Promise to the Living

Chapter Ten

John wasn't sure how much time passed before the door re-opened, but each second was pure torture.

He had no illusions about a last-minute rescue, not when the traditional rescuer was a prisoner too. Straining against his bonds and choking back furious tears, he cursed the fact that this had to happen just when he was softening toward Mycroft, whose life appeared to have been one long series of impossible choices and tough decisions. He'd given himself permission to try liking the man. A rewarding relationship with Sherlock's brother could have been healing for both of them.

Now it could never happen.

Sebastian Moran was in the throes of obsessive grief, which corroded proper judgment and demanded blood for blood. It needed a victim, a sacrifice, and with Sherlock gone, it would seek satisfaction in his brother's death.

As a doctor, John had seen this terrible impulse at work time and again, when patients died and grief-stricken survivors attacked the attending physicians physically and in the courts. They couldn't harm the real culprits- the cancer cells, vanished hit-and-run drivers- so they compensated in ways that often defied sanity.

Two men wheeled in a large, padded contraption that resembled a dentist's chair. A third followed them, pushing a portable table with a black briefcase on top. After positioning both items around four feet from John, they departed.

Oh, Christ, this isn't real.

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out when Moran came in, followed by two more men half-carrying half-dragging Mycroft between them. The elder Holmes looked terrible: blood streaked his normally pristine white shirt and caked his hair, his face was a roadmap of bruises, and his left arm hung strangely, as if broken or yanked out of socket. He did not resist as they pulled him over to the chair, manhandled him into it, and strapped him in place.

John let out a noise that was halfway between a sob and a moan. Mycroft's swollen eyes opened and he managed a weak smile.

"John," he rasped. "I imagine I look dreadful. These gentlemen didn't find my observations about their sexual preferences or their parents' marital status amusing."

It was too much. John turned frantic eyes toward Moran. "Please don't do this. What do you want? You've got to want something."

"He's got what he wants, or he thinks he does," Mycroft said. "It won't be long before he sees that when one seeks revenge, a single grave never settles the score. Or calms the mind."

"You're intelligent, Mr. Holmes, I grant you that," Moran said, nodding a greeting at a fourth man who entered the room. This party laid a leather physician's bag next to the padded chair and rolled up Mycroft's sleeve with the quiet efficiency of a medical professional. "But unfortunately not so smart when it came to monitoring your brother."

"Sherlock always said the same, Lieutenant-Colonel Moran."

"You shouldn't have indulged him for so long, then."

"That's what older brothers are for. Perhaps you'd understand if-" Mycroft's eyes skimmed him briefly "-you weren't the youngest yourself, and hadn't called any of your siblings in at least six months."

Moran frowned. "You're not afraid to die, are you, Holmes?"

"Not really. I occupy a government position. I learned that two things in life are inevitable- taxes and death."

The man attending Mycroft threw John an uneasy look as he swabbed the inside of the trapped man's elbow with an alcohol wipe and tied a length of rubber tubing around his upper arm, making the veins stand out.

"You should feel guilty," John snapped at him. The man looked quickly away and opened the suitcase on the portable table. Inside was a mechanism that he carefully took out and positioned upright.

It stood roughly a foot and a half tall, and resembled a tiny coat rack. But instead of spring fashions, three plastic canisters hung from it, each one filled with liquid and attached to a length of surgical tubing. All three tubes terminated in a syringe connected to a single IV line.

John knew exactly what it was: a custom-made lethal injection setup. He'd never seen one, but knew that some doctors quietly used them on suffering, terminally ill patients at the latter's request. One canister held plain saline. The second contained an anesthetizing agent like sodium thiopental. The third, which would be activated once the patient lost consciousness, was filled with a lethal mixture of barbiturates.

The probable-medic took the cap off the IV needle, inserted it in Mycroft's arm, and secured it in place with clear tape. Then he untied the rubber tubing, picked up his bag, and left. Whoever the man was, he wasn't keen on watching the result of his handiwork.

Mycroft eyed everything curiously, as if he was about to undergo an ordinary surgical procedure. "I could have handled a bullet just as well, Lieutenant-Colonel. You really didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Oh, this isn't for you." Moran approached the table and took a second item from the suitcase: a small box with a single red button, which was attached to the execution apparatus by a long black cord. "It's for John's benefit."

John couldn't believe his ears. "What?"

"You watched Sherlock Holmes fall several stories and in a split second, turn from your best friend into a broken corpse. I'm going to spare you a similar scene now, and make it easier for Mr. Holmes here in the bargain. But there's something I want in exchange."

John tried to swallow, and couldn't. "What is it?"

Moran's eyes shone. "I want you to hunt me down afterward. Like Sherlock did to Jim. Give me something to fight against. A contest. A game."

"He wants you to turn him into James Moriarty's worthy successor," Mycroft translated. "Chase him down; devote all your energies to avenging me. It will do his ego good to have Dr. John Watson, erstwhile companion of the great Sherlock Holmes, following him to the ends of the earth. Poor man doesn't know that it takes more than strong enemies to create an arch-criminal."

Moran whirled and landed a solid blow on his stomach. Mycroft groaned and wheezed, "At least you hit me where I have some padding. Thoughtful."

"We can still do the painful route," the ex-sniper snarled.

"And if I refuse?" John blurted.

"I'm sure you noticed that one of my men has a medical background. A word from me, and he'll break a single bone in this man's body every five minutes. In a couple of hours, Mr. Holmes here will be a rag doll."

The image made John sick. "Goddamn it, I'll do it!" The blood roared in his ears, burning them like the tears now streaking his cheeks. "You want me to force you to live on the run? It will be a fucking pleasure."

Moran smiled. "I look forward to it."

"You won't if you're smart." John trembled with the force of his rage and grief. "In fact, the smart thing to do would be to kill me afterward. Otherwise you'll never have a safe minute."

Sebastian Moran actually looked happy. "I'm sure we'll make each other's lives extremely interesting. Now, down to business. In a moment, I'm going to turn the machine on. A saline drip will start. Five minutes later, enough sodium pentothal will be released from this third canister to cause unconsciousness in less than a minute. Then a mixture of potassium chloride and pancuronium bromide will start flowing. He'll die within two minutes."

"Fucker!" John shouted, heaving his chest against the ropes. "You're as sick as your boyfriend was."

"That remains to be discovered. And now, I'll leave you two alone. I'll be back in ten minutes, after it's over." Staring down at Mycroft, he added, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." Then he pressed the red button, saluted John, and departed, leaving Mycroft with eight minutes of life and John with a new definition of hell.