Sherlock Fic: Believe Also In Me (Part 4.2 of 4)
Believe Also in Me, Part 4.2 (Sherlock BBC; Mycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Audiences tapered off as the holidays approached. Lestrade found himself less often in Lord Mycroft’s presence. After Lord Sherlock arrived in a whirlwind of pique and began making outrageous demands of the household staff, Lord Mycroft almost never had a moment alone. Or as alone as one could be with a personal slave in attendance.
A normal Saturday evening would usually involve an outing of some kind, or a formal dinner with highly-ranked guests, but on this occasion, it meant three places sat at one end of the dining table, and the table slaves drawing lots to see who had to carry in the food and brave the attention of the entire Holmes family. At such a small gathering, Lord Mycroft had no need for a personal slave, so Lestrade brought his tablet to the kitchen and tried to read some articles his master had suggested while listening to the servers’ comments and complaints about the family meal.
Once the family was ensconced in the parlour after supper, the staff was summarily dismissed. Lestrade wandered the halls, looking for a bit of company in the darkened manor. He found no one in the personal slaves’ lounge. No one in the courtyard having a smoke. No one in the kitchen, which when he’d left had still been bustling with slaves finishing the washing-up from dinner. From the stairs at the far end of the kitchen, Lestrade caught the sound of distant voices.
With a final glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that the ground floor was indeed deserted, he crept down the stairs and trough the basement corridors. The increasing cacophony led him to through the labyrinth to emerge in the cavernous wine cellar.
The arched brick ceilings were hung with fairy lights. A fir tree strung with tinsel stood perched atop a wooden barrel labelled “rum.” Tinny music blared from a portable radio wedged onto a makeshift table between a cheese platter and a plate of sausages. All around the room, men and women in collars sat on upturned kegs or stood in little groups, chattering brightly.
“Lestrade! Over here, mate.”
Lestrade turned at the greeting, though it took him a moment to recognize the man; he’d looked different on the football pitch. “Liam!”
Liam clapped him on the shoulder, sloshing a bit of the dark red liquid from his mug over both their shoes. “We’d have sent someone to fetch you if you’d taken much longer.”
“Is this a regular thing, then?” Looking around, Lestrade saw many slaves he knew by name, and some he knew by sight only.
“Very like. Not as if we advertise, but new blokes like you find their way at some point. Oh hey, welcome back. Tommy-that’s the new gardener-said you did a stint elsewhere.”
“Short one, yeah.”
“Welcome back, then. Happy Christmas!” With a final pat to Lestrade’s shoulder, Liam plunged back into the teeming mass of revellers.
“Gregory!”
Lestrade scanned the crowd and found Sally waving him over. He joined her in the corner only to find Mrs. Hudson and Anthea standing beside her. All three held heavy clay mugs of something white and frothy.
“Everyone’s having a drink, and I’m wandering about the manor. Was one of you going to tell me about this?” He pointed an accusing finger at his gathered friends.
“You’re here now,” Anthea pointed out.
“And there’s eggnog.” Mrs. Hudson took a sip of hers. Her cheeks had a pleasant red tinge to them.
“So this is what, the company Christmas party?” Lestrade asked.
“We celebrate whenever we get a chance,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Goodness knows there’s not much else going on in the house.”
“That’s the truth,” Lestrade muttered. “I feel like I haven’t done anything useful all week.”
“Doesn’t happen often. Be grateful.” Anthea took a long pull from her mug; Lestrade noticed her Blackberry was nowhere in sight.
“Still, makes things a bit dull, doesn’t it?” Lestrade grumbled. And yes, perhaps he was just put out that he hadn’t had a chance to have a moment, let alone a conversation, with Lord Mycroft since he’d got the brush-off last week.
“Lord Mycroft doesn’t like to mix business with family, dear,” Mrs Hudson explained.
“Can you blame him, with that psychopath traipsing around?” Sally asked. She rolled her eyes at the glances she received from her companions. “Sorry. Lord Sherlock. Anyway, like to cause an international incident, that one.”
“The master just wants a bit of quiet time with his loved ones,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And Lord Sherlock will be on his best behaviour, you’ll see. Lady Holmes visits so seldom, it’s important things are just right. A nice Christmas tea in the drawing room. Roast goose for dinner. Tree in the hall. When the boys were little, you wouldn’t believe the decorations. And the presents.”
Lestrade felt a jolt of panic. “Are we meant to do something? For presents? I mean, am I expected to--?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sally said. “He owns you already. What more could you give him?”
“We always get something nice on Boxing Day, though, from the family,” Mrs. Hudson interjected.
“Remember the year Jasper got a bottle of some posh French wine?” Sally asked.
“Chateau Cheval Blanc Saint-Emilion,” Anthea supplied.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled behind her hand. “By nightfall he was out in the stableyard with Sherman, singing bawdy pub songs.”
“No, not Jasper.” Lestrade glanced around the cellar until he spotted Jasper holding a half-full wineglass and chatting to an aged under-gardener.
“The very same.” Sally raised her mug in a salute.
“So don’t be so glum, Gregory.” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. “You’re meant to be enjoying yourself, same as the family.”
Lestrade thought of the previous holiday, spent alone at his flat, and later at the scene of a robbery gone wrong: a young couple dead on the pavement outside Waterloo station, with blood grotesquely, festively red on the woman’s white shawl.
Then he looked out on the chattering crowd, making merry in the brightly lit cellar. He turned a hopeful smile on Mrs. Hudson. “Is there any eggnog for me?”
--
The days after Christmas passed almost as slowly as the ones before: Lord Mycroft had only requested Lestrade’s presence a handful of times, and that for minor errands. Boxing Day passed uneventfully, and the day after, the weather turned too cold even to stand in the courtyard and enjoy the secondhand smoke of the stableboy’s cheap cigarettes.
Lestrade attended muster, though without any guests aside from the family, the meeting was more of a cursory check-in than a strategic assembly. After Jasper dismissed them, Lestrade remained behind. He knew all of the other personal slaves by name, now, and exchanged pleasantries with a few as they filed out.
As Sally passed, he noticed a glint of gold in her ears. “Hey Sally, are those earrings new?”
“Do you like them?” She pulled her hair back to reveal the filigreed disks of gold. “My present from the family. Found them in a box outside my room yesterday morning. Like being a kid again, a little bit. What did you get?”
“Um. I haven’t opened it,” Lestrade said quickly. There’d been no box outside his room. There’d been nothing at all. A strand of the hope he’d been gathering slipped out of his grip, but Lestrade shook it off quickly. “Building up the... anticipation. ‘Scuse me.”
Lestrade made his way through the room to approach Jasper, who was seated at a high table in the corner, filling in a report. “Jasper. May I ask your help with something?”
“I’d rather that than the alternative.”
“Ah, yes. There’s a book you had, a while back. I looked for it in the library, but I couldn’t find it.”
“Which book?” Jasper looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
Lestrade pressed his lips together hard. Rather than put himself through the indignity of trying to describe the book, he mustered his courage to say the title. “Compleat Techniques for Slaves’ Sexual Performance.”
“That book.” Jasper shook his head. “You didn’t need it.”
“Yes, I know that’s what I said.” Lestrade lowered his voice. “Listen, I thought... I didn’t please him. I guess I’m not what he’s used to, so-“
“Of course you’re not what he’s used to, lad.” Jasper’s expression tightened into a disapproving moue. “I was mistaken, before. A book like that would be of no use to you.”
“Then how am I meant to-“
“The master’s proclivities are not mine to discuss.”
“Yes, which is why I’m asking for-“
“-But it’s been my personal observation that the master responds to you as he has not to other slaves.” Jasper gave him a hard look. “I suggest you not jeopardize that by attempting to become something you’re not.”
--
Lestrade had seen a dozen or more invitations to New Year’s Eve parties cross Lord Mycroft’s desk, but in the aftermath of the family holiday, after Lady Holmes and Lord Sherlock had departed, Lord Mycroft hadn’t been in a very social mood. He took a few business meetings after Boxing Day, and received a few guests for tea or dinner, but there’d been no grand balls or fancy parties.
Come December 31st, he’d not gone out all day. In the evening, Lord Mycroft sat in his library, reading, with Lestrade kneeling at his side. At two minutes to midnight, he’d poured them each a measure of brandy. He’d clinked his glass against Lestrade’s without a word and stood looking out the window at the darkened grounds beyond as the grandfather clock struck the first hour of the new year.
The walk to Lord Mycroft’s quarters had likewise been silent. Once inside, Lord Mycroft stopped by the sofa and stared into his empty glass.
Lestrade stepped forward and wrapped his hands around the glass, twining his fingers with his master’s. “I’ll take this.”
“Thank you, Gregory. Please send Clarke in when you go.”
“Clarke’s not coming, sir.” Lestrade set the empty glass down on the mantel and held onto it.
“Oh?”
“I told him to take the evening off.”
“Did you.” Lord Mycroft’s voice sounded entirely flat: neither questioning nor reprimanding.
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade abandoned the mantel and returned to stand before Lord Mycroft. “I believe we have some unfinished business.” He angled his head to align correctly and leaned in fraction by fraction, allowing plenty of time for objections. Instead, he heard Lord Mycroft’s breath fray.
When the distance closed between them, Lord Mycroft’s lips parted on a shallow inhale, allowing Lestrade to delve inside with his tongue, giving a taste of what was on offer. Lestrade kept his hands firmly at his sides, resisting the temptation to touch, to hold on and take rather than give. He delivered one last close-mouthed kiss, then drew back, cast his eyes deferentially downwards, and waited.
“Gregory.” Lord Mycroft’s breathing hadn’t smoothed. “Your staying here is not contingent on performing these kinds of duties.”
“I understand that, sir.” Lestrade reached for the buttons on Lord Mycroft’s jacket, but Lord Mycroft caught his hands and held them.
“I don’t want you to regret your actions, Gregory. You don’t have to do this.”
“Do you want me to, sir?”
“That is not the issue.”
“To me it is, sir.” Lestrade had a suspicion about his interpretation of their last encounter, now that he’d had more time to consider. “Did I do something wrong, last time? Was I not good?”
“You were...” Lord Mycroft’s mouth hung open for a moment as he seemed to search for words. “I very much enjoyed what we did.”
“Right.” Lestrade nodded, answering that part of himself still sitting on the floor in the en suite, going quietly to pieces. Lord Mycroft couldn’t have enjoyed finding his personal slave hyperventilating after they’d first been intimate; such a reaction would be enough to make any man, even one as clever as Lord Mycroft, draw the wrong conclusion. Lestrade would correct that mistake. “And have I struck you as overly deferential, sir? Sycophantic? Guilty of needless flattery?”
“No,” Lord Mycroft said slowly.
“Believe me, then, when I say I’ve thought about this, and I’d like you to take me to bed, sir.”
“I see.”
Lestrade leaned in to bring his mouth closer to Lord Mycroft’s ear. “And when I say I’ve thought about it, I mean I’ve thought about it often, and in many different arrangements.”
Lord Mycroft’s eyes drifted shut, and his grip tightened on Lestrade’s hands. “Gregory, when I told you that you were not to let anyone take advantage of you, I included myself in that command.”
“I understand, sir.”
Lord Mycroft opened his eyes and fixed Lestrade with the same focused attention he turned on potential allies: the penetrating gaze that sought to strip away a man’s words and uncover his true intentions. “Alright.” He released Lestrade’s hands.
Lestrade went to work on the buttons, stripping off first Lord Mycroft’s jacket, then his waistcoat, and draping them over a straight-backed chair.
Lord Mycroft unknotted his tie and pulled it out of his collar, a long line of red silk. “Wait,” he commanded. “Close your eyes.”
Lestrade obeyed, only to feel the length of silk wrap around his head, then firmly across his eyes. “Sir?”
“I don’t want you trying to guess what I want.”
“That’s my job, isn’t it,” Lestrade said unsteadily. First, Jasper wouldn’t let him read up on his duties, and now this.
“What would please me most is for you to enjoy this.” Lord Mycroft’s finger traced Lestrade’s brow, just above the tie. “You’re to concentrate on that, understand?”
The promising rumble in Lord Mycroft’s voice made Lestrade swell in the confines of his trousers. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Lord Mycroft tugged Lestrade’s shirt up over his head, neatly avoiding the makeshift blindfold. The shirt hit the rug with a soft plop. “Now, this is critical. If you don’t like something I do, you’ll say ‘stop.’”
“I can’t say ‘stop’ to you, sir.”
“You can, and you will.” Lord Mycroft thumbed open the button on Lestrade’s trousers, which provided a jolt of teasing pressure against Lestrade’s confined arousal. He hooked his fingers on the fabric, and began tugging it downward, a maddeningly slow drag over sensitized skin. “Say it.”
“Sir, I can’t say-“
“Say it, Gregory.”
“Stop, sir.”
Immediately, Lord Mycroft pulled his hands away, leaving Lestrade untouched. “Good. Now remember that. If you need to, you will say it.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade had no intention of calling a halt to the evening’s proceedings, but he swallowed the word down and held it as proof he’d chosen correctly in this. He sat still, then, dragging in slow breaths and waiting for a touch that could come at any second. He could feel the heat of Lord Mycroft’s body, still close, still watching him. “Sir,” he said at last. “Would you carry on? Please?”
“As you like.”
Firm hands stripped Lestrade of his remaining clothes. With his eyesight taken away, each touch, coming unexpectedly out of the dark, produced a pleasurable shiver.
“Come to bed,” Lord Mycroft whispered from behind Lestrade, breath hot against the nape of his neck.
With a few careful steps, Lestrade made it to the bed and settled himself onto his back. He turned his head to listen for any movement from Lord Mycroft. For a long moment, he heard nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and pictured how he must look, stretched out on display: grey hair, slight paunch, a lifetime of wear-and-tear on a body that hadn’t been world class to begin with. He hadn’t been this exposed the last time.
Lestrade fought back the nagging doubts, reminding himself of the interest and appreciation he’d seen in Lord Mycroft’s eyes whenever he’d dared to look. Besides, Lord Mycroft had seen him at his worst, when he’d returned beaten and bloody from a failed assignment, and hadn’t flinched from Lestrade then. He’d judged correctly, he knew he had.
Lestrade allowed his legs to fall open. His cock, harder by the second, curved up towards his belly. “Sir?” he prompted.
“Grip the headboard.” The tremor in Lord Mycroft’s voice had returned. Lestrade wrapped his hands around the vertical slats at the head of the bed. “Your hands just there. Good.”
Lord Mycroft’s weight settled onto the mattress beside Lestrade. He splayed a hand across Lestrade’s collarbone, just below his collar. Lestrade felt a flush spread down his chest and up his neck, as if radiating from Lord Mycroft’s touch.
The hand traced the planes of his chest, mapping each muscle and bone. A second hand joined the first in gripping Lestrade’s waist, just holding on, as if those hands could contain all of Lestrade between them. Lord Mycroft’s thumb traced the hollow of Lestrade’s hip.
Lestrade hadn’t imagined he’d be so helpless before his master; he’d meant to prove his worth, not lie back and be taken slowly apart. Still, perhaps his surrender could be proof in itself. Lestrade spread his legs wider.
One hand dislodged its grip and sought further down, tracing the outside of Lestrade’s leg, down to his knee, eliciting a flinch. The touch drew away at once. “Gregory?”
“Ticklish.”
“Ah,” Lord Mycroft said, but the touch did not resume.
A fond smile turned up the corners of Lestrade’s mouth. “I didn’t say stop, sir.”
“A fair point.” Lord Mycroft shifted further down the bed. He drew Lestrade’s leg up, settled it in his lap and bent Lestrade’s knee around his waist. The position left Lestrade helplessly exposed. The hand that had stroked his hip now traced the long muscle of his thigh, tantalizingly close to where Lestrade’s balls hung, heavy between his legs.
“Do you know I’ve an extensive collection of classical art?” Lord Mycroft’s voice came from very nearby, as if he’d leaned down to watch the movement of his hand on Lestrade more closely.
“Sir?”
“Paintings. Religious art. Sculpture. One of the best collections in the world, I’m told.” The hand continued its journey down Lestrade’s leg to smooth over his calf and cradle the arch of his foot. “But it seems I own nothing more exquisitely proportioned that you.”
“Ah--” Lestrade’s denial died unspoken as a hand fitted itself around his cock and moved it first this way, then that, as if exploring it from different angles. Lord Mycroft was examining the most intimate part of him, committing the shape and texture of him to memory, as Lestrade imagined he might with a new sculpture. The thought caused Lestrade’s cock to twitch helplessly in his master’s hand.
Lord Mycroft’s other hand slid down the crease where Lestrade’s thigh met his torso, and lower still, to cup his balls and roll them gently in his palm. The other hand traced the base of Lestrade’s eager cock with one feather-light touch, then dipped back to tease one finger against Lestrade’s hole.
Lestrade squeezed the slats of the headboard. His master’s skilful touch had brought him dangerously close to climax. “Sir.”
“Yes?” All motion ceased.
“I should be... You shouldn’t have to...” Lestrade fought to string words together. “Sir, tell me what you want.”
“I told you already, Gregory. Do you remember?”
Lestrade nodded. He splayed his legs more widely, as if that could relive the exquisite pleasure that threatened to undo him.
“We can stop, if you like. We’ll stop.”
“No!” Lestrade’s shout of protest kept Lord Mycroft’s touch from abandoning him this time. “Please. Sir, I want to keep going.”
“Then we will.” The hands disappeared for a moment, and then a slick finger returned to trace Lestrade’s entrance. Though he had no way of knowing where Lord Mycroft’s attention was focused, Lestrade gave a clear nod. The finger that had been teasing him eased inside.
Even without being able to see, the image of Lord Mycroft delving his hand between Lestrade’s spread legs, burned itself into Lestrade’s brain, which kept up a helpless chorus of he’s inside me, inside me, inside me. Another finger joined the first, twisting and stretching together in relentless rhythm.
Through the haze of pleasure, Lestrade wondered if Lord Mycroft was enjoying this as much as he was: if being with Lestrade in this way would chase away the heavy cares that had weighed on him for days. Lestrade rolled his hips, screwing himself down on his master’s thick fingers, determined to draw Lord Mycroft as thoroughly into abandon as he himself had fallen.
Lord Mycroft leaned in close, pressing his fingers deeper inside Lestrade as he moved his mouth to Lestrade’s ear. When he spoke, his ragged voice was that of a man whose cares had been thoroughly banished. “May I have you, Gregory?”
“Yes. Please, yes.”
Lord Mycroft’s fingers slid from inside him, and a hand returned to Lestrade’s hip. “Turn. Yes, like that.”
Lestrade scrambled onto all fours and resumed his grip on the headboard.
Lord Mycroft moved as well, and the mattress dipped behind Lestrade. A hand stroked up and down Lestrade’s back. “Do these still hurt?”
Lestrade’s distracted brain took a few seconds to process that Lord Mycroft meant the marks from the cane, which had faded to a few pinks lines. “No, sir.” Lestrade shifted his shoulders back, as if he could shake off the memory of the injuries. “I can’t feel them anymore.”
“Good.” Lord Mycroft dragged his hand down the length of Lestrade’s spine, and traced one of the longer lines that ran across the top of Lestrade’s arse. “I don’t want his mark on you. I don’t want anyone’s mark on you.”
“Not even yours, sir?”
“No one should want to put his mark on you.” Lord Mycroft spread his hand against the small of Lestrade’s back. “To mar something so fine with ownership should be a crime.”
“I’m already yours, sir.”
Lord Mycroft’s fingers dragged up the length of Lestrade’s spine to trace the edge of his collar. “That doesn’t make it right.”
Lestrade shook his head, hard. He hadn’t battled through his own doubts only to lose his master to other misgivings. He abandoned his grip on the headboard to wrap a hand around Lord Mycroft’s wrist and pull.
Lord Mycroft moved with a startled grunt and landed on his back. Being blindfolded made manoeuvring more difficult, but Lestrade managed to throw a leg over Lord Mycroft to straddle his waist. He planted his hands on Lord Mycroft’s chest and rose up on his knees. Even with arousal screaming in his blood, he made himself halt.
“Do you want to stop, sir?”
“Go on.” Lord Mycroft’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Gregory, please.”
Lestrade wrapped a steadying hand around Lord Mycroft’s cock and sank down slowly. His body stretched around his master, inch by inch as Lord Mycroft breached him. Lord Mycroft’s hands caught against Lestrade’s sweat-slick skin-his thighs, his sides, his chest-providing bright spots of sensation in the unending push of Lord Mycroft entering him.
Lestrade pressed down the last inch quickly, and groped blindly before him until his hands caught against the headboard to steady himself.
“Stay a moment.” Lord Mycroft’s hands traced down Lestrade’s chest, then around his hips to smooth over his arse, then up the outside of his thighs until both of them folded around Lestrade’s straining cock. He began, slowly, to stroke Lestrade from root to crown.
The spike of pleasure found Lestrade grinding himself down against Lord Mycroft. The strokes alternated, first gloriously hard, then unbearably light, firm around the base, then thumbing at the head. As his pleasure built, Lestrade worked himself on Lord Mycroft’s cock, rising up and sliding down again as his thighs began to shake, and clenching his muscles to keep from ending too soon.
Just when Lestrade thought he might be helpless to keep from finishing, Lord Mycroft’s touches turned teasingly light again-just a single finger tracing the wet slit of his cock.
“What-“ Lestrade licked his lips and tried again. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Learning you.” The touch circled the crown of Lestrade’s cock and traced the vein that ran the length. “I want to know every inch of you, Gregory. What makes you squirm. What makes you come. I want to know how to give you every pleasure in this world. If you’ll let me. Gregory. Will you let me?”
“Yes. Anything. Yes.” Lestrade squirmed frantically on top of his master.
Lord Mycroft squeezed both hands around Lestrade and stroked faster. He twisted his fingers around the head at the end of the stroke, and that pushed Lestrade past his limit. He bent backwards with a shout, every muscle clenching tight as his orgasm poured out of him. He pictured his white come dripping down Lord Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers and spattering against his broad chest; the image knocked another weak spurt out of his spent cock.
Lestrade pitched forward, fighting to keep upright while every muscle in his body seemed to be riding the crest of a powerful afterglow. He tightened his grip on the headboard and rolled his hips forward against Lord Mycroft’s body. “You,” he panted, unable to form any kind of proper sentence. “Please.”
“Yes.” Lord Mycroft released Lestrade’s over-sensitive cock to grip his hips with surprising force and thrust up into him. Lestrade felt a swell of pride that his master, usually so proper, so restrained, could lose himself in this: could shed the mantle of his lordly responsibility and forget himself in pleasure freely offered.
“That’s it,” Lestrade urged. “Come on, that’s just right.” He managed to push himself up and slide down to meet each thrust in a frenetic rhythm.
Short, frantic sounds that may have been either grunts or malformed words drifted up from the bed. Lord Mycroft’s hands slipped from Lestrade’s hips to clutch at his arse, as if he could go deeper, bring them closer. His body went rigid beneath Lestrade, and his breath stopped for a long moment before breaking on a wordless shout as he spilled his release inside Lestrade.
Lestrade let go of the headboard to execute a controlled slump onto Lord Mycroft . He gulped in air heavy with the smell of sex, sweat, and his master. Beneath him, he could feel Lord Mycroft’s chest rising and falling, resuming a more sedate rhythm. In the darkness behind the blindfold, Lestrade felt his eyes getting heavy.
“Gregory?” Lord Mycroft’s voice, quite close to his ear, pulled him back from the edge of sleep.
“Hm.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, sir.” He groped for Lord Mycroft’s hand, which lay limp at his side, and squeezed it tightly. “I won’t run away. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
--
The holiday lull didn’t last long into January. Lestrade berated himself several late nights in a row for ever lamenting how “boring” Christmas was. Clearly Lord Sherlock had been a bad influence.
It seemed every acquaintance in London urgently desired Lord Mycroft’s attention. As they exited the latest gathering to emerge into the chill of a London night, Lestrade had to glance at the placard on the building to remind himself where they’d been: the Embassy of the Republic of Ecuador. Of course.
Lestrade shoved his bare hands in his pockets as he followed Lord Mycroft down the stairs. He fixed his eyes on Lady Correra’s personal slave, who had an unusual mark-a brand, perhaps?-just visible on her thigh at the hem of her short skirt. He squinted at it until two men rushed down the stairs, breaking his line of sight. Then he hurried to catch up with his master, who’d already reached the pavement.
“We’ll have your car brought ‘round, my lord.” The uniformed attendant tipped his hat to Lord Mycroft and sent his colleague off with a wave of his hand.
“Thank you.” Lord Mycroft gathered his scarf more tightly around his throat. Very quietly, for Lestrade’s ears only, he said, “I often wonder why we haven’t declared war on Ecuador.”
“You can’t attack them just for throwing boring parties, sir,” Lestrade said reasonably.
“No, I suppose not.” Lord Mycroft spotted one of the other guests leaving the party and moved to intercept him. “Lord Fontecilla. A word?”
Lestrade caught sight of his master’s car arriving, third in the line of nondescript black cars in front of the Embassy. The first escort vehicle, a Bentley staffed by household guards, pulled up behind. Buoyed by thoughts of heated seats and a warm interior, Lestrade headed for the car, confident that Lord Mycroft would follow in his own time.
As Lestrade approached, the driver stepped from the vehicle to open the door. Though he wore the household uniform, Lestrade didn’t recognize the man. With a frown, Lestrade gave the rest of the scene a quick scan. Across the street, in the midst of the passers-by and departing revellers, the two men who’d rushed down the stairs deliberately turned their backs to the road and hunched down into their coats. Lestrade stopped walking. As soon as he did, the driver reached inside his jacket.
Lestrade was in motion before his mind had quite caught up with his body. He sprinted down the pavement. “Mycroft!” He darted forward and slammed into his master just as an explosion ripped apart the shiny black car and sent pieces flying in all directions. He tackled Mycroft to the ground and tucked his face into Mycroft’s shoulder as he covered their heads with his arms. A few small chunks thudded against his heavy coat.
When the shaking of the explosion subsided, his ears began to ring. He pushed himself up and took stock of his surroundings: street lights out, shattered. Car a flaming wreck. Other vehicles also smouldering. Driver a bloody heap on the pavement. One of Mycroft’s security detail down in the street, two more climbing out of the smoking Bentley. Passers-by screaming and running. No imminent threat.
Lestrade tucked a hand under Mycroft’s head and carefully rolled him onto his back. He tugged the scarf loose and pressed two fingers to Lord Mycroft’s neck, feeling for a pulse, listening for breath. The explosion still rang in his ears and vibrated through his skin, preventing him from detecting any sign of life. Lestrade squeezed his eyes tightly closed, shutting out the world to concentrate on his master. And there, there it was: pulse, breath. Lord Mycroft was alive.
Lestrade pulled back to assess to extent of the damage. Lord Mycroft’s eyes were closed, and what little blood there was seeped sluggishly from a knot on his forehead. Safe enough for now, but needing treatment.
Lestrade glanced up to greet two household guards who pounded up alongside him on the pavement. “One of you, cover the street,” he ordered. “We’re not out of danger yet. The driver was in on it, and at least two men in the crowd. You, get another car, with a driver you trust, plus at least one extra guard. Not here, the next street over, Sloane Street. Pull up there. Have a doctor waiting at the estate.”
The first guard dropped to a crouch a few meters away and pulled her sidearm. Her eyes roved over the street. The other guard jogged away, shouting into her walkie-talkie. By this time another guard, uniformed but streaked with soot, had drawn up next to Lestrade.
A quick check of Lord Mycroft showed no difference-he was breathing, but unconscious-so Lestrade turned his attention to the newcomer; thank goodness, someone he recognized. “Wood, get someone to flag down the first responders when they get here. I need a fireman or a paramedic to tell us whether he’s safe to move, then they can go on about their business. We’re not taking him to hospital-it’s not safe. And check out the car they’re bringing around to Sloane Street. Make sure the driver is someone you know, or you kick him out and drive yourself. As soon as we have the clear, we’re coming to you.”
By the time she’d nodded her understanding and headed off, a cluster of guards in the uniform of the Ecuadorian Embassy was clattering down the stairs. Lestrade pressed his hand against Lord Mycroft’s chest to make sure he could feel the rise and fall of his breath. Yes, alive. Lestrade would do what needed to be done, then. He hailed the incoming guards.
--
Lestrade sat in the back of the nondescript black car, holding Mycroft’s head in his lap. He ignored Wood’s frequent glances in the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t deny the comfort of having someone he knew at the wheel, even if that someone probably didn’t have very charitable feelings towards him right now.
Lord Mycroft moved fitfully against Lestrade’s restraining hands, but it wasn’t until they’d made it halfway back to the estate that Lord Mycroft opened his eyes. “Gregory?” He tried to sit up, but Lestrade put a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Stay down, sir. There was an explosion. A car bomb, I believe. You were knocked out.”
“Other casualties?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t see many. At least one.”
“Shaw,” Wood reported from the front seat, and Lestrade relayed the information.
Lord Mycroft nodded. He craned his neck back to look at Lestrade. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Lestrade said. He gave himself a quick once-over to ensure he hadn’t acquired any injuries that he hadn’t noticed in the mad adrenaline rush, and found nothing worse than scraped knuckles from hitting the pavement. “If we’d have made it to the car, though, we’d both be red spots on the roadway.”
“Well. That’s best avoided.” Lord Mycroft folded his hand over Lestrade’s on his shoulder. “And we’re on the way to the estate?”
“Yes. If you’d rather go to hospital, I can have them-“
“No. No, the estate is better. You arranged this?”
“I suppose I did, sir.” Lestrade glanced towards the rearview mirror, but Wood had her eyes on the road. “After the explosion... Well, I’ve handled a few emergencies in my time. I guess instinct sort of kicks in.”
“That it does.”
Lestrade lowered his voice. “I’m surprised your guards listened to me, actually, sir. I thought they might not let me help.”
“They have standing orders.” Lord Mycroft gave Lestrade’s hand a reassuring pat.
“Pardon?”
“To give you authority if I’m ever incapacitated in a crisis. They did exactly the right thing.”
“Oh.” This time, when Lestrade looked up, he met Wood’s eyes in the mirror. She nodded to him. “Well.” He smoothed a hand through Lord Mycroft’s hair, figuring he could get away with it in the guise of medical assessment. “You should try to stay awake, sir. We’ll be there shortly.”
When they arrived, several guards rushed out to hustle Lord Mycroft inside, leaving Lestrade alone. He retreated to the personal slaves’ quarters.
In the communal bathroom, he scrubbed blood off his hands-some of Lord Mycroft’s, and some of his own.
In his room, Lestrade stretched out on his back in his narrow bed. He pressed two fingers to his neck to feel the pulse there. When he closed his eyes, he could see Lord Mycroft’s body lying slack on the pavement, silent and unresponsive. But he’d felt a pulse. Lord Mycroft was alive. He was alive. And he trusted Lestrade to keep him that way.
--
After a night of checking the clock every few minutes, Lestrade cleaned up, made himself presentable, and arrived at the servants’ entrance to Lord Mycroft’s quarters at seven o’clock on the dot. A knock garnered a clear, “Come,” and Lestrade slipped inside.
“Good morning, Gregory.” Lord Mycroft sat in the armchair by the fire in his pyjamas and dressing gown, reading the morning paper. If not for the stark white bandage wrapped around his head, it might have been any other morning.
“Good morning, sir.” Lestrade came to kneel in his proper place at Lord Mycroft’s side. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine. The doctors have fussed over me quite enough.” Lord Mycroft folded his paper and set it aside. “Are you alright? No one said you were injured.”
“I’m tough to take down.”
“That you are. The police may want to speak to you. I’ve told them about the likely involvement of the Chilean Ambassador. You remember her two sons, meant to be under house arrest in Edinburgh? Those were the strapping lads you identified to the Embassy guards while I was lying there insensible. It’s quite likely that the statements of the guards should be enough.” Lord Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t want to speak to anyone at the Yard, I can put them off.”
“It’s fine, sir. I will if you need me to.” The idea of facing his former colleagues still hurt--he supposed there’d always be a gnawing ache where his police career had been--but the hurt seemed more bearable now that he had a real place with Lord Mycroft.
“That’s settled, then.” Lord Mycroft stared down at him for a long moment, and Lestrade kept still, resisting the urge to return the look. At last, Lord Mycroft lifted his hand from Lestrade’s shoulder. “Gregory, there’s something I meant to give you at Christmas. The circumstances didn’t seem quite right for it, then, but I’d like to give it to you now, if I may.”
“Of course, sir.”
Lord Mycroft stood. Lestrade followed him to the mantel, where Lord Mycroft retrieved a carved wooden box. As he held it out, Lestrade recognized it as one he’d seen Lord Mycroft handling when he’d come to speak to him at Christmas. “Open it.”
Lestrade accepted the box, which was surprisingly light. Under Lord Mycroft’s close attention, he lifted the lid. Inside the box sat a collar: sturdy black leather a half-inch wide, capped along both edges with a thick line of silver. The clasp at the back was cleverly hidden in a curve of silver, making the join almost invisible. At the front, a silver circle housed a simple working of the Holmes family crest. The whole design spoke of strength and simplicity. Lestrade set the box on the end table and lifted out the collar with both hands.
“It’s not much to look at, I know. My great grandfather had it made at the same time he re-forged the family’s ceremonial sword to use in the coronation of Empress Victoria. The silver on the sword is the same that was used to make this design, and the crest, here.” Lord Mycroft touched his finger to the gleaming metal circle. “The leather’s been repaired and reworked over the years, but the design and the materials don’t change. My grandfather presented it to Heston, the personal slave who served him during the Great War. Jasper wore it until my father died. I’d like you to have it.”
“Sir.” Lestrade looked up. The collar felt warm and heavy in his hands. “I’d be honoured.”
Lord Mycroft’s teeth flashed in a bright smile that disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “There is a condition,” he said.
“What is it?” Lestrade looked at his master’s closed expression, then at the collar in his hands, and considered what, if anything, he might be unwilling to capitulate.
“Promise me. The day you no longer want this, the very same hour you change your mind, you must return the collar. I’ll find you a post, a proper one where you’ll not be mistreated. But you will not wear my collar out of duty or out of fear. Not ever.” Lord Mycroft closed his right hand over Lestrade’s atop the collar. “Do you agree to that?”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade lifted the collar up, presenting it to his master. Lord Mycroft didn’t take it.
“Again.”
“I promise.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear, my lord.” Lestrade bowed his head and offered up the collar. Lord Mycroft accepted it, laid it carefully around Lestrade’s neck, and pushed the clasp home.
--
--
Lestrade had stripped the sheets, carried them to the laundry chute, re-made his bed, lay down and stared at the clock, got up again, and begun arranging his sock drawer when he heard a knock. A quick glance at the clock revealed an indecent hour. Lestrade pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms, braced himself for disaster, and opened the door.
Mycroft stood in the corridor in his shirt and trousers, with his tie hanging around his neck.
“Mycroft... What?” Lestrade glanced quickly down the hallway, first right and then left, looking for signs of some emergency-fire, intruders, something-before realizing that this would hardly be his master’s first stop in such an event. “What’s wrong?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t hear the bell. Did you ring? I’m so sorry, I should have-“
“No, not at all. I simply...” Mycroft tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “I can see I’ve intruded. I never meant to-“
“Wait! Just. Wait.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair and opened the door wider. “Do you want to come inside?”
Mycroft glanced down the corridor. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, of course. I’ll come to your quarters, sir, I-“
“Don’t,” Mycroft cut him off. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Alright, then. Don’t stand in the hallway. Come in.” Lestrade gestured inside.
Mycroft stepped neatly around Lestrade and into the room. As the head of this part of the household, Lestrade enjoyed a room larger than most of the slaves’ quarters. Still, it was somewhat smaller than Mycroft’s bathroom, and not nearly so well-appointed. It contained only a bed, a squishy, overstuffed chair, a wardrobe, a half-full bookshelf, and a table that served as a desk when he couldn’t bear to be holed up in his cubby of an office.
The two stood just inside the door. Lestrade kept his eyes averted as he ran down a list of all the reasons Mycroft might be paying him a visit here, in his quarters, when he’d never done so before. Perhaps his master, too, hadn’t found it easy to sleep alone.
As the silence stretched, Lestrade cast about for a safe topic. At last, he said, “Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Lestrade flipped the switch on the electric kettle perched on the narrow windowsill, another advantage of his rank. He stared at the kettle, feeling Mycroft’s eyes on his back until the water boiled and the kettle switched off. He’d experienced this mood of Mycroft’s before. He would speak when he was ready and not until; Lestrade prepared himself to settle in and wait all night if necessary.
A stray bag of herbal tea was all he had, so he put the sachet into a cup and let it steep. He put the cup in its chipped saucer to complete the sad picture. “No milk, sorry,” he said as he handed it over.
“Quite alright.”
Mycroft perched on the edge of the squishy armchair, and Lestrade settled for sitting on the bed.
“None for you?” Mycroft asked after his first tentative sip.
“Just have the one cup. I don’t get many visitors. Any, actually.”
Mycroft gazed into his tea. “I shouldn’t have intruded.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not like Lord Sherlock, traipsing in and out of the wing at all hours. Half-lives in John’s room, he does.” Lestrade remembered himself and bit back anything else he might have said. “And he can do as he likes. But I don’t mind your being here.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s true.” Lestrade watched his master pretend to sip at the tea, and took pity. He slid to the floor at Mycroft’s feet and settled down with his head in Mycroft’s lap and an arm slung about his waist. The smell of his master reminded him how cold his bed seemed. “Mycroft. Listen. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say it.”
Mycroft smoothed his hand against the back of Lestrade’s head, letting his thumb brush the top of Lestrade’s collar. “I owe you an apology.”
“Pardon?”
“An apology. I’ve been working on a project recently-nothing I can tell you about. I know it must appear as if I’ve become quite distant, but I assure you, it will all become clear in time.”
“Is this to do with Lord Sherlock? You said, days ago, that there was something you needed to do before he could leave. So this project, it’s to do with him?”
“In a way.”
Lestrade curled his hand around Mycroft’s calf. “Can I help?”
“You are helping, Gregory. You’re helping more than you know.” Mycroft’s hand stilled. “I do trust you, you must know that. I simply require a little trust in return.”
“You have it.” Lestrade sat up to look Mycroft in the eye. “You’ve had it a long while.”
Mycroft dropped his gaze to the cup and attempted another polite sip.
“Oh, leave off. I know it’s awful.” Lestrade rose to his feet, plucked the cup and saucer from Mycroft’s hands and set it on the windowsill.
“I find I’m rather tired. Perhaps it did have some soporific properties.”
Lestrade eyed his master carefully: the slump of his shoulders and the slow slide of his eyes towards the floor betrayed an exhaustion beyond the physical. “Do you want to lie down?”
“If it’s not inconvenient.”
“Come here, then.” Lestrade settled onto the bed, near the wall and patted the duvet.
Mycroft levered himself out of the armchair. He toed off his shoes and pulled the tie from around his neck. Lestrade’s eyes followed the long line of silk as Mycroft draped it over the chair back.
When Mycroft stood uncertainly at the edge of the bed, Lestrade held out his arms, beckoning. With a grateful smile, Mycroft settled himself onto the bed, fitting easily into the space Lestrade had left open for him.
--
That's all for this installment, ladies and gents! Hope you enjoyed it. The next bit (which will be continue the story in the present day) will likely be out this winter. Thanks everyone for being so encouraging during this lengthy process!
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Audiences tapered off as the holidays approached. Lestrade found himself less often in Lord Mycroft’s presence. After Lord Sherlock arrived in a whirlwind of pique and began making outrageous demands of the household staff, Lord Mycroft almost never had a moment alone. Or as alone as one could be with a personal slave in attendance.
A normal Saturday evening would usually involve an outing of some kind, or a formal dinner with highly-ranked guests, but on this occasion, it meant three places sat at one end of the dining table, and the table slaves drawing lots to see who had to carry in the food and brave the attention of the entire Holmes family. At such a small gathering, Lord Mycroft had no need for a personal slave, so Lestrade brought his tablet to the kitchen and tried to read some articles his master had suggested while listening to the servers’ comments and complaints about the family meal.
Once the family was ensconced in the parlour after supper, the staff was summarily dismissed. Lestrade wandered the halls, looking for a bit of company in the darkened manor. He found no one in the personal slaves’ lounge. No one in the courtyard having a smoke. No one in the kitchen, which when he’d left had still been bustling with slaves finishing the washing-up from dinner. From the stairs at the far end of the kitchen, Lestrade caught the sound of distant voices.
With a final glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that the ground floor was indeed deserted, he crept down the stairs and trough the basement corridors. The increasing cacophony led him to through the labyrinth to emerge in the cavernous wine cellar.
The arched brick ceilings were hung with fairy lights. A fir tree strung with tinsel stood perched atop a wooden barrel labelled “rum.” Tinny music blared from a portable radio wedged onto a makeshift table between a cheese platter and a plate of sausages. All around the room, men and women in collars sat on upturned kegs or stood in little groups, chattering brightly.
“Lestrade! Over here, mate.”
Lestrade turned at the greeting, though it took him a moment to recognize the man; he’d looked different on the football pitch. “Liam!”
Liam clapped him on the shoulder, sloshing a bit of the dark red liquid from his mug over both their shoes. “We’d have sent someone to fetch you if you’d taken much longer.”
“Is this a regular thing, then?” Looking around, Lestrade saw many slaves he knew by name, and some he knew by sight only.
“Very like. Not as if we advertise, but new blokes like you find their way at some point. Oh hey, welcome back. Tommy-that’s the new gardener-said you did a stint elsewhere.”
“Short one, yeah.”
“Welcome back, then. Happy Christmas!” With a final pat to Lestrade’s shoulder, Liam plunged back into the teeming mass of revellers.
“Gregory!”
Lestrade scanned the crowd and found Sally waving him over. He joined her in the corner only to find Mrs. Hudson and Anthea standing beside her. All three held heavy clay mugs of something white and frothy.
“Everyone’s having a drink, and I’m wandering about the manor. Was one of you going to tell me about this?” He pointed an accusing finger at his gathered friends.
“You’re here now,” Anthea pointed out.
“And there’s eggnog.” Mrs. Hudson took a sip of hers. Her cheeks had a pleasant red tinge to them.
“So this is what, the company Christmas party?” Lestrade asked.
“We celebrate whenever we get a chance,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Goodness knows there’s not much else going on in the house.”
“That’s the truth,” Lestrade muttered. “I feel like I haven’t done anything useful all week.”
“Doesn’t happen often. Be grateful.” Anthea took a long pull from her mug; Lestrade noticed her Blackberry was nowhere in sight.
“Still, makes things a bit dull, doesn’t it?” Lestrade grumbled. And yes, perhaps he was just put out that he hadn’t had a chance to have a moment, let alone a conversation, with Lord Mycroft since he’d got the brush-off last week.
“Lord Mycroft doesn’t like to mix business with family, dear,” Mrs Hudson explained.
“Can you blame him, with that psychopath traipsing around?” Sally asked. She rolled her eyes at the glances she received from her companions. “Sorry. Lord Sherlock. Anyway, like to cause an international incident, that one.”
“The master just wants a bit of quiet time with his loved ones,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And Lord Sherlock will be on his best behaviour, you’ll see. Lady Holmes visits so seldom, it’s important things are just right. A nice Christmas tea in the drawing room. Roast goose for dinner. Tree in the hall. When the boys were little, you wouldn’t believe the decorations. And the presents.”
Lestrade felt a jolt of panic. “Are we meant to do something? For presents? I mean, am I expected to--?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sally said. “He owns you already. What more could you give him?”
“We always get something nice on Boxing Day, though, from the family,” Mrs. Hudson interjected.
“Remember the year Jasper got a bottle of some posh French wine?” Sally asked.
“Chateau Cheval Blanc Saint-Emilion,” Anthea supplied.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled behind her hand. “By nightfall he was out in the stableyard with Sherman, singing bawdy pub songs.”
“No, not Jasper.” Lestrade glanced around the cellar until he spotted Jasper holding a half-full wineglass and chatting to an aged under-gardener.
“The very same.” Sally raised her mug in a salute.
“So don’t be so glum, Gregory.” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. “You’re meant to be enjoying yourself, same as the family.”
Lestrade thought of the previous holiday, spent alone at his flat, and later at the scene of a robbery gone wrong: a young couple dead on the pavement outside Waterloo station, with blood grotesquely, festively red on the woman’s white shawl.
Then he looked out on the chattering crowd, making merry in the brightly lit cellar. He turned a hopeful smile on Mrs. Hudson. “Is there any eggnog for me?”
--
The days after Christmas passed almost as slowly as the ones before: Lord Mycroft had only requested Lestrade’s presence a handful of times, and that for minor errands. Boxing Day passed uneventfully, and the day after, the weather turned too cold even to stand in the courtyard and enjoy the secondhand smoke of the stableboy’s cheap cigarettes.
Lestrade attended muster, though without any guests aside from the family, the meeting was more of a cursory check-in than a strategic assembly. After Jasper dismissed them, Lestrade remained behind. He knew all of the other personal slaves by name, now, and exchanged pleasantries with a few as they filed out.
As Sally passed, he noticed a glint of gold in her ears. “Hey Sally, are those earrings new?”
“Do you like them?” She pulled her hair back to reveal the filigreed disks of gold. “My present from the family. Found them in a box outside my room yesterday morning. Like being a kid again, a little bit. What did you get?”
“Um. I haven’t opened it,” Lestrade said quickly. There’d been no box outside his room. There’d been nothing at all. A strand of the hope he’d been gathering slipped out of his grip, but Lestrade shook it off quickly. “Building up the... anticipation. ‘Scuse me.”
Lestrade made his way through the room to approach Jasper, who was seated at a high table in the corner, filling in a report. “Jasper. May I ask your help with something?”
“I’d rather that than the alternative.”
“Ah, yes. There’s a book you had, a while back. I looked for it in the library, but I couldn’t find it.”
“Which book?” Jasper looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
Lestrade pressed his lips together hard. Rather than put himself through the indignity of trying to describe the book, he mustered his courage to say the title. “Compleat Techniques for Slaves’ Sexual Performance.”
“That book.” Jasper shook his head. “You didn’t need it.”
“Yes, I know that’s what I said.” Lestrade lowered his voice. “Listen, I thought... I didn’t please him. I guess I’m not what he’s used to, so-“
“Of course you’re not what he’s used to, lad.” Jasper’s expression tightened into a disapproving moue. “I was mistaken, before. A book like that would be of no use to you.”
“Then how am I meant to-“
“The master’s proclivities are not mine to discuss.”
“Yes, which is why I’m asking for-“
“-But it’s been my personal observation that the master responds to you as he has not to other slaves.” Jasper gave him a hard look. “I suggest you not jeopardize that by attempting to become something you’re not.”
--
Lestrade had seen a dozen or more invitations to New Year’s Eve parties cross Lord Mycroft’s desk, but in the aftermath of the family holiday, after Lady Holmes and Lord Sherlock had departed, Lord Mycroft hadn’t been in a very social mood. He took a few business meetings after Boxing Day, and received a few guests for tea or dinner, but there’d been no grand balls or fancy parties.
Come December 31st, he’d not gone out all day. In the evening, Lord Mycroft sat in his library, reading, with Lestrade kneeling at his side. At two minutes to midnight, he’d poured them each a measure of brandy. He’d clinked his glass against Lestrade’s without a word and stood looking out the window at the darkened grounds beyond as the grandfather clock struck the first hour of the new year.
The walk to Lord Mycroft’s quarters had likewise been silent. Once inside, Lord Mycroft stopped by the sofa and stared into his empty glass.
Lestrade stepped forward and wrapped his hands around the glass, twining his fingers with his master’s. “I’ll take this.”
“Thank you, Gregory. Please send Clarke in when you go.”
“Clarke’s not coming, sir.” Lestrade set the empty glass down on the mantel and held onto it.
“Oh?”
“I told him to take the evening off.”
“Did you.” Lord Mycroft’s voice sounded entirely flat: neither questioning nor reprimanding.
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade abandoned the mantel and returned to stand before Lord Mycroft. “I believe we have some unfinished business.” He angled his head to align correctly and leaned in fraction by fraction, allowing plenty of time for objections. Instead, he heard Lord Mycroft’s breath fray.
When the distance closed between them, Lord Mycroft’s lips parted on a shallow inhale, allowing Lestrade to delve inside with his tongue, giving a taste of what was on offer. Lestrade kept his hands firmly at his sides, resisting the temptation to touch, to hold on and take rather than give. He delivered one last close-mouthed kiss, then drew back, cast his eyes deferentially downwards, and waited.
“Gregory.” Lord Mycroft’s breathing hadn’t smoothed. “Your staying here is not contingent on performing these kinds of duties.”
“I understand that, sir.” Lestrade reached for the buttons on Lord Mycroft’s jacket, but Lord Mycroft caught his hands and held them.
“I don’t want you to regret your actions, Gregory. You don’t have to do this.”
“Do you want me to, sir?”
“That is not the issue.”
“To me it is, sir.” Lestrade had a suspicion about his interpretation of their last encounter, now that he’d had more time to consider. “Did I do something wrong, last time? Was I not good?”
“You were...” Lord Mycroft’s mouth hung open for a moment as he seemed to search for words. “I very much enjoyed what we did.”
“Right.” Lestrade nodded, answering that part of himself still sitting on the floor in the en suite, going quietly to pieces. Lord Mycroft couldn’t have enjoyed finding his personal slave hyperventilating after they’d first been intimate; such a reaction would be enough to make any man, even one as clever as Lord Mycroft, draw the wrong conclusion. Lestrade would correct that mistake. “And have I struck you as overly deferential, sir? Sycophantic? Guilty of needless flattery?”
“No,” Lord Mycroft said slowly.
“Believe me, then, when I say I’ve thought about this, and I’d like you to take me to bed, sir.”
“I see.”
Lestrade leaned in to bring his mouth closer to Lord Mycroft’s ear. “And when I say I’ve thought about it, I mean I’ve thought about it often, and in many different arrangements.”
Lord Mycroft’s eyes drifted shut, and his grip tightened on Lestrade’s hands. “Gregory, when I told you that you were not to let anyone take advantage of you, I included myself in that command.”
“I understand, sir.”
Lord Mycroft opened his eyes and fixed Lestrade with the same focused attention he turned on potential allies: the penetrating gaze that sought to strip away a man’s words and uncover his true intentions. “Alright.” He released Lestrade’s hands.
Lestrade went to work on the buttons, stripping off first Lord Mycroft’s jacket, then his waistcoat, and draping them over a straight-backed chair.
Lord Mycroft unknotted his tie and pulled it out of his collar, a long line of red silk. “Wait,” he commanded. “Close your eyes.”
Lestrade obeyed, only to feel the length of silk wrap around his head, then firmly across his eyes. “Sir?”
“I don’t want you trying to guess what I want.”
“That’s my job, isn’t it,” Lestrade said unsteadily. First, Jasper wouldn’t let him read up on his duties, and now this.
“What would please me most is for you to enjoy this.” Lord Mycroft’s finger traced Lestrade’s brow, just above the tie. “You’re to concentrate on that, understand?”
The promising rumble in Lord Mycroft’s voice made Lestrade swell in the confines of his trousers. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Lord Mycroft tugged Lestrade’s shirt up over his head, neatly avoiding the makeshift blindfold. The shirt hit the rug with a soft plop. “Now, this is critical. If you don’t like something I do, you’ll say ‘stop.’”
“I can’t say ‘stop’ to you, sir.”
“You can, and you will.” Lord Mycroft thumbed open the button on Lestrade’s trousers, which provided a jolt of teasing pressure against Lestrade’s confined arousal. He hooked his fingers on the fabric, and began tugging it downward, a maddeningly slow drag over sensitized skin. “Say it.”
“Sir, I can’t say-“
“Say it, Gregory.”
“Stop, sir.”
Immediately, Lord Mycroft pulled his hands away, leaving Lestrade untouched. “Good. Now remember that. If you need to, you will say it.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade had no intention of calling a halt to the evening’s proceedings, but he swallowed the word down and held it as proof he’d chosen correctly in this. He sat still, then, dragging in slow breaths and waiting for a touch that could come at any second. He could feel the heat of Lord Mycroft’s body, still close, still watching him. “Sir,” he said at last. “Would you carry on? Please?”
“As you like.”
Firm hands stripped Lestrade of his remaining clothes. With his eyesight taken away, each touch, coming unexpectedly out of the dark, produced a pleasurable shiver.
“Come to bed,” Lord Mycroft whispered from behind Lestrade, breath hot against the nape of his neck.
With a few careful steps, Lestrade made it to the bed and settled himself onto his back. He turned his head to listen for any movement from Lord Mycroft. For a long moment, he heard nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and pictured how he must look, stretched out on display: grey hair, slight paunch, a lifetime of wear-and-tear on a body that hadn’t been world class to begin with. He hadn’t been this exposed the last time.
Lestrade fought back the nagging doubts, reminding himself of the interest and appreciation he’d seen in Lord Mycroft’s eyes whenever he’d dared to look. Besides, Lord Mycroft had seen him at his worst, when he’d returned beaten and bloody from a failed assignment, and hadn’t flinched from Lestrade then. He’d judged correctly, he knew he had.
Lestrade allowed his legs to fall open. His cock, harder by the second, curved up towards his belly. “Sir?” he prompted.
“Grip the headboard.” The tremor in Lord Mycroft’s voice had returned. Lestrade wrapped his hands around the vertical slats at the head of the bed. “Your hands just there. Good.”
Lord Mycroft’s weight settled onto the mattress beside Lestrade. He splayed a hand across Lestrade’s collarbone, just below his collar. Lestrade felt a flush spread down his chest and up his neck, as if radiating from Lord Mycroft’s touch.
The hand traced the planes of his chest, mapping each muscle and bone. A second hand joined the first in gripping Lestrade’s waist, just holding on, as if those hands could contain all of Lestrade between them. Lord Mycroft’s thumb traced the hollow of Lestrade’s hip.
Lestrade hadn’t imagined he’d be so helpless before his master; he’d meant to prove his worth, not lie back and be taken slowly apart. Still, perhaps his surrender could be proof in itself. Lestrade spread his legs wider.
One hand dislodged its grip and sought further down, tracing the outside of Lestrade’s leg, down to his knee, eliciting a flinch. The touch drew away at once. “Gregory?”
“Ticklish.”
“Ah,” Lord Mycroft said, but the touch did not resume.
A fond smile turned up the corners of Lestrade’s mouth. “I didn’t say stop, sir.”
“A fair point.” Lord Mycroft shifted further down the bed. He drew Lestrade’s leg up, settled it in his lap and bent Lestrade’s knee around his waist. The position left Lestrade helplessly exposed. The hand that had stroked his hip now traced the long muscle of his thigh, tantalizingly close to where Lestrade’s balls hung, heavy between his legs.
“Do you know I’ve an extensive collection of classical art?” Lord Mycroft’s voice came from very nearby, as if he’d leaned down to watch the movement of his hand on Lestrade more closely.
“Sir?”
“Paintings. Religious art. Sculpture. One of the best collections in the world, I’m told.” The hand continued its journey down Lestrade’s leg to smooth over his calf and cradle the arch of his foot. “But it seems I own nothing more exquisitely proportioned that you.”
“Ah--” Lestrade’s denial died unspoken as a hand fitted itself around his cock and moved it first this way, then that, as if exploring it from different angles. Lord Mycroft was examining the most intimate part of him, committing the shape and texture of him to memory, as Lestrade imagined he might with a new sculpture. The thought caused Lestrade’s cock to twitch helplessly in his master’s hand.
Lord Mycroft’s other hand slid down the crease where Lestrade’s thigh met his torso, and lower still, to cup his balls and roll them gently in his palm. The other hand traced the base of Lestrade’s eager cock with one feather-light touch, then dipped back to tease one finger against Lestrade’s hole.
Lestrade squeezed the slats of the headboard. His master’s skilful touch had brought him dangerously close to climax. “Sir.”
“Yes?” All motion ceased.
“I should be... You shouldn’t have to...” Lestrade fought to string words together. “Sir, tell me what you want.”
“I told you already, Gregory. Do you remember?”
Lestrade nodded. He splayed his legs more widely, as if that could relive the exquisite pleasure that threatened to undo him.
“We can stop, if you like. We’ll stop.”
“No!” Lestrade’s shout of protest kept Lord Mycroft’s touch from abandoning him this time. “Please. Sir, I want to keep going.”
“Then we will.” The hands disappeared for a moment, and then a slick finger returned to trace Lestrade’s entrance. Though he had no way of knowing where Lord Mycroft’s attention was focused, Lestrade gave a clear nod. The finger that had been teasing him eased inside.
Even without being able to see, the image of Lord Mycroft delving his hand between Lestrade’s spread legs, burned itself into Lestrade’s brain, which kept up a helpless chorus of he’s inside me, inside me, inside me. Another finger joined the first, twisting and stretching together in relentless rhythm.
Through the haze of pleasure, Lestrade wondered if Lord Mycroft was enjoying this as much as he was: if being with Lestrade in this way would chase away the heavy cares that had weighed on him for days. Lestrade rolled his hips, screwing himself down on his master’s thick fingers, determined to draw Lord Mycroft as thoroughly into abandon as he himself had fallen.
Lord Mycroft leaned in close, pressing his fingers deeper inside Lestrade as he moved his mouth to Lestrade’s ear. When he spoke, his ragged voice was that of a man whose cares had been thoroughly banished. “May I have you, Gregory?”
“Yes. Please, yes.”
Lord Mycroft’s fingers slid from inside him, and a hand returned to Lestrade’s hip. “Turn. Yes, like that.”
Lestrade scrambled onto all fours and resumed his grip on the headboard.
Lord Mycroft moved as well, and the mattress dipped behind Lestrade. A hand stroked up and down Lestrade’s back. “Do these still hurt?”
Lestrade’s distracted brain took a few seconds to process that Lord Mycroft meant the marks from the cane, which had faded to a few pinks lines. “No, sir.” Lestrade shifted his shoulders back, as if he could shake off the memory of the injuries. “I can’t feel them anymore.”
“Good.” Lord Mycroft dragged his hand down the length of Lestrade’s spine, and traced one of the longer lines that ran across the top of Lestrade’s arse. “I don’t want his mark on you. I don’t want anyone’s mark on you.”
“Not even yours, sir?”
“No one should want to put his mark on you.” Lord Mycroft spread his hand against the small of Lestrade’s back. “To mar something so fine with ownership should be a crime.”
“I’m already yours, sir.”
Lord Mycroft’s fingers dragged up the length of Lestrade’s spine to trace the edge of his collar. “That doesn’t make it right.”
Lestrade shook his head, hard. He hadn’t battled through his own doubts only to lose his master to other misgivings. He abandoned his grip on the headboard to wrap a hand around Lord Mycroft’s wrist and pull.
Lord Mycroft moved with a startled grunt and landed on his back. Being blindfolded made manoeuvring more difficult, but Lestrade managed to throw a leg over Lord Mycroft to straddle his waist. He planted his hands on Lord Mycroft’s chest and rose up on his knees. Even with arousal screaming in his blood, he made himself halt.
“Do you want to stop, sir?”
“Go on.” Lord Mycroft’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Gregory, please.”
Lestrade wrapped a steadying hand around Lord Mycroft’s cock and sank down slowly. His body stretched around his master, inch by inch as Lord Mycroft breached him. Lord Mycroft’s hands caught against Lestrade’s sweat-slick skin-his thighs, his sides, his chest-providing bright spots of sensation in the unending push of Lord Mycroft entering him.
Lestrade pressed down the last inch quickly, and groped blindly before him until his hands caught against the headboard to steady himself.
“Stay a moment.” Lord Mycroft’s hands traced down Lestrade’s chest, then around his hips to smooth over his arse, then up the outside of his thighs until both of them folded around Lestrade’s straining cock. He began, slowly, to stroke Lestrade from root to crown.
The spike of pleasure found Lestrade grinding himself down against Lord Mycroft. The strokes alternated, first gloriously hard, then unbearably light, firm around the base, then thumbing at the head. As his pleasure built, Lestrade worked himself on Lord Mycroft’s cock, rising up and sliding down again as his thighs began to shake, and clenching his muscles to keep from ending too soon.
Just when Lestrade thought he might be helpless to keep from finishing, Lord Mycroft’s touches turned teasingly light again-just a single finger tracing the wet slit of his cock.
“What-“ Lestrade licked his lips and tried again. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Learning you.” The touch circled the crown of Lestrade’s cock and traced the vein that ran the length. “I want to know every inch of you, Gregory. What makes you squirm. What makes you come. I want to know how to give you every pleasure in this world. If you’ll let me. Gregory. Will you let me?”
“Yes. Anything. Yes.” Lestrade squirmed frantically on top of his master.
Lord Mycroft squeezed both hands around Lestrade and stroked faster. He twisted his fingers around the head at the end of the stroke, and that pushed Lestrade past his limit. He bent backwards with a shout, every muscle clenching tight as his orgasm poured out of him. He pictured his white come dripping down Lord Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers and spattering against his broad chest; the image knocked another weak spurt out of his spent cock.
Lestrade pitched forward, fighting to keep upright while every muscle in his body seemed to be riding the crest of a powerful afterglow. He tightened his grip on the headboard and rolled his hips forward against Lord Mycroft’s body. “You,” he panted, unable to form any kind of proper sentence. “Please.”
“Yes.” Lord Mycroft released Lestrade’s over-sensitive cock to grip his hips with surprising force and thrust up into him. Lestrade felt a swell of pride that his master, usually so proper, so restrained, could lose himself in this: could shed the mantle of his lordly responsibility and forget himself in pleasure freely offered.
“That’s it,” Lestrade urged. “Come on, that’s just right.” He managed to push himself up and slide down to meet each thrust in a frenetic rhythm.
Short, frantic sounds that may have been either grunts or malformed words drifted up from the bed. Lord Mycroft’s hands slipped from Lestrade’s hips to clutch at his arse, as if he could go deeper, bring them closer. His body went rigid beneath Lestrade, and his breath stopped for a long moment before breaking on a wordless shout as he spilled his release inside Lestrade.
Lestrade let go of the headboard to execute a controlled slump onto Lord Mycroft . He gulped in air heavy with the smell of sex, sweat, and his master. Beneath him, he could feel Lord Mycroft’s chest rising and falling, resuming a more sedate rhythm. In the darkness behind the blindfold, Lestrade felt his eyes getting heavy.
“Gregory?” Lord Mycroft’s voice, quite close to his ear, pulled him back from the edge of sleep.
“Hm.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, sir.” He groped for Lord Mycroft’s hand, which lay limp at his side, and squeezed it tightly. “I won’t run away. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
--
The holiday lull didn’t last long into January. Lestrade berated himself several late nights in a row for ever lamenting how “boring” Christmas was. Clearly Lord Sherlock had been a bad influence.
It seemed every acquaintance in London urgently desired Lord Mycroft’s attention. As they exited the latest gathering to emerge into the chill of a London night, Lestrade had to glance at the placard on the building to remind himself where they’d been: the Embassy of the Republic of Ecuador. Of course.
Lestrade shoved his bare hands in his pockets as he followed Lord Mycroft down the stairs. He fixed his eyes on Lady Correra’s personal slave, who had an unusual mark-a brand, perhaps?-just visible on her thigh at the hem of her short skirt. He squinted at it until two men rushed down the stairs, breaking his line of sight. Then he hurried to catch up with his master, who’d already reached the pavement.
“We’ll have your car brought ‘round, my lord.” The uniformed attendant tipped his hat to Lord Mycroft and sent his colleague off with a wave of his hand.
“Thank you.” Lord Mycroft gathered his scarf more tightly around his throat. Very quietly, for Lestrade’s ears only, he said, “I often wonder why we haven’t declared war on Ecuador.”
“You can’t attack them just for throwing boring parties, sir,” Lestrade said reasonably.
“No, I suppose not.” Lord Mycroft spotted one of the other guests leaving the party and moved to intercept him. “Lord Fontecilla. A word?”
Lestrade caught sight of his master’s car arriving, third in the line of nondescript black cars in front of the Embassy. The first escort vehicle, a Bentley staffed by household guards, pulled up behind. Buoyed by thoughts of heated seats and a warm interior, Lestrade headed for the car, confident that Lord Mycroft would follow in his own time.
As Lestrade approached, the driver stepped from the vehicle to open the door. Though he wore the household uniform, Lestrade didn’t recognize the man. With a frown, Lestrade gave the rest of the scene a quick scan. Across the street, in the midst of the passers-by and departing revellers, the two men who’d rushed down the stairs deliberately turned their backs to the road and hunched down into their coats. Lestrade stopped walking. As soon as he did, the driver reached inside his jacket.
Lestrade was in motion before his mind had quite caught up with his body. He sprinted down the pavement. “Mycroft!” He darted forward and slammed into his master just as an explosion ripped apart the shiny black car and sent pieces flying in all directions. He tackled Mycroft to the ground and tucked his face into Mycroft’s shoulder as he covered their heads with his arms. A few small chunks thudded against his heavy coat.
When the shaking of the explosion subsided, his ears began to ring. He pushed himself up and took stock of his surroundings: street lights out, shattered. Car a flaming wreck. Other vehicles also smouldering. Driver a bloody heap on the pavement. One of Mycroft’s security detail down in the street, two more climbing out of the smoking Bentley. Passers-by screaming and running. No imminent threat.
Lestrade tucked a hand under Mycroft’s head and carefully rolled him onto his back. He tugged the scarf loose and pressed two fingers to Lord Mycroft’s neck, feeling for a pulse, listening for breath. The explosion still rang in his ears and vibrated through his skin, preventing him from detecting any sign of life. Lestrade squeezed his eyes tightly closed, shutting out the world to concentrate on his master. And there, there it was: pulse, breath. Lord Mycroft was alive.
Lestrade pulled back to assess to extent of the damage. Lord Mycroft’s eyes were closed, and what little blood there was seeped sluggishly from a knot on his forehead. Safe enough for now, but needing treatment.
Lestrade glanced up to greet two household guards who pounded up alongside him on the pavement. “One of you, cover the street,” he ordered. “We’re not out of danger yet. The driver was in on it, and at least two men in the crowd. You, get another car, with a driver you trust, plus at least one extra guard. Not here, the next street over, Sloane Street. Pull up there. Have a doctor waiting at the estate.”
The first guard dropped to a crouch a few meters away and pulled her sidearm. Her eyes roved over the street. The other guard jogged away, shouting into her walkie-talkie. By this time another guard, uniformed but streaked with soot, had drawn up next to Lestrade.
A quick check of Lord Mycroft showed no difference-he was breathing, but unconscious-so Lestrade turned his attention to the newcomer; thank goodness, someone he recognized. “Wood, get someone to flag down the first responders when they get here. I need a fireman or a paramedic to tell us whether he’s safe to move, then they can go on about their business. We’re not taking him to hospital-it’s not safe. And check out the car they’re bringing around to Sloane Street. Make sure the driver is someone you know, or you kick him out and drive yourself. As soon as we have the clear, we’re coming to you.”
By the time she’d nodded her understanding and headed off, a cluster of guards in the uniform of the Ecuadorian Embassy was clattering down the stairs. Lestrade pressed his hand against Lord Mycroft’s chest to make sure he could feel the rise and fall of his breath. Yes, alive. Lestrade would do what needed to be done, then. He hailed the incoming guards.
--
Lestrade sat in the back of the nondescript black car, holding Mycroft’s head in his lap. He ignored Wood’s frequent glances in the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t deny the comfort of having someone he knew at the wheel, even if that someone probably didn’t have very charitable feelings towards him right now.
Lord Mycroft moved fitfully against Lestrade’s restraining hands, but it wasn’t until they’d made it halfway back to the estate that Lord Mycroft opened his eyes. “Gregory?” He tried to sit up, but Lestrade put a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Stay down, sir. There was an explosion. A car bomb, I believe. You were knocked out.”
“Other casualties?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t see many. At least one.”
“Shaw,” Wood reported from the front seat, and Lestrade relayed the information.
Lord Mycroft nodded. He craned his neck back to look at Lestrade. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Lestrade said. He gave himself a quick once-over to ensure he hadn’t acquired any injuries that he hadn’t noticed in the mad adrenaline rush, and found nothing worse than scraped knuckles from hitting the pavement. “If we’d have made it to the car, though, we’d both be red spots on the roadway.”
“Well. That’s best avoided.” Lord Mycroft folded his hand over Lestrade’s on his shoulder. “And we’re on the way to the estate?”
“Yes. If you’d rather go to hospital, I can have them-“
“No. No, the estate is better. You arranged this?”
“I suppose I did, sir.” Lestrade glanced towards the rearview mirror, but Wood had her eyes on the road. “After the explosion... Well, I’ve handled a few emergencies in my time. I guess instinct sort of kicks in.”
“That it does.”
Lestrade lowered his voice. “I’m surprised your guards listened to me, actually, sir. I thought they might not let me help.”
“They have standing orders.” Lord Mycroft gave Lestrade’s hand a reassuring pat.
“Pardon?”
“To give you authority if I’m ever incapacitated in a crisis. They did exactly the right thing.”
“Oh.” This time, when Lestrade looked up, he met Wood’s eyes in the mirror. She nodded to him. “Well.” He smoothed a hand through Lord Mycroft’s hair, figuring he could get away with it in the guise of medical assessment. “You should try to stay awake, sir. We’ll be there shortly.”
When they arrived, several guards rushed out to hustle Lord Mycroft inside, leaving Lestrade alone. He retreated to the personal slaves’ quarters.
In the communal bathroom, he scrubbed blood off his hands-some of Lord Mycroft’s, and some of his own.
In his room, Lestrade stretched out on his back in his narrow bed. He pressed two fingers to his neck to feel the pulse there. When he closed his eyes, he could see Lord Mycroft’s body lying slack on the pavement, silent and unresponsive. But he’d felt a pulse. Lord Mycroft was alive. He was alive. And he trusted Lestrade to keep him that way.
--
After a night of checking the clock every few minutes, Lestrade cleaned up, made himself presentable, and arrived at the servants’ entrance to Lord Mycroft’s quarters at seven o’clock on the dot. A knock garnered a clear, “Come,” and Lestrade slipped inside.
“Good morning, Gregory.” Lord Mycroft sat in the armchair by the fire in his pyjamas and dressing gown, reading the morning paper. If not for the stark white bandage wrapped around his head, it might have been any other morning.
“Good morning, sir.” Lestrade came to kneel in his proper place at Lord Mycroft’s side. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine. The doctors have fussed over me quite enough.” Lord Mycroft folded his paper and set it aside. “Are you alright? No one said you were injured.”
“I’m tough to take down.”
“That you are. The police may want to speak to you. I’ve told them about the likely involvement of the Chilean Ambassador. You remember her two sons, meant to be under house arrest in Edinburgh? Those were the strapping lads you identified to the Embassy guards while I was lying there insensible. It’s quite likely that the statements of the guards should be enough.” Lord Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t want to speak to anyone at the Yard, I can put them off.”
“It’s fine, sir. I will if you need me to.” The idea of facing his former colleagues still hurt--he supposed there’d always be a gnawing ache where his police career had been--but the hurt seemed more bearable now that he had a real place with Lord Mycroft.
“That’s settled, then.” Lord Mycroft stared down at him for a long moment, and Lestrade kept still, resisting the urge to return the look. At last, Lord Mycroft lifted his hand from Lestrade’s shoulder. “Gregory, there’s something I meant to give you at Christmas. The circumstances didn’t seem quite right for it, then, but I’d like to give it to you now, if I may.”
“Of course, sir.”
Lord Mycroft stood. Lestrade followed him to the mantel, where Lord Mycroft retrieved a carved wooden box. As he held it out, Lestrade recognized it as one he’d seen Lord Mycroft handling when he’d come to speak to him at Christmas. “Open it.”
Lestrade accepted the box, which was surprisingly light. Under Lord Mycroft’s close attention, he lifted the lid. Inside the box sat a collar: sturdy black leather a half-inch wide, capped along both edges with a thick line of silver. The clasp at the back was cleverly hidden in a curve of silver, making the join almost invisible. At the front, a silver circle housed a simple working of the Holmes family crest. The whole design spoke of strength and simplicity. Lestrade set the box on the end table and lifted out the collar with both hands.
“It’s not much to look at, I know. My great grandfather had it made at the same time he re-forged the family’s ceremonial sword to use in the coronation of Empress Victoria. The silver on the sword is the same that was used to make this design, and the crest, here.” Lord Mycroft touched his finger to the gleaming metal circle. “The leather’s been repaired and reworked over the years, but the design and the materials don’t change. My grandfather presented it to Heston, the personal slave who served him during the Great War. Jasper wore it until my father died. I’d like you to have it.”
“Sir.” Lestrade looked up. The collar felt warm and heavy in his hands. “I’d be honoured.”
Lord Mycroft’s teeth flashed in a bright smile that disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “There is a condition,” he said.
“What is it?” Lestrade looked at his master’s closed expression, then at the collar in his hands, and considered what, if anything, he might be unwilling to capitulate.
“Promise me. The day you no longer want this, the very same hour you change your mind, you must return the collar. I’ll find you a post, a proper one where you’ll not be mistreated. But you will not wear my collar out of duty or out of fear. Not ever.” Lord Mycroft closed his right hand over Lestrade’s atop the collar. “Do you agree to that?”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade lifted the collar up, presenting it to his master. Lord Mycroft didn’t take it.
“Again.”
“I promise.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear, my lord.” Lestrade bowed his head and offered up the collar. Lord Mycroft accepted it, laid it carefully around Lestrade’s neck, and pushed the clasp home.
--
--
Lestrade had stripped the sheets, carried them to the laundry chute, re-made his bed, lay down and stared at the clock, got up again, and begun arranging his sock drawer when he heard a knock. A quick glance at the clock revealed an indecent hour. Lestrade pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms, braced himself for disaster, and opened the door.
Mycroft stood in the corridor in his shirt and trousers, with his tie hanging around his neck.
“Mycroft... What?” Lestrade glanced quickly down the hallway, first right and then left, looking for signs of some emergency-fire, intruders, something-before realizing that this would hardly be his master’s first stop in such an event. “What’s wrong?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t hear the bell. Did you ring? I’m so sorry, I should have-“
“No, not at all. I simply...” Mycroft tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “I can see I’ve intruded. I never meant to-“
“Wait! Just. Wait.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair and opened the door wider. “Do you want to come inside?”
Mycroft glanced down the corridor. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, of course. I’ll come to your quarters, sir, I-“
“Don’t,” Mycroft cut him off. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Alright, then. Don’t stand in the hallway. Come in.” Lestrade gestured inside.
Mycroft stepped neatly around Lestrade and into the room. As the head of this part of the household, Lestrade enjoyed a room larger than most of the slaves’ quarters. Still, it was somewhat smaller than Mycroft’s bathroom, and not nearly so well-appointed. It contained only a bed, a squishy, overstuffed chair, a wardrobe, a half-full bookshelf, and a table that served as a desk when he couldn’t bear to be holed up in his cubby of an office.
The two stood just inside the door. Lestrade kept his eyes averted as he ran down a list of all the reasons Mycroft might be paying him a visit here, in his quarters, when he’d never done so before. Perhaps his master, too, hadn’t found it easy to sleep alone.
As the silence stretched, Lestrade cast about for a safe topic. At last, he said, “Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Lestrade flipped the switch on the electric kettle perched on the narrow windowsill, another advantage of his rank. He stared at the kettle, feeling Mycroft’s eyes on his back until the water boiled and the kettle switched off. He’d experienced this mood of Mycroft’s before. He would speak when he was ready and not until; Lestrade prepared himself to settle in and wait all night if necessary.
A stray bag of herbal tea was all he had, so he put the sachet into a cup and let it steep. He put the cup in its chipped saucer to complete the sad picture. “No milk, sorry,” he said as he handed it over.
“Quite alright.”
Mycroft perched on the edge of the squishy armchair, and Lestrade settled for sitting on the bed.
“None for you?” Mycroft asked after his first tentative sip.
“Just have the one cup. I don’t get many visitors. Any, actually.”
Mycroft gazed into his tea. “I shouldn’t have intruded.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not like Lord Sherlock, traipsing in and out of the wing at all hours. Half-lives in John’s room, he does.” Lestrade remembered himself and bit back anything else he might have said. “And he can do as he likes. But I don’t mind your being here.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s true.” Lestrade watched his master pretend to sip at the tea, and took pity. He slid to the floor at Mycroft’s feet and settled down with his head in Mycroft’s lap and an arm slung about his waist. The smell of his master reminded him how cold his bed seemed. “Mycroft. Listen. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say it.”
Mycroft smoothed his hand against the back of Lestrade’s head, letting his thumb brush the top of Lestrade’s collar. “I owe you an apology.”
“Pardon?”
“An apology. I’ve been working on a project recently-nothing I can tell you about. I know it must appear as if I’ve become quite distant, but I assure you, it will all become clear in time.”
“Is this to do with Lord Sherlock? You said, days ago, that there was something you needed to do before he could leave. So this project, it’s to do with him?”
“In a way.”
Lestrade curled his hand around Mycroft’s calf. “Can I help?”
“You are helping, Gregory. You’re helping more than you know.” Mycroft’s hand stilled. “I do trust you, you must know that. I simply require a little trust in return.”
“You have it.” Lestrade sat up to look Mycroft in the eye. “You’ve had it a long while.”
Mycroft dropped his gaze to the cup and attempted another polite sip.
“Oh, leave off. I know it’s awful.” Lestrade rose to his feet, plucked the cup and saucer from Mycroft’s hands and set it on the windowsill.
“I find I’m rather tired. Perhaps it did have some soporific properties.”
Lestrade eyed his master carefully: the slump of his shoulders and the slow slide of his eyes towards the floor betrayed an exhaustion beyond the physical. “Do you want to lie down?”
“If it’s not inconvenient.”
“Come here, then.” Lestrade settled onto the bed, near the wall and patted the duvet.
Mycroft levered himself out of the armchair. He toed off his shoes and pulled the tie from around his neck. Lestrade’s eyes followed the long line of silk as Mycroft draped it over the chair back.
When Mycroft stood uncertainly at the edge of the bed, Lestrade held out his arms, beckoning. With a grateful smile, Mycroft settled himself onto the bed, fitting easily into the space Lestrade had left open for him.
--
That's all for this installment, ladies and gents! Hope you enjoyed it. The next bit (which will be continue the story in the present day) will likely be out this winter. Thanks everyone for being so encouraging during this lengthy process!