The Devil in Devon

Chapter Six

"Well, well," Mycroft said, his voice a deadly shade of calm. "Sergei Ragulin. Congratulations. I'd long assumed that you were dead."

"Assuming is a dangerous pastime, Mr. Holmes. It leaves a man vulnerable when he least expects it." Sergei jerked his elbow up slightly, making Sherlock redden and gasp. "Just ask your brother."

John, lacking the finesse (or the patience) to threaten like a gentleman, shouted, "Don't you hurt him, you fucker!"

"I don't intend to, John. Provided that my associates and I are allowed to leave safely." The Russian stared at Mycroft. "Tell your men to take the bullets from their weapons and scatter them on the ground. You have five seconds. Fail to comply and I'll slice this young man's throat."

Mycroft stepped forward. "Let's dispense with the five seconds. Go ahead. Do it."

The loaded silence that followed was broken only by Sherlock's laboured breathing. When Sergei spoke, John detected an anxious undercurrent in his voice.

"Don't play with me, Holmes. I will kill him."

"Yes, I'm quite sure you mean what you say. Now do it."

Sherlock, who'd been staring frantically at his brother, suddenly relaxed. John knew something was going on but had no idea what. Cold sweat collected on his forehead, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the glinting blade that pressed against his best friend's neck.

Mycroft took another step. Lestrade, who'd jumped to his feet, began a slow and cautious approach. Sergei's widening eyes flashed from one to the other. Then he swore in Russian and drove the weapon into Sherlock's neck. John shouted and lunged forward, but the restraints sent him tumbling back to the mattress.

Instead of killing Sherlock, the blade retracted, disappearing into the handle.

Lestrade was on Sergei in an instant, slamming a broad fist into his face and knocking him to the ground. Sherlock was dragged down along with him, but easily broke free and skipped back a couple of steps. He was so excited that the air around him practically vibrated. When Lestrade hauled their reclaimed prisoner back to his feet, Sherlock grabbed a fistful of the man's filthy shirt and declared, "You failed to take my brother's meddling into account. Don't worry, everyone does. He even fooled me this time."

"Fuck you," Sergei hissed.

Sherlock ignored him. "Where's my real knife, Mycroft?"

"Safely hidden away. Since John disappeared, you've been in no fit state to carry sharp objects. I'll return it to you when we're back at the house." Mycroft approached Sergei, who had gotten himself under control and now regarded his captors balefully. "I'm very concerned about John Watson, Mr. Ragulin. Once he's comfortably settled, I'm going to visit you at your new quarters and you're going to tell me what went into the hibernation programming."

"I don't think so."

"They were part of it too." John nodded toward the two physicians. "If he doesn't talk, one of them will."

"I'm sure they will, but they don't have the information we need. Now that I know who instigated this, it's safe to say that these gentlemen only ran the program and kept you alive during the more devastating effects. They don't know what the trigger is."

"Neither will you," Sergei said. "Until it's too late."

The elder Holmes merely smiled. "Gentlemen, take all prisoners to containment. I'll be in touch."

Lestrade let go of his prisoner's arm after two of Mycroft's agents secured the man's wrists with plastic cuffs. John wondered what was going through the former DI's mind. Surely he knew that Sergei would never leave custody alive. But judging from his impassive expression, he either approved or contented himself with the fantasy that a lifetime in a military prison would be the Russian's ultimate fate.

"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Holmes," Sergei said suddenly.

"Interesting comment. Any particular reason?"

The man nodded toward John. "I'd always assumed you were a ladies' man. But clearly your affinity for blondes transcends gender. At any rate, I'm pleased to say that it will be your undoing."

Mycroft didn't respond, but John saw his back stiffen. Lestrade shoved Sergei's shoulder and growled, "That's enough out of you." Sherlock added caustically, "John is not just any blonde, you bloody fool!"

Mycroft jerked his head sharply toward the doorway, and his men obediently led their prisoners out. When they disappeared from view, the elder Holmes returned to John's bedside, and touched his shoulder. "I'm going to untie you now so we can move you out of here. A medical team will meet us at the house."

"House?"

"I've rented a property outside Exeter. It's been serving as a command center of sorts while we searched for you. But time for questions later. Let's get you out of this vile place."

He reached for one of the wrist restraints. Again, John cringed. "Mycroft…"

"John. Look at me."

He did. Mycroft's mouth was a tight line, confirming that Sergei's parting words had irritated him, but otherwise he was that same bastion of confidence and calm. John relaxed slightly but implored, "Please be careful."

"Of course."

Sherlock and Lestrade approached, silent but supportive. When Mycroft undid the first wrist cuff, the younger Holmes gripped John's hand in a manner meant to be more reassuring than restraining. "I won't let you hurt Mycroft," he said awkwardly, trying to make a joke. "That responsibility is mine alone."

When John sat up, Lestrade had him place his hands atop his head before patting him down. "Looks like they didn't plant any weapons on you," he pronounced gently. "I don't see any need to cuff you. Besides, my mum could kick your arse right now."

"You're likely right, Greg." John slid his feet to the chilly floor and stood, but the prolonged bed confinement and accompanying physical ordeal left him unsteady. He swayed, and would have fallen completely if Sherlock hadn't grabbed him around the waist. "Shit!"

"Here." John felt strong arms slide across his back and behind his knees. When Mycroft lifted him up, he was too exhausted to protest. Reassured that he was harmless in his current state, John closed his eyes. He mentally logged their footsteps on smooth tiles, doors opening, and cool air playing with his face and bare feet.

John knew he had passed out when he opened his eyes again and found himself in the back seat of a government car, leaning against Mycroft. He sat up in surprise and looked around. Except for the driver and a bodyguard riding up front, they were alone.

"Did I fall asleep?" he exclaimed.

"I believe so. You even snored slightly."

"Mycroft, please. You shouldn't be alone with me."

The elder Holmes smiled, but his expression was wistful. "John, I've been alone with men much more dangerous than you are right now."

"It's still not safe."

"You were a soldier, John. When you came back to London after being shot, you moved in with my brother, and now you're with me. I'm surprised you remember what being safe is like." He gazed out the window at the Devon countryside. "I know I don't."

"I'd never forgive myself if I hurt you."

When Mycroft answered, his voice was thick. "I don't believe anyone's ever said that to me before."

John paused. "Me neither."

Their hands met and clasped.

They drove in silence for awhile. When house lights appeared in the distance, Mycroft said quietly, "So, what did you think of Elena?"

John was gobsmacked. How had Mycroft known or even guessed-

Then he began to shake all over. He jerked away from Mycroft and watched in horrified fascination as his fingers curled inward, turning both hands into fists.

"Oh, Christ," he choked just before he leaped for Mycroft's throat.