Danger Nights

Chapter Eleven

John sprang to his feet. "I'll let them know where we are," he told Gary, who was now coughing up small amounts of blood.

The Scotsman nodded. "Please hurry."

Mycroft shouted again. This time Sherlock and Lestrade joined in.

"John? Alexei?"

"Someone's in the kitchen over there!"

A door crashed open under the force of a heavy boot. A woman screamed.

Kitchen help who must have been left behind, John realised. He sprinted into the hall and called, "Mycroft! I'm here!"

"John!" Sherlock yelled back.

John heard Mycroft order someone to take "those women" into custody before calling, "Stay where you are- we're coming!"

Footsteps pounded in John's direction, growing louder with each passing second. Then Mycroft appeared at the end of the hall, clutching an automatic in one gloved fist. Sherlock, Lestrade, and four bodyguards flanked him, the latter holding machine weaponry.

When John bolted toward them, Mycroft slid his gun into its holster and extended his arms.

"Thank God you're safe. Where's Alexei?"

"Not here," John whispered against Mycroft's chest. When he felt the other man tense, he added, "But he's all right, and I know where they've taken him."

"Is everyone gone?" Lestrade surveyed the hall. "We found three women in the kitchen downstairs, but they were locked in and they don't appear to even speak English. Sherlock says they're Russian."

"I think they're just kitchen help. Everyone else left by helicopter around an hour ago."

Granite face softened by relief, Sherlock scanned John from head to toe. "You've got blood on your clothes."

"There's a wounded man in that bedroom back there. One of Mayberry's heavies." John drew back and looked up at Mycroft. "He –the bloke who took us- said his name is John Mayberry. American. Late fifties. Around your height, but bloody thin- looks like a skeleton from one of my old anatomy classes."

After ordering one of his men to see to Gary, Mycroft stared at the floor. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, making him appear several years older.

"I don't ever recall meeting such a person," he said.

"You must have done something –directly or indirectly- to make him want to move against you like this," Sherlock said. His tone was normal but John saw his lips tighten, which was his trademark resentment signal. "Perhaps you've forgotten. Has your memory been … compromised recently?"

John's heart sank. Sherlock had obviously figured out why Mycroft had been at St. Thomas, and was now punishing his brother for… what exactly? Faltering when he was supposed to be invincible? It was appalling behaviour and normally John would have admonished him, but now was not the time for a public rebuke.

Mycroft wasn't so reticent. Releasing John, he approached his brother until they were literally nose to nose. When he spoke, his voice was glacier-cold.

"This individual has abducted two of the people I care about the most. Rest assured that if I ever encountered anyone with that much animosity toward me personally, I would remember them. Not that there are many such people left alive."

Sherlock stared back. "You're not at your best right now, Mycroft, and we both know it."

John glanced at Mycroft's men, but they were only half-listening: clearly they'd learned to tune out these barbed exchanges. Not wanting the conversation to become more dangerous, he said, "We need to go. Mayberry's already got a head start on us."