The Devil in Devon

Chapter Seventeen

Fog was everywhere, and it was cold.

John lifted his head off the pillow and stared about, confused. The mist was so dense that he couldn't see more than a foot in any direction, preventing him from recognizing his surroundings. Slowly, cautiously, he sat up.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

No answer. John peered over the edge of the bed and saw his own reflection staring back at him in the polished marble floor. So he wasn't outside then, although smoke-thick fog and icy chill weren't indoor elements.

What was happening?

Hearing a noise to his left, John turned to see a human-sized shape approaching through the mist. He called out again, but when it didn't answer, he shoved the blankets aside and slid to the floor, braced for a potential confrontation. When the newcomer finally emerged from the gloom, he exhaled loudly in relief.

"Elena. What the hell's going on? Where are we?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, John. You won't be here long."

John was struck by how radiant she looked. Her blonde hair was silkier than he remembered, and her skin glowed softly, like she'd just known love. Her white dressing gown shimmered like crushed diamonds.

"Listen to me," she continued. "There's not much time. You'll be waking up soon."

"I'm dreaming then?"

"In a manner of speaking." Elena circled the bed and stopped before him. Her green eyes reflected both peace and sadness. "John, when you see Alexei, tell him that I love him and that my response to his comment is 'You already have'."

"What comment? What's going on?"

But she was already moving away. Before disappearing back into the silky fog, she said gently, "You're going to live, but a word of advice, John. Don't ever be afraid of dying."

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John opened his eyes slowly. His lids felt impossibly heavy, but he managed to lift them long enough to see that he was in his room at the government safe house.

His and Mycroft's room.

He closed his eyes and shivered, suddenly feeling cold. Someone rose from a chair next to the head of his bed and placed a wonderfully warm palm on his forehead.

"John?" It was Mycroft. "Nod if you can hear me."

John nodded slowly. "Cold," he whispered, licking his dry lips.

He heard Mycroft speak to someone in a low voice before warmed, thick blankets were tucked around him. After a few more minutes the shivering stopped and he only had time to murmur, "Thank you" before he was asleep again.

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The next time he woke up, Mycroft was still there. The elder Holmes was scanning a dossier and making notes in its margins, clearly struggling to concentrate. When he saw that John was awake, Mycroft quickly laid the dossier on the bedside table and took his hand. Again, John relished the warmth of his touch.

"John?"

"Mycroft." His throat felt like parchment. Still half-asleep, he asked, "Where's Elena?"

Mycroft was pressing a call button, but nearly dropped it. "Elena?" he echoed, eyes widening.

"Yes. I saw her. I-" John paused, and sighed as his lucidity improved. "Sorry. Must have been dreaming."

"Yes," the elder Holmes said in an odd voice, "you must have been."