Sherlock Fic: I Go to Prepare a Place For You (Part 1 of 3)
Hey everybody! This section is done, yay! Parts two and three should be up shortly, once I finish wrestling with my word processor.
Title: I Go to Prepare a Place for You (1/3)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~18,000
Warnings: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, not necessarily healthy or well-negotiated D/s dynamics, humiliation, rough sex, corporal punishment including paddling
Context: Part of the My Master’s House universe. I suggest you begin at the beginning, but here’s all you really need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart for providing indispensible character insights, jaune_chat for late-night plot-fixing gchats, and blue_eyed_1987 for helping my characters pass as British.
Summary: Sherlock unravels a conspiracy against the state, Mycroft undertakes a project, Lestrade prevents people from murdering each other, and John has difficulty keeping secrets.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
--
“Furthermore,” Sherlock said, as if they’d been in the middle of a discussion rather than panting out the aftermath of their orgasms, “There will be no dancing. I’ve agreed to attend the insipid banquet, but I draw the line at dancing. So tell Lestrade you can stop practising.”
“Thank god.” John didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock had known what he’d been up to in the banquet hall earlier that day-or was it the day before, now that dawn was approaching?
It had become something of a ritual for John, waking up to Sherlock returning to the room in the darkest hours of the night. Sleeping in his own room was no better; Sherlock had easily figured out how to bypass the security system. And if someone’s room was going to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s inevitable fits of pique, John would much rather it not be his.
“What did you learn about the guest list?” Sherlock asked.
With his blood still pounding in his ears and the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, it took a moment for John’s brain to sort through that and establish some sort of context. He asked, “Was I meant to be learning something?”
“How am I to work without data?”
“Lord Mycroft was looking at a guest list, but I didn’t see it.”
“Did you even try, John?” Sherlock looked pained.
John felt too wrung out for anything but honesty. “Not really.”
“Sometimes I despair of you. You couldn’t have managed a peek? I’m sure Lestrade had him well distracted.”
“Hm.” John pushed away the memory of the look in Lestrade’s eyes as Mycroft had danced with him. Things had seemed so easy between them. John made an effort to remember Mycroft’s words, instead. “He did say the young price was coming.”
“Princes, dull. And not why he’s keeping the list from me.” Sherlock exhaled sharply, in the childlike way he did when taking offense at the failure of the universe to bend itself to his will. “In the same room as the list and no bloody data. You’re useless, John.”
“Thanks for that,” John said. He was learning not to take such pronouncement personally.
“But you’re not always useless.” Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and fixed his curious gaze on John’s face. “Tell me your experience of love.”
John frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“The first time you were in love, what did it feel like? How did you act?”
I’ve never been in love. It was on the tip of John’s tongue, but something stopped him from admitting it. “Why are you asking?”His mind spun, panicked, through several heady possibilities before he saw a more logical one. “Oh, the case. You’re trying to understand the daughter’s motives.”
“Yes, of course it’s the case. The work, John. Tell me.”
“I don’t want to.” John’s lingering afterglow was rapidly evaporating. He tried to turn onto his side, away from the conversation, but Sherlock flung a hand across his body to pin him down.
“Now, John.”
“You can’t expect me to obey orders I don’t like just because they come from you,” John snapped.
“Yes I can! That’s the very definition of your duty as a slave.”
“You don’t want mindless obedience.”
“Obeying me isn’t mindless obedience. All my orders make perfect logical sense.” Sherlock rolled on top of John and pinned his wrists on either side of his head. “Now tell me.”
John couldn’t manage the proper level of indignation. He was tired: it was the middle of the night, he’d been on his feet all day, and he’d just been shagged senseless. Furthermore, he doubted that getting angry would convince Sherlock of anything. “No,” he said wearily.
“John,” Sherlock said warningly. “Tell me.”
“Or what? You’ll hit me?”
“No,” Sherlock said. Disgust for the suggestions was written on his face, but he didn’t release his hold on John’s wrists.
John tried speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, as he might for someone whose first language was not the one John spoke. “There are parts of me you don’t own, and I have the choice to keep those parts or give them away. Me. Understand?”
“Not yet.” Sherlock uncurled his fingers and ran them down John’s arms. “But I’ll find the answer.” Sherlock slithered out of bed. In the yellow glow of the bedside lamp, he picked his way across the clothes, papers, and other detritus spread across the bedroom floor and made his way to the fireplace. He pulled a black case out from under the chair in front of the dying fire and lifted out-of all things-a handsome violin the colour of dark honey.
For a moment, John worried that he was about to witness the destruction of something beautiful. But Sherlock simply held the instrument in one hand and the bow in the other and stood for a long moment.
“Do you even know how to play?” John asked.
Sherlock set the violin down on the table next to the chair. “Not for you.” Sherlock folded his long-limbed, naked body into the chair and press his hands together beneath his chin. He displayed no intention of moving.
John’s eyes strayed to the violin. It looked old, probably expensive. It didn’t have the shiny newness of a museum piece. The worn appearance spoke of many previous owners and frequent handling. It was a curious thing for a man of science like Sherlock to own such an item.
“Do you really play the violin?”
Sherlock didn’t open his eyes.
“Play for me.” John leaned back against the pillows. Alone in the bed, in the safety of the night time, he felt he could ask Sherlock anything. After all, Sherlock never hesitated to silence or belittle John when he didn’t like the direction of a conversation, so John interpreted his silence as permission. “I like Mendelssohn,” he said helpfully.
“Oh, the Germans. You would,” Sherlock said, but it came out weakly, as if he had to reach for something to criticize about the request.
“Fine, then. Play what you like.”
Sherlock unfurled from the chair, and for a moment John thought he might have earned a punishment for his cheek. Instead, Sherlock snatched up the instrument again. He tucked it under his chin before turning his back to John. The bow came up and hovered above the strings. John watched silently. Sherlock breathed deep-John saw his ribcage expand-and began to play.
John didn’t recognize the music. The song began low, tremulous, with Sherlock’s bow hand moving smoothly and gracefully over the strings. In a few seconds, the tune expanded into a hopeful upward sweep. Sherlock’s fingers flew. The lean muscles in Sherlock’s back shifted fluidly as he played.
John sat up in bed to watch more closely.
Sherlock stopped abruptly and whirled to look over his shoulder.
John sat still, legs folded under him, listening. Sherlock turned back around and resumed playing. The soaring melody continued, swirling around a crescendo and doubling back on itself in a way that put John in mind of a pair of playful birds. At last, Sherlock drew a long, mournful note out of the violin that faded away into silence. He dropped his bow hand to his side, but didn’t turn around.
“That,” John said, “was fantastic. I’ve never heard music played like that.”
“Yes, well.” Sherlock settled the violin back in its case with the bow.
“Who was the composer?”
“It’s a new song,” Sherlock said, as if that explained something. He returned to his chair and folded his knees up as before. “Now. Tell me about love.”
“I’ve never been in love,” John said. He didn’t stop to think about whether or not to answer Sherlock’s question. His response seemed a natural exchange of one confidence for another. He noticed Sherlock’s pained frown, so he elaborated. “I’ve loved people, been loved, but not like that. Not the way you’re asking.”
Sherlock examined him through narrowed eyes for several seconds. “You’re telling the truth.”
“Is that so surprising?” John shook his head against the pillow. “Love isn’t something that happens easily or often, at least in my experience. We’re equally ignorant in this area.”
“Equally--?” Sherlock’s eyes widened comically. He broke out in delighted laughter that shook his narrow frame. “John, please. Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock strode toward the bed, pushed John over, and delivered a kiss to his forehead before flopping face down on the bed.
John sat watching Sherlock for a few minutes before his eyes drifted to the violin from which Sherlock had summoned such stirring music. The instrument was just barely visible in its open case beneath Sherlock’s favourite chair. Obviously Sherlock took care of the violin, and had learned to play it as it deserved to be played. Funny. John wouldn’t have thought Sherlock would go to the effort for something so seemingly mundane.
“It’s a Stradivarius,” Sherlock muttered.
“Come again?”
“Worth more than it looks like.” With that, Sherlock tugged the covers up over his shoulders and curled up on his side.
John lay still and listened to Sherlock’s breathing even out before he allowed himself to settle into sleep.
--
Lestrade leaned back and dug his hands into Mycroft’s thighs to get more leverage. When he pushed himself up, Mycroft’s cock slid directly against the spot that made his knees buckle and sent him crashing down again, taking Mycroft to the hilt.
No windows in this room-too much of a security risk-so now that the fire’s last embers had died, the room admitted no light at all. Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft’s eyes in the pitch darkness, but he heard a sharp rush of air, and knew Mycroft felt something, too.
Lestrade pushed himself up again, more slowly this time. His cock twitched at the sensation of Mycroft sliding inside of him. He lowered himself carefully, relishing the burn in the muscles of his thighs. Once he was fully impaled on Mycroft’s prick, he rocked his hips a bit, enjoying the stretch.
Mycroft petted his hands down Lestrade’s sides and settled them on his thighs. “Gregory,” he said quietly; the word was a life raft of sound in the vast silence of the dark room.
“Alright,” said Lestrade. He set up a rhythm, fucking himself slowly on Mycroft’s cock, but giving more than the torturous teasing he’d been inflicting.
Mycroft’s right hand abandoned its place on Lestrade’s thigh to wrap unerringly around Lestrade’s erection. In the darkness, Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft move. He could only track his motions by his touch on Lestrade’s skin: now stroking him firmly around the shaft, now running his thumb lightly over the head.
“Tell me,” Mycroft said. “Do you think of me, when we’re not together?”
“My life revolves around your service, my liege.”
Mycroft squeezed his hand around Lestrade’s cock, firmly, but not enough to hurt. “Don’t tease, Gregory.”
Lestrade wished he could see Mycroft’s expression, because he wanted some clue about what answer to give. In the absence of such clues, the darkness made him bold. “Alright, yes. Of course I think of you.”
“What do you call me, in your head?”
Lestrade pushed himself up, then slid down on Mycroft again to relieve some of the need that fogged his thoughts. “As in, what name?”
“Yes.”
“Mycroft,” he said, and rocked his hips forward to feel Mycroft inside of him.
“Not Lord Mycroft. Not master.”
“No.” Lestrade froze, then, and felt the darkness pressing in on him. He reached for Mycroft, caught the side of his neck, and held on. “Why? Do you want me to - ”
“No.” Mycroft folded his hand over Lestrade’s. “No.” He gave Lestrade a gentle shove with his other hand, sending him tumbling off Mycroft, onto his side. When Mycroft rolled with him, Lestrade went obligingly onto his back, and pulled his legs to his chest. Mycroft braced himself on all fours, looming over Lestrade like a shield against the darkness beyond.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“You can’t see me. It’s dark,” Lestrade panted, but it was difficult to form the words through the haze of his need.
“You’re magnificent, whether I see you or not.” Mycroft pressed a quick kiss to Lestrade’s chest before drawing back.
Lestrade held still, waiting for Mycroft’s touch to move him into a new position. Instead, he felt Mycroft’s lips wrap around the head of his cock.
Lestrade gave a startled shout, and only a desperate burst of self-control saved him from bucking up reflexively. As wet warmth enveloped more of him, Lestrade set up an internal litany of please please please please please. Please don’t come yet and please keep doing that forever and please someone explain what’s happening.
For all the time they’d spent in bed together, this-Mycroft’s masterful mouth sucking Lestrade down-hadn’t happened often. Twice. Perhaps three times. Not in months and months. And now, just feeling a clever tongue circling the head of his cock, without being able to look down and see Mycroft in bed with him, Lestrade could hardly believe it was happening.
“Please,” Lestrade whispered. He clutched at the bedclothes and concentrated on pressing his spine into the mattress so as not to demand more than Mycroft saw fit to give.
But Mycroft wasn’t holding back: Lestrade felt the head of his cock nudge against the back of Mycroft’s throat. He began sucking in earnest, dragging the tight ring of his lips up and down Lestrade’s shaft and doing wicked things with his tongue.
Lestrade wished again for some light, so he could watch this happen. Even the mental image of Mycroft kneeling between his thighs, looking up at Lestrade with his mouth stretched around Lestrade’s dick, took Lestrade dangerously close to the edge. He desperately wanted to touch, but didn’t dare. His hands clenched uselessly against his thighs. “Mycroft,” he said urgently. “Mycroft, Mycroft.”
Mycroft took Lestrade in to the root, even as he reached two fingers back and slid them into Lestrade’s stretched hole.
Lestrade’s control snapped. His hips thrust up and his hands clamped down on Mycroft’s shoulders as his orgasm tore through him. Mycroft swallowed everything Lestrade gave him, and held Lestrade in his mouth until he slumped helplessly against the sheets.
Mycroft pounced. He pushed Lestrade’s right leg up and over his shoulder and slid easily inside. With Mycroft braced over him, Lestrade could feel the changes he couldn’t see: Mycroft’s quickened breathing, his arms tense and strong, his need palpable as he slammed into Lestrade. In this position, he penetrated Lestrade more deeply, sending sparks of pleasure to buoy the glow on which Lestrade floated.
Mycroft took him hard, with a kind of raw desperation Lestrade hadn’t seen from him before.
“Mycroft,” he panted, when he could draw breath between punishing thrusts. “Yes.”
Mycroft shouted, inarticulate and unguarded as he never was outside of this room. He buried himself inside Lestrade, pressing them together tightly as he shuddered out his pleasure.
There was a moment of stillness in which Lestrade could hear only the gallop of his heart in counterpoint to Mycroft’s, which thumped against his chest.
Mycroft leaned in close, dropping haphazard kisses on Lestrade’s cheek, his forehead, and his nose, until he finally found Lestrade’s mouth and pressed his lips against it as if resting there.
Lestrade allowed himself the indulgence of wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He waited for Mycroft to slump against him. His internal clock told him they could afford a few more hours of quiet entanglement before dawn.
But Mycroft didn’t relax in Lestrade’s embrace. He held himself up, arms shaking. He ducked his head into the crook of Lestrade’s neck, rubbing his face along the collar there.
“Mycroft. It’s early, still.” He traced a hand down Mycroft’s side. “Lie down.”
Mycroft abruptly extricated himself from Lestrade’s embrace and rolled to the side. The mattress shifted as his weight left it.
Lestrade pushed himself up to sitting. He reached out a hand, but encountered only empty space.
Mycroft pushed open the door to the en suite and flipped on the light. Though it seemed unbearably harsh after the velvety darkness, Lestrade squinted into the bright white light that haloed around Mycroft’s form. His back was to the room, and his hands braced against the doorframe.
“Mycroft?”
Mycroft turned slightly, then seemed to think better of it. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. A minute later, Lestrade heard the shower start up.
--
John pulled his medical kit out of the drawer and flipped the small switch that popped open the hidden compartment. He picked up the Sig-incomplete now, without ammunition-and held it at his side. He liked the feel of the grip in his hand. He gave himself only a moment of indulgence before replacing the gun in the kit and tucking it back in the bureau.
He was stretching the amount of time necessary to bathe, change, and generally prepare himself for the day, but he doubted Sherlock would notice. The genius had larger things to concern himself with than the mundane routine of one slave. Like this thing with the Chinese ambassador. John could probably have sat idle in his room all morning for all the help he’d proven to be. The one time Sherlock had actually asked for his help, John hadn’t been able to provide a proper answer.
”What does it feel like to be in love.” Bloody hell. Even as an emotional interpreter, John was turning out to be useless. But he couldn’t bear the thought of giving up on Sherlock. He wanted to see how this mad case would turn out. Specifically, he wanted to be there when Lord Sherlock Holmes figured out exactly how love figured as a motivation. So he returned to his master.
Sherlock sat folded up in his favourite chair, pecking at his laptop, “Oh good, you’re back. Undress.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at your back.”
“That’s what you want to look at,” John said slowly.
“The marks from the riding crop should be completely healed. I want to see your skin in its natural condition, for future comparison.”
“Right,” John said. He closed his eyes. Because he could expect to be beaten frequently in the future. Over and over again, in fact, until Sherlock tired of the game or of John. He tugged off his clothes with no attempt at finesse, and let them fall haphazardly on the floor. Then he stood still while Sherlock concentrated on his laptop. He wouldn’t beg for Sherlock’s attention this time.
A tentative knock rang out at the door.
“Come,” Sherlock called absently.
John fixed his eyes on the carpet as a young woman in the uniform of Mycroft’s household guard bustled in. She didn’t so much as look his way; he may as well have been a piece of furniture. The woman handed Sherlock a folded piece of paper.
He flipped it open and made a face. “No, tell him sport is unbearably dull, and I’ve better things to do with my extremely valuable time. Wait.” Sherlock ran a finger over the paper. “No. Tell him I’ll consider it. And wait a moment.” He reached into a drawer in the desk, pulled out some heavy stationary and a pen, and began to scribble a note.
John looked between the guard and Sherlock, but the woman kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on the wall.
Sherlock tossed down his pen. He folded his note neatly and sealed it before handing it to the guard. “Bring me this note tomorrow at half nine precisely. Precisely, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be in either the front hall or by the back kitchen entrance.”
“Yes, sir.” She slipped the note into her pocket and gave a shallow bow. On her way out, the woman did not steal a glance at John’s naked form. John wondered whether she was too well trained to peek, or if she simply had no interest in him.
“It’s out of respect for you,” Sherlock said. “She was born a slave. A family member paid off her contract to free her, three to five years ago.”
John didn’t need to ask how Sherlock had traced the path of his thoughts. Instead, he asked, “Mycroft let her stay on and work as a free citizen?”
“Heavens no. She’s been here less than a year. Didn’t disclose her past position, but I daresay my meddlesome brother knows about it. She wouldn’t have got a job, otherwise.” Sherlock waved a hand negligently. “I’m given to understand that a past as a slave is not something one overcomes.”
“Right,” John said tightly. He mulled over that bleak pronouncement while Sherlock typed merrily away. He was so lost in morose contemplation that he almost missed the snap of Sherlock’s fingers.
“John, come.”
“I’m not actually an animal. I can understand full sentences,” John said.
“And presumably shorter ones as well,” Sherlock said with a curl of his lip. John approached. “Turn around.”
John turned his back to Sherlock and held still. His soldier’s instincts hated turning his back to danger, but he held them in check and obeyed. He half expected something shocking or painful: the bite of a knife breaking his skin, or an electric jolt to bring him to his knees. Instead, Sherlock’s fingertips pressed dry and warm against the nape of his neck. Slowly, slowly, those fingertips traced down each knob of John’s spine, and came to rest of his coccyx, with his palm ghosting over the muscle of John’s arse.
“If not as good as new, at least as good as the shape I found you in,” Sherlock said. His fingers left John’s skin, and John swayed a bit, as if he’d lost the support holding him up.
Sherlock’s touch returned almost immediately, when he dug the tips of his fingers into the knotty scar tissue of John’s shoulder. John’s eyes drifted closed. He imagined he could feel the muzzle of a gun pressing against the matching scar on his front.
“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked.
“Not always,” John said. He hadn’t been as diligent with his physiotherapy exercises as he should have been, and the neglect showed. “It’s something I’ve learned to live with.”
Sherlock’s palm flattened against the old wound. “It’s not as if you’ve a choice.”
“If you don’t like looking at it, I can put my clothes back on.”
Sherlock’s fingers dug in harder, then released quickly. “I’ve got you some clothes.”
“I have clothes.”
“They’re in my wardrobe,” Sherlock said, as if John hadn’t spoken. “Go on.”
John didn’t give himself time to form any expectations before tugging open the ornately carved wardrobe doors. On the left, Sherlock’s clothes-bespoke jackets, shirts, and trousers-hung in neat rows. On the right, one shelf had been cleared of Sherlock’s neatly paired socks to make way for some things plainly not meant for Sherlock’s use. For one thing, the soft, knit jumper he pulled from the pile wouldn’t have fit his master.
“These are for me?”
“The clothes you have don’t suit you. And anyway, I don’t wish to be seen with a slave that looks... frumpy.” Sherlock waved a hand that took in John’s button-down and tan trousers, the uniform Mycroft had provided.
John couldn’t help a chuckle at the extent of Sherlock’s disgust. “Right,” he said. Of course it was all about Sherlock.
“Stand still.” Sherlock set aside his laptop. He bustled over to John. He plucked several items off the shelf and began re-dressing John like an overgrown doll. When he finished, he steered John toward the room’s full-length mirror.
Sherlock stood beside John and gave a satisfied nod at the ensemble of dark jeans, collared shirt, and sand-coloured jumper.
John had to admit, he looked more like himself than he had since returning from Afghanistan. If it weren’t for the heavy black collar with its seal marking him as Lord Sherlock’s property, he might not have remembered he was a slave.
Sherlock’s hand drifted up to touch the back of the collar. “That’s an improvement,” he said.
John tugged at the cuffs of his jumper, mostly as an excuse to duck his head forward, pulling away from Sherlock’s touch. He saw Sherlock’s quick frown in the mirror, and felt an unaccountable stab of guilt. “Thank you,” he said. “The clothes are an improvement.”
Sherlock gave a curt nod. The he snatched his phone out of his pocket and began jabbing at the buttons. “I require your assistance with something.” He held his phone up in front of John, displaying a photo.
John spent several seconds trying to determine what he was seeing. “Is that blood?” he asked at last.
“Yes.” Sherlock snatched the phone back. “Very unusual spatter, in fact.”
“Whose blood?”
“What? Oh, the son of the Chinese Ambassador, in a hotel back in Hong Kong. Doesn’t that make a delicious twist?” He dropped his phone back in his pocket, smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket, and nodded to his reflection before sweeping toward the door. “Come along, John. We’ve work to do.”
--
Lestrade sat at Mycroft’s feet in his study while minions and minor dignitaries bustled in and out. Mycroft often spent his days at his office in the city, for which he did not require Lestrade’s presence. Since Lord Sherlock had come to stay, however, Mycroft had been conducting more of his business-the business of the state-from home. Lestrade was an indispensable part of the image of a Lord in his manor that Mycroft worked to project: as essential as a hunting dog dozing in front of the fire would have been to a king in his castle.
So Lestrade spent hours kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, intentionally tuning out the carefully guarded words exchanged between his social betters. This morning, he passed the time by calling up his mental file on one of the cold cases he’d worked in his days at the Yard: a young man, one of London’s homeless, who’d been found beaten to death next to Regent’s Canal. There had been some question of his being involved in drugs trafficking. Lestrade tried to picture the file on the case, in order to recall the details: time of death, witness statements, leads. It was hopeless, of course, to expect his memory to provide anything close to accuracy, but it occupied his attention, at least.
The door clicked shut as Mycroft’s latest appointment departed: some important Scottish Lady and her attendant.
“Did you notice anything about her personal slave?”
Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow. “No. I’m sorry, sir.” In fact, he couldn’t have said whether the slave had been male or female, much less if he or she had displayed any telling reactions. He’d just been explaining to John the importance of such observations, and here he was, shirking. “My mind was elsewhere. I’ll pay more attention, sir.”
“There’s no harm done, Gregory. What were you thinking of?”
“Nothing,” he said immediately. Mycroft didn’t need to hear about his old obsessions.
“I see.” Mycroft’s brow creased minutely before he turned back to his desk. He pressed the button the intercom to indicate he was ready for the next meeting.
As three more petitioners came and went, Lestrade focused on observing their reactions. He did not allow his thoughts to stray toward his former life. But Mycroft did not address him again.
Shortly after Lord Ferguson had stalked out of the room with his request un-granted, Anthea darted in. She closed the door behind her.
“Sir,” she said. “We’ve had a report on the situation you’d asked about.”
“Ah, yes.” Mycroft stood immediately. “Please re-schedule my next appointment. Come along, Gregory.”
Lestrade followed his master out into the corridor and maintained his distance the proper two steps behind his master. Mycroft led them through the east wing and upstairs, toward the family residences. When they’d passed the uniformed guard who marked the entrance to the private section of the house-she gave Mycroft a deferential nod-Lestrade moved up to walk beside Mycroft, as they could do when out from under public scrutiny.
“There’s a project with which I’d like your assistance,” Mycroft said. “I’d go so far as to say it may be impossible to succeed in this without your help.”
“Sir?”
“I trust you’ll know what to do when the time comes. Ah, here we are.” Mycroft pushed through the door at the end of the third-floor hallway to enter the library: the family’s main library, not the smaller one Mycroft maintained for himself. This one had high domed ceilings that currently echoed with the sound of a familiar voice. Lestrade followed.
Inside, Lord Sherlock stood atop one of the enormous carved oak tables that were probably as old as the manor house itself. He held a book in one hand. As Lestrade watched, he flung it overhand like a cricketer to smash against the stone wall at the other end of the room. The book fluttered pitifully to the ground like a wounded bird.
“No good,” Sherlock said. “Something lighter. Pass me the Chaucer.” He reached down a hand to John, who stood next to the table, staggering under a pile of books that reached past his shoulder.
“John,” Mycroft said sharply. He hadn’t spoken loudly, but Lestrade had the idea that his tone would have cut through a mob in full cry.
John froze in the act of passing Sherlock the requested book.
“John, are you allowing my family’s collection of rare books to be flung against the wall?”
“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “I’m working.”
“Ah yes. Good morning, Sherlock.” His voice sharpened. “John. I asked you a question, slave.”
Lestrade missed John’s reaction, because he was busy staring at Mycroft. He’d never heard his master speak that way to anyone, slave or no.
“I…” John began. He glanced up at Sherlock for guidance.
Sherlock snatched the book from John’s still-outstretched hand and sent it spinning toward the far wall, where its spine broke with a pitiful crack.
“John,” Mycroft said, louder now. “That was a rare edition of The Canterbury Tales worth half again your contract. If you continue to facilitate the destruction of my property, there will be consequences.”
“I said piss off,” Sherlock snapped. He grabbed for another book, but John stepped backwards, out of his reach. “Come off it, John. That ponce has no power over you.”
“Yes, he does,” Lestrade breathed. As he’d watched Mycroft’s reactions to Sherlock, he’d put the puzzle together.
Mycroft shot him a quick look-the very beginning of an approving smile-and Sherlock frowned.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “if you’ve had your solicitor insert some obscure clause into John’s contract-“
“Not at all,” Mycroft said mildly.
Sherlock reached for a book again.
“John, if you destroy even one more book, you’ll face twenty strokes with a paddle,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock turned on his heel and strode across the table to glare at Mycroft from the near edge. “What are you playing at?”
“As Lord of this district, I have the responsibility-nay, the duty-to punish any slave in my territory who violates laws, shirks his duties, or endangers his master. If you paid any attention at all to social conventions, you’d know these things.”
Lestrade wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Sherlock be lost for words for so long a moment. He knew for a fact he’d never seen Sherlock turn that particular shade of pink.
“Of course, if you object to my meting out the punishment personally,” Mycroft said, “I do employ a discipline squad at the office to deal with such cases.”
“I don’t have time for your petty manipulations, Mycroft. I’ve work to do.” Sherlock turned and stalked back across the table. “John, book.”
John glanced quickly at Lestrade, who could only shake his head. Being caught in a spat between the Lords Holmes was an unenviable position, but he could no more rescue John from it than he could remove his own collar.
“John. Here.” Sherlock pointed to the edge of the table. “Now.” John stepped up to the table, but kept a tight grip on his armful of books. Sherlock held out a hand and kept his eyes fixed on John.
Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, but saw no hint of mercy in his expression, only unwavering interest.
“Book,” Sherlock said.
John’s hard swallow pushed his throat against his collar. Lestrade wondered if he’d begun to doubt his decision to accept Sherlock as his master. For John to tolerate the way Sherlock spoke to him, he must have prodigious reserves of patience. Or perhaps he understood something about Sherlock that Lestrade didn’t.
John pulled a book out of his stack and offered it up.
Sherlock smiled-a bright, maniacal grin-turned on his heel, and flung the book. When it impacted the wall, its spine popped and sent loose pages fluttering down in an unruly cloud.
“That’s it!” Sherlock cried. “That explains the blood pattern. Come on, John!” Sherlock leapt from the table and swept toward the door.
John dumped his armful of books in a nearby chair and tried to follow.
Mycroft stepped neatly in front of him, barring his way. “John, you’ll report to the work room after evening muster for your punishment.”
Jaw clenched and eyes fixed firmly in middle distance, John nodded his head.
“Excellent.” Mycroft stepped aside.
From the doorway, Sherlock fixed Mycroft’s back with a vicious glare until John made it out of the room. Sherlock slammed the door after them.
The last of the poor book’s pages drifted to the ground, and then silence took over the library.
“Well,” Lestrade said. He felt almost as if he’d been left alone with a stranger: compelled to say something to combat the silence. “If your goal was to make your brother angry, I’d say you’ve done it.”
“I’ve no wish to make Sherlock angry, though it seems any interaction we have infuriates him.” Mycroft turned to look at Lestrade. “You know I prefer to avoid unpleasant confrontations whenever possible.”
“Yes,” Lestrade said slowly. He privately thought that rushing in on Sherlock while he was working and ordering John around was a poor way to avoid confrontation.
“And something more.” Mycroft gazed steadily at him. “You don’t approve of the way he treats other slaves. Slaves in general, but more specifically, the ones under your care.”
Lestrade fixed his eyes on the rich red carpeting covering the library floor. Dangerous ground, this. He had always thought it best not to speak of Sherlock to Mycroft, and he had no intention of starting now, when confusion and a burgeoning anger might hijack his words. “It’s not for me to say.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft took Lestrade’s chin in his hand to tip his head up. “That’s twice today you’ve tried to make decisions for me about what I wish to hear.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lestrade said.
“Back to sir again.” Mycroft frowned. “You’re angry with me. Is it that you didn’t like the way I spoke to Sherlock? You’ve always had a soft spot for him.”
“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “I understand. It’s like dealing with a child.”
“Quite.” Mycroft let go of Lestrade’s chin to stroke his thumb down the line of his jaw. “What, then?”
Lestrade watched Mycroft carefully, trying to gauge if he were being deliberately obtuse. But Mycroft, when he so desired, could keep his intentions carefully hidden, so Lestrade knew nothing for sure. He ventured, slowly. “John.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, with a note on encouragement. When Lestrade didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You think I was harsh with him.”
“Well.” Lestrade fought the urge to prevaricate. Mycroft had asked for honestly. “Yes.”
“Have I ever spoken to you that way?”
“No,” Lestrade said, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t like the idea that the man he’d willingly chosen to serve could harbour that kind of cruelty. “He’s doing the best he knows how.”
“And occasionally even better than that,” Mycroft said agreeably. “I’ve no complaint against his performance.”
“Then why-- ?” Lestrade stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to question his master, regardless of the relationship Lestrade imagined they enjoyed. Mycroft would always be, first and foremost, a Lord. Instead, he offered a warning he hoped Mycroft would be wise enough to heed. “He’ll not be pushed indefinitely, that kind.”
The very beginning of a smile formed on Mycroft’s lips. “Let us hope not.”
--
Done here? On to Part II
Title: I Go to Prepare a Place for You (1/3)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~18,000
Warnings: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, not necessarily healthy or well-negotiated D/s dynamics, humiliation, rough sex, corporal punishment including paddling
Context: Part of the My Master’s House universe. I suggest you begin at the beginning, but here’s all you really need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart for providing indispensible character insights, jaune_chat for late-night plot-fixing gchats, and blue_eyed_1987 for helping my characters pass as British.
Summary: Sherlock unravels a conspiracy against the state, Mycroft undertakes a project, Lestrade prevents people from murdering each other, and John has difficulty keeping secrets.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
--
“Furthermore,” Sherlock said, as if they’d been in the middle of a discussion rather than panting out the aftermath of their orgasms, “There will be no dancing. I’ve agreed to attend the insipid banquet, but I draw the line at dancing. So tell Lestrade you can stop practising.”
“Thank god.” John didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock had known what he’d been up to in the banquet hall earlier that day-or was it the day before, now that dawn was approaching?
It had become something of a ritual for John, waking up to Sherlock returning to the room in the darkest hours of the night. Sleeping in his own room was no better; Sherlock had easily figured out how to bypass the security system. And if someone’s room was going to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s inevitable fits of pique, John would much rather it not be his.
“What did you learn about the guest list?” Sherlock asked.
With his blood still pounding in his ears and the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, it took a moment for John’s brain to sort through that and establish some sort of context. He asked, “Was I meant to be learning something?”
“How am I to work without data?”
“Lord Mycroft was looking at a guest list, but I didn’t see it.”
“Did you even try, John?” Sherlock looked pained.
John felt too wrung out for anything but honesty. “Not really.”
“Sometimes I despair of you. You couldn’t have managed a peek? I’m sure Lestrade had him well distracted.”
“Hm.” John pushed away the memory of the look in Lestrade’s eyes as Mycroft had danced with him. Things had seemed so easy between them. John made an effort to remember Mycroft’s words, instead. “He did say the young price was coming.”
“Princes, dull. And not why he’s keeping the list from me.” Sherlock exhaled sharply, in the childlike way he did when taking offense at the failure of the universe to bend itself to his will. “In the same room as the list and no bloody data. You’re useless, John.”
“Thanks for that,” John said. He was learning not to take such pronouncement personally.
“But you’re not always useless.” Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and fixed his curious gaze on John’s face. “Tell me your experience of love.”
John frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“The first time you were in love, what did it feel like? How did you act?”
I’ve never been in love. It was on the tip of John’s tongue, but something stopped him from admitting it. “Why are you asking?”His mind spun, panicked, through several heady possibilities before he saw a more logical one. “Oh, the case. You’re trying to understand the daughter’s motives.”
“Yes, of course it’s the case. The work, John. Tell me.”
“I don’t want to.” John’s lingering afterglow was rapidly evaporating. He tried to turn onto his side, away from the conversation, but Sherlock flung a hand across his body to pin him down.
“Now, John.”
“You can’t expect me to obey orders I don’t like just because they come from you,” John snapped.
“Yes I can! That’s the very definition of your duty as a slave.”
“You don’t want mindless obedience.”
“Obeying me isn’t mindless obedience. All my orders make perfect logical sense.” Sherlock rolled on top of John and pinned his wrists on either side of his head. “Now tell me.”
John couldn’t manage the proper level of indignation. He was tired: it was the middle of the night, he’d been on his feet all day, and he’d just been shagged senseless. Furthermore, he doubted that getting angry would convince Sherlock of anything. “No,” he said wearily.
“John,” Sherlock said warningly. “Tell me.”
“Or what? You’ll hit me?”
“No,” Sherlock said. Disgust for the suggestions was written on his face, but he didn’t release his hold on John’s wrists.
John tried speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, as he might for someone whose first language was not the one John spoke. “There are parts of me you don’t own, and I have the choice to keep those parts or give them away. Me. Understand?”
“Not yet.” Sherlock uncurled his fingers and ran them down John’s arms. “But I’ll find the answer.” Sherlock slithered out of bed. In the yellow glow of the bedside lamp, he picked his way across the clothes, papers, and other detritus spread across the bedroom floor and made his way to the fireplace. He pulled a black case out from under the chair in front of the dying fire and lifted out-of all things-a handsome violin the colour of dark honey.
For a moment, John worried that he was about to witness the destruction of something beautiful. But Sherlock simply held the instrument in one hand and the bow in the other and stood for a long moment.
“Do you even know how to play?” John asked.
Sherlock set the violin down on the table next to the chair. “Not for you.” Sherlock folded his long-limbed, naked body into the chair and press his hands together beneath his chin. He displayed no intention of moving.
John’s eyes strayed to the violin. It looked old, probably expensive. It didn’t have the shiny newness of a museum piece. The worn appearance spoke of many previous owners and frequent handling. It was a curious thing for a man of science like Sherlock to own such an item.
“Do you really play the violin?”
Sherlock didn’t open his eyes.
“Play for me.” John leaned back against the pillows. Alone in the bed, in the safety of the night time, he felt he could ask Sherlock anything. After all, Sherlock never hesitated to silence or belittle John when he didn’t like the direction of a conversation, so John interpreted his silence as permission. “I like Mendelssohn,” he said helpfully.
“Oh, the Germans. You would,” Sherlock said, but it came out weakly, as if he had to reach for something to criticize about the request.
“Fine, then. Play what you like.”
Sherlock unfurled from the chair, and for a moment John thought he might have earned a punishment for his cheek. Instead, Sherlock snatched up the instrument again. He tucked it under his chin before turning his back to John. The bow came up and hovered above the strings. John watched silently. Sherlock breathed deep-John saw his ribcage expand-and began to play.
John didn’t recognize the music. The song began low, tremulous, with Sherlock’s bow hand moving smoothly and gracefully over the strings. In a few seconds, the tune expanded into a hopeful upward sweep. Sherlock’s fingers flew. The lean muscles in Sherlock’s back shifted fluidly as he played.
John sat up in bed to watch more closely.
Sherlock stopped abruptly and whirled to look over his shoulder.
John sat still, legs folded under him, listening. Sherlock turned back around and resumed playing. The soaring melody continued, swirling around a crescendo and doubling back on itself in a way that put John in mind of a pair of playful birds. At last, Sherlock drew a long, mournful note out of the violin that faded away into silence. He dropped his bow hand to his side, but didn’t turn around.
“That,” John said, “was fantastic. I’ve never heard music played like that.”
“Yes, well.” Sherlock settled the violin back in its case with the bow.
“Who was the composer?”
“It’s a new song,” Sherlock said, as if that explained something. He returned to his chair and folded his knees up as before. “Now. Tell me about love.”
“I’ve never been in love,” John said. He didn’t stop to think about whether or not to answer Sherlock’s question. His response seemed a natural exchange of one confidence for another. He noticed Sherlock’s pained frown, so he elaborated. “I’ve loved people, been loved, but not like that. Not the way you’re asking.”
Sherlock examined him through narrowed eyes for several seconds. “You’re telling the truth.”
“Is that so surprising?” John shook his head against the pillow. “Love isn’t something that happens easily or often, at least in my experience. We’re equally ignorant in this area.”
“Equally--?” Sherlock’s eyes widened comically. He broke out in delighted laughter that shook his narrow frame. “John, please. Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock strode toward the bed, pushed John over, and delivered a kiss to his forehead before flopping face down on the bed.
John sat watching Sherlock for a few minutes before his eyes drifted to the violin from which Sherlock had summoned such stirring music. The instrument was just barely visible in its open case beneath Sherlock’s favourite chair. Obviously Sherlock took care of the violin, and had learned to play it as it deserved to be played. Funny. John wouldn’t have thought Sherlock would go to the effort for something so seemingly mundane.
“It’s a Stradivarius,” Sherlock muttered.
“Come again?”
“Worth more than it looks like.” With that, Sherlock tugged the covers up over his shoulders and curled up on his side.
John lay still and listened to Sherlock’s breathing even out before he allowed himself to settle into sleep.
--
Lestrade leaned back and dug his hands into Mycroft’s thighs to get more leverage. When he pushed himself up, Mycroft’s cock slid directly against the spot that made his knees buckle and sent him crashing down again, taking Mycroft to the hilt.
No windows in this room-too much of a security risk-so now that the fire’s last embers had died, the room admitted no light at all. Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft’s eyes in the pitch darkness, but he heard a sharp rush of air, and knew Mycroft felt something, too.
Lestrade pushed himself up again, more slowly this time. His cock twitched at the sensation of Mycroft sliding inside of him. He lowered himself carefully, relishing the burn in the muscles of his thighs. Once he was fully impaled on Mycroft’s prick, he rocked his hips a bit, enjoying the stretch.
Mycroft petted his hands down Lestrade’s sides and settled them on his thighs. “Gregory,” he said quietly; the word was a life raft of sound in the vast silence of the dark room.
“Alright,” said Lestrade. He set up a rhythm, fucking himself slowly on Mycroft’s cock, but giving more than the torturous teasing he’d been inflicting.
Mycroft’s right hand abandoned its place on Lestrade’s thigh to wrap unerringly around Lestrade’s erection. In the darkness, Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft move. He could only track his motions by his touch on Lestrade’s skin: now stroking him firmly around the shaft, now running his thumb lightly over the head.
“Tell me,” Mycroft said. “Do you think of me, when we’re not together?”
“My life revolves around your service, my liege.”
Mycroft squeezed his hand around Lestrade’s cock, firmly, but not enough to hurt. “Don’t tease, Gregory.”
Lestrade wished he could see Mycroft’s expression, because he wanted some clue about what answer to give. In the absence of such clues, the darkness made him bold. “Alright, yes. Of course I think of you.”
“What do you call me, in your head?”
Lestrade pushed himself up, then slid down on Mycroft again to relieve some of the need that fogged his thoughts. “As in, what name?”
“Yes.”
“Mycroft,” he said, and rocked his hips forward to feel Mycroft inside of him.
“Not Lord Mycroft. Not master.”
“No.” Lestrade froze, then, and felt the darkness pressing in on him. He reached for Mycroft, caught the side of his neck, and held on. “Why? Do you want me to - ”
“No.” Mycroft folded his hand over Lestrade’s. “No.” He gave Lestrade a gentle shove with his other hand, sending him tumbling off Mycroft, onto his side. When Mycroft rolled with him, Lestrade went obligingly onto his back, and pulled his legs to his chest. Mycroft braced himself on all fours, looming over Lestrade like a shield against the darkness beyond.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“You can’t see me. It’s dark,” Lestrade panted, but it was difficult to form the words through the haze of his need.
“You’re magnificent, whether I see you or not.” Mycroft pressed a quick kiss to Lestrade’s chest before drawing back.
Lestrade held still, waiting for Mycroft’s touch to move him into a new position. Instead, he felt Mycroft’s lips wrap around the head of his cock.
Lestrade gave a startled shout, and only a desperate burst of self-control saved him from bucking up reflexively. As wet warmth enveloped more of him, Lestrade set up an internal litany of please please please please please. Please don’t come yet and please keep doing that forever and please someone explain what’s happening.
For all the time they’d spent in bed together, this-Mycroft’s masterful mouth sucking Lestrade down-hadn’t happened often. Twice. Perhaps three times. Not in months and months. And now, just feeling a clever tongue circling the head of his cock, without being able to look down and see Mycroft in bed with him, Lestrade could hardly believe it was happening.
“Please,” Lestrade whispered. He clutched at the bedclothes and concentrated on pressing his spine into the mattress so as not to demand more than Mycroft saw fit to give.
But Mycroft wasn’t holding back: Lestrade felt the head of his cock nudge against the back of Mycroft’s throat. He began sucking in earnest, dragging the tight ring of his lips up and down Lestrade’s shaft and doing wicked things with his tongue.
Lestrade wished again for some light, so he could watch this happen. Even the mental image of Mycroft kneeling between his thighs, looking up at Lestrade with his mouth stretched around Lestrade’s dick, took Lestrade dangerously close to the edge. He desperately wanted to touch, but didn’t dare. His hands clenched uselessly against his thighs. “Mycroft,” he said urgently. “Mycroft, Mycroft.”
Mycroft took Lestrade in to the root, even as he reached two fingers back and slid them into Lestrade’s stretched hole.
Lestrade’s control snapped. His hips thrust up and his hands clamped down on Mycroft’s shoulders as his orgasm tore through him. Mycroft swallowed everything Lestrade gave him, and held Lestrade in his mouth until he slumped helplessly against the sheets.
Mycroft pounced. He pushed Lestrade’s right leg up and over his shoulder and slid easily inside. With Mycroft braced over him, Lestrade could feel the changes he couldn’t see: Mycroft’s quickened breathing, his arms tense and strong, his need palpable as he slammed into Lestrade. In this position, he penetrated Lestrade more deeply, sending sparks of pleasure to buoy the glow on which Lestrade floated.
Mycroft took him hard, with a kind of raw desperation Lestrade hadn’t seen from him before.
“Mycroft,” he panted, when he could draw breath between punishing thrusts. “Yes.”
Mycroft shouted, inarticulate and unguarded as he never was outside of this room. He buried himself inside Lestrade, pressing them together tightly as he shuddered out his pleasure.
There was a moment of stillness in which Lestrade could hear only the gallop of his heart in counterpoint to Mycroft’s, which thumped against his chest.
Mycroft leaned in close, dropping haphazard kisses on Lestrade’s cheek, his forehead, and his nose, until he finally found Lestrade’s mouth and pressed his lips against it as if resting there.
Lestrade allowed himself the indulgence of wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He waited for Mycroft to slump against him. His internal clock told him they could afford a few more hours of quiet entanglement before dawn.
But Mycroft didn’t relax in Lestrade’s embrace. He held himself up, arms shaking. He ducked his head into the crook of Lestrade’s neck, rubbing his face along the collar there.
“Mycroft. It’s early, still.” He traced a hand down Mycroft’s side. “Lie down.”
Mycroft abruptly extricated himself from Lestrade’s embrace and rolled to the side. The mattress shifted as his weight left it.
Lestrade pushed himself up to sitting. He reached out a hand, but encountered only empty space.
Mycroft pushed open the door to the en suite and flipped on the light. Though it seemed unbearably harsh after the velvety darkness, Lestrade squinted into the bright white light that haloed around Mycroft’s form. His back was to the room, and his hands braced against the doorframe.
“Mycroft?”
Mycroft turned slightly, then seemed to think better of it. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. A minute later, Lestrade heard the shower start up.
--
John pulled his medical kit out of the drawer and flipped the small switch that popped open the hidden compartment. He picked up the Sig-incomplete now, without ammunition-and held it at his side. He liked the feel of the grip in his hand. He gave himself only a moment of indulgence before replacing the gun in the kit and tucking it back in the bureau.
He was stretching the amount of time necessary to bathe, change, and generally prepare himself for the day, but he doubted Sherlock would notice. The genius had larger things to concern himself with than the mundane routine of one slave. Like this thing with the Chinese ambassador. John could probably have sat idle in his room all morning for all the help he’d proven to be. The one time Sherlock had actually asked for his help, John hadn’t been able to provide a proper answer.
”What does it feel like to be in love.” Bloody hell. Even as an emotional interpreter, John was turning out to be useless. But he couldn’t bear the thought of giving up on Sherlock. He wanted to see how this mad case would turn out. Specifically, he wanted to be there when Lord Sherlock Holmes figured out exactly how love figured as a motivation. So he returned to his master.
Sherlock sat folded up in his favourite chair, pecking at his laptop, “Oh good, you’re back. Undress.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at your back.”
“That’s what you want to look at,” John said slowly.
“The marks from the riding crop should be completely healed. I want to see your skin in its natural condition, for future comparison.”
“Right,” John said. He closed his eyes. Because he could expect to be beaten frequently in the future. Over and over again, in fact, until Sherlock tired of the game or of John. He tugged off his clothes with no attempt at finesse, and let them fall haphazardly on the floor. Then he stood still while Sherlock concentrated on his laptop. He wouldn’t beg for Sherlock’s attention this time.
A tentative knock rang out at the door.
“Come,” Sherlock called absently.
John fixed his eyes on the carpet as a young woman in the uniform of Mycroft’s household guard bustled in. She didn’t so much as look his way; he may as well have been a piece of furniture. The woman handed Sherlock a folded piece of paper.
He flipped it open and made a face. “No, tell him sport is unbearably dull, and I’ve better things to do with my extremely valuable time. Wait.” Sherlock ran a finger over the paper. “No. Tell him I’ll consider it. And wait a moment.” He reached into a drawer in the desk, pulled out some heavy stationary and a pen, and began to scribble a note.
John looked between the guard and Sherlock, but the woman kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on the wall.
Sherlock tossed down his pen. He folded his note neatly and sealed it before handing it to the guard. “Bring me this note tomorrow at half nine precisely. Precisely, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be in either the front hall or by the back kitchen entrance.”
“Yes, sir.” She slipped the note into her pocket and gave a shallow bow. On her way out, the woman did not steal a glance at John’s naked form. John wondered whether she was too well trained to peek, or if she simply had no interest in him.
“It’s out of respect for you,” Sherlock said. “She was born a slave. A family member paid off her contract to free her, three to five years ago.”
John didn’t need to ask how Sherlock had traced the path of his thoughts. Instead, he asked, “Mycroft let her stay on and work as a free citizen?”
“Heavens no. She’s been here less than a year. Didn’t disclose her past position, but I daresay my meddlesome brother knows about it. She wouldn’t have got a job, otherwise.” Sherlock waved a hand negligently. “I’m given to understand that a past as a slave is not something one overcomes.”
“Right,” John said tightly. He mulled over that bleak pronouncement while Sherlock typed merrily away. He was so lost in morose contemplation that he almost missed the snap of Sherlock’s fingers.
“John, come.”
“I’m not actually an animal. I can understand full sentences,” John said.
“And presumably shorter ones as well,” Sherlock said with a curl of his lip. John approached. “Turn around.”
John turned his back to Sherlock and held still. His soldier’s instincts hated turning his back to danger, but he held them in check and obeyed. He half expected something shocking or painful: the bite of a knife breaking his skin, or an electric jolt to bring him to his knees. Instead, Sherlock’s fingertips pressed dry and warm against the nape of his neck. Slowly, slowly, those fingertips traced down each knob of John’s spine, and came to rest of his coccyx, with his palm ghosting over the muscle of John’s arse.
“If not as good as new, at least as good as the shape I found you in,” Sherlock said. His fingers left John’s skin, and John swayed a bit, as if he’d lost the support holding him up.
Sherlock’s touch returned almost immediately, when he dug the tips of his fingers into the knotty scar tissue of John’s shoulder. John’s eyes drifted closed. He imagined he could feel the muzzle of a gun pressing against the matching scar on his front.
“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked.
“Not always,” John said. He hadn’t been as diligent with his physiotherapy exercises as he should have been, and the neglect showed. “It’s something I’ve learned to live with.”
Sherlock’s palm flattened against the old wound. “It’s not as if you’ve a choice.”
“If you don’t like looking at it, I can put my clothes back on.”
Sherlock’s fingers dug in harder, then released quickly. “I’ve got you some clothes.”
“I have clothes.”
“They’re in my wardrobe,” Sherlock said, as if John hadn’t spoken. “Go on.”
John didn’t give himself time to form any expectations before tugging open the ornately carved wardrobe doors. On the left, Sherlock’s clothes-bespoke jackets, shirts, and trousers-hung in neat rows. On the right, one shelf had been cleared of Sherlock’s neatly paired socks to make way for some things plainly not meant for Sherlock’s use. For one thing, the soft, knit jumper he pulled from the pile wouldn’t have fit his master.
“These are for me?”
“The clothes you have don’t suit you. And anyway, I don’t wish to be seen with a slave that looks... frumpy.” Sherlock waved a hand that took in John’s button-down and tan trousers, the uniform Mycroft had provided.
John couldn’t help a chuckle at the extent of Sherlock’s disgust. “Right,” he said. Of course it was all about Sherlock.
“Stand still.” Sherlock set aside his laptop. He bustled over to John. He plucked several items off the shelf and began re-dressing John like an overgrown doll. When he finished, he steered John toward the room’s full-length mirror.
Sherlock stood beside John and gave a satisfied nod at the ensemble of dark jeans, collared shirt, and sand-coloured jumper.
John had to admit, he looked more like himself than he had since returning from Afghanistan. If it weren’t for the heavy black collar with its seal marking him as Lord Sherlock’s property, he might not have remembered he was a slave.
Sherlock’s hand drifted up to touch the back of the collar. “That’s an improvement,” he said.
John tugged at the cuffs of his jumper, mostly as an excuse to duck his head forward, pulling away from Sherlock’s touch. He saw Sherlock’s quick frown in the mirror, and felt an unaccountable stab of guilt. “Thank you,” he said. “The clothes are an improvement.”
Sherlock gave a curt nod. The he snatched his phone out of his pocket and began jabbing at the buttons. “I require your assistance with something.” He held his phone up in front of John, displaying a photo.
John spent several seconds trying to determine what he was seeing. “Is that blood?” he asked at last.
“Yes.” Sherlock snatched the phone back. “Very unusual spatter, in fact.”
“Whose blood?”
“What? Oh, the son of the Chinese Ambassador, in a hotel back in Hong Kong. Doesn’t that make a delicious twist?” He dropped his phone back in his pocket, smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket, and nodded to his reflection before sweeping toward the door. “Come along, John. We’ve work to do.”
--
Lestrade sat at Mycroft’s feet in his study while minions and minor dignitaries bustled in and out. Mycroft often spent his days at his office in the city, for which he did not require Lestrade’s presence. Since Lord Sherlock had come to stay, however, Mycroft had been conducting more of his business-the business of the state-from home. Lestrade was an indispensable part of the image of a Lord in his manor that Mycroft worked to project: as essential as a hunting dog dozing in front of the fire would have been to a king in his castle.
So Lestrade spent hours kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, intentionally tuning out the carefully guarded words exchanged between his social betters. This morning, he passed the time by calling up his mental file on one of the cold cases he’d worked in his days at the Yard: a young man, one of London’s homeless, who’d been found beaten to death next to Regent’s Canal. There had been some question of his being involved in drugs trafficking. Lestrade tried to picture the file on the case, in order to recall the details: time of death, witness statements, leads. It was hopeless, of course, to expect his memory to provide anything close to accuracy, but it occupied his attention, at least.
The door clicked shut as Mycroft’s latest appointment departed: some important Scottish Lady and her attendant.
“Did you notice anything about her personal slave?”
Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow. “No. I’m sorry, sir.” In fact, he couldn’t have said whether the slave had been male or female, much less if he or she had displayed any telling reactions. He’d just been explaining to John the importance of such observations, and here he was, shirking. “My mind was elsewhere. I’ll pay more attention, sir.”
“There’s no harm done, Gregory. What were you thinking of?”
“Nothing,” he said immediately. Mycroft didn’t need to hear about his old obsessions.
“I see.” Mycroft’s brow creased minutely before he turned back to his desk. He pressed the button the intercom to indicate he was ready for the next meeting.
As three more petitioners came and went, Lestrade focused on observing their reactions. He did not allow his thoughts to stray toward his former life. But Mycroft did not address him again.
Shortly after Lord Ferguson had stalked out of the room with his request un-granted, Anthea darted in. She closed the door behind her.
“Sir,” she said. “We’ve had a report on the situation you’d asked about.”
“Ah, yes.” Mycroft stood immediately. “Please re-schedule my next appointment. Come along, Gregory.”
Lestrade followed his master out into the corridor and maintained his distance the proper two steps behind his master. Mycroft led them through the east wing and upstairs, toward the family residences. When they’d passed the uniformed guard who marked the entrance to the private section of the house-she gave Mycroft a deferential nod-Lestrade moved up to walk beside Mycroft, as they could do when out from under public scrutiny.
“There’s a project with which I’d like your assistance,” Mycroft said. “I’d go so far as to say it may be impossible to succeed in this without your help.”
“Sir?”
“I trust you’ll know what to do when the time comes. Ah, here we are.” Mycroft pushed through the door at the end of the third-floor hallway to enter the library: the family’s main library, not the smaller one Mycroft maintained for himself. This one had high domed ceilings that currently echoed with the sound of a familiar voice. Lestrade followed.
Inside, Lord Sherlock stood atop one of the enormous carved oak tables that were probably as old as the manor house itself. He held a book in one hand. As Lestrade watched, he flung it overhand like a cricketer to smash against the stone wall at the other end of the room. The book fluttered pitifully to the ground like a wounded bird.
“No good,” Sherlock said. “Something lighter. Pass me the Chaucer.” He reached down a hand to John, who stood next to the table, staggering under a pile of books that reached past his shoulder.
“John,” Mycroft said sharply. He hadn’t spoken loudly, but Lestrade had the idea that his tone would have cut through a mob in full cry.
John froze in the act of passing Sherlock the requested book.
“John, are you allowing my family’s collection of rare books to be flung against the wall?”
“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “I’m working.”
“Ah yes. Good morning, Sherlock.” His voice sharpened. “John. I asked you a question, slave.”
Lestrade missed John’s reaction, because he was busy staring at Mycroft. He’d never heard his master speak that way to anyone, slave or no.
“I…” John began. He glanced up at Sherlock for guidance.
Sherlock snatched the book from John’s still-outstretched hand and sent it spinning toward the far wall, where its spine broke with a pitiful crack.
“John,” Mycroft said, louder now. “That was a rare edition of The Canterbury Tales worth half again your contract. If you continue to facilitate the destruction of my property, there will be consequences.”
“I said piss off,” Sherlock snapped. He grabbed for another book, but John stepped backwards, out of his reach. “Come off it, John. That ponce has no power over you.”
“Yes, he does,” Lestrade breathed. As he’d watched Mycroft’s reactions to Sherlock, he’d put the puzzle together.
Mycroft shot him a quick look-the very beginning of an approving smile-and Sherlock frowned.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “if you’ve had your solicitor insert some obscure clause into John’s contract-“
“Not at all,” Mycroft said mildly.
Sherlock reached for a book again.
“John, if you destroy even one more book, you’ll face twenty strokes with a paddle,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock turned on his heel and strode across the table to glare at Mycroft from the near edge. “What are you playing at?”
“As Lord of this district, I have the responsibility-nay, the duty-to punish any slave in my territory who violates laws, shirks his duties, or endangers his master. If you paid any attention at all to social conventions, you’d know these things.”
Lestrade wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Sherlock be lost for words for so long a moment. He knew for a fact he’d never seen Sherlock turn that particular shade of pink.
“Of course, if you object to my meting out the punishment personally,” Mycroft said, “I do employ a discipline squad at the office to deal with such cases.”
“I don’t have time for your petty manipulations, Mycroft. I’ve work to do.” Sherlock turned and stalked back across the table. “John, book.”
John glanced quickly at Lestrade, who could only shake his head. Being caught in a spat between the Lords Holmes was an unenviable position, but he could no more rescue John from it than he could remove his own collar.
“John. Here.” Sherlock pointed to the edge of the table. “Now.” John stepped up to the table, but kept a tight grip on his armful of books. Sherlock held out a hand and kept his eyes fixed on John.
Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, but saw no hint of mercy in his expression, only unwavering interest.
“Book,” Sherlock said.
John’s hard swallow pushed his throat against his collar. Lestrade wondered if he’d begun to doubt his decision to accept Sherlock as his master. For John to tolerate the way Sherlock spoke to him, he must have prodigious reserves of patience. Or perhaps he understood something about Sherlock that Lestrade didn’t.
John pulled a book out of his stack and offered it up.
Sherlock smiled-a bright, maniacal grin-turned on his heel, and flung the book. When it impacted the wall, its spine popped and sent loose pages fluttering down in an unruly cloud.
“That’s it!” Sherlock cried. “That explains the blood pattern. Come on, John!” Sherlock leapt from the table and swept toward the door.
John dumped his armful of books in a nearby chair and tried to follow.
Mycroft stepped neatly in front of him, barring his way. “John, you’ll report to the work room after evening muster for your punishment.”
Jaw clenched and eyes fixed firmly in middle distance, John nodded his head.
“Excellent.” Mycroft stepped aside.
From the doorway, Sherlock fixed Mycroft’s back with a vicious glare until John made it out of the room. Sherlock slammed the door after them.
The last of the poor book’s pages drifted to the ground, and then silence took over the library.
“Well,” Lestrade said. He felt almost as if he’d been left alone with a stranger: compelled to say something to combat the silence. “If your goal was to make your brother angry, I’d say you’ve done it.”
“I’ve no wish to make Sherlock angry, though it seems any interaction we have infuriates him.” Mycroft turned to look at Lestrade. “You know I prefer to avoid unpleasant confrontations whenever possible.”
“Yes,” Lestrade said slowly. He privately thought that rushing in on Sherlock while he was working and ordering John around was a poor way to avoid confrontation.
“And something more.” Mycroft gazed steadily at him. “You don’t approve of the way he treats other slaves. Slaves in general, but more specifically, the ones under your care.”
Lestrade fixed his eyes on the rich red carpeting covering the library floor. Dangerous ground, this. He had always thought it best not to speak of Sherlock to Mycroft, and he had no intention of starting now, when confusion and a burgeoning anger might hijack his words. “It’s not for me to say.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft took Lestrade’s chin in his hand to tip his head up. “That’s twice today you’ve tried to make decisions for me about what I wish to hear.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lestrade said.
“Back to sir again.” Mycroft frowned. “You’re angry with me. Is it that you didn’t like the way I spoke to Sherlock? You’ve always had a soft spot for him.”
“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “I understand. It’s like dealing with a child.”
“Quite.” Mycroft let go of Lestrade’s chin to stroke his thumb down the line of his jaw. “What, then?”
Lestrade watched Mycroft carefully, trying to gauge if he were being deliberately obtuse. But Mycroft, when he so desired, could keep his intentions carefully hidden, so Lestrade knew nothing for sure. He ventured, slowly. “John.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, with a note on encouragement. When Lestrade didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You think I was harsh with him.”
“Well.” Lestrade fought the urge to prevaricate. Mycroft had asked for honestly. “Yes.”
“Have I ever spoken to you that way?”
“No,” Lestrade said, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t like the idea that the man he’d willingly chosen to serve could harbour that kind of cruelty. “He’s doing the best he knows how.”
“And occasionally even better than that,” Mycroft said agreeably. “I’ve no complaint against his performance.”
“Then why-- ?” Lestrade stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to question his master, regardless of the relationship Lestrade imagined they enjoyed. Mycroft would always be, first and foremost, a Lord. Instead, he offered a warning he hoped Mycroft would be wise enough to heed. “He’ll not be pushed indefinitely, that kind.”
The very beginning of a smile formed on Mycroft’s lips. “Let us hope not.”
--
Done here? On to Part II