Promise to the Living

Chapter Eleven

When the door closed, Mycroft relaxed in the chair, as if it were a seat on his private jet. He met John's horrified stare with a calm smile. "It's all right, John. I'm not afraid."

Miraculous rescues from past cases flashed through John's frantic mind. He remembered the Blind Banker affair, when Sarah had nearly been skewered by a Chinese circus prop. But Sherlock would not be coming now, and even if John managed to struggle over in his chair and knock the IV out of Mycroft's arm, it would only mean a painful fate for the man afterward. There was also his first case with Sherlock, a Study in Pink, when he'd shot that deranged cabbie (as it turned out, Sherlock only needed rescuing from himself that time). But he had no gun, and no use of his hands, for that matter.

"Christ, Mycroft." John could barely speak. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I always knew something like this could happen to me one day. It's one of the risks associated with the job. Frankly, I feel fortunate. One of my predecessors was blown up by a car bomb. Another was found in bed with his throat slashed. This is positively benign."

John was too distraught to debate the merits of one execution type over another. "I never gave you a chance. Being pissed off at you was the only way I could cope with losing Sherlock. I'm sorry. I really am."

"John, it's all fine. I forgive you."

"Even if I don't deserve it?"

"You do."

John stared at that proud face, with its aquiline nose, pale blue eyes, and gentle smile. Although bloody and bruised, Mycroft looked almost serene. When he arched one eyebrow at the desperate scrutiny, John said, "I'm memorizing you."

He took in everything: the way Mycroft's chest expanded and contracted with each breath, the graceful limbs that shifted beneath the leather straps, and the eyes that gleamed with almost-supernatural intelligence. In a few minutes the latter would close and everything else would go still. All that would be left of an amazing man was a cooling shell.

"You won't be alone when you go after Moran," Mycroft said, keeping one eye on the machine as he spoke. So far only saline was flowing, flushing out the IV line. "You'll have powerful assistance."

John shook. Mycroft obviously didn't need comforting, but he did. And now words were failing him, when they were all he had.

The machine clicked audibly. They both looked as the saline drip stopped and the second one –the sodium pentothal- started. "Phase Two," Mycroft said. "Please don't be offended if I fall asleep during our conversation. It won't be because I'm bored, I assure you."

"Mycroft."

The elder Holmes turned his head. Their eyes met.

As a doctor, John had always been excellent at comforting the dying. His compassion was legendary wherever he worked, and soldiers and civilians alike often requested his presence during their last moments in addition to (sometimes instead of) a spiritual advisor. But now, he was at a loss. He'd never felt more useless.

"Keep looking at me," was all he could say.

Mycroft nodded. After a final glance at the ceiling camera, he settled back in the chair again and focused his attention on John.

"I will kill the bastard," John whispered. "I swear it." He was trying not to vomit. The elder Holmes would be unconscious momentarily, and then what was left of his life could be measured in seconds. John wanted to scream, weep, and curse Sebastian Moran to hell. But the man in front of him deserved a show of decorum until the very end.

"I have every confidence that you will. Sebastian Moran is a tin soldier. You're the genuine article, John. He doesn't stand a chance. I actually feel sorry for him."

"He's going to burn."

"I'll be disappointed in you if he doesn't."

Mycroft's fingers, which had been idly tapping on the wooden armrests, started moving more slowly, and then stopped. His stare remained on John's face, but his lids flickered. When they actually closed, he shook his head sharply, opened them again, and yawned.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't think I can stay awake much longer."

He sounded like he was apologizing for nodding off at a boring lecture. Struggling to stay composed, John laughed brokenly.

"Sherlock always said you were lazy."

Mycroft's eyes had closed again, but his mouth quirked in a smile. "Now I have an excuse to doze off."

John's feelings of grief and helplessness were giving way to white-hot rage. He watched the other man's slowing breaths, digging his nails so deeply into his palms that the skin broke. "I'll kill him," he whispered, turning it into a mantra. "I'll-"

Gunfire interrupted his litany, followed by the sound of men running around and yelling. He listened in shock, finally daring to hope, before shouting, "Help! Someone! I need help in here!"

Emboldened by hope, he turned back to Mycroft, intending to struggle his way over to the machine and tear the IV out with his teeth. He exclaimed when he saw the elder Holmes sitting upright, alert and smiling in obvious satisfaction.

"Ah, perfect timing," Mycroft said, voice clear and strong. "Pretending to fall asleep was easy enough, but I don't think I could have faked a heart attack very convincingly."

"What the bloody hell?"

Raising his voice to be heard above the commotion outside, Mycroft said, "Anger may be powerful, but so is forgiveness, John."

"I don't understand."

"That gentleman who set up the IV line was a former army medic who deserted when he wasn't granted leave in time to go to his dying wife. I had a couple of private moments with him when he looked me over after they beat me, and could see the entire story in his military bearing, his wedding ring, and other signs. I could tell he wasn't happy with Moran's band of murderous deserters, so I offered him amnesty if he'd help us. Dismissal of all outstanding charges. Forgiveness."

"You mean-"

Mycroft nodded at the canisters. "Right now I'm getting a rather refreshing vitamin drip. And Mr. Penner has let my people know where we are."

John believed in miracles again.

He dragged himself, chair and all, over to the older man and tackled one of the wrist straps with his teeth. When it came undone, Mycroft undid the other restraints, pulled the IV needle out, and untied John. He winced when using his left arm, but assured John, "A sprain, nothing more, but it does hurt dreadfully."

Before John could reply, the door burst open and Sebastian Moran, wild-eyed and clutching a Glock in his left fist, strode in.

"What the fuck did you do?" he shouted at Mycroft. He was so enraged that the gun barrel trembled wildly in his grasp.

"You have eyes and ears, don't you, Lieutenant-Colonel? The answer's obvious."

"Don't give me your high-handed shit! Eyes and ears, huh? When I pull this trigger, Holmes, you won't even have a fucking head!"

John lunged, but Moran was too far away….

Then the room rang with gunfire, followed by the cry of a man mortally wounded.