The Devil in Devon

Chapter Five

Elena's face registered alarm and disbelief. "Mycroft," she breathed. She turned slowly toward the door, making John wonder if she actually planned on staying for a reunion. But when the running footsteps outside drew closer, she pivoted and manoeuvred around the bed, heading toward the opposite wall. While John watched, she pushed on one of its panels until it swerved inward.

"I'll be in touch," she promised. "Remember- we have an agreement."

Before John could answer, Elena opened the portal wide enough to slide her slender frame through. Just as it closed, Mycroft appeared in the doorway, flanked by six armed men in bulletproof vests and dark clothing.

Even in the midst of chaos, Mycroft Holmes looked like a gentleman. He wore his trademark three-piece suit and a custom-tailored overcoat, his only concession to danger being a Kevlar vest and the Glock G18 that he clenched in his gloved fist. When he saw John, he exclaimed, "Oh, thank God!" To the men, he ordered, "Look behind those machines and under the bed."

Four of the silent gunmen searched the room, weapons ready. When one gave the all-clear, Mycroft strode toward John.

"Are you all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he pocketed the gun and started to undo one of the wrist restraints.

"Don't!" John exclaimed.

Mycroft stilled. "What's wrong?"

"Please," he begged.

The older man's eyes narrowed. "You know it's me, don't you, John?"

"Oh God, yes." As if there was any doubt: John's heart was hammering in mingled joy and dread. "But listen- they've done something to me. Changed me."

Mycroft's voice remained calm and reassuring. "All right, all right. May I have a look at you?"

"Yes. But please be careful."

The elder Holmes gently pushed up the sleeve of John's hospital gown and drew the blankets away from his feet. "Damn," he muttered, "They've run a hibernation agent programme on you."

"You- you can tell?"

"You have multiple needle marks in your arms and severe bruising on your wrists and ankles and probably your chest as well. All clearly caused by convulsions instead of struggling. Judging by the pinkish hue in the whites of your eyes, you've been given a drug I'm unfortunately all too familiar with." Mycroft touched his shoulder. "We'll deal with this, John. You'll be all right, I swear it."

"You have to keep me restrained, Mycroft. I don't know what my trigger is. All I know is that when it goes off, I'll try to kill you."

The elder Holmes smiled sadly. "I understand the danger. But we're equipped to deal with this without leaving you in restraints 24-7." Turning to his men, he said, "Bring all prisoners currently in custody to this room. Immediately."

Three of the bodyguards hurried into the hall while the others maintained sentry positions around their boss.

"Now, John," Mycroft said slowly, "where did the woman go? I smell perfume, and the scent level suggests that she departed immediately prior to my arrival."

Knowing that Elena was long gone by now, John nodded toward the panel that doubled as a hidden door. "Through there."

One of Mycroft's men pushed on it, but the portal remained shut. "It appears to have been locked from the inside, sir," he reported.

"Was there anyone else with her, John?"

"No."

"Was she involved in the actual programming?"

"No, I don't think so." John swallowed, still trying to process the fact that Mycroft was there, leaning over him with that air of unassailable confidence. Despite his anxiety, relief and affection flooded him. "Sorry, I know I'm acting erratically-"

"It's all fine. I'm proud of you, actually." He grasped John's left hand and held tight. "Not many would have survived what you did with their minds intact."

John squeezed back. He wondered if Elena, who had apparently escaped, would still be able to help him if Sergei and the others were captured or dead. He also asked himself whether she had told him the truth about her past with Mycroft. He had to find out, but not now. Now he was too full of contradictory emotions and feelings: relief and worry, exhaustion and excitement. It was all he could do to stay coherent.

"Where's Sherlock?" he murmured.

"Back at the Royal Clarence, tied to a chair in his room. Gregory's keeping him company. Ever since you disappeared, Sherlock refused to let me out of his sight. Quite right- he knew that if I tried to slip away, it would be to retrieve you." A fond sigh. "My brother is brilliant, John, but in a volatile situation like this one, he's a liability."

Despite his weariness, John chuckled. "Thanks. You did the right thing."

Their commiseration over Sherlock's recklessness was interrupted by the return of the three agents sent on prisoner retrieval. They herded six men into the room- four roughed-up goons and the two doctors, Nevo and Malikov. Recalling the torture he'd experienced at the hands of the latter, John recoiled, a reaction that did not escape Mycroft. After a final hand squeeze, the older man turned away from the bed and sauntered over to the bruised, angry Russians.

"I'm sure you know who I am by now, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. "After all, you programmed Dr. Watson to be my undoing. And that makes me most displeased with both of you."

"They have a boss," John croaked. "His name is Sergei."

Nevo's lips trembled before he unleashed a volley of abuse in Russian. Mycroft heard him out, and then responded in the same language, keeping his tone genial. He only broke out of character when the physician responded to his questions with a sneer. Then his lips tightened fractionally just before the Glock butt smashed into Nevo's cheekbone. Malikov cringed at the crunching noise and ensuing scream, and pleaded in Russian.

"It appears," Mycroft said, "that Sergei has escaped." Facing one of his men, he ordered, "Find out if McLean has picked up anyone outside."

"I don't know about McLean," a deep voice said, "but I found someone."

"Dear God, is there no containing him?" Mycroft muttered just before Sherlock, accompanied by more of his brother's agents, breezed into the room, holding Sergei's arm tightly. Lestrade gripped the other arm, looking apologetic. When the ex-DI met Mycroft's stare he opened his mouth, but the elder Holmes sighed and waved one hand.

"It's fine, Gregory. I know what you were up against."

"Mycroft," Sherlock declared, "looks like I've remedied one of your oversights yet again. When will you learn? You-" He broke off when he saw his flatmate on the bed. "John! Are you all right?"

"Relatively."

Sherlock rounded on Mycroft. "Why is he still tied there? You're almost as thoughtless a boyfriend as you are a brother."

Although glad to see his best friend again, John was also indignant at that remark. Sherlock didn't appreciate, or care, that almost everyone in the room was either an employee or enemy of his brother. He was about to reprove the younger man when Lestrade beat him to it.

"Sherlock, now is not the time."

"Do shut up. You're not in a position-"

The younger Holmes would have said more, but Sergei had taken advantage of his escorts' distraction. The Russian elbowed Lestrade in the gut, doubling him over, and broke Sherlock's grip. Before anyone could react, he hooked his arm around the detective's neck, snatched the folding knife that Sherlock always carried in his coat pocket, and pressed the blade against his prisoner's throat.

"I'm leaving now, Mr. Holmes," he said to Mycroft. "And if you or your agents try to stop or follow me, your brother dies."