The Devil in Devon

Chapter Eight

By the time Mycroft and John were alone in their room, the faint blush of dawn was brightening the eastern skyline.

Calling it a "room" was an understatement- at 2900 square feet, it reminded John of a Knightsbridge luxury flat. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked a brilliant rose garden. The Regency-style furniture was hand-crafted mahogany and of a quality that made one feel guilty using it. Gold-framed oil paintings and mirrors covered the walls. The only visible concession to modernity was the flatscreen television and Mycroft's laptop, which sat on the desk in the study area amidst an avalanche of papers and folders.

After taking it all in, John headed automatically for the bed while Mycroft lingered at the door to speak to the bodyguards. Medication and fatigue left him barely able to stand, and the giant four-poster with the blue and gold duvet and cascade of plump pillows was too inviting.

As he began undressing, John noted with relief that his fingers remained steady. During the car ride to the manor, his cuffed hands had jerked and twitched nonstop. Sherlock's intervention had calmed his mind, but his body apparently had other ideas. Mycroft had arranged for a doctor to be at the house when their convoy arrived, and when the man noticed the uncontrolled movement, he gave John a lorazepam tablet, which induced relaxation without lethargy.

"I think you should stay on this dosage until the situation is resolved, Dr. Watson," he advised, and John readily agreed.

During dinner, John told Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade everything he remembered about the ordeal. They listened without comment, although Sherlock jumped away from his untouched plate and silently paced whenever he needed to think. John was grateful for that. He needed to talk and vent, not submit to a well-intentioned interrogation. That could come later, after he'd rested.

When referring to Elena, he started to say "the blonde woman", but Mycroft suggested quietly, "Let's use the name 'Diabel'. It's what I used to call her." Then he gazed out the night-blackened window and relayed the story of how they had met and their subsequent short-lived working arrangement. It essentially matched Elena's version, except for the intimacy and, of course, the alleged child.

Now, hours later, Mycroft and John were alone at last. Feeling too exhausted to shower, John stripped down to his pants and crawled under the covers. He felt mildly anxious as the elder Holmes closed the door and approached, but acknowledged that the chance of there being more than one trigger was slim. There were also bodyguards outside, just in case.

When Mycroft took a pair of silk pyjamas from the mahogany chest-of-drawers and walked into the bathroom, John turned his head on the pillow to watch.

"You always do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Go into another room to change."

Mycroft peered around the doorway. "Does that bother you?"

"Bother? No, but-" John hesitated. "Well, maybe. Why can't you do it here?"

The other man's eyes lowered. "I shall if it makes you more comfortable, John."

"Makes me comfortable?" John sat up. "Are you saying you're uncomfortable with me watching you undress? Why? I've seen you naked before."

"I know, but that's only been when we were making love. Imperfections are forgivable then."

"What?" Surprise made John temporarily forget his anxiety. "Come out here."

Mycroft stepped back into the bedroom, still holding the folded pyjamas in front of him like a shield. Watching the uncharacteristic reticence, John had to remind himself that this man had been the scourge of the terrorist element only the day before.