Promise to the Living

Chapter Four

Mycroft stood before the large room's floor to ceiling window, hands in his pockets. Beyond his silhouette, John could see a broad expanse of yellowing grass yielding to autumn's chill, and leafless trees clustered in small groves at the property's perimeter.

I'm in the country, then. Not London.

Mycroft's eyes flickered over him for a millisecond. Shaking his head ruefully, he said, "John, before you join me at the table, please dispose of that object you're concealing in your left hand."

Bastard. Should have figured he'd catch that.

John's lips tightened. He was sorely tempted to throw the nail at Mycroft's head, but didn't want to be drugged and locked in his room again. Instead, he tossed it onto the long oak table, where it chipped one of the two china plates laid out.

The one nearest Mycroft.

Got my point across anyway.

Mycroft sighed and gestured to a uniformed maid, who dutifully carried the cracked plate away and took another one from a small pile on a sideboard. When she laid it down, the elder Holmes approached the table and sat.

"Please," he said, gesturing toward the other plate. "The maids will bring breakfast out shortly."

John obeyed, scowling when he noticed the plastic cutlery and Styrofoam cup. On closer inspection, his plate wasn't china, but an authentic-looking paper version. Nodding at Mycroft's silver utensils and gold-rimmed china teacup, he said peevishly, "You are a bloody shitty host."

Another maid came in with a steaming pot of tea. After she poured them each a cup and departed, Mycroft said, "Surely, John, you don't expect to be given a knife and fork and breakable dishware when a mere nail becomes a potential weapon in your hands."

"Can you blame me?" Conscious of the hovering minders, John tried his hardest not to yell. "You kidnap me, drug me, and expect me to be happy about that?"

"Not at all. Hence the precaution." Mycroft paused again when a third maid emerged from the passage leading to the kitchen, balancing two platters of scrambled eggs and sausage. A man in a butler's uniform followed with a tray of toast and jar of strawberry jam. When John observed that the serving utensils were plastic, he shook his head.

"You're really that afraid of me?"

Mycroft's tone was mild but that blue-eyed stare was direct and faintly menacing. "No, I'd just rather not be forced to sedate you again. You're a doctor- you know it's unhealthy."

"There's nothing healthy about any of this." Yielding to the pleas of his growling stomach, John spread jam on a piece of toast and added milk to his tea. "People will miss me, you know."

"Pity that the thought of your friends didn't stop you from acting rashly yesterday. At any rate, they've all been informed."

He halted in mid-pour. "What?"

"Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sarah Sawyer, your sister Harriet. They've all been contacted. They know you're here with me for the next month at least."

John slammed the milk pitcher down. "What the bloody hell did you tell them?"

"They weren't even surprised. They were all quite relieved, actually. You've been worrying them for quite awhile."

"Goddamn it, what did you say to them?"

The men in the doorway must have moved forward, for Mycroft raised a restraining hand. "I told them that you weren't well and needed time away to recuperate."

John was furious. "Did you tell them that I would be held here against my will?"

"No, but Miss Hooper did beg for me to do whatever it took to keep you safe."

Mycroft leaned forward to blow on his steaming cup. John glared at him- and froze, noticing for the first time how casually the elder Holmes was dressed and groomed.

Instead of his trademark three-piece suit and tie, Mycroft wore a black turtleneck jumper made from a soft material that could only be cashmere, and dark wool trousers. His reddish brown hair, while not as curly as Sherlock's, had a decided wave to it when not weighed down by expensive product. Without all the outer trappings of power, he looked more… human. The harsh lines blurred, flesh and blood replaced ice.

Without looking up, Mycroft said, "I miss him too, John."

The doctor tore his eyes away. "I don't think I should be talking to you about Sherlock. Because of you, his last moments were hell."

"On the contrary, John, it was because of you. When he was on that ledge, he suffered terribly thinking about how you would take it." The elder Holmes swallowed heavily. "His death, I mean."

John lowered his toast. "What?"

"As I told you last night, Sherlock loved you. Before you came along, he confided in a skull. And I didn't exactly discourage him." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his steepled fingertips. Sherlock used to do the same thing when thinking, John remembered, his throat tightening. "He was a sensitive child. Cried at everything even remotely sad: a dead butterfly, a broken Christmas ornament. When our grandfather died, he was so hysterical that our parents sent him to a psychiatrist. We honestly doubted his ability to survive in this harsh world."

John listened. He'd lived with Sherlock for over a year and a half, and had loved the man in a way that went beyond friendship alone, yet he knew precious little about Sherlock's formative years. What had turned him into a self-proclaimed sociopath who made an exception to his 'not caring' rule only for John?

"We told him that none of it matters. Everyone dies. All things eventually break or turn to dust. It was best to accept that at the start. So he did. Sherlock saw everyone who came into his life as someone who would eventually leave, possibly under tragic circumstances. So he learned to not care. And then you came along."

Mycroft paused, regarding John with admiration and faint accusation.

"You made him feel. And I don't know whether I should give you a knighthood or a punch in the face."

"I wasn't the one who sold him out to Moriarty."

"Sherlock forgave me for that, John."

"Did he now? When?"

"When he asked me to watch over you after he was gone."

John's heart lurched. "What are you talking about?"

"Before the fall." Mycroft paused again. "John, you were the only one he spoke to before he jumped. But you weren't the only one he called."

Then, looking sadder than John had ever thought possible, Mycroft took out his mobile, accessed his voicemail, and turned on the speaker.