Promise to the Living

Chapter Seven

Author's Note: This chapter includes an instance of self-harm.

Out in the hall, two new bodyguards lounged on comfortable armchairs, perusing newspapers. They glanced at John before going back to their reading, finding the sports pages more interesting than their prisoner-guest.

Before John could examine his surroundings more closely, Anthea blindfolded him and guided him to the left. "This way," she said. He didn't ask her if Mycroft knew about this excursion, suspecting that he knew the answer already.

Forty-six steps, and up a flight of stairs. John's nostrils tingled at the lemony scent of freshly polished wood. Now they were on a landing, and turning left. Twenty more steps. Multiple beeps as an electronic code was entered into a keypad. The sharp snick of a door unlocking. Five steps forward. The door closing behind them with a low thud. Quick fingers at the back of his head, undoing the blindfold.

Like his cell / bedroom, this large, high-ceilinged room had no windows. John understood why right away: so much expensive computer equipment shouldn't be seen from the outside, even accidentally.

Flat-screen computer monitors covered one wall from floor to ceiling, each one playing surveillance videos in real time. Their cumulative effect was dizzying, and he pitied anyone who had to stare at them for any length of time.

John's stomach clenched when he saw that one was trained on the front door of 221 Baker Street. While he watched, Mrs. Hudson suddenly stepped into camera range. She paused on the doorstep to fish the key out of her bag, allowing him to see in painful detail her drawn face and stooped shoulders.

Shame flooded John. She would have read the goodbye note he'd left by now, and known how close she'd come to losing him. For the first time since Mycroft had thwarted his plans, John questioned the wisdom and fairness of his determination to die. Sherlock had clearly wanted him to go on, and one look at Mrs. Hudson hinted that if he'd succeeded, she might not have outlived him for long.

When she went inside, John tore his eyes away from the monitors and took in the rest of the room. A crowded bookshelf occupied the wall opposite the video display, most of the volumes dealing with political science or the lives of famous leaders. A desk bigger than most boardroom tables stood in the middle of the floor, its entire surface littered with bulging folders, notebooks, and stacks of loose paper. A laptop huddled in the midst of the chaos, a screensaver flashing psychedelic patterns across the screen.

John stared: that desk and its disarrayed contents could have come straight from Baker Street. (When Sherlock was alive, anyway.) On impulse he approached it and picked up the pad closest to the laptop. Notes written in a graceful script covered the entire page.

4:25 p.m.- Camera 16- Cressida Road, Archway. Man with obvious military background lingering near drop-off location. Pass to A. to identify. Could be Subject 237891.

9:25 p.m.- Camera 1- Mysteries New Age shop, Covent Garden. Suspect that woman with black braids may be K. Livingston. Uses right hand awkwardly, so probable left hander in disguise. Fits profile. Send footage to oversight.

Swallowing heavily, John put the book down. Written observations, deductions, and strategies like these had once been more common that dust motes at 221b. All of them were in boxes now. Like their creator.

His eyes stung.

Goddamn it. When will I stop crying?

Anthea sat at the desk, tapped on the laptop's mouse pad to bring the machine out of sleep mode, and typed a command into a DOS window that popped up. Seconds later a video image filled the entire screen.