The Devil in Devon

Chapter Three

When John woke up, his first thought was that he'd been unconscious for a long time. His muscles felt limp and heavy and his mind was foggy. A muted throbbing in his left temple advised that if he weren't so drugged up, he'd have the headache from hell.

One thing he did feel acutely was nausea. Breathing deeply through his nose, he tried to calm his roiling stomach, but to no avail. When saliva flooded his mouth and his jaw started shaking, John struggled to turn partway over and avoid asphyxiating himself.

Fucking Russian doctors….

An emesis bowl appeared suddenly beneath his chin, a split-second before he was violently sick. When there was nothing left to bring up, he collapsed back onto the bed and groaned without sparing a glance for his attendant. He heard water running somewhere to his left, followed by a cool, wet cloth being applied to his sweaty face.

"I'm sorry to see you so ill," a woman said. "Those two were a little heavy-handed with the drugs."

Her voice was warm and made slightly husky by an Eastern European accent. John turned his head on the pillow and saw Elena gazing down at him. Behind her stood a variety of machines, all of them connected to John via electrodes that covered his chest. He observed that the IV was still present, as well as the restraints.

"Thanks," he rasped. "For cleaning me up, that is. The rest of your hospitality is shit." To illustrate his point, he tugged at the leather wrist cuffs. Their metal fastenings clanged noisily against the bed rails.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "If I said the worst was over, I'd be lying."

John grimaced. "At least you're honest. I don't suppose this is the part where I finally learn why I'm here?"

"You're an important part of Sergei's plan."

"Which is?"

"All in good time," she said, echoing her colleague. Regarding him thoughtfully, she added, "You must really mean a lot to Mycroft."

John opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that comment. Then something occurred to him. "You called him Mycroft."

Her eyes narrowed. "Isn't that his name?"

"Your friend, boss, whoever that bloke is, called him Mycroft Holmes. You speak about him a lot less formally."

Elena's face assumed the same expression Sherlock's did whenever John walked into the flat and smelled something burning: anxious and furtive. When the door opened, she looked visibly relieved and repeated, "All in good time, John."

Frustrated, he stared past her and saw Sergei enter the room, followed by Dr. Malikov.

"Hello, John," the former said, beaming like a hotel manager greeting a favorite guest. "How do you feel?"

"Like some insane Russians kidnapped me, tied me up, and shot me full of drugs."

Sergei laughed. "Good to know that you're fine."

His glib façade grated on John's already-exhausted nerves. "I am FAR from fine. I want to know why I'm here. And don't fucking tell me 'All in good time.'"

Malikov, who eyed their prisoner warily, muttered something in Russian. Sergei shook his head in reply before saying, "I knew you were important to Mycroft Holmes, but I never predicted this result. I'm quite surprised."

John stiffened at this second reference to Mycroft's regard for him. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you a fan of American history?"