The Devil in Devon

Chapter Sixteen

Four weeks later

From his vantage point on the roof of the government safe house in North London, John sipped coffee and gazed at the streets below. The steady trickle of homeward-bound clubbers, shuffling like zombies in the dirty half-light, had tapered off an hour ago. Now the first wave of morning commuters was making an appearance. Looking wearier than their partied-out predecessors, they headed for the bus stops and Tube stations. Just watching them drag themselves along made John feel tired too.

As he stretched and yawned, the blue spot in the crook of his right elbow caught his eye. He examined it in disapproval: the medical techs here could learn a bit about being gentle. But he wasn't too bothered: the bruise marked the entry point for the dissolving agent that his best friend had spent weeks perfecting. He'd been injected late last night, in accordance with Sherlock's instructions. If the formula actually worked, he'd cherish this mark until it faded, as an emblem of his salvation.

John checked his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past seven. He had been triggered at noon on the day Mycroft rescued him from Sergei's lair. Alexei had said that the bomb was programmed to go off at exactly the same time thirty days later. While most of Britain's citizens were on their lunch breaks today, John would either live or die.

As he stood on the roof, listening to the rumbling buses, honking car horns, and thrum of voices below, John thought about all the things he still wanted to do. Travel, for one. But not to a touristy sunspot: the ruins of Pompeii, perhaps, or the Civil War battle sites in America. He'd always loved places with historic significance. He also wanted to see Harry get off the booze for good, keep watching over Sherlock, and grow old with Mycroft.

John had enough faith in the combined brilliance of Sherlock and Alexei to believe that he would get his chance to do all that and more. But he could not be sure, so fear continued to erode his confidence.

Not wanting to be alone any more, he tossed the paper coffee cup away and went back inside. When he stepped out of the elevator onto the secure floor that contained everyone's sleeping quarters, the first thing he saw was the open door to Elena's room.

Despite the premium medical care, her deterioration had continued. Last week she'd lost the ability to walk unaided and now most of her nutrition came from an IV drip. Such incapacity must have been devastating to a woman who'd been so strong and agile, but she never complained.

Petra was asleep on a cot against the rear wall. The shadows under her eyes were so deep that they resembled smears of purple eye makeup. John worried for her as well as Alexei: Mycroft had granted her amnesty, but when she finally left this place, it would not be with the woman she loved. Like Elena, she remained outwardly brave, but John had noticed her trembling hands and pinched expression, and knew that her composure would leave with her partner's last breath.

God, don't let Mycroft have to suffer a similar loss….

Elena must have heard John exit the elevator, for she opened her eyes when he paused in the doorway. "John," she whispered.

He stepped quietly into the room. "Good morning."

"Today's the day?"

"Yes. At eleven-thirty, I go into the room. At noon, we all find out if the dissolving agent worked."

"The room" was an explosion-proof cell on the facility's lowest level. Government weapons developers tested newly engineered bombs in it. Today it would contain a man instead of an object.

Mycroft was sickened at the thought of John being locked in there alone to await potential annihilation, but they both knew that there was no safe alternative. Sherlock was agitated to the point of mania: after John had received the counter-agent, the detective instantly noticed the bruising around the needle mark and verbally throttled the med tech. Then he followed John everywhere, even into the toilet, and kept up a running litany of scientific explanations as to why the solution should work. When he finally yielded to exhaustion three hours ago, John felt guilty at the immensity of his relief.