Danger Nights

Chapter Fifteen

When John awoke, it was under protest. His leg throbbed despite the painkillers that saturated his veins, making him suspect extensive damage. Maybe Astrid’s bullet had even broken his femur.

Biting back a whimper of fear, he opened his eyes slowly. As expected, he was in a private hospital room, hooked up to an IV. His gaze drifted to the right and took in Mycroft, who sat in the bedside chair.

The elder Holmes looked so ghastly that John temporarily forgot his own anxiety. Dark under-eye circles gave his face a cadaverous quality and the bruise from John’s fist was horribly livid. A Styrofoam cup of cooling coffee sat on the side table, but he ignored it, all attention focused on his phone.

John swallowed, wincing as his throat throbbed. “Mycroft,” he rasped.

Mycroft quickly put the phone aside. “You’re all right,” he said as he took John’s free hand. “You’re in Stornoway hospital.”

“My leg.” The doctor shifted it under the blankets, grimacing at the pain that stabbed up his thigh. “Is it...”

“The bullet went right through your thigh muscle. It was a clean shot, calculated to temporarily stop you, nothing more.”

Oh, thank God. John exhaled deeply. He’d need crutches, but only temporarily.

Mycroft paused. He glanced at the closed door before continuing. “John, I am so sorry my actions placed you in this predicament.”

“I’m sorry too.” John gazed at the other man’s bruised jaw. “For hitting you, I mean.”

“Nonsense. You did the right thing. My own decision-making abilities have been highly questionable lately. I’m glad you protected me from my own instability.”

The notion of shielding someone from their own impulses reminded John of Sherlock. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back against the pillows. Mycroft offered him a glass of water with a straw, which he accepted gratefully. After several small sips, he asked, “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He was here for hours, pacing.” Mycroft nodded toward the foot of the bed. “Ten minutes ago, he left. I expect him back momentarily.”

“Did- did he tell you what happened?”

The elder Holmes frowned. “His version, yes. Which makes me suspect that I don’t know everything. I’d be grateful if you’d enlighten me.”

“Yeah. Of course. But....” John swallowed. “Alexei?”

“Mayberry and his party escaped by boat to the mainland. Gregory and one of my employees who is a former naval officer are communicating with the police in all communities where they might have gone ashore.”

John nodded and recounted the confrontation with Astrid. Mycroft listened in calm but attentive silence until John repeated the girl’s comment about Vernet. Then he sat up very straight and what little color his face had retained was gone instantly. He opened his mouth, lips twitching as he tried to speak.

Sherlock had clearly left that part out. John wondered why, but was too alarmed to dwell on it.

“What is it?” he asked. “Who is Vernet?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He stood and began pacing, still shaking his head. “How is it possible?” he kept muttering.

“How is what possible? Sit down and-”

The door opened and a young man in scrubs and a lab coat came in. He introduced himself as Dr. Taylor, head of the team that had treated John’s wound.