The Devil in Devon Part Eleven
The Devil in Devon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten
Indirectly, Sherlock had helped John yet again. The ex-army doctor was so worried that he temporarily forgot about the figurative sword hanging over his head.
Mycroft was upstairs in their room. When John hurried in with Lestrade, he saw the elder Holmes lying unconscious on the bed, tie removed and shirt partly unbuttoned. Someone had placed him in the recovery position.
"Dr. Watson?" A young man whom John recognized as a bodyguard rose from his seat at the window. "I'm Alex Morrell. I used to be a combat medical technician in the army before I went to work for Mr. Holmes. Do you have any idea what he's been given and how much?"
"10 milligrams of Haldol, I've been told." John sat on the edge of the bed and checked Mycroft's pulse. It was slow but steady. "He won't stir for at least three hours."
Lestrade faced the ex-medic. "We have a situation. Sherlock is missing."
Morrell quickly pulled a mobile out of his pocket and dialled. As soon as someone answered, he held the phone out to Lestrade. "I have his assistant on the line. Tell her what happened: she's authorised to act when Mr. Holmes is indisposed. "
While Lestrade paced in front of the window and talked to Anthea in low, agitated tones, John touched Mycroft's hand. Even when asleep, the man's brow was creased. Did his worries and responsibilities pursue him even in his dreams?
No matter. In a few hours the dreaming would stop and Mycroft would want to know why his current lover was in a pub toilet with one of his ex-lovers, who also happened to be a known subversive. Alarm over his impulsive sibling's disappearance would not eliminate or even forestall the need for answers.
Lestrade finished the call and came over. "Anthea says that there is no surveillance system in place in the area surrounding the pub, so we can't track down the car that way," he announced, looking stricken. "John, do you have any way of contacting this Diabel directly?"
John shook his head slowly.
"Fucking Sherlock." Lestrade gritted his teeth. "How the hell did he decide that locking himself in the boot of a terrorist's car would be a stroke of genius?"
"I don't think she'd hurt him." John imagined Elena discovering her stowaway after the car stopped. "If she found him, she'd just… disable… him like she did Mycroft."
As if on cue, Mycroft groaned softly and his hands twitched. But he didn't wake up.
"She must have done something, or we'd have heard from him by now." Lestrade's voice was grave. "Let's take a walk, mate. You and I need to talk. This gentleman can stay with Mycroft."
"Yes." John stood and faced Morrell. "I need to speak with Mr. Lestrade. We'll be around the premises. If Mr. Holmes' condition changes, text me at once. I presume you have the number."
"Yes, Sir."
They left the room and ascended the massive oak staircase in loaded silence. Neither doctor nor ex-Yarder spoke until they were out of the house and navigating the winding pathways of the back garden, which was thick and fragrant with wild roses. Then Lestrade said, "I'm listening."
"First, I need your word, Greg. I'll tell you everything, but I will be the one to discuss it all with Mycroft. Agreed?"
The former DI studied John's face before nodding. "All right."
Once John started talking about his pact with Elena, the words exploded from him like water conquering a dam. He'd never before appreciated how secrets could tear someone apart from the inside out, like swallowed glass, and expelling the details was an immense relief. When he mentioned Elena's -and possibly Mycroft's- son, Lestrade's jaw dropped but he didn't interrupt.
Finally John stopped talking and leaned against the lip of a stone fountain. The garden was silent except for the distant chirping of birds. Lestrade paced back and forth for awhile longer, clearly trying to digest everything he'd heard.
"I asked you this before, John, but we were interrupted," he said at last. "Why do you feel you can trust El- I mean, Diabel?"
"I feel like I don't have a choice, Greg. She's the only one who can find out more about what those bastards did to me. Christ, I've got a fucking explosive in my-"
John sank to his knees and hugged himself as the terrible reality sank in yet again. "Greg," he continued, shaking his head slowly, "I could die in a month. Blown up, like so many of my mates in Afghanistan."
"Listen." Lestrade bent over and grasped his shoulder. "I'm not saying I believe everything this woman told you: she seems to have a private agenda no matter whose side she's on. But one thing she said makes sense: whoever created that damned thing in your system should know how to undo it. If she can find out who it is and we can get to them, there's hope. Maybe Mycroft knows."
"Maybe." John breathed deeply until his heart rate returned to normal and his legs were steady enough to let him rise. "Sorry. For losing it there."
"Don't apologize. You're going through hell, John."
"I think hell was designed as a prelude for what I'm going through. Now please listen to me. When Mycroft wakes up, I'm telling him about everything except the boy. He doesn't need that type of news on top of everything else. Sherlock's missing, I'm a walking bomb- I'm not going to hit him with an uncertainty as well."
"Of course. But do you really think it's true? She had Mycroft's son?"
"Honestly?" John paused. "I think it's possible."
All Lestrade could say was, "Bloody hell. I'm just imagining what this kid must be like, with those genetics."
John didn't respond, but he had imagined it too. Often. In his mind's-eye he saw a fair-haired and pale-skinned boy with brilliant blue (or green, if he took after his mother) eyes and a supernatural intelligence. He could potentially be Britain's greatest champion or its most formidable enemy, depending on which parent ultimately influenced his allegiance.
They went back into the house and attempted to eat the dinner the cook had prepared, but neither had much appetite. Each time John's phone received a text they would jump eagerly, only to deflate when the message was from Mrs. Hudson, Harry, or in one instance Anthea asking if Mycroft had woken up yet.
John hated the helpless rage that consumed him whenever he and Sherlock were forcibly divided by the latter's headstrong antics. Sitting at the table, separated from his best friend by an unknown distance, wore his nerves raw. But he was also perversely grateful that the anxiety took his mind off his own dilemma. He was confident that Elena would not harm Sherlock, and waiting for further developments was a welcome distraction.
Morrell came downstairs while they were having drinks. "Mr. Holmes is awake and asking for Dr. Watson."
As John rose, Lestrade put down his gin and tonic. "Need me to go with you?"
"No, but thanks."
John followed the bodyguard up the stairs and down the hall, which was lit by heavily shaded wall sconces. Mycroft was sitting up in bed, sipping a glass of water. When he saw John, he set down the glass and his lips tightened. His eyes signalled confusion and hurt, two emotions that he rarely manifested.
"Mycroft." John sat on the edge of the bed, forcing himself to look his lover in the eye. "How are you feeling?"
"Physically, quite ghastly. Haldol leaves one with a nasty headache. Emotionally, I'm even worse."
"I know, and I'm prepared to explain. But first you need to know that Sherlock is missing."
The elder Holmes sat up straighter. "What's happened?"
John told him. Mycroft winced at the combined head pain and mental aggravation. "Foolish child," he muttered. "But at least I have a way of finding him."
"What?" John exclaimed. "How? Anthea said-"
Mycroft swung his legs to the floor and stood carefully. "Just fetch me some paracetamol."
"I will, but how can you find him?"
"I know Diabel much better than you ever will, John. I knew she might escape when I confronted you both." Mycroft took a few experimental steps. His gait was sluggish, but stable. "When she injected me I slapped a GPS tracker in her apron. I can find her, or at least her temporary abode, since she would have changed clothes there. Now, the painkillers if you please, while I access the GPS details on my laptop."
John found his medical kit in the closet and gave Mycroft the pills along with his glass of water. The elder Holmes swallowed them mechanically as he stared at the map that was gradually taking shape on the screen. John stood behind him, desperate to say something, anything, that would break the divide that he detected between them. But nothing came to mind except "What have you found?"
"Diabel -or the tracker anyway- is approximately twenty-five minutes north of here." Mycroft turned in his chair and called, "Mr. Morrell- bring my car around to the front immediately. We've ascertained where my brother might be. Ask Dunn to follow in a second vehicle with Jones and Fenning."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the ex-medic called from the bottom of the stairs.
Mycroft, appearing to notice for the first time that his shirt was open, tackled the buttons. When he saw his tie on the bureau he stood up and headed for it, but the sudden movement made him reel. He would have fallen if John hadn't caught him. The doctor knew that urging him to get back in bed and let John and Lestrade lead the rescue would be useless, so he said, "No fast movements until you're steadier."
"All right." Mycroft retrieved his tie and started toward the jacket hanging in the closet, but John retrieved it first.
"Here."
"Thank you." As he put it on, Mycroft gazed at John with an indecipherable expression. "We'll talk during the ride."
"Yes," John said gratefully. "I'll tell Greg to ride with your men."
Five minutes later, the two-vehicle caravan was heading away from the mansion into the Devon countryside. John checked his army-issue automatic to ensure that he'd remembered to load it while Mycroft, who had a Glock tucked in his overcoat pocket, gazed out the window.
"All right, John," he finally said, although his stare remained outward. "I'm listening."
John told him everything- nearly. He didn't mention Alexei, but said that Elena had agreed to help him in exchange for his assisting someone she cared about after she was gone. Mycroft's eyes narrowed at that, but he did not interrupt. When John told him about the explosive that now navigated his bloodstream, his lips parted and he paled.
"A corporeal timer bomb," he whispered. "Oh, dear God."
"She said she'd find out who designed the thing." John tried to stay calm. "Mycroft, she may be my only hope. If we find her at this GPS location and you arrest her, I'll probably die."
The elder Holmes lowered his head. "There are three different varieties of that explosive in existence. All three inventors are alive- one is in my custody." He took out his phone and began tapping, quivering fingers giving away his distress. "I'll order his immediate interrogation."
"Please don't touch Diabel," John whispered. "I think she's my only chance."
Mycroft sent his message and turned. "Are you going to tell me what she wants you to do for this party after she's… gone?" His mouth tightened into a pale line and John thought he saw something like grief flit across his face.
"Yes." John took a deep breath. "But only after I've kept my promise to her. Provided I survive."
Mycroft stared at him. Then his eyes misted. "John, you are one of the most honourable, genuine men I have ever encountered. It's partly what drew me to you. I confess that it unsettles me that you never told me about this before now, but I realize that you have your reasons. Valid ones."
John couldn't speak.
"While I was waiting for you to come upstairs after I woke up, I was nursing hurt pride and a sense of betrayal. You'd made an arrangement with Diabel without informing me. We're a couple, John- we're not supposed to keep things of that magnitude from each other. But at the same time, I myself have been guilty of keeping secrets from close ones. It's practically a requirement of my job."
Mycroft grabbed his hand. John pressed against him and wept heavily. The tears drained his fear and grief until a manageable residue remained. As he patted John's back, Mycroft whispered into his hair, "We'll retrieve my foolish brother, and then leave, provided no one tries to engage us. Diabel will remain free to do what it takes to end this nightmare."
"I'm afraid," John admitted.
"So am I. Like I told you before, Diabel supports a dangerous belief system, but she's not sadistic. If she says she'll help you, she will."
"I know she'll try. But what if- oh God, I don't want to leave you."
The car screeched suddenly to a halt and the driver shouted in alarm, but not before Mycroft said something that sounded like, "If you leave, John, we'll go together."
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten
Indirectly, Sherlock had helped John yet again. The ex-army doctor was so worried that he temporarily forgot about the figurative sword hanging over his head.
Mycroft was upstairs in their room. When John hurried in with Lestrade, he saw the elder Holmes lying unconscious on the bed, tie removed and shirt partly unbuttoned. Someone had placed him in the recovery position.
"Dr. Watson?" A young man whom John recognized as a bodyguard rose from his seat at the window. "I'm Alex Morrell. I used to be a combat medical technician in the army before I went to work for Mr. Holmes. Do you have any idea what he's been given and how much?"
"10 milligrams of Haldol, I've been told." John sat on the edge of the bed and checked Mycroft's pulse. It was slow but steady. "He won't stir for at least three hours."
Lestrade faced the ex-medic. "We have a situation. Sherlock is missing."
Morrell quickly pulled a mobile out of his pocket and dialled. As soon as someone answered, he held the phone out to Lestrade. "I have his assistant on the line. Tell her what happened: she's authorised to act when Mr. Holmes is indisposed. "
While Lestrade paced in front of the window and talked to Anthea in low, agitated tones, John touched Mycroft's hand. Even when asleep, the man's brow was creased. Did his worries and responsibilities pursue him even in his dreams?
No matter. In a few hours the dreaming would stop and Mycroft would want to know why his current lover was in a pub toilet with one of his ex-lovers, who also happened to be a known subversive. Alarm over his impulsive sibling's disappearance would not eliminate or even forestall the need for answers.
Lestrade finished the call and came over. "Anthea says that there is no surveillance system in place in the area surrounding the pub, so we can't track down the car that way," he announced, looking stricken. "John, do you have any way of contacting this Diabel directly?"
John shook his head slowly.
"Fucking Sherlock." Lestrade gritted his teeth. "How the hell did he decide that locking himself in the boot of a terrorist's car would be a stroke of genius?"
"I don't think she'd hurt him." John imagined Elena discovering her stowaway after the car stopped. "If she found him, she'd just… disable… him like she did Mycroft."
As if on cue, Mycroft groaned softly and his hands twitched. But he didn't wake up.
"She must have done something, or we'd have heard from him by now." Lestrade's voice was grave. "Let's take a walk, mate. You and I need to talk. This gentleman can stay with Mycroft."
"Yes." John stood and faced Morrell. "I need to speak with Mr. Lestrade. We'll be around the premises. If Mr. Holmes' condition changes, text me at once. I presume you have the number."
"Yes, Sir."
They left the room and ascended the massive oak staircase in loaded silence. Neither doctor nor ex-Yarder spoke until they were out of the house and navigating the winding pathways of the back garden, which was thick and fragrant with wild roses. Then Lestrade said, "I'm listening."
"First, I need your word, Greg. I'll tell you everything, but I will be the one to discuss it all with Mycroft. Agreed?"
The former DI studied John's face before nodding. "All right."
Once John started talking about his pact with Elena, the words exploded from him like water conquering a dam. He'd never before appreciated how secrets could tear someone apart from the inside out, like swallowed glass, and expelling the details was an immense relief. When he mentioned Elena's -and possibly Mycroft's- son, Lestrade's jaw dropped but he didn't interrupt.
Finally John stopped talking and leaned against the lip of a stone fountain. The garden was silent except for the distant chirping of birds. Lestrade paced back and forth for awhile longer, clearly trying to digest everything he'd heard.
"I asked you this before, John, but we were interrupted," he said at last. "Why do you feel you can trust El- I mean, Diabel?"
"I feel like I don't have a choice, Greg. She's the only one who can find out more about what those bastards did to me. Christ, I've got a fucking explosive in my-"
John sank to his knees and hugged himself as the terrible reality sank in yet again. "Greg," he continued, shaking his head slowly, "I could die in a month. Blown up, like so many of my mates in Afghanistan."
"Listen." Lestrade bent over and grasped his shoulder. "I'm not saying I believe everything this woman told you: she seems to have a private agenda no matter whose side she's on. But one thing she said makes sense: whoever created that damned thing in your system should know how to undo it. If she can find out who it is and we can get to them, there's hope. Maybe Mycroft knows."
"Maybe." John breathed deeply until his heart rate returned to normal and his legs were steady enough to let him rise. "Sorry. For losing it there."
"Don't apologize. You're going through hell, John."
"I think hell was designed as a prelude for what I'm going through. Now please listen to me. When Mycroft wakes up, I'm telling him about everything except the boy. He doesn't need that type of news on top of everything else. Sherlock's missing, I'm a walking bomb- I'm not going to hit him with an uncertainty as well."
"Of course. But do you really think it's true? She had Mycroft's son?"
"Honestly?" John paused. "I think it's possible."
All Lestrade could say was, "Bloody hell. I'm just imagining what this kid must be like, with those genetics."
John didn't respond, but he had imagined it too. Often. In his mind's-eye he saw a fair-haired and pale-skinned boy with brilliant blue (or green, if he took after his mother) eyes and a supernatural intelligence. He could potentially be Britain's greatest champion or its most formidable enemy, depending on which parent ultimately influenced his allegiance.
They went back into the house and attempted to eat the dinner the cook had prepared, but neither had much appetite. Each time John's phone received a text they would jump eagerly, only to deflate when the message was from Mrs. Hudson, Harry, or in one instance Anthea asking if Mycroft had woken up yet.
John hated the helpless rage that consumed him whenever he and Sherlock were forcibly divided by the latter's headstrong antics. Sitting at the table, separated from his best friend by an unknown distance, wore his nerves raw. But he was also perversely grateful that the anxiety took his mind off his own dilemma. He was confident that Elena would not harm Sherlock, and waiting for further developments was a welcome distraction.
Morrell came downstairs while they were having drinks. "Mr. Holmes is awake and asking for Dr. Watson."
As John rose, Lestrade put down his gin and tonic. "Need me to go with you?"
"No, but thanks."
John followed the bodyguard up the stairs and down the hall, which was lit by heavily shaded wall sconces. Mycroft was sitting up in bed, sipping a glass of water. When he saw John, he set down the glass and his lips tightened. His eyes signalled confusion and hurt, two emotions that he rarely manifested.
"Mycroft." John sat on the edge of the bed, forcing himself to look his lover in the eye. "How are you feeling?"
"Physically, quite ghastly. Haldol leaves one with a nasty headache. Emotionally, I'm even worse."
"I know, and I'm prepared to explain. But first you need to know that Sherlock is missing."
The elder Holmes sat up straighter. "What's happened?"
John told him. Mycroft winced at the combined head pain and mental aggravation. "Foolish child," he muttered. "But at least I have a way of finding him."
"What?" John exclaimed. "How? Anthea said-"
Mycroft swung his legs to the floor and stood carefully. "Just fetch me some paracetamol."
"I will, but how can you find him?"
"I know Diabel much better than you ever will, John. I knew she might escape when I confronted you both." Mycroft took a few experimental steps. His gait was sluggish, but stable. "When she injected me I slapped a GPS tracker in her apron. I can find her, or at least her temporary abode, since she would have changed clothes there. Now, the painkillers if you please, while I access the GPS details on my laptop."
John found his medical kit in the closet and gave Mycroft the pills along with his glass of water. The elder Holmes swallowed them mechanically as he stared at the map that was gradually taking shape on the screen. John stood behind him, desperate to say something, anything, that would break the divide that he detected between them. But nothing came to mind except "What have you found?"
"Diabel -or the tracker anyway- is approximately twenty-five minutes north of here." Mycroft turned in his chair and called, "Mr. Morrell- bring my car around to the front immediately. We've ascertained where my brother might be. Ask Dunn to follow in a second vehicle with Jones and Fenning."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the ex-medic called from the bottom of the stairs.
Mycroft, appearing to notice for the first time that his shirt was open, tackled the buttons. When he saw his tie on the bureau he stood up and headed for it, but the sudden movement made him reel. He would have fallen if John hadn't caught him. The doctor knew that urging him to get back in bed and let John and Lestrade lead the rescue would be useless, so he said, "No fast movements until you're steadier."
"All right." Mycroft retrieved his tie and started toward the jacket hanging in the closet, but John retrieved it first.
"Here."
"Thank you." As he put it on, Mycroft gazed at John with an indecipherable expression. "We'll talk during the ride."
"Yes," John said gratefully. "I'll tell Greg to ride with your men."
Five minutes later, the two-vehicle caravan was heading away from the mansion into the Devon countryside. John checked his army-issue automatic to ensure that he'd remembered to load it while Mycroft, who had a Glock tucked in his overcoat pocket, gazed out the window.
"All right, John," he finally said, although his stare remained outward. "I'm listening."
John told him everything- nearly. He didn't mention Alexei, but said that Elena had agreed to help him in exchange for his assisting someone she cared about after she was gone. Mycroft's eyes narrowed at that, but he did not interrupt. When John told him about the explosive that now navigated his bloodstream, his lips parted and he paled.
"A corporeal timer bomb," he whispered. "Oh, dear God."
"She said she'd find out who designed the thing." John tried to stay calm. "Mycroft, she may be my only hope. If we find her at this GPS location and you arrest her, I'll probably die."
The elder Holmes lowered his head. "There are three different varieties of that explosive in existence. All three inventors are alive- one is in my custody." He took out his phone and began tapping, quivering fingers giving away his distress. "I'll order his immediate interrogation."
"Please don't touch Diabel," John whispered. "I think she's my only chance."
Mycroft sent his message and turned. "Are you going to tell me what she wants you to do for this party after she's… gone?" His mouth tightened into a pale line and John thought he saw something like grief flit across his face.
"Yes." John took a deep breath. "But only after I've kept my promise to her. Provided I survive."
Mycroft stared at him. Then his eyes misted. "John, you are one of the most honourable, genuine men I have ever encountered. It's partly what drew me to you. I confess that it unsettles me that you never told me about this before now, but I realize that you have your reasons. Valid ones."
John couldn't speak.
"While I was waiting for you to come upstairs after I woke up, I was nursing hurt pride and a sense of betrayal. You'd made an arrangement with Diabel without informing me. We're a couple, John- we're not supposed to keep things of that magnitude from each other. But at the same time, I myself have been guilty of keeping secrets from close ones. It's practically a requirement of my job."
Mycroft grabbed his hand. John pressed against him and wept heavily. The tears drained his fear and grief until a manageable residue remained. As he patted John's back, Mycroft whispered into his hair, "We'll retrieve my foolish brother, and then leave, provided no one tries to engage us. Diabel will remain free to do what it takes to end this nightmare."
"I'm afraid," John admitted.
"So am I. Like I told you before, Diabel supports a dangerous belief system, but she's not sadistic. If she says she'll help you, she will."
"I know she'll try. But what if- oh God, I don't want to leave you."
The car screeched suddenly to a halt and the driver shouted in alarm, but not before Mycroft said something that sounded like, "If you leave, John, we'll go together."