but otherwise average-looking man was sitting alone at the richly polished countertop, sipping amber liquor poured over ice. He nodded at John before eying Mycroft, who continued to smile at him.
"Do you know him?" the doctor asked, confused.
"I've never seen him before. But I know what he is." Mycroft toyed with the silverware, an empty- and for him, atypical- gesture.
"What do you mean? What is he?"
The man turned away and whispered to the bartender.
"Tonight," the elder Holmes said, "he's a kindred spirit of mine."
The maître d', Ronald, returned with the linen-wrapped bottle of wine and two glasses. John recognized the label: Mycroft had ordered it before, and it had added nearly two thousand pounds to the final bill. After a glass had been poured for each of them, Mycroft asked for the tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti. John ordered the lemon sole.
"Excellent choices, gentlemen," Ronald said with a grin that practically hung from his earlobes. When he left, John leaned forward to say something- only to be interrupted by a waiter bearing two liqueur glasses.
"Our finest Lillet blanc. Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," the man explained. John was confused, but Mycroft waved at their watching benefactor and accepted the drinks. As he handed one to John, he said, "Please convey my thanks for his generosity."
After the waiter left to deliver the message, John frowned. "I thought you said you don't know him."
Mycroft sipped the aperitif. "I don't."
"Then why did you just accept drinks from him?"
"To make him happy. Besides, he's not doing it only for us." Mycroft nodded toward the bar and John turned around. Sure enough, the same waiter was bringing two more glasses to a middle-aged couple sitting at the other side of the restaurant. They were surprised, but accepted. The husband lifted his drink in a toast, which the man at the bar happily returned.
John was puzzled. "He's buying drinks for people he doesn't know. What's he trying to do- go through his money until he's got nothing left?"
"That's precisely what he's doing."
John didn't understand, but he drank the vermouth anyway. It warmed his stomach, but did nothing to ease his concern.
The waiter appeared a second time.
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Rafferty is buying for all the patrons."
"Glenlivet. No ice," Mycroft said. John didn't answer: he was too busy staring around and counting the other diners. There were twenty-two in all.
"I'm fine with what I've got right now." He nodded down at his wine glass. "But tell him I said thanks."
The waiter turned to leave, but Mycroft stopped him. "Ask Mr. Rafferty if he will join us at our table."
"What?" John hissed. When the waiter walked into the bar area, he hissed, "What are you doing? Mycroft, something's wrong with you. We should just leave-"
Before he could finish, the aforementioned Mr. Rafferty appeared at the table, carrying his drink. He was thirty-five at most, and had thinning sandy hair. His suit was from Saville Row, but he wore it uneasily, as if stylish dressing was not his usual habit.
"Thanks for inviting me to join you, guys," he said in a broad American accent. "It was getting a bit lonesome sitting there."
"Your company is most welcome. Do sit down." Mycroft gestured toward one of the empty chairs. "I'm Mycroft Holmes and this is my dearest friend, Dr. John Watson."
"Lionel Rafferty." The man shook hands with both of them and sat.
A carnival atmosphere suddenly descended over their table. While John stared from one to the other in growing confusion and worry, Mycroft and Rafferty drank to each other's health and chatted like old friends. When the maitre d' and two waitresses brought their food, the elder Holmes insisted that the American order anything on the menu: at his expense.
Rafferty told them that he was from Chicago, and had come to London for a month to recover from a broken heart. "My mom is from London, so I decided to go as far away as possible while still retaining a sense of home," he explained. He said that last week, while walking near Marble Arch, he'd met a wonderful woman. Her name was Anna, and he planned to meet her at a trendy bar in Soho later that night.
"She's gorgeous, guys, and a fantastic listener. Twice we stayed up all night talking…."
John listened politely, but privately thought that the man seemed odd. Rafferty described his new lady love as if she were a goddess, and too perfect to be real. He didn't appear to be drunk, but there was something in his stare that was a little too vacuous, reminding John of a small child blowing a story out of proportion for his own gratification.
Mycroft listened to him with rapt attention, asking questions that made Rafferty squirm with delight and go into further detail. Finally, after two hours had passed, the American stood up.
"I have to be going," he said, offering his hand to each of them. "Thank you, Mycroft and John, for a great evening."
"Have a good time with Anna," John said politely, shaking his hand. As Mycroft did the same, the elder Holmes said, with a trace of sadness, "Have a safe journey, Lionel."
Rafferty hesitated. His smile slipped, and he looked at the two men warily, like he expected to be detained. When neither of them moved from the table, he smiled again, bade them goodnight, and left the restaurant.
"What was that?" John demanded, turning to Mycroft.
"Our good deed for the evening, John."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. And what did you mean by wishing him a safe journey? He's not leaving London for awhile yet, he said."
Mycroft stared at the tablecloth. "Not alive, anyway."
John's breath froze in his throat. "What?"
"I thought it was rather obvious." Now that Rafferty was gone, the elder Holmes lost his animated air and seemed depressed. "He's not accustomed to dressing so well: liquor stains on his shirt cuffs and right knee indicate that he is usually more casually attired when drinking. He's in an expensive restaurant outside Hyde Park, buying drinks for people he doesn't know. He's clearly living beyond his means while in London, but by the time the credit card bills arrive, he won't have to worry about paying them."
"What are you saying?"
"He's going to kill himself tonight, John. I knew it after he sent us the first drink. That's why I invited him to our table: he deserved to have one last enjoyable night. It was the least I could do for a kindred spirit."
"Jesus Christ!" John leaped away from table, ignoring the stares of the other diners, and ran to the restaurant's front door. He looked up and down Park Lane, heart hammering, but there was no sign of Lionel Rafferty.
When he turned back into the restaurant, there was also no sign of Mycroft Holmes.
Part Three