Promise to the Living

Chapter Three

The dream was so vivid that John talked back to it.

This was my room, John, when I quit cocaine for the last time.

"Is that why there's no window?"

Yes. I wasn't myself during withdrawal, and you're not yourself now. The room may feel like a prison to you now, but it really is a safe place to fall apart and rebuild.

"I don't feel safe. I feel like a prisoner."

You need to be here.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you were really here, Sherlock."

Death changes a lot of things, John, including your perspective.

Sherlock?

Yes?

"God, please don't be dead for real."

When John woke up, his face was wet.

Without a window or a clock, he had no way of guessing the time. His headache was gone, but in its place was something almost as bad: a general feeling of malaise and listlessness. If someone had come in and informed him that Moriarty was still alive and waiting outside with another bomb vest, he'd have shrugged and said, "Send him in." He wondered if he'd been dosed with an anti-anxiety drug while unconscious.

The door opened. Summoning enough energy to turn his head on the pillow, John saw Mycroft's attractive PA enter. Two large men hovered in the hallway, eying him carefully.

"Good morning," she said.

"Is it morning?"

"Mr. Holmes would like you to join him for breakfast. I'm to help you get ready."

"Tell your boss that this is not the way to convince me that he's a good guy."

"The bath is ready. Can you sit up?"

At one time, John would have coyly asked her if she would be washing him down, or at least doing towel duty. Now he just pushed the blankets aside and sat up.

"Put your feet in the slippers."

He looked at the floor, and saw a pair of expensive-looking fleece-lined slippers positioned neatly beside the bed. Shrugging as if they barely met his standards, he put them on and stood. Anthea handed him a linen handkerchief.

"What's this for?"

"Your face."

He touched his cheek and felt wetness. Memory of the dream returned with a jolt, and his mouth tightened.

Sherlock, the world is nothing without you in it. They all think you were merely my best friend, some thought we were lovers, but you were really my compass. You pointed the way to companionship, excitement, and purpose.

After taking a moment to get himself under control, he shuffled toward the doorway. Anthea stopped him. "One moment, John."

"What?"

She blindfolded him so quickly that the sudden loss of vision disoriented him. "Just a temporary precaution," she said in those polite, neutral tones. John understood: Mycroft didn't want him to memorize his surroundings and configure an escape.

"Can I at least ask where I am?" he sighed as she guided him out of the room.

"Mr. Holmes will explain everything."

Of course. These people probably didn't go to the loo unless 'Mr. Holmes' decreed they needed to.

He counted forty-four steps and two left turns before she directed him into a room with a tiled floor and moist, humid air. The blindfold was removed, allowing him to see the large, marble-walled bathroom with its sunken Jacuzzi. The latter was filled with warm, clear water. A shampoo bottle and soap lay on the ledge beside a neatly folded stack of towels.

John had to admit that the prospect of a hot bath was appealing. He approached it and began to unbutton his pajama shirt. "Thanks for the escort. I'll take it from here."

No one left. One man stood in the doorway while the other came in and stopped a few feet from John- close enough to grab him if he became aggressive. Anthea sat on a teak bench next to the door, took out her Blackberry, and started texting.

John blinked in disbelief. "What is this?"

"Please hurry up," said Anthea. "Mr. Holmes is waiting."

"Sorry, but I am not taking a bath in front of you three."

"John—" she began.

"Seriously! What am I going to do- drown myself? Sit outside and listen if you're that worried."

"You aren't to be left alone in here."

"I don't need minding! And I don't do peep shows!"

Anthea's polite façade slipped a fraction. "You do need minding, John. Now please- Mr. Holmes is waiting."

The man behind him moved closer.

John sighed, admitting defeat. He knew that they'd have no compunctions about manhandling him into the water and making the entire experience uncomfortable as well as embarrassing.

"Fine then," he snapped, pulling his shirt off so forcefully that the buttons tore loose. His pajama bottoms and pants were disposed of with equal spite. Sure that this room was monitored as thoroughly as the rest of the house, he called out, "Any special requests, Mycroft? Want me to dance around with a five-quid note in my teeth? Hang off the shower pole upside down?"

The man in the doorway actually laughed at that. John glared first at him, and then his other two pseudo-babysitters. "Anthea-whatever-your name is, eyes on your phone, please. And you two- I'd better not catch either of you wanking."

Anthea colored slightly. Both men smirked.

John turned his back on all of them and pretended that he was back at 221b, about to take a soak in the old clawfoot tub. He washed his short, bristly hair first and ran the rich-smelling soap (with the signature Harrod's stamp, which would never appear in the 221b bathroom) all over his body. He would only have admitted it under duress, but John did feel better when he stepped out and wrapped himself in the gigantic towel.

"Here." Anthea handed him a T-shirt, pants, and trousers, all folded neatly and stacked on top of each other. He took them and put them on, being beyond embarrassment at this point. When she blindfolded him again, he made an annoyed sound but did not resist.

Fifty-six steps and a right turn this time. The rich smells of a cooked breakfast became stronger: sausages, eggs, toast. John's mouth watered and his stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten at all yesterday; his mind had really been on only one thing.

Focus, John. And while you're eating, wait for your chance.

Hidden in one fist was a nail he'd discovered nestled in a groove along the edges of the Jacuzzi. It had probably been there since the room was constructed, and no one had noticed it until now.

It would hopefully be a tool for future escape.

"Ah, John. Good morning. You're looking better. My dear, take the blindfold off?"

Or for teaching a certain someone a lesson.

As he stepped into the presence of Mycroft Holmes, both options appealed equally.