Promise to the Living

Chapter Nine

When John opened his eyes and stared groggily about, his initial reaction was confusion. He was in a dimly-lit room with concrete walls and a single door. A camera was mounted in one of the ceiling corners, its lens trained directly on him.

"Fuck," he groaned. He tried to stand, only to discover that thick ropes bound him to a folding metal chair. How had he managed to offend Mycroft greatly enough to be banished to a chilly basement room?

Then he remembered. The ambush. The fight. The blood.

John cried out and started struggling. Where was Mycroft?

Was he alive?

Swearing behind clenched teeth, John hurled himself forward so violently that the chair tipped and crashed, taking him with it.

The door opened then. John froze and stared as a tall, stocky man with a military-style haircut entered.

"Hello, John," he said, sounding friendly. "Good to see you finally awake. I've wanted to meet you for awhile."

"Where's Mycroft?"

"Here too. He's not in the best shape, granted, but he's alive."

Oh, thank Christ. "Who are you? Why are we here?"

The man cocked his head and smiled. John guessed his age as thirty-five or slightly younger. Like his minions, he wore jeans, a plain cotton shirt, and leather jacket. "My name is Sebastian Moran," he said. Then he waited, clearly expecting a reaction.

"I have no idea who you are."

Moran sighed. "Maybe you don't. Jim never shared his private business with anyone."

"Jim…." John went cold all over. "You worked for Moriarty?"

"I worked with him. He was my partner. In every sense of the word." His left hand caressed a wide gold band he wore on his right. "We were together for five years."

Good God, Moriarty was his husband.

"And when Sherlock Holmes made him eat his own gun, I no longer had a life. I had a mission." Moran bent over, grasped the back of the chair and unceremoniously hauled it- and John- upright.

"You're a soldier," John blurted, seeing dog tags shift about under the other man's shirt.

"Used to be. Just like you. Lieutenant-Colonel Sebastian Moran. Formerly a sniper with the British Infantry."

"You brought us here to kill us, then?"

"Someone's going to die today, but it won't be you, John. You're here because you were in the wrong place at the right time. My business is with Mycroft Holmes. Once it's over, you'll be allowed to leave. I know you and Sherlock Holmes were close, but you're not the one who could have prevented Jim's death."

"I don't understand."

"If Holmes had managed his little brother more diligently, you and I would both be happier men right now."

John was incredulous. "You're saying that both Sherlock and Moriarty would still be alive if Mycroft had Sherlock on a tighter leash?"

"We both know it's true."

John laughed bitterly. "Stop Sherlock Holmes from doing what he wanted? You'd have to keep him on ice."

"Maybe he should have been!" Moran's voice hardened. "The man was a menace. The smartest thing he ever did was kill himself."

"And Moriarty was a poster child for mental health and civic duty? How much of the Kool-Aid were you forced to drink?"

John never saw the blow, but he felt it. His head snapped back and light exploded behind his eyes.

"You know nothing," the ex-sniper hissed.

"On the contrary, I think I know everything." John licked the blood from his split lip. "You really want to kill Mycroft because he's Sherlock's brother. You can't murder a dead man, so you go for the closest substitute."

"I'm going for the guilty party. Speaking of which, it's time to take care of business." Moran checked his watch.

"You don't want to do this," John said desperately.

"What's right is right." Moran paused. "Are you going to sit there and tell me that you never once blamed Mycroft Holmes for Sherlock's death?"

"Yes. I did. And then reality set in."

"I'd say you lost touch with it." Moran headed for the door. "But if it's any comfort to you, he won't go as painfully as he deserves. You're going to see to that."

Then he was gone, leaving John alone with his panic.