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.
John wiped his eyes and peered over her shoulder. The camera overlooked a small room that was empty except for a sturdy-looking wooden chair positioned directly in the center, beneath an overhead light, and a long table pushed against one of the walls. It resembled a makeshift interrogation room.
"What are you showing me?" John asked.
"You'll see."
Sure enough, the door opened a moment later and a man entered. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, and wore a tailored wool suit that John now associated with all of Mycroft's male employees. In his right hand was a duffle bag, which he set on the table and unzipped. He was still rummaging through it when the door opened again and Mycroft walked in.
The elder Holmes wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark pinstriped trousers. No tie, waistcoat, or jacket. He nodded at the other man, walked directly to the chair and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"We will proceed with the usual session at once," he said crisply. "Understood, Jenkins?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
Mycroft removed the shirt, folded it neatly, and handed it to Jenkins, who placed it on the table. His back was littered with freckles and deep red marks. John peered at the screen, trying to identify the latter.
"Are those abrasions?" he frowned. He glanced at the video's timestamp: 11:30 p.m. last night.
"Just watch," Anthea replied.
Mycroft rotated his shoulders a few times, grimacing when a sensitive area protested, before approaching the chair, straddling it backwards, and resting his crossed forearms on its back.
"I'm ready. Proceed."
Jenkins, who had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, peered closely at him. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but not all of the welts have-"
"I said proceed." Mycroft turned his head and glared daggers at him. "Need I remind you how much I despise repeating myself?"
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Jenkins reluctantly reached into the bag and produced a riding crop that was longer and thicker than the one Sherlock had owned. He flexed it and gave the broad, flat tip a final check for any small tears or fraying that could make its bite more vicious than normal. Then he assumed a position behind his boss, took aim, and brought the crop down on that already-damaged back.
The crack of leather against flesh was deafening. Anthea flinched. John's jaw dropped. "Jesus Christ!"
Mycroft blinked rapidly and his lower lip disappeared between his teeth, but otherwise he remained immobile.
"Keep going. And harder, please."
Jenkins hit him repeatedly, heavy blows that sliced into the freckled skin and raised enormous welts.
Mycroft's fingers clutched the chair back until they whitened. "Remember my front," he ordered when the other man paused to wipe sweat from his brow.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes."
Jenkins moved in front of him, and Mycroft sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders back and exposing his chest. The younger man struck twice, the second blow causing the elder Holmes to jump a couple of inches off his seat. John quickly saw why: the crop's edge had broken the skin over the left nipple, sending a rivulet of blood coursing down.
"Sir?" Jenkins asked anxiously.
Mycroft rose, stepped away from the chair, and touched the wound gingerly. "It's all right," he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Well done, actually."
"What in God's name is this?" John stared at Anthea. "Why is he doing this? Is he insane?"
Her eyes met his. "Insane? No. Remorseful? Yes."
"Remorseful?"
"His brother forgave him for that incident. But he hasn't forgiven himself."
John felt sick. Although furious with Mycroft for taking his freedom away, he was horrified that the man subjected himself to voluntary torture. What was going on in that brilliant mind that needed horrible pain to calm it?
"How often does he do this?"
"Once a week."
"That's not nearly enough time for wounds like that to heal. He's going to destroy his skin."
"I know. But Mr. Holmes doesn't care about that." She stared down at the keyboard. "He says that the marks left on his brother's reputation are indelible, so he should have permanent scars of his own."
On the screen, Jenkins waited, looking visibly uncomfortable. "Sir? Do you want to continue?"
Mycroft sighed. "I suppose not. This needs tending. Thank you, Jenkins. Well done."
Anthea closed the laptop. "So now you know."
"I think," John said slowly, "that he's the one who needs to be under lock and key, not me."
"Mr. Holmes is not suicidal, John. He's atoning in the only way that makes him feel properly punished." She stood up. "I'll take you back to your room now. I trust this will all remain between us?"
John nodded. As she re-applied the blindfold, he understood why she wanted him to see that footage. Sherlock may have begged Mycroft to keep John safe, but John wasn't the only one who was suffering inside.
He wondered what Anthea thought he could do about it. He was on the verge of asking when she grasped his arm and said, "Please be quiet. We're stepping out now, and someone could hear."
John let her lead him into the hall. They'd only gone eighteen steps (two more until the landing) when Anthea exclaimed, "Mr. Holmes, sir! I thought you'd still be resting."
"I'm glad I'm not, actually," John heard Mycroft reply. "Because otherwise I'd have missed the rare spectacle of John walking in a restricted area of this house. I'm sure the explanation is a good one, though." Then, voice going dangerously low, he added, "Enlighten me. Now."