The Devil in Devon

Chapter Fifteen

The last time John had encountered Oscar Dzundza, the Czech assassin had been joyfully smothering the life out of Sherlock. His massive hands were silent and lethal, making traditional weapons unnecessary. Only the timely arrival of John –and his army automatic- saved the headstrong detective from being left a blue-faced corpse on the museum theatre's floor.

As he tried to break his attacker's hold, John feared that he and Mycroft wouldn't be so lucky now. He could see the manor lights in the distance, and make out shapes moving behind the curtains, but his inability to call for help made him feel despair instead of hope.

Although Dzundza's broad palm robbed him of oxygen, Mycroft didn't thrash like a beached fish. Using both hands to grasp the arm around his chest, he raised his legs and kicked backwards with a muffled grunt, catching the taller man in the kneecaps. The Golem roared with surprise and pain, threw him aside, and wobbled back a few steps. Seizing his advantage, Mycroft sprang to his feet and delivered another well-placed kick to Dzundza's right leg, knocking him to the trampled grass. A third blow- this one to the head- put the assassin out of commission.

John's assailant was sufficiently distracted by the sight to relax his grip, allowing the doctor to slide down and plant his feet on the ground. John then threw his full weight backwards, sending the top of his head crashing into the man's chin. They both fell into an adjacent rose bush, whose thorns shredded their exposed skin. During the following struggle, John climbed on top of the other man, who wore dark clothes and a ski mask.

"Tell the Consortium to go to hell," he hissed before bringing his fist down hard and ending the fight.

Breathing heavily, John stared over his shoulder. Mycroft was standing beside his unconscious opponent, opening and closing his fingers repeatedly. His hair fell over his eyes, which blazed like chips of backlit ice.

"Taller men, especially those with a well-developed upper body, have weaker knees as a rule," he said. "Oscar here was so convinced of his invulnerability that he neglected to bring a weapon. Confidence is one thing, arrogant stupidity is quite another."

"It's got to be the Consortium," John declared. He patted down his attacker, found a semi-automatic tucked in the man's waistband, and confiscated it. Then he retrieved his own gun from where it had been thrown.

"I agree. They want Alexei." Mycroft scanned the bushes and darkness as he stepped backward. "They wouldn't just send two men, despite Mr. Dzundza's impressive record. More mercenaries are out there or on their way." He turned around. "Let's return to the house. I'll send guards back for these two and request reinforcements. As soon as proper medical transportation can be secured for Elena, we're going back to London. My facilities there are more defensible."

"Right behind you."

They hurried back to the manor. When Alex Morrell opened the back door to them, his eyes widened at their appearance.

"Mr. Holmes, Sir? Dr. Watson? What's happened?"

"Two Consortium soldiers attacked us in the garden," Mycroft answered. "We've left them near the fountain. They're alive but neutralized. Send four men to retrieve them and call for backup. I'm convinced that more will be coming."

"Yes, Sir." Morrell asked another bodyguard, who'd just emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, to take his place at the door. Then he hurried into the sitting room, phone pressed to his ear and urgently whispering instructions.

John followed Mycroft to Elena's upstairs room. Alexei, despite his earlier insistence that he was not tired, was lying under the covers next to her, eyes closed. Petra dozed in a chair, but she and Elena both sat at attention when the two men came in.

"Myke?" Elena queried.

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake the boy, Mycroft told the women what had happened in the garden. Petra stood up quickly.

"Give me a gun," she said.

John handed her the automatic that he'd confiscated from his assailant. She checked the ammunition levels, nodded in grim satisfaction, and hurried to close the thick curtains.

Elena moved to disconnect her IV. "I want one too. They'll take Alexei over my dead body."

Mycroft grabbed her hand. "Don't take that off. You'll get a gun, but that drip includes necessary medication, and you need to stay in bed. Please."

John could sense not only a silent battle of wills but also a vestige of their old passion as they stared at each other. Her cheeks flushed and Mycroft's thumb rubbed gentle circles into her wrist, providing additional reminders that they'd been lovers once.

He wasn't jealous, but he couldn't watch either. His eyes lowered.

"Please do as he says, El," Petra pleaded.

Elena finally relaxed and leaned back against the pillows. She snaked a protective arm around Alexei's shoulders. "All right. But if shooting starts, I will not lie back. They're not taking him again, Myke."

Mycroft nodded. "I'll protect him, Elena. Always."

Her green eyes misted. "You know, then." She glanced at John, who looked back up.

"John didn't tell me. I knew the moment I saw Alexei. I wish I'd known before now, but regrets rarely serve a useful purpose. So let us bypass them."

The charged conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Morrell told us what's going on," Lestrade said. "We've got to leave Exeter- we can't defend this house indefinitely. There are too many windows, and the gardens and forests are a natural cover for anyone moving in on us."

Mycroft released Elena's hand and stood up. "Arrangements are already underway for us to move to a secure location in London."

Sherlock went to stand by John. "Does it have an adequate lab?"

"You'll have access to everything you need."

Affection flooded through John. Sherlock would not rest until he'd concocted a counteragent for the bomb. He imagined the younger Holmes crouching intently over microscopes and Bunsen burners, that marvelous but chaotic mind focused on one thing: saving the only friend he had. John's hand found Sherlock's and squeezed it.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Sherlock faced him. "How could you possibly think I'd do otherwise, John?" he asked. "All I want is for this to be over and for us to go back to Baker Street and Mycroft to be as annoying as usual."

Despite his trademark abruptness John could detect the emotions flowing beneath that calm, arrogant exterior. Sherlock was afraid. Very afraid that he would not be able to come through.

"Come on, let's get some tea," John said, nudging him. To everyone else in the room, he added, "I need to speak to Sherlock. Bring him up to speed on a few things."

Mycroft nodded and smiled gently. "Of course."

John practically led Sherlock out of the room. When they were on the stairs, he said softly, "It's all right to be afraid, you know."

"No, it isn't, John. I can't afford to let emotion cloud my judgment. Too much is at stake."

"Sherlock." John took him by the shoulders. "There's no doubt in my mind that you will put everything you have into this. If it doesn't work, it's not because you didn't try."

"It has to work, because if it doesn't, I lose you." The younger Holmes was fighting a losing battle with panic. "When I had to disappear, I was only able to cope by watching you. If you're gone, I won't be able to…." He waved his hands helplessly. "I just won't. Mycroft has Alexei. He'll be devastated, but he has someone to live for. I don't."

Sherlock yanked himself out of John's grasp and bounded down the stairs. At the foot, he stopped and took several deep breaths, lanky frame shaking lightly.

"Can you promise me that I'll succeed, John?" he asked, staring up at his best –and only- friend with hollow eyes. "Because if you can't, please don't offer empty reassurances. Please."

It was one of those rare occasions when John Watson couldn't think of anything to say.