The Devil in Devon

Chapter Seven

John had survived a car accident once. He had been in the front passenger seat, screaming at the beer-addled driver to hit the brakes, pull away, do something to avert a collision with the oncoming lorry. But yelling hadn't been sufficient to prevent the chaos that followed.

Now, as he doubled Mycroft over with a sharp knee to the gut and seized his throat in a crushing grasp, John's mind shrieked at him just as frantically as he'd appealed to his friend that day: Stop! What are you doing? You'll kill him! He clenched his teeth and groaned, but could not break his hold. He was no longer in control of his own actions.

Mycroft sank to his back on the carpeted floor, John straddling his chest and squeezing so hard that his knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. Their eyes met: Mycroft's were wide with alarm while John's bulged with horror.

Suddenly pain exploded between his shoulder blades. His back arched in an agonized spasm and he relaxed his grip long enough for Mycroft, who'd dealt him a vicious knee jab, to shove him aside, roll over, and reverse their positions. Now John was lying on his back, with the older man pinning his wrists to the floor and sitting on his upper thighs to keep his legs immobile.

"John-"

"Fuck you!" John heard himself scream as he struggled. "You fucking dictator! Murderer! Bastard!"

The car was pulling over.

"It's all right, John," Mycroft rasped. Sweat dripped off his flushed face and his reddish hair was in disarray. "I know this isn't you talking."

John's next outburst stunned both of them. "Rapist! How dare you say her name? You raped her! Elena!"

Where the fuck did that come from? Then he remembered. Sergei knew that Elena and Mycroft worked together before. He programmed phony scenarios in my brain to make me devastate Mycroft before killing him. Sick, twisted Russian fucker.

Mycroft collected himself quickly. "I know she was there, John. I detected her rather unique perfume at your bedside, and there were other indicators we'll talk about later. She's a remarkable and resourceful woman. But I suspect even she would be dismayed at the speeches that have been planted in your head."

The vehicle stopped. The front doors opened. Then the back doors followed suit, and John was dragged out of the car onto a patch of grass that smelled like dust and petrol. Although he struggled and cursed like a Bedlam arrival, he was grateful for the unyielding grips on his arms and legs.

Mycroft hovered while his men immobilized their prisoner. John stared at him, begging for forgiveness with his eyes while his mouth spouted one vile insult and accusation after another.

Another car screeched to a stop. Footsteps pounded toward them. Then Sherlock and Lestrade joined the circle of faces over John.

"He's been triggered," Mycroft told them. He adjusted his shirt collar, but not before both men saw the vivid finger marks on his throat.

"Fuck," Lestrade lamented. "John, mate, do you know who we are?"

"I know what you are. Deluded sycophants backing a megalomaniac."

Sherlock faced his brother. "Do you know what the trigger word is?"

"I believe so."

"Can you fix him?"

When Mycroft replied, his eyes were on John. "I won't sleep until I do."

"I won't sleep until you're dead," John heard himself snarl back.

He would have said more, but Sherlock had dropped to one knee and clasped John's head in his gloved hands. Luminous grey eyes searched his face as if the pores and lines contained a clue to the programming reversal.