Promise to the Living

Chapter Two

When John regained consciousness, his first impression was of an upscale hotel room. The bed he was lying on had a soft mattress that molded itself to cradle his body, and sheets with a sky-high thread count. A down-filled duvet covered him up to the neck, keeping him warm and comfortable. The walls were painted a cool, soothing green. As his vision cleared, he saw a mahogany desk, chest-of-drawers, and upholstered armchair scattered strategically about.

There were no windows.

John's head throbbed, but the pain was tolerable thanks to the goose-feather pillow and a cold compress that someone had placed on his forehead. Running his hands experimentally over his body, he felt silk pajamas instead of his rain-soaked jumper and jeans. He wasn't grateful for these little courtesies: only the dizziness and nausea prevented him from leaping off the bed and breaking something, preferably a certain person's neck.

"Fuck you, Mycroft," he rasped.

His suspicion that the room was under surveillance proved to be correct when the door- which did not have an inside knob- opened and Mycroft Holmes walked in.

Sherlock's older brother looked as immaculate as ever in a dove gray Savile Row suit and handmade Italian leather shoes. A solid gold watch chain draped across his middle, and a pearl pin adorned his silk tie. His dignified poise and slick charm made most people –and that included diplomats, world leaders, and royalty- go along with his agenda, but when defied, Mycroft allegedly inflicted punishments that brought the term "Dark Ages" to mind.

With Sherlock and John, it had been different. Mycroft might bluster, turn red, and threaten, but he'd never harm them. Or so John had always thought. But when that horrible, intrusive story about Sherlock appeared in the Fleet Street tabloids, and he realized that Mycroft was an indirect source, John resolved to never put anything past the man ever again.

"John," he greeted in those genteel tones that now set the doctor's teeth on edge. "Good to see you finally awake. It took longer than I expected, but then again-" icy blue eyes surveyed his blanket-covered form- "you've not been in the best shape physically for awhile."

"Just fuck off." John felt too wretched to be physically aggressive, but his anger flared. Why had Mycroft done this to him? He'd been on the brink of saying goodbye to the loneliness, the nightmares, the grief. He'd been almost happy as he walked to his rendezvous with eternity, or whatever waited when the body shut down. Frustrated and distressed, he tried to shout, but a broken sob came out instead. "You interfering bastard."

The elder Holmes pursed his lips. "You were going to kill yourself, John. I had every right to interfere."

"I was not."

"No?" Mycroft reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a small plastic evidence bag. John winced at the contents: the four suicide pills he'd been carrying. "Don't tell me these are for a headache."

"Maybe they are."

"I've already had them analyzed, John."

"Yeah, well, you know what you can do with your damn analyses." John removed the damp cloth from his forehead and struggled onto his elbows. The dizziness had receded, so he sat up slowly. When his stomach gave a warning twist he took deep, steadying breaths. "And I'm telling you right now that the moment I can walk without needing a sick bag, I'm leaving. You are not keeping me here."

"You don't have a choice." Mycroft was regarding him with pity as well as concern, which made John angry. "I won't abet self-destruction."

John laughed bitterly. "I find that hard to believe. The number of people you order killed every year would top the record of most soldiers I know. Does your hypocrisy know any limits?"

The older man sighed. "I don't blame you for thinking the worst of me. Talking to Moriarty was a grave mistake on my part, and one I will never forgive myself for." He paused. "Sherlock loved you, John. If I were to let you destroy yourself, it would be a disservice to his memory. Plus, I'm fond of you. Always have been."

"Oh, please. I know what you're really about. 'Helping' me will make you feel a little less guilty. Christ." John shook his head. "You really are a piece of work. Now, where are my clothes? I'd like to get dressed."

"I've already sent someone to Baker Street to collect some of your personal effects. They'll be back in a few hours."

"You're clearly not listening." John slid out of bed and stood up straight despite the weakness and nausea. "I'm leaving. Get me some street clothes and call me a cab."

Mycroft's mouth tightened. "You're not going anywhere, John. You need my help, whether you realize it or not."

"Yeah?" John's voice rose. "If I try to leave, will you call some of your minders in to stop me?"

"If I have to. But please, I'd really rather-"

John lunged.

He would later admit that trying to tackle Mycroft had been a stupid move for a number of reasons. One was that he was still weak. Another was that even when he was at his fittest, Mycroft could subdue him without breaking a sweat. The man was deadlier than his suave appearance implied. Sherlock once said that he had killed men in hand-to-hand combat during his days with MI6, and the steel edge that underscored his mannerisms hinted that he still could if the occasion demanded.

The struggle was brief. John managed to land one good punch in Mycroft's eye before he was flung face down on the bed, one arm twisted behind his back. He was vaguely aware of other people rushing into the room. Someone lowered the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms before he felt a stinging sensation in his right buttock. The injection site burned for a few seconds. Then John's strength fled. His limbs relaxed and his head sank onto the duvet. He tried to holler abuse, but could only manage a guttural moan.

The duvet and blankets shifted beneath him. Strong hands carefully repositioned him with his head on the pillow, and covered him. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy, and he finally gave up. Just before darkness took him yet again, cool fingers stroked his hot forehead and Mycroft murmured, "I care, John. I care."

Then nothing.