Promise to the Living

Chapter Fifteen

A/N: Violence warning (self-harm)

"No!" John shouted as Mycroft tried to restrain him. "Let me go!"

"John," the taller man said in remarkably calm tones for someone grappling with a human whirlwind, "now is not the time for rash behaviour. Please calm down and hear us out."

"No, I need to get out of here! This is too fucking much!"

Mycroft herded John toward the sofa, where Sherlock still sprawled, mouth agape and hand pressed to his bruised cheek. "Sherlock, the cuffs, please," he grunted. "John, I'm sorry but you really need to hold still and listen to-"

His order was interrupted by a loud tearing noise. John, in his struggle, had grabbed Mycroft's shirt collar and pulled so hard that the fabric tore and the buttons popped. Another fierce tug obliterated the waistcoat buttons too, baring Mycroft's scar-littered chest. The wounds had healed, but marks remained. Vivid ones that stood thick and white against the soft pink flesh.

When Mycroft hesitated, John broke free and shoved him toward his younger brother. Sherlock's jaw dropped even lower and those normally deadpan eyes registered shock.

"Mycroft, what are those?"

Taking advantage of the distraction, John bolted out of the flat. He had no idea where he was going, but such practical considerations took a back seat to his flight instinct. He had to get out of there, find someplace where things made sense, and decide what to do. Sarah's, maybe. Or Mike Stamford's. He needed to think.

When he burst out the front door into the night air, he was intercepted immediately. Two more government cars idled behind Mycroft's at the curb; they had brought the four men who now grabbed his shoulders and arms and pushed him back toward the building.

Fuck, Mycroft knew I'd react this way. That's who he was calling when he went in Sherlock's room: backup.

John's left fist connected neatly with one man's jaw, reducing the odds to three to one. Then his legs were raised and held firmly together while another minder gripped his wrists and the third clasped him around the chest, dragging him backward. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Mycroft in the open doorway, buttoning his overcoat to cover the damaged suit.

"Easy, gentlemen," Mycroft ordered, looking worried. "John, please stop this."

"YOU stop it! Tell them to lay off!"

"Hey! What the bloody hell's going on here!"

Lestrade was running up Baker Street, spring coat flapping behind him and weapon drawn. John paused in his struggles and watched the DI's approach with mingled relief and dread. What's he doing here? A case? Christ, if he sees Sherlock...

Mycroft swore under his breath and stepped out of the doorway. "Take John inside," he ordered his men before walking briskly to meet Lestrade, umbrella swinging without its usual lassitude.

John complained loudly as they conveyed him up the stairs to 221b like newly delivered furniture and dropped him back on the sofa. Mycroft's men secured John with their own restraints: plastic zip ties that confined his wrists and ankles without biting into the skin. When they finished their task and stepped back, Sherlock said, "John, I swear to you, I didn't do this to hurt you. I never realized-"

"That's right, you didn't! You're too self-centered to realize what losing my best friend could do to me!" John shifted on the cushions so that he was sitting upright. Just looking at that pale, finely chiseled face made him want to do so many things at once: cry, laugh, hug, run, and punch. (All of which he'd actually done in the space of fifteen minutes.) Even though Sherlock was back, and alive, the memories of those horrible months washed back through his consciousness like blood seeping stubbornly through an expertly bandaged wound. Along with the corresponding pain.

Mycroft had applied that figurative bandage, and he remained grateful for it. John tried, but could not summon anything stronger than disappointment at the elder Holmes for his role in the deception. The rudely unveiled scars bore silent witness to the man's ability to feel sentiments that Sherlock didn't, and probably never could, understand. Mycroft sincerely regretted keeping John in the dark: he knew that without having to ask.

He'd be able to forgive Mycroft. Sherlock, he wasn't sure. Yet, John acknowledged, being angry with Sherlock was akin to yelling at a child for breaking adult rules. He'd understand the punishment, but not the reason behind it.

Sherlock approached again. John started to recoil but stopped when he saw the tears brimming behind those thick lashes.

He had seen Sherlock fake tears on a number of occasions, but knew instinctively that these were real. He'd never seen his former friend look so lost, so unequipped to deal with a situation.

"I didn't realize what Mycroft had been doing to himself," Sherlock half-whispered. "I already told him he was forgiven." Then, suddenly remembering that his brother's employees were in the room, he said in a clearer voice, "John, why did you run?"

"Because I needed to get out of here, Sherlock. I still do. I need to think about all this." He held up his bound wrists. "And tying me up is not going to change that, or make me regard your viewpoint more favorably. But I suppose it's all the same to you, isn't it, whether this is against my will or not."

"Would it make you feel better if I actually showed you how much I regret hurting you, instead of just saying it?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft's men. "Any reason why you lot have to hang around and listen to everything?"

One of them answered, "Mr. Holmes has requested-"

"Well, Mr. Holmes the Younger is requesting that you step out onto the landing. My upcoming debasement will not be a spectator sport."

The three men glanced at each other, clearly wondering whether leaving the flat would violate their boss's orders. Finally one shrugged and walked out, and the other two followed, but they could be heard pacing on the landing, talking in low voices.

Sherlock moved with remarkable grace for someone whose hands trembled so badly. He strode across the sitting room, grabbed John's old military clasp knife from its spot on the table, and cut the plastic ties off.

"Thanks," John said as he rubbed his wrists. "But this doesn't-"

He would have said more, but Sherlock said hoarsely, "Maybe Mycroft had the right idea, John. Punishing oneself is the most convincing show of contrition."

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock didn't answer. But he did take several steps back and extend his arm until the sleeve rode up, exposing one thin, pale wrist. Then, eyes never leaving John's face, he dug the point of the knife into his flesh and sliced it open.