The Devil in Devon

Chapter Nine

John sipped at the caramel-coloured froth on his pint of Guinness. Beside him, Lestrade nursed a glass of Tribute ale and eyed the blonde bartender appreciatively. The pub was full of tourists and locals taking a midday break. Somewhere in the crowd, John knew, were the two bodyguards that Mycroft had assigned to follow and protect them during their outing.

"Look at all these people, Greg," he said as he put his pint back down. "Most of them don't have anything more serious to worry about than the price of groceries and petrol. I should be so lucky."

"If you were, you'd be bored shitless within a day."

"I know, damn it. Still, at times like this, I wish for it."

"Yeah, I know. It was the same for me at the Yard. The press, the public, the politics: it all got to me more than once, but I wouldn't have had it any other way." Lestrade looked at his watch. "I imagine that Sergei bastard is in serious pain right about now."

Anthea's predawn call had been in response to her boss's order that any prisoner developments be reported to him immediately. She told Mycroft that Sergei had been caught trying to remove an artificial molar with a cyanide capsule in it. The crisis had been averted, but Mycroft wanted to go to the centre at once. John persuaded him to stay in bed for a few more hours. Neither expected to sleep, but to their combined surprise, they dozed off and remained in bed until noon.

Mycroft and Sherlock had dropped John and Lestrade off at the pub before proceeding to the containment centre. The brothers had decided to combine their deductive talents (and violent tendencies too, if necessary) to get information out of the contrary Russian, who was determined to deny them victory. To pass the time during their absence, Lestrade had suggested going into Topsham, a historic estuary that was now part of Exeter, and John assented. He needed to visit a chemists' anyway, as he'd written himself a prescription for more lorazepam. He didn't like the idea of self-medicating, but it was the only way he could relax while alone with Mycroft.

"John," Lestrade said as he signalled for another round, "how are you doing, mate, and I mean really?"

"Really?" John lifted his eyes from his glass. "Can't you imagine, Greg?"

"Doesn't matter if I can or not. I want to hear you say it."

Those calmly spoken words reminded him why he'd always liked Lestrade. The former Yarder was temperamentally stable, although Sherlock preferred the word 'boring', and John needed some stability right now, as well as someone to talk to.

"It's hard to explain, Greg. My life stopped being normal the moment I met Sherlock and like you said, most of the time I love it that way. I expected to be injured now and again- that's nothing a soldier isn't mentally prepared for during training. But I never once expected what Sergei did to me: turned me into a walking weapon." He breathed deeply to calm his growing agitation. "When I realised what he had done, I planned to run away, to avoid seeing Mycroft and endangering him. If you all hadn't found me first, I likely would have done it."

"It's a good job you didn't then. How would you have survived? Slept behind skips and begged for money? That's the only way you'd have stayed off Mycroft's radar." Lestrade shook his head. "Christ, John, when you went missing he was like a man possessed. He didn't go into hysterics- that's not him- but he didn't eat or sleep, and was always on the phone or jumping into cars in the middle of the night. Even Sherlock was worried, if you can believe that."

"I can, actually."

"You're lucky to be with Mycroft, you know." Lestrade eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.

"Yes, I am, for a variety of reasons. Be specific, Greg."

"So many police officers see their marriages end in divorce. When I was at the Yard, we threw parties for those who made it past the five-year mark. Your job comes first, you work crazy hours, and forget about making plans: I've lost count of how many Christmas dinners I missed with my ex-wife because some yobbos turned a pub fight into a street brawl. Your spouse can never be sure that you won't be in a body bag at the end of your shift."