Promise to the Living

Chapter Twelve

Moran toppled forward, gun hitting the floor as he clutched his shattered shoulder. At the same time, three men in dark uniforms and Kevlar vests piled into the room, automatic weapons ready. They were followed by a fourth man, this one in civilian clothes and clutching a police service revolver. His dark eyes were wide and sweat plastered his silver hair to his forehead.

Lestrade.

"John!" he exclaimed, lowering his weapon. "Thank God you're all right."

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

"I came up from London to visit you, see how you were making out with Mr. Holmes, and arrived at the house in time to see part of the cavalry head out." He nodded over his shoulder at Anthea, who now hovered in the doorway. "I invited myself along for the ride."

"We're glad you could make it." Mycroft sat slowly back in the chair that had been his intended funeral bier. "Pardon me if I sit, gentlemen, but I'm feeling a little faint. Our hosts didn't exactly give me a warm welcome."

Moran struggled weakly when two of Mycroft's men pulled him upright. Blood streamed down the left side of his chest; John didn't need to examine the wound to know that it would be fatal without immediate treatment. Although he must have been in tremendous pain, Moran seethed, "This isn't over."

"Over?" Mycroft echoed. "I don't think it ever really started."

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked. John saw smoke curling slowly from his gun barrel; he must have fired the lucky shot.

"Friend of Moriarty's," John said grimly. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to rush Moran while he still had the chance, and beat the ex-sniper into a bloodier mess. The horror of the past few hours demanded retribution. If Lestrade hadn't been there, he wouldn't have hesitated.

John realized with a start that he had crossed a line. Transformed.

As a doctor and soldier, he'd been on intimate terms with violent death for years. At medical school he'd seen the aftermath of murder, suicide, and accidents, and on the battlefields of Afghanistan his own weapon had blown men apart. Then he met Sherlock, and dangerous cases prompted him to take equally drastic measures: shooting the cabbie, for instance. But he'd never actually wanted to kill someone.

Now he did. He actually trembled with the urge to close his fingers around Moran's neck and press down until life was extinct. Men like Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty could only be dealt with one way. Prison was useless. Even stringent military detention would only make Moran laugh.

He noticed Mycroft watching him. Mycroft understood.

"You're nothing," John told Moran in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "No wonder Jim never mentioned you to Sherlock or I. You're a houseboy. A pet."

Mycroft smiled.

"When you leave here, you're going to be interrogated. And when that's over, you'll receive the same treatment that all inept criminals get."

He wanted to say, "You'll get a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave" but once again restrained himself for Lestrade's benefit. The DI was unconventional compared to his more regimented brethren, but he would probably find Mycroft's methods unpalatable.

Moran screamed, "Fuck you, Watson!" Despite his wound, he jerked free from his captors, reached into his pocket, and lunged for John. Something metallic flashed in his grip. John felt a sudden pain slice coldly through his right arm, sending him stumbling back against Lestrade.

Mycroft was out of the chair in an instant. Although he looked- and probably felt- like he'd survived a train wreck, his moves were lightning fast. He grabbed Moran by the back of his head and the base of his chin and twisted sharply, snapping his neck. The knife that had been intended for John's throat clattered loudly to the floor, followed by a much-heavier corpse.