Promise to the Living

Chapter Six

John frowned, bewilderment temporarily subduing his anxiety. "You're bleeding." He stared at Mycroft's face, and his confusion increased.

The elder Holmes looked exactly as he did the night John confronted him about the tabloid leak. Cornered. Evasive. Cold blue eyes darted about like minnows, skimming everything in the room except John.

"I have a… cut… which apparently has more healing to do than my personal physician thought," he said testily. "I'll retire now and see to it."

"A cut?" How on earth could Mycroft have been hurt? Although he had done a masterful job of disabling John last night, such altercations were rare for him nowadays. Had there been a recent attempt on his life? An accident?

As a medical man, John knew that he should offer to examine the injury. The red smear on his fingers was not heavy, but an open wound that had bled enough to soak the cashmere was a serious infection risk. One look at the man, however, warned him to keep his distance.

"You may stay here and finish your breakfast," Mycroft said, all hard edges and cool manners once again. "Perhaps we will speak this evening, during dinner."

"I've had enough." John's appetite was gone, replacing by a rolling in his stomach that he couldn't blame entirely on his meltdown.

"You've had one piece of toast. That's far from enough." Mycroft stared past him, at the two minders. "Dr. Watson is to remain here until he's eaten… more than my brother would have."

Despite his anxiety, John bristled about being forced to remain at the table like a willful child. "Or what? No Little Red Hen before bedtime? Shame- you must read it so beautifully."

"I'm sure you know what a nasogastric tube is."

"Not first-hand."

"Let's keep it that way then, shall we?" Mycroft smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in it. "Good day, John."

After he left, John reluctantly sat down and spooned some eggs and sausage onto his plate. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't want to be force-fed either. Wiping the remaining tears from his face and refusing to look at either bodyguard, he ate automatically, tasting none of it.

He felt better when he finished. His head ached slightly from the crying jag, but on the whole he was calmer than he'd been in a long time. In five minutes, he had told Mycroft things that he'd been unable to discuss with Ella. She was a compassionate professional, but had never personally witnessed, and therefore could not understand, the emotionally-charged hybrid that Sherlock and John had been. With those painful revelations came a sense of release. Maybe he would be back in hell once the pain and tension rebuilt, but right now, his mind was quieter.

He kept thinking about the message Sherlock had left for Mycroft. Asking his omnipotent older brother to take care of John. Would the younger Holmes have done that if he blamed his misery entirely on Mycroft's indiscretion?

Was there more to this than he'd ever been allowed to know? With the Holmes brothers, it was a distinct possibility. He pushed his now-empty plate away and rubbed his temples.

"John?"

It was Anthea. She stood behind him, a glass of water in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Peering into it, he saw two pills.

"Diazepam? At that dose? No thanks."

"You have to take them, John. Or you'll be injected."

Mycroft wanted him compliant. Or at least too relaxed to bother finding new ways to escape or kill himself. Sighing, John placed the anti-anxiety pills on his tongue and chased them down with the water. He wasn't surprised when Anthea made him open his mouth, lift his tongue, and massage his face over the gum area.