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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter 29
Mycroft Holmes was one of few 'minor' British government officials who had been provided with his own private Jet. The times when Mycroft actually utilized it were few and far in between, as it was typically much easier to book a seat on a public aircraft (as long as there were seats available in first or business class; Mycroft Holmes did not fly 'coach') than to get the various permits to take off and land with and a private Jet.
Tonight was an exception, and it only required a quick exchange over the phone with an official at the BWI airport laced with some thinly veiled threats to acquire an immediate landing permit.
He was Mycroft Holmes, and there was no stopping him when national security or the safety of his little brother were at stake.
***
The eight hour flight across the Atlantic Ocean passed in a slow kind of agony. Anthea sat opposite him the entire time, and although her attention was mostly focused on the screen of her smart-phone, she, like the ever-dutiful PA that she was, occasionally asked in a low, pleasant voice if there was anything he required.
Mycroft's answer was always a curt headshake. What he wanted was more alcohol to dull the rest of his senses and what he needed was at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, but presently he could not afford either.
Sherlock Holmes.
A grievously injured man with a shotgun wound and other multiple injuries had been admitted to a hospital in West Virginia, and he had given his name as Sherlock Holmes.
***
Returning to consciousness felt like a tiny taste of hell, the sensation of every fibre of feeling coming back utterly indescribable. At first John felt as though his eyes refused to open - perhaps they did - and when they finally opened, the room was a blur. Before his vision could properly adjust, he made out the steady beeping of an EKG and an unending hiss of a device strapped to his face. A ventilator. The only thought which he could process was that he must have needed it.
Once his vision had become clear, he began to truly feel the relief of being in a hospital room. However, he was not alone in his thoughts for more than two seconds before he realized he had a visitor. Upon recognition he wondered if he really was in hell.
Standing over his bed was Mycroft Holmes. He did not look happy, not one bit. John had a feeling he knew why, but he was presently too buggered up to figure it out.
"Am I alive?" he wanted to ask, but he was unable to. Damned ventilator. His failed attempts at speech were not lost on the elder Holmes.
"Perhaps you can imagine my disappointment," Mycroft began, "at crossing the ocean and reaching this damnable hospital, only to find that the Sherlock Holmes who was interred here is not Sherlock Holmes at all."
John wanted to sputter out an angry explanation, a demand that the pompous hog's prick would hurry out to rescue Sherlock, but of course he was struck dumb by his breathing apparatus, so all he could do was scowl. Damn, he wished he had taken courses in sign language.
He watched as Mycroft produced from behind his back a notepad and pencil and dropped it in the doctor's lap. As John glanced up at his visitor, he saw a darkness pass over the elder Holmes' face that was not the usual condescending disproval, nor the annoyance which bordered on comical. No, this was the face of a man who ran the country and was not someone to be trifled with.
"Where is Sherlock?"
Had John's throat not already felt like sandpaper (with the respirator making it even dryer) it most certainly would have dried at the question posed by Mycroft Holmes. It also frustrated him to no end that he could not - in a quite literal sense - give the other man an answer. The device breathing for him did not allow him to speak. No matter how badly he wanted to yell at Mycroft to take his ever-present goons and do something useful for once, that did not include spying on his younger brother or kidnapping a certain ex-army surgeon for questioning, he could not.
Only after his initial frustration had eased slightly did he notice the writing equipment the other had passed him. He might not be able to speak nor move his right arm a whole lot, but John was left-handed and fortunately his left hand still obeyed his brain's commands relatively well, even though it was shaking moderately when he picked the pencil up and positioned it over the lined paper.
He tried very hard to think of something he could write down that would summarize their entire horrible experience with the deformed cannibals in the most informative, concise manner possible. Mycroft at present did not need to know that his brother had been raped by a disfigured giant, even though that memory was forever going to be etched to John's retinas.
//Kidnapped// he wrote, and offered the pad back to Mycroft.
The redhead scowled very slightly, and for someone very attuned to the feelings of others, a momentary slip in his near-unnatural self-control - not more than a slight hitch in the flow of breath - might have been noticeable.
"How?" Mycroft asked in a steely voice. John wondered if the Ice-man pitied him at all, or if all Mycroft felt toward him was rage for making it back when Sherlock hadn't.
John began writing some more. //Mary gone. Search. Found dead. Taken. Tortured. In the woods. Mad//
Mycroft blinked, a concentrated effort, as though in the full second that his eyes had closed, he was composing himself. As much of an arsehole as Sherlock's brother was, he still cared... just a little.
"People at the resort are being questioned," he replied. "Discretion is difficult due to the locale and structure of the place, much to my annoyance. It escapes me that any institution could be so poorly organized, but perhaps that says something of this country... my point being that we are continuing to search for clues as to where you've been. Perhaps something can be shaken from your brain...?"
John shook his head in equal frustration. By pure dumb luck, he and Sherlock had happened upon Mary's path towards the cabin, not to mention the cabin itself. On top of that, the trauma he had experienced within the past day was hammering out chunks of his memory at one time, then jamming them back in later, only to knock out another piece. He scribbled down more words and showed Mycroft what he had written.
//Cabin. Men. Inbred//
A subtle surprise passed over Mycroft's face, which also read of predictable disbelief. Of course, anyone who might have been told the situation would have found it a hard yarn to swallow. Stories like these came from movies and lurid novels.
"And...?" Mycroft said.
//Road is maze. Redirected streams trap cars//
And then, remembering the photos, John scribbled some more:
//Chimney smoke//
Mycroft laughed cruelly - at least that was how it sounded to John's ears - and then said, "Are you suggesting that my brother and yourself were kidnapped and held captive by a group of deformed, inbred, insane locals? Are you raving, my dear doctor? I was informed you have pneumonia. Double-sided, I might add. You could be delirious from the fever and the trauma."
Now John was angry on top of every other emotion currently plaguing him. His infamous temper flared like a beacon, and he wrote one word, two letters, both capitalized, before practically throwing the notepad at Mycroft.
//NO//
Mycroft arched one finely plucked eyebrow. "No? Then you're going to have to give me something a bit more tangible, Doctor Watson. How about a location?"
Had John not been so weak and unable to even form words, he would have shouted at Mycroft to stop being such a condescending windbag and instead use his not-inconsiderable power to find Sherlock and bring him back to them, hopefully alive and still in one piece.
However, all he could do was give the other man a glare which hopefully conveyed his message pretty well.
/Don't know location// he wrote. //North of Bear Mountain// He thought of a moment. When searching for Mary, had they gone south? Where had the sun been? No, likely east. Yes, east.
//East of Avalon//
Mycroft studied the writing as if trying to decipher a coded message. John figured he was likely judging the truth of the doctor's claims. John felt like strangling him. At the same time he could tell, even from a hospital bed, that Mycroft Holmes wasn't at his best. The man's complexion, while pasty by nature, was a sallow gray, and his sharp, piercing eyes were surrounded by puffy bags which suggested either too little sleep or too much alcohol, perhaps a combination of both. Mycroft's eye-whites were bloodshot, and John noticed he blinked a lot. Dry eyes from being on a plane for hours? Or was there something more behind it?
The consideration of the other man's present state granted John a slight bit of patience, and he wrote down another comment, underlining it:
//He's a plaything. Will die from abuse//
Doubt still shone in Mycroft's eyes, but the concern also present was becoming less vague.
"What was the extent of his injuries when you last saw him?"
John instinctively tried to chew on the inside of his cheek, but obviously was unable to. He wrote down his answer, hesitated, and regretfully added the remainder. As Mycroft read the response, the doctor could have sworn he saw a hint of a shudder.
//Bear trap on leg. Rape//
"One can presume there will be worse damage as time continues," Mycroft said with an eerie evenness, staring at the paper, almost as though he refused to look at John. When he finally did, he saw the helpless look on the doctor's face. He swallowed and blinked, eyelids fluttering, before peering down at the infirmed man.
"How exactly did you escape such a fate?" he asked, his voice sharp and biting. "Moreover, why did you, if you were so inclined to protect a man with whom you share such a close bond?"
Anger and frustration flared again. Fists clenched, he tried to remain calm as he wrote out his explanation. He had not wanted to leave his friend, partner, and lover behind. In fact, he still cursed himself for leaving Sherlock's side, especially when all it got him was being stuck and voiceless in a hospital bed with a condescending ginger bastard giving him the third degree.
//First we escaped together. Dug under a wall. Sherlock stepped in bear trap. Demanded I find help. I tried diverting. Chased, fought, shot. Fell in river. The rest you know//
"Supposing I do believe your story..." he said, and this time John did not feel anger at the words, as the civil servant clearly was now accepting the scribblings, "then we have no time to spare on dallying here. Which means that I regret to inform you that you would be unable to accompany on this search. This is most inconvenient, as you could have possibly recognized the territory..."
John gestured at his breathing apparatus, which was unfortunately now a necessary evil. The American doctors had obviously decided that his lungs were not strong enough to manage the oxygen transport to his body's tissues just yet, and John was tempted to believe them. He felt like shit run over twice. He was most likely also being given intravenous antibiotics to counter the pneumonia and every other infection his body might have picked up. With a slight shudder, John wondered if any of the shotgun pellets were still embedded in his flesh.
As long as Sherlock was found and rescued, the doctor cared little about what happened to his own body. As bad as things were, he had gotten off easy compared to his poor friend.
Was there any chance that Sherlock was even still alive?
John scribbled down a quick question on the notepad for Mycroft to read, although he dreaded the answer.
//Today's date?// it said.
"Thursday, 4th of July," the civil servant replied. "A festive day for the Yanks, I believe. Not quite the same can be said for us."
John wasn't sure if Mycroft's "us" was a reference to Brits as a people, or just the two of them, and he didn't ask. He could care less about the Americans and their patriotic celebrations. He would only celebrate if his best friend and lover was brought back to him alive. Mycroft's information regarding the date was troubling.
More than forty-eight hours had passed since Sherlock and he were abducted, and roughly thirty-six since he managed to escape. Alone. John quenched a sob threatening to break out, partly because he feared how crying would affect his respiration, but also because he did not want to cry in front of the Ice-man.
//Find Sherlock//
Mycroft tilted his head in a condescending look. There was the Mycroft Holmes that John Watson knew.
"Of course I will."
TBC...
- 28
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- 30
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The Prey