Daylight

Part 15

     John had often heard the quaint adage, “His life flashed before his eyes,” and had never really believed it.  A person’s life could not actually flash from birth to death in a matter of seconds.  However, he now saw in his mind’s eye, flickering pictures of Tara and Tommy.  He saw them laughing around the dinner table;  Tommy playing Legos with him on the floor of Tara’s cosy house;  his quirky patients at the Alamogordo clinic, and even a stray cat that hung around his terrible little apartment.  He’d almost decided to adopt the ginger cat, but was now glad he hadn’t.  It would be one more living being that would miss him and wonder what had become of him.

     It all passed hauntingly across his memory.  He ached to go back.  His life, no matter how much Sherlock might wish it otherwise, now firmly rested in Mycroft’s iron grip.  He held no hope for himself.  He cast one last, grim glance back at Sherlock’s stricken face and sank to his knees.

     Things happened quickly after that.  Two men in dark suits, perfect clones of the men who’d taken him off the street months ago, picked him up and patted him down.  They groped around in his pockets, took his wallet (which Moriarty had let him keep) and some loose change.  He they even pried between his legs and felt up and down his jean-covered legs looking for weapons.  One man yanked his arms roughly together and handcuffed his hands behind his back.  Obviously, they were taking no chances with him.  He was hustled into the back of the SUV and other agents ushered Sherlock into one of the sedans.  Separating them?  Not a good sign, John thought.

     Mycroft slid into the back seat next to John who found it very uncomfortable to sit in handcuffs.  Mycroft stared at the back of the driver’s head and kept quiet for the first fifteen minutes of the ride.  John didn’t feel like speaking either.  He concentrated on taking even breaths and trying to still his triple-hammering heart.  Adrenaline coursed through him.  His flight response wanted him to lash out, fight this man and run away.  But, he had nowhere to go.  It left him feeling jittery and uneven. 

     Finally, Mycroft took in a breath and spoke, “John,” he began.  “I wanted to speak to you first before I debriefed Sherlock.”

     “Fuck you,” John responded as nonchalantly as he could.   Let him chew on that.

     Mycroft fell silent for another few minutes before trying again.  “We’ve been trying to extradite Sherlock for the past six months.  He’s been carefully hidden from me and working for Moriarty.  He's been helping him, and I believe I know why.  I understand my brother’s motives, but I do not understand yours.”

     “Mine?” John asked.  “I never wanted any part of this.  I ran away as far as I could, and your bloody cameras found me,” John shouted at the man.

     “You could have left me alone and I’d have been happy.”

     “I needed you, John,” Mycroft said unhappily.  “My team, my cameras, my years of experience led to nothing.  I couldn’t find him, John!” Mycroft said showing more emotion than John had ever seen him display before.  “We knew Moriarty had him when we looked at the footage from outside the flat the day you left.  He got into a car with that madman, they drove away and disappeared.  But, we heard nothing.  No ransom, no threats, nothing.  I thought the worst until…”

     “Until what?” John asked gruffly.

     “Until we began hearing reports about Moriarty’s network getting stronger, more powerful than he’d ever been before.  I knew he’d coerced Sherlock into helping him, and frankly I thought it was because of you.  I thought he had captured you and threatened to hurt you to get him to comply.”

     “But, I got away,” John said remembering happily how he had beat both Holmes brothers if even for a short while.

     “I searched the globe to find you.  You did an alarmingly good job evading me and my resources for a long time.  But, eventually I found you.  I sent a team in to retrieve you. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong man.”

     “Yeah,” John grunted.  “Bastard, Trevor,”

     “Indeed,” Mycroft said disgruntled.  “Because his methods are not sanctioned by the British government, I paid him an exorbitant amount out of pocket to bring you back.  He double crossed me.”

     “Well, I guess that how the shit lands sometimes,” John said shifting around to find a comfortable way to accommodate the pressure on his shoulder from his position.

     “Well, I’ve rectified the situation with Trevor.  He and his men are being held in a very nasty South American prison.  He’ll be there a long time with no hope of parole.”

     John didn’t know how to feel about that.  Trevor’s many contradictions played havoc on a basically good morality like John’s.  The mercenary had helped to save him from Moriarty.  All the double crossing, gun for hire bullshit just wasn’t what John wanted in his life.  If Trevor ended his days in a foul prison cell for his choices, then John couldn’t find much sympathy.  He had a feeling his own days might be much the same with only slightly better food and accommodations.

     “What do you want from me?  Now that you’ve got your brother back, you could just let me go. Couldn’t you Mycroft?” John asked him pointedly.

    “I know you handed Sherlock over to Moriarty, John.  I know you left him there at the flat.  I’d like to kill you for that,” Mycroft said flatly.

     John felt his heart speed up again.  There were at least two witness in the car right now, but these were trained agents and were sworn to secrecy.  What happened in the back of black, government SUV’s, probably stayed in the back of black, government SUVs, he thought.

     “If that’s what you need to do, put your gun at the back of my head at base of my neck and make it a clean shot,” John said steadily.  "You might want pull over and do it in some side alley to keep the blood and brains off your suit."  

     If these were his final moments, he’d leave the world with some dignity.  One of the men in the front seat turned around at those words and looked at him.  John couldn’t make out an expression behind the sunglasses but he thought he saw a bit of raised eyebrow.  The man turned back around, eyes forward.

     “I said I’d like to kill you.  But, I’m afraid I’d lose my brother if I did.  So, you’ll live a while longer.”

     “Where are we going?” John asked feeling as if he already knew the answer. 

     “Why, home Dr. Watson.  To Baker Street,” Mycroft replied.