Promise to the Living

Chapter Eighteen

The Lanesborough was foremost among London's premiere hotels, but Mycroft treated it like a mere home away from home, and the staff bent over backwards to accommodate him. Despite his exhaustion, John perked up when he realized that the elder Holmes had reserved the Royal Suite, which was normally occupied only by visiting dignitaries and celebrities.

The massive suite had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto Buckingham Palace and Constitutional Arch. The three bedrooms, sitting room, and study were richly furnished in vintage style, and the kitchen and dining room were sleek with amenities that looked like they could self-operate. A basket full of ripe apples sat on a small entryway table, their crisp scent sweetening the air.

Mycroft looked pleased. "They always remember that I eat Adanac apples every morning."

"A whole basket of them?" Sherlock asked dryly. "And all this time I thought it was cake making you fat."

At one time John would have laughed at the Mycroft weight jokes. Now he frowned, but Sherlock didn't notice. Mycroft sighed. "At least I can stop eating too much. You can't stop being a silly child."

Lestrade stared about, lips parted in amazement. "Unbelievable. I've heard so much about this suite, but never thought I'd see the inside unless someone was murdered here. I feel like stealing something," he said. He was only half-joking.

"Go ahead," Mycroft yawned. He took off his coat and hung it in the huge hall closet, but kept his umbrella. John remembered the sleek sword it contained, and how Mycroft always had to be ready to fight for his life at any moment. "Just let me know whatever it is, so I can replace it in the morning."

Sherlock, as usual, was not sleepy. His bright eyes were fixed on John, and he shifted restlessly about. When Mycroft whispered something to him and nodded toward the hallway, the younger man hesitated. "All right, I suppose we should," he finally said. "John, please, you'll be here in the morning, won't you?"

So that was it. He was afraid something would change during the night, and John would leave. John remembered the Baskerville case, when fear had nearly undone the normally composed detective, and hastened to reassure him.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'll be here. I promise."

After the brothers retired, John turned to Lestrade and said, "I don't even know what to say, Greg. This night…." He gestured, and then let his hands fall.

"I know," Lestrade said.

"Maybe it will all make sense in the morning."

"I wouldn't count on it, John. But at least we'll all have the energy to deal with it properly."

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John's bed was perfect, as if it had been built to specifically accommodate his physical idiosyncrasies. But after sleeping fitfully for a few hours, he woke up and could not get back to sleep. He'd been dreaming about Sherlock and Mycroft, and the dilemma that involved them both.

He finally got up, put on the spongy-soft robe, and walked to the window. As he watched early-morning commuters begin their journey to the tube stations and bus stops, he thought of how unpredictable and chaotic his own life was compared to their regimented existences. When he worked cases with Sherlock or missions for Mycroft, he never knew each morning where he would be by nightfall, or what he would have accomplished or failed at. And he loved it that way.

Last night had been overwhelming, even for someone who thrived on uncertainty. But now that the shock of finding Sherlock alive had lessened, joy surged through him. As he smiled and wiped his eyes, John was tempted to search for Sherlock and Mycroft's room and peer through the keyhole (presuming there was one) to satisfy himself that it wasn't all a dream.