Danger Nights

Chapter Three

John found him in the men's room. He was standing before the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror and ignoring the gush of water from the taps.

"John," he said without turning around. "I take it you failed to find Mr. Rafferty?"

The doctor wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Mycroft, please. You must have some idea of where he's gone."

"I don't, actually. But if you're that determined to disregard his wishes, you can obtain his real name by requesting to see his credit card receipt, although the bartender may not disclose it for privacy reasons. He's also staying within a ten-minute radius of this hotel, judging from the limited dirt accumulation on his new shoes and other indicators too numerous to mention."

Without taking his eyes off of Mycroft, John grabbed his mobile and called Lestrade. He told the ex-Yarder about Rafferty's strange behaviour and suspected suicidal intent.

"Did this bloke actually say he was going to kill himself?" Lestrade asked.

Time was of the essence, so John said impatiently, "Let's just say that he did."

"All right. Let me call someone I know at the Met. They'll get on it immediately. Is… is Mycroft any better?"

John stared at the elder Holmes, who hadn't moved once. "No. Now make that call, for God's sake. Before it's too late."

When he hung up, Mycroft said flatly, "Noble as ever, John."

"Listen to me." John pocketed the phone and touched his arm. "I don't want to hear any more bullshit. You're not well. You need to tell me what's happening with you."

Mycroft shook his head. "It will pass. It always does."

"What will? Please tell me."

The elder Holmes looked down at the gushing taps as if noticing them for the first time. Turning them off, he added, "We can talk in the car."

John escorted him back into the restaurant, keeping close enough to seize his arm if necessary. He knew that if the situation escalated into a struggle, Mycroft could easily overpower him long enough to escape. But staying close to his lover calmed his sense of helplessness somewhat.

While Mycroft donned his coat and exchanged some parting pleasantries with the maitre d', John gazed aimlessly around the restaurant- and immediately noticed that a man sitting alone at a corner table was watching them intently.

He hadn't been in the restaurant earlier: John was sure of that, as his table stood in the doctor's line of sight. He was young, dark-haired, and presentable enough to blend in with 140 Park Lane's upscale clientele. His eyes, on the other hand, were cold and devoid of curiosity, admiration, or any other benign motive for looking at them.

When John stared back, the man quickly turned away and feigned interest in the menu. But the former army doctor wasn't fooled: his years as a soldier and crime fighter had fine-tuned his ability to identify an enemy.

Mycroft touched John's shoulder. If he had noticed the stranger's scrutiny, he did not comment. "Let's go."

John did a visual sweep of the crowds and parked vehicles as they left the restaurant and got into the government car, but didn't detect anything suspicious. When the journey to the townhouse resumed, he relaxed a little while Mycroft took out his phone and started texting.

"I'm sending instructions to Anthea for tomorrow morning," he said.

"For what?"

"I'm going to see a doctor." In a feeble attempt at humour, Mycroft added, "Not in the same way I see you, of course."