Sherlock Fic: Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled (Part 2 of 3)
It's Saturday!
Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled, Part 2 (Sherlock BBC; Sherlock/JohnMycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
When John returned from the showers, he found a note taped to the door of his room. “You’re needed in the gardens immediately.” The untidy scrawl could have belonged to any of the slaves in the wing, so John threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs, through the kitchen, and out into the courtyard.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, a peal of thunder shook the courtyard and sheets of rain descended from the sky.
“Perfect,” John muttered. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and trudged down the path, shoes squishing with every step. He would have to have a talk with Sherlock about appropriate times to work out of doors.
But when John passed the hedges that marked the start of the formal gardens, he didn’t find Lord Sherlock measuring rainfall or digging up earthworms or examining variations in the colour of wet cobblestones. Instead, he found Lord Mycroft standing beneath a wide black umbrella in a little circle immune from the wet. In his right hand he held a cigarette.
John considered a comment about the health risks of tobacco, before deciding that no comment he made could possibly convince Lord Mycroft to change his mind, let alone alter his behaviour.
Lord Mycroft took a long drag as John approached, then dropped the butt on the cobblestones and crushed it with his heel. “Doctor Watson, so kind of you to join me.”
“Not a doctor anymore, sir.” John came to a stop a respectful three feet away and stood in the downpour. “A slave can’t hold a medical licence.”
“Hm.” Lord Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re still practising.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” John dropped his gaze to the appropriate level.
“When I first summoned you to my library, it was because I’d learned you’d taken an interest in treating my slaves.”
“Was that it? I thought your purposes ran more to general intimidation, my lord.”
Mycroft turned his gaze to the darkened sky. “It’s been brought to my attention that you provided medical treatment this morning for the slave of a visiting dignitary.”
“Yes.” John didn’t bother to deny it. News travelled quickly on the estate, it seemed. “Yes, sir.”
“May I ask why you thought it necessary to interfere in such a case?”
“Because I took an oath to practise my craft to the best of my ability.” Once a doctor, always a doctor, Mrs. Hudson had said, and she’d been right; John could not forget his medical training any more than he could ignore the impulse to act when he saw someone in pain. “No one else was going to help her, sir.”
“I would have thought that from your earlier experience here you would have learned that the body, and therefore the health of a slave belongs not to the slave, but to the master who holds the contract.”
“You didn’t actually object to my treating Molly Hooper,” John pointed out.
“No. However, I am a man of modern, liberal sensibilities.”
“Are you, sir?” John managed to hold back a derisive laugh.
Lord Mycroft levelled an unreadable glance at John. “Yes.” He seemed to realize for the first time that John stood in the rain. “Pardon my rudeness. You seem to be unprepared for the weather.” He stepped forward to position himself next to John, so that his broad umbrella shielded them both from the wet. “You seem to think that I’m some sort of tyrant, but I assure you that the Chinese ambassador is much more traditional, and unfortunately, much more paranoid than I.”
“What do you mean paranoid?” The sudden shelter from the rain didn’t stop the chill that ran through John.
“The Ambassador’s slaves were told not to speak to anyone in my household.” Lord Mycroft stared out at the dead grey sky. “Sedition is a very serious charge for slaves belonging to a diplomat of his importance. She has no way of proving whether she spoke to you or not, and the evidence of her medical treatment was reason enough to cast suspicion upon her.”
“What happened?” The chill that had gripped John settled in the centre of his chest, making it difficult to breathe. “Sir, what happened?”
“She’s dead, Dr. Watson.”
“I see.” John had seen her less than an hour ago. He could still hear the high, thin sound of her voice, whispering words he couldn’t understand. At his side, his hand clenched into a fist. “How?”
“Exsanguinated. I gather her throat was slit.” Mycroft spared a brief glance towards the path, but no one else was out in this deluge. “It’s possible the Ambassador even carried out the sentence himself. He’d be perfectly within his rights, by the laws of his own Empire.”
“You let this happen.” Heedless of protocol, John looked directly at Lord Mycroft, who met his gaze calmly.
“I did not cause this. You cannot fix everything, Dr. Watson. In fact, sometimes you can do more harm than good by trying, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s what you’d like me to do, is it, sir?” John asked through clenched teeth. “Stop trying?”
“Of course not.”
“Excuse me, sir. I have duties to attend to.” John stepped out from under Lord Mycroft’s umbrella, into the downpour, and headed for the path.
“This conversation is not finished.” Lord Mycroft’s sharp call pierced through the rain.
John turned back and gave a little bow. “I’m sorry, sir. My master doesn’t permit me to speak to other lords.” He strode away towards the house.
--
Lestrade found the residential section of the house quiet, which was not unusual at this time of day. Still, Mycroft hadn’t been in his office, which suggested he may still be in his rooms; he occasionally preferred to work from there, where he was less likely to be interrupted.
At the branch of the corridor that led to the family wing, Lestrade nodded to the guard on duty, standing at ease beside her tall wooden desk. “Wood,” he said. “I saw no less than six guards between here and the kitchens. Busy day?”
“We’ve beefed up security for the banquet tonight.” Wood offered him a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be a long night for all of us, I’m sure.”
“Too right.” Lestrade inclined his head down the corridor. “Is His Lordship in his quarters, do you know?”
“Went out for a walk.”
“A...?” Lestrade glanced over to the hallway’s tall windows, where the drawn curtains allowed a clear view of the hazy downpour drenching the grounds of the estate.
Wood shook her head. “Don’t ask me, Greg.”
“Right. Well, I’m certainly not going out after him.” Lestrade had enough to manage today without catching a cold from standing about in the rain. And besides, a little respite from his duties with Mycroft would give him time to pursue some other matters. “Oh, Wood. I wondered if you might... I was just in the cellars, and I noticed there were some Imperial soldiers down by the holding cells.”
“Oh, that lot.” Wood glanced quickly down the hallway; they were alone, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. “They’re a barrel of laughs.”
“Do you know why they’re here?”
“My understanding is they’re to take charge of a prisoner. Some intruder they caught on the grounds the other night.”
“Caught on the grounds?” Lestrade’s thoughts spun down several paths at once, trying to understand what that might mean. “An assassin? Was Lord Mycroft informed? I haven’t heard anything about-“
“Then you didn’t hear it from me, understand?” Wood held up her hands. “All I know is that they sent an advance team before His Imperial Highness arrives for the banquet, and they sent a few extra to deal with this.”
“Thanks, Wood.” Lestrade bit back his other questions; it wouldn’t do to land Wood in trouble. “You attending the banquet tonight, or you on sentry duty all day?”
“Yes, lucky me, I get to stand around the great hall looking ornamental.” She struck an exaggerated pose of military attention.
“I’ll see you there.” Lestrade gave her a mock salute.
She laughed and waved him away. “Stay dry!”
Lestrade followed the corridor to its turning point, then unfastened a set of French doors that led onto the long balcony. The roof’s overhang shielded part of the balcony from the rain, so Lestrade could stay out of the wet as he walked the length of it. The balcony of the family wing faced the balcony of the guest wing across the decorative courtyard, and, off to the east, provided views of the sprawling gardens, so he might discern where, exactly, his wayward master had gone walking. Jasper had once explained that the manor’s original design had something to do with providing opportunities for young suitors from visiting families to see and be seen without endangering the virtue of the family’s eligible sons and daughters. Now, it provided a useful lookout on the grounds and a glimpse of the arriving guests.
Lestrade had been studying the guests for days, of course, but he’d put more effort into memorizing the banquet seating arrangements than the room assignments. Still, when he saw lamps lit in several of the guest rooms, he tried to remember who was assigned the balcony-side rooms. Lady Price, who was arriving this morning with three slaves of her own. Lord Colonel Moran, at the far end, already had Jim assigned to him; Lestrade had better check on Jim today, to make sure Colonel Moran’s run-in with John yesterday hadn’t resulted in consequences for Jim. Lord Dixon had been housed next door to Lady Moore, the better to encourage their budding affair, which Mycroft had been nurturing as part of some design for the power structure of the west country. Captain Lennox, who’d need a slave to serve at table tonight. A guard was posted in the courtyard below, though mostly for appearances. The stone walls were smooth and featureless, hardly conducive to climbing. The estate was likely one of the most secure places in the Empire.
“You’re not as stupid as most of Mycroft’s staff.”
Lestrade didn’t need to look to recognize that voice. “Good morning, Lord Sherlock.”
“He respects your investigative skills, such as they are.” Lord Sherlock stepped up beside Lestrade, just far enough onto the balcony that the falling rain didn’t splash onto his highly-polished shoes. “So why, when a simple mystery arose regarding the tryst of a visiting ambassador’s daughter, did he not ask you to investigate?”
Lestrade bowed his head to the appropriately deferential degree, which had the welcome side effect of hiding his frown. Mycroft had reasons of his own for bringing Lord Sherlock here, he knew, and they had nothing to do with any doubts Mycroft might have as to Lestrade’s abilities. Probably nothing. “Not such a simple case. If I recall, it took you several attempts to find the answer.”
“Merely steps on the path to a correct solution.” Lord Sherlock inclined his head towards Lestrade. “Usually my brother goes to great lengths to make sure you and I are not under the same roof for any span of time. He seems to think you’re still sensitive about your arrest and all that, which makes no sense. That was years ago. Why would you still be upset?”
“Why indeed?” Lestrade sighed.
“Mycroft wanted me here for a reason. What do you know about Moriarty?”
Lestrade fixed his attention on the rain drops spattering against the stone banister and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. Lord Sherlock might be capable of wresting information from an unwilling informant in any number of ways, but Lestrade resolved not to give away his master’s secrets without a fight. “If I knew anything, Lord Sherlock, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say.”
“Do you really think that Mycroft would have let all this go on-an ambassador’s daughter disgraced under his roof, Imperial soldiers stationed on the estate, armed intruders running around the grounds-if it weren’t part of some larger scheme?” Lord Sherlock scoffed. “My brother leaves very little to chance.”
“What Lord Mycroft does, he does for the good of the realm.”
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to the Chinese Ambassador’s dead slave.”
“Soo Lin is dead?” Lestrade turned to face Lord Sherlock.
“Not to mention the Chinese Ambassador’s dead son, the two hired assassins the household guards shot on the grounds, and the three dead customs officials at Portsmouth who handled importing those Chinese slaves.” Lord Sherlock ticked them off on his fingers. “Mycroft’s racking up quite a body count for this little project, isn’t he?”
Lestrade kept his expression neutral, despite his surprise at the number of deaths Lord Sherlock seemed to think were related. As had often happened when he and Lord Sherlock worked together, he didn’t yet grasp the logic of the connections, but he felt a nagging suspicion that Sherlock’s conclusions were correct. Still, he’d seen no evidence to support what Lord Sherlock was suggesting. “Is Lord Mycroft personally responsible for every death in his territory?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Lestrade.” Lord Sherlock favoured him with a derisive glare. “Even you should be able to put together the pattern. He’s planning something, and he doesn’t mind shedding some blood in the course of his work. Not his own blood of course, but anyone who gets in his way. How long will you keep making excuses for him?”
“Moriarty is more dangerous than you can imagine,” Lestrade snapped. If Sherlock had seen Mycroft staying up nights, tracing the threads of his various schemes, perhaps he’d understand. “The Empress trusts Lord Mycroft to deal with him, and if you-“
“So Moriarty is a man.” Lord Sherlock’s eyes widened.
Lestrade replayed his last few words in his head, and cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to let himself be drawn into an argument with a Holmes. “Lord Sherlock- “
“That’s all for now,” Lord Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell me.”
“No, sir,” Lestrade said stiffly.
Lord Sherlock swept through the French doors back into the house, leaving Lestrade in the cold.
--
John left a trail of water and mud on his way back to the personal slaves’ wing, where he found Anthea standing in the corridor, holding two garment bags.
“This is formal daywear.” She held up the first bag as John scanned his print to open the door to his room. “Don’t let Sherlock spill anything on you, or get you messy, or drag you out in the rain again.”
“It wasn’t him.” John kicked off his waterlogged shoes and snatched a towel from the floor. “It was Lord Mycroft.”
“Lord Mycroft dragged you out in the rain?” Anthea asked from the doorway.
“He wanted to have a chat.” John applied the towel vigorously to his dripping hair, while adding to his mental list of things he would have liked to have said to Lord Mycroft in that chat, most of them involving obscure curse words he’d learned in the Army. “Did you know he smokes?”
“Only when he’s under too much stress.” Anthea hung the daywear on the wardrobe door and stood with her head bowed. “I’m sorry about what happened with Soo Lin.”
“I should have done something more.” John tossed the towel to the floor, where it puddled like blood.
“John, people don’t treat slaves that way if they plan to keep them.” Anthea touched the tips of her fingers to John’s shoulder, which ached dully. “Nothing you did or could have done would have saved her.”
“You don’t know that.” John shook off her touch, and with it a deluge of rainwater.
“I know more than you think.” Anthea held up the remaining garment bag. “Now, this is evening wear. Specially tailored not to wrinkle when you kneel.”
“What a great advance for civilization.” John slumped into the room’s solitary chair, weighed down by sodden clothes and guilt.
Anthea hung the evening wear next to the daywear. “You know, if you need help, you should ask Lestrade.”
“I can work out how to fasten my own trousers, thanks.”
“I mean about Soo Lin.” She turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you think you’re the first slave to feel responsible for another slave’s misfortune? We are at the mercy of our masters, John, all of us. You can no more protect another slave from her master than you can protect yourself. You’ll go mad trying.”
“Then I’ll go mad. Is there anything else?”
Anthea slipped her phone out of her pocket and disappeared out the door.
A warm shower made John feel almost human again, even if the formal daywear-a crisp white shirt with a thin black tie, jacket, and crisply pressed trousers-made him long for the relative comfort of his Army dress uniform.
Once properly attired-John double-checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure he wouldn’t be a target for reproach--he hurried to the family library, where Sherlock would likely be waiting impatiently, if he hadn’t got bored and faffed off.
John heard voices as he approached the ornately carved doors and quickened his pace. Sherlock tended to throw social graces to the wind when in pursuit of clues, and a house full of important guests provided ample opportunity for disaster. But when John burst through the doors, he found an unfamiliar lady perched on one of the large oak tables, bare legs swinging, sending the hem of her skirt moving against her thighs. A slave with a bright red collar knelt at her feet, holding up her own skirt with one hand while the other worked between her legs.
The door banged shut. Both women’s attention snapped to John. He quickly averted his eyes. The marble floor was inlaid with a complicated design of interwoven knots, he discovered. “I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t... I’m looking for my master.”
“It’s alright,” the woman said. “Don’t be afraid, dear.”
John held back the automatic retort that he wasn’t afraid, merely surprised. It wasn’t every day he walked in on two beautiful women doing-and besides, why did no one believe in privacy in this house? “Sorry to have disturbed you, my lady.”
“You don’t disturb me. Stay, Kate.” The lady slid off the table and prowled towards John. He didn’t dare lift his eyes, but he could see her dainty feet encased in tremendously high black pumps as she clicked towards him.
“You’re new to the household.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition.” She waved a finger at his collar. “I thought you’d be taller.”
John kept his eyes averted and stood still.
“Kate, come here.”
The slave abandoned her position and came to stand beside her mistress.
“What do you think?” the lady asked.
The slave raked her eyes over John, lingering on the close cut of his trousers. “Works for me.”
“Everything works on you,” the lady said with an exasperated sigh. She turned back to John. “Old for a personal slave, aren’t you? Not the conventional type, either. You must have some impressive skills to have enticed Lord Sherlock.” The slave, Kate, whispered something in the lady’s ear, and she grinned. “He does have eccentric tastes, that one.” She glanced at John. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m not at liberty to comment, ma’am.” John let his eyes stray to the library beyond, looking for any sign of his master. If Sherlock had already left, he’d have to extricate himself, and quickly.
“Oh come, I’m not asking you to confess any intimate secrets. I’m just interested in what assets he sees in you.”
John thought for a moment he might be facing a repeat of Moran’s advances, but the woman merely inclined her head and examined him from a safe distance.
“I am very good at knowing what people want.” The lady began a slow circuit around him, her heels clicking on the marble. “You’re a strange one, though. Most slaves want to remain unnoticed. To do their duty and no more. You... You want to be useful.”
“I know my duty, ma’am.” John straightened his back and fixed his eyes on the floor.
“It’s more than duty.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Duty doesn’t give you that special glow.”
“Get away from him.”
John never heard the doors open, but suddenly they were swinging shut, and Sherlock had appeared in the narrow space between John and the woman.
“Lord Sherlock, really. I meant nothing by it.” The lady gave Sherlock a winning smile. “We’ve all been so curious about your new acquisition. Surely you’ll let some of us enjoy a turn around the floor with him tonight. It can be such fun to appreciate another master’s good fortune, even just for a dance or two.”
“John is mine.” Sherlock’s hand darted back to grab John’s wrist.
“Of course, dear.” She pulled Kate against her side and pressed a kiss to her hair. “I remember the first blush of having a new personal slave. The mindless passion it excites for a time. The delicious indulgence of learning a new slave’s charms.” She glanced at John. “Enjoy it while you can, my boy. Lord Sherlock, I’ll see you this evening.” She sauntered towards the library doors, and Sherlock turned to watch her go.
Kate hurried forward and pressed something into John’s hand with a wink. He barely had time to see what it was before Sherlock crashed into him and shoved him backwards.
“She won’t have you.” Sherlock tore John’s jacket off his shoulders and flung it to the floor.
“It’s just a dance, Sherlock. Not that I want to dance with her, but aren’t such things expected to-“
“No.” Sherlock tugged John’s tie loose, then tore his shirt free and ripped it over his head. “You’re mine, and you do what I want.”
Sherlock pushed John again, but this time John held his ground. “I am a person, you realize.”
“My person.” Sherlock dived forwards to take possession of John’s mouth.
When they at last broke for air, John waved towards the door. “She’s gone. Sherlock, she’s gone. You don’t have to prove--”
“I don’t care.” Sherlock tugged at John’s belt until it slid from its buckle, then started in on his trousers. “You’re mine. I’ll have you right here if I want to. Let them see. Let them all see.”
John shouldn’t have been encouraging this, probably. He should make another protest about being treated as an object, surely, but his blood thrummed through his veins at Sherlock’s possessive display, drowning out his objections.
“We agreed,” Sherlock growled. “You’re mine exclusively, and now they’ll know it.”
John recalled Sherlock’s suggestive threats a few days previous-of having John suck on Sherlock’s fingers in public, of Sherlock feeding him scraps at the dinner table, of keeping John’s libido in check with a remote-control vibrating toy. Sherlock had clearly given real thought to flaunting his mastery of John for all to see. John’s cock throbbed in the confines of his pants. He clutched Sherlock’s arms to keep from swaying.
Sherlock’s expression brightened and turned smug. “You want this.”
“So do you.”
“Obviously.” The sun pouring through the high stained glass windows haloed Sherlock in coloured light like some ethereal being. His usually pale eyes looked dark and hungry in the shadows.
John swallowed against his collar. “Have me, then.”
Sherlock spun John around and shoved him between the shoulders to pin him facedown against the table. The hard oak felt smooth against his cheek. John remembered thinking, when Lord Mycroft had been scolding them for the book-throwing experiment, that the tables were probably as old as the house itself. Most likely Lord Mycroft wouldn’t approve of the use the table was being put to now. A helpless giggle escaped John and echoed around the cavernous room until Sherlock’s baritone chuckle chased it through the rafters.
“We can’t giggle,” John said. “It’s a library!”
“I don’t care. Make all the noise you like.”
Sherlock stripped John of his pants and trousers and flung them aside. He kicked at John’s ankles until he spread his legs, then again until John was obscenely displayed, open and on view for anyone who might walk through the doors.
Sherlock leaned over John. The soft material of his suit felt warm against John’s naked back. Sherlock’s silky voice rumbled in John’s ear. “Do you think I can make them hear you out in the gardens?”
“Do your worst.”
Sherlock’s graceful fingers smoothed over John’s hips as he stood, then slid down his thighs. Then lower, as Sherlock knelt.
“What--?” was all John had time to get out before he felt Sherlock’s mouth against his thigh. A quick nip of kitten-sharp teeth against the curve of John’s arse made him jump. Then Sherlock laved a path up the juncture of his thigh and leg. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath. He pressed his forehead into the wood and fought the urge to spread his legs even wider.
“You said I’d never learned how to make someone enjoy getting off with me. ‘Spectacularly ignorant’ was the term you used, I believe.” Sherlock’s whisper shivered over John’s skin, leaving goose flesh in its wake. “I’ve been researching.”
John managed a noise of confused inquiry before Sherlock raked his fingers down the flesh of John’s arse, then dug in to spread his cheeks apart. The first swipe of Sherlock’s tongue across John’s hole sent him bucking forward against the table. Sherlock followed him relentlessly, stroking his tongue over John’s cleft again and again until John let out a helpless whine.
“There.” Sherlock pulled back briefly. “I’m sure you can do better.” Sherlock dived forward again. This time his tongue speared inside John, an intimate invasion. John’s surprised yelp bounced against the high walls and reflected back at him. He’d forgotten how this felt, to have someone inside him this way. It had been years upon years since anyone had done this for him, and even then, it hadn’t felt so personal. Sherlock licked and tongued him with single-minded determination, as eager as a fresh army recruit showing off his skills at the shooting range.
Sherlock licked a firm stripe against John’s slick hole. “You do like this.” His hand slid through John’s thighs to cup his heavy balls, then gave his erection a gentle squeeze. “What part of it arouses you?” He rubbed his thumb under John’s sac. “It is the depravity of the act? Many cultures consider rimming taboo.” He delved his tongue back inside John, a brief caress. “No, it’s the danger, isn’t it? Knowing that anyone could walk through those doors and see you spread open for my pleasure.” Sherlock pushed to his feet and planted a hand at the small of John’s back. “If Mycroft walked in right now, you’d stay here, with your legs spread.” Sherlock sucked on a finger with an obscene, wet noise, then slowly, firmly pressed it inside John. “Even if he stood here lecturing me, you’d let me keep fingering you while we talked. You would stay and let me do as I please, because you’re mine.”
“Oh God.” Even as John’s cheeks heated at that image, his cock throbbed desperately.
With his free hand, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder, pulled him upright, and turned him towards the door. Naked, impaled on Sherlock’s finger, and harder than he’d ever been in his life, John groaned.
“Let them all see. They can’t have you. They won’t ever touch you. You’re mine.” Sherlock’s grip tightened against John’s injured shoulder. “Say it.”
John could feel the hard outline of Sherlock’s erection in his trousers pressed against him. Sherlock: reckless and determined to please and half mad with need, all for John. “I’m yours,” John told him.
“Yes.” Sherlock let go of John, only long enough to turn him around for a kiss.
John planted his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to make him pause. “You had better fuck me right now, Sherlock, or I’ll take it back.”
“You won’t take it back.” Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and steered him onto the table. “You’re an honourable man.”
“Damn right.” From his perch on the table, John almost matched Sherlock for height. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before opening his hand. “Here. A gift from that woman’s slave.” John handed him the small tube he’d been holding onto.
Sherlock scowled, but he took the lube. “Let them be as clever as they want. They won’t have you. Not like I have you.” Sherlock coated his fingers, slid them back inside John, and stretched him impatiently. He made short work of his buttons and zip, pausing only long enough to pull his cock free and slick it before positioning himself between John’s legs. “Now, what was it you wanted?”
“Fuck me, damnit!” John shouted. His words boomed through the space, but before they had time to echo back, Sherlock had speared into him. He buried himself in one relentless push until he was entirely draped against John’s chest.
John breathed in and out, feeling the burn and stretch radiate throughout his body. His blood pulsed in time with his cock. Long, graceful fingers stroked his face. He opened his eyes.
Sherlock stared down at him, startlingly close. “Good?”
John had fantasized, before, that he’d chosen to be with Sherlock. The fantasies had allowed him to perform his duties, but he hadn’t noticed when they’d stopped being necessary. God help him, he wanted this, wanted Sherlock. The man infuriated and perplexed John, but he also treated him like a man: like he mattered beyond what his body could provide.
Sherlock wore a slight frown at John’s silence. “Not good?”
“Good.” John grinned. He didn’t need to pretend. “Very good.”
Sherlock braced his hands against the table, and drew out slowly. He snapped his hips forward, sending his cock driving into John with devastating skill. John groaned and slumped back against the smooth, hard wood of the table. Sherlock pounded into him relentlessly, making the ancient table creak.
“God yes,” John gasped. He didn’t need to pretend any more. If he were free, he’d want this. He’d beg for it, if Sherlock asked. Pleasure built inside him on every thrust. His hands scrabbled for something to grip, but found only smooth wood. He hooked an ankle around Sherlock’s waist to urge him deeper. There-Sherlock hit the spot that sent John bucking up against him.
“No,” Sherlock growled. “I changed my mind. I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. All of this belongs to me. All of you. No one could learn you like I can. Each time, I discover something new about how you work. I know what you enjoy. No one else could please you like this. I’m right. I know I’m right.”
Sherlock’s clever fingers wrapped around John’s straining cock and made him scream. John’s back arched, impaling him more deeply on Sherlock’s cock as he howled his release to the rafters.
John lay panting, boneless and wrecked, as Sherlock pulled out of him. John kept his ankle hooked around Sherlock’s thigh to pen him in.
Sherlock’s hand sped over his cock as he stared down at John.
“That’s it,” John urged. “Bloody gorgeous. Come on, love. Let me see you finish.”
Sherlock’s dark eyes fluttered closed, and his face went slack as he spilled his release across John’s naked body. Even fully clothed, he seemed as bare as John. Totally stripped of artifice, in that moment he seemed as natural and unashamed as an animal. John’s spent cock gave a feeble twitch at the sight, a warning of an attraction-no, more than that: affection--that only grew with each day John spent in this man’s power.
Sherlock stumbled back to slump into an overstuffed chair. He licked a stray drop of come from his palm before tucking himself back into his trousers. Silence settled over the library once more as they caught their breath.
At last, Sherlock’s voice came floating to John’s ears. “You realize I did summon you here with the intention of doing some research.”
“Yes,” John said drowsily. “The game is on, after all.”
“It is. Yes it is.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. “I’ll start pulling rare editions, you scan the indices.” He stalked towards the nearest shelf. He ran his fingertips over the spines of the books, as if he could read them by touch, but he never took his eyes off John. “Do get up, John. You’re terribly distracting.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.” John dragged his fingers through the stripes of semen on his belly, smearing them across his bare chest.
“Stop it! I want...” Sherlock tore his eyes away from John and slumped against the shelf. “The work, John. There’s the work.”
“Of course.” Contrite, John slid off the table and began gathering his scattered clothes. No matter how natural it seemed between them when they were both sweaty and spent in the wake of their orgasms, John still had a role to fulfil, and orders to follow.
Sherlock appeared behind John and grasped him by the shoulders. “After the banquet tonight,” he promised.
“Good.” John smiled. “I want a chance to make you scream.”
--
The personal slaves’ lounge was deserted, but in his cramped office, Lestrade found Jim behind the desk with three laptops perched on top of the piled-up paperwork.
“Oh, sorry. Sally was having trouble uploading some files this morning, so I was updating software. I thought you’d be in audiences all day.”
“No.” Although Jim couldn’t have meant it as an accusation, Lestrade felt the failure in his admission; no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to be the man Mycroft needed right now. “I have a break.”
“Did he send you away? Lord Mycroft?” Jim peered up at him, eyes bright in the glow of multiple computer screens.
“No,” Lestrade said slowly.
“Oh. I thought, because...” Jim shook his head and busied himself with shutting down the laptops. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What, Jim?”
“One of the guests said something to me last night, about a permanent change.” John wound up the power cord for a laptop, carefully avoiding Lestrade’s eyes.
“You were with Colonel Moran Last night. Is everything alright? What did he say?”
“Just that it seemed almost criminal to deprive Lord Mycroft of such a valuable asset. He could have meant anything,” Jim hastened to add. “I didn’t think Lord Mycroft would ever sell you.”
The clipped end of the sentence in Jim’s Dublin accent reminded Lestrade of the bill of sale he’d seen on Mycroft’s desk. He didn’t remember the numbers, but he felt sure one of the entries had borne the IRE country code. Lestrade’s realization must have shown on his face, because Jim’s eyes widened, and he clutched a laptop to his chest.
“Is he selling someone?” His voice dropped to a weak whisper. “Is he... did he mean me? Is he selling me?”
“I haven’t heard anything, Jim. Colonel Moran might have meant anything.” Lestrade dredged up an encouraging smile despite the sick feeling in his belly. “Don’t upset yourself over something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Jim stumbled forward and clutched Lestrade’s arm. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Lestrade-Excuse me, sorry Jim.” Sally appeared in the doorway of the tiny office, creating an even more claustrophobic space.
“I’ll come back later.” Jim scurried out, clutching his computer.
“What’s his problem?” Sally closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Have you heard about the Ambassador’s personal slave?”
“Soo Lin Yao. I just found out.”
“I already spoke to the Ambassador’s agent about the body. He wanted it disposed of, so the guards are taking care of the cremation. Housekeeping is over there now, scrubbing out the room.”
“Already? But the evidence-No.” Lestrade’s logic caught up to him, and he shook his head. “Of course there’s not going to be an investigation.”
“The Ambassador said it was an internal matter,” Sally said tightly. “‘Disposing of unwanted property.’”
“Christ.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I never saw him strike her. Never even gave her a harsh word. Not in front of me, in any case.” Lestrade slumped into his desk chair. “That poor girl. Can you... I know it might be classified, considering her position, but I’d like to check her registration, find out if she had a family. Anyone waiting for her contract to be done.”
“I’ll ask Jim to take a look. He’s got a way with electronic records.” Sally remained leaning against the door. “Also, the Ambassador’s going to need a replacement for tonight.”
“He’s not having one of my people,” Lestrade snapped.
“Sir?”
“Lord Mycroft’s people, I mean. He won’t.” Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What about that lot you’ve been orienting? The circus slaves. Yellow Butterfly whatsit? Anyone who qualifies?”
“Yellow Dragon Circus. Maybe.” Sally looked doubtful. “It’s rather an eclectic lot, sir.”
“Let him have the bloody erotic contortionist, for all I care.”
“Sir.” Sally’s eyes flitted to the door behind her. Of course, she was right. The house had ears, and Lestrade was out of line.
“I know. He’s a guest. It’s none of my business, and it’s not my decision.” Lestrade clutched the edge of his desk and squeezed until his fingers turned white. “He’s entitled to the best we can give him.”
“Things like this happen all the time, Gregory.” Sally ventured a step closer.
“Not under this roof.” Lestrade knew, he’d learned over and over, that he had no power to keep anyone safe, but each new lesson hurt as much as the first.
“Will you talk to that new lot?” Sally held up a file folder. “I’ve briefed them on procedures for tonight, but they don’t seem particularly keen.”
Lestrade frowned at the folder. A stray bit of information tugged at his memory. “Sally, where did they come through customs?”
“Portsmouth, I think. Why?”
“No reason.” Lestrade shook off the deep weariness that had settled in his bones and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, of course I’ll talk to him. Lead the way.”
--
John tapped his fingers on the sturdy oak table he’d recently been lying on as he regarded the volume Sherlock had given him. “So you knew it was a Hangzhou code, you just weren’t sure how to decipher it?” John flipped through the pages and found the one Sherlock had asked for. “Here.”
Sherlock took the book from John and ran his finger down the page. “There are any number of variations, but the reference would need to be something readily available: a book the Tong could find wherever they went. You provided the answer to that yourself: Freedom Through Obedience, required reading.“ He scribbled a note on the paper in front of him before handing the book back. “But as I said, it’s not the cipher that’s important. I couldn’t see it until that last set of numbers you brought me. Then it was only a matter of cross-referencing editions. Three eighty-one.”
John flipped to the back of the book. “You knew Soo Lin had been leaving messages.” He stopped at three eighty-one and turned the book around for Sherlock to see.
“Of course.” Sherlock wrote down a single word. “But why? Was she working with the Ambassador or against him? This latest development confirms my suspicion. One twenty-two.”
“He murdered her, Sherlock.” John found the page and passed off the book once more.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock made another note. “Forty-six.”
“Oh right, of course.” John found his jaw clenched tight. “‘Wilful property destruction,’ whatever the appropriate term is whenever one of your lot snuffs out one of us. Bloody inventory reduction.”
“I agree she was murdered.” Sherlock found the page himself and scribbled on his notepad. “But I doubt the Ambassador is the culprit.”
“Oh.” John considered that. “He got someone to do it for him.”
“Unlikely. He didn’t want her dead. No, the killer is a person who’s arrived recently. One who can move through the house unnoticed.”
“A slave.”
“Very good, John. Another guest’s, most likely, or someone else in the Ambassador’s entourage. Someone well-placed to observe the Ambassador’s movements and report to his employer.”
“The Chinese Empire has someone checking up on its own Ambassador?”
“No, his employer. Do keep up, John, you know I loathe repeating myself. Moriarty.” Sherlock said the word with a flourish, as if he liked the taste of it.
John frowned. “Moriarty is paying the Chinese Ambassador?”
“I believe there’s an echo in here.”
“How do you--?”
Sherlock flipped his notepad around to show John the words he’d copied, the words signified by the numbers carved into Soo Lin’s flesh:
more
ray
art
he.
John stared at the message. “How--?”
“Come on.” Sherlock snatched up the piece of paper, shoved it in his pocket, and strode to the door. John hurried to keep up.
“Soo Lin was running out of time. The pressure must have increased recently to drive her to such extreme measures.”
“What measures?” John fell into step beside Sherlock.
“Carving those symbols into her arms and legs. It would have hurt.”
“Carving... what?” John pictured the cuts in Soo Lin’s skin: angry slices into her delicate skin. It would have hurt quite a lot, and yet she’d barely flinched when John had bandaged her wounds.
“You must have noticed the cuts were self-inflicted,” Sherlock went on. “The angle of the cuts, the discrepancy of the depth of entry between the right and left arms-“
“Why?” John ran a few steps to catch up to Sherlock as he swept around a corner. “Why would she do that?”
“So that someone would observe, John.”
“Someone who?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock spun to a stop in the middle of the corridor. “She hadn’t received a satisfactory response to her other messages, so she had to try something new. She was desperate enough to seek help from an outsider: me.”
“How could she possibly know the message would get to you?”
“Simple,” Sherlock said, though his delighted grin suggested he’d enjoy explaining it anyway. “First she had to know I could decipher the code. At lunch yesterday, I was looking at photos of the painted ciphers and the deciphered messages on my mobile. I dropped my phone under the table and, having no personal slave of my own in attendance, asked Soo Lin to retrieve it for me. Yes, I took the opportunity of your absence to dine with Mycroft. You can thank me later.
“The rest is simple. Between Molly’s welts and Mrs. Hudson’s hip, you’ve worked up quite a reputation as a good Samaritan. Soo Lin knew a serious enough injury would entice you to help her. You would, of course, faithfully report what you saw to your master. I daresay she didn’t expect Moriarty’s agent to catch up with her quite so quickly.”
John recalled the way Soo Lin had spoken to him, even knowing he couldn’t understand. “Or she knew, and she did it anyway.”
“Unimportant.” Sherlock took off down the corridor again, and John followed. “In any case, she delivered an essential piece of data.”
“Which helps us how, exactly?”
“Here we are.” Sherlock stopped at one of the identical doors spaced along the hallway and produced a thin card from his pocket.
“Whose room is this?” John asked.
A swipe through the security panel next to the door produced a beep and a green light. “Come along.”
John had no choice but to follow Sherlock into a closet-sized room that held a padded bench and a dresser with a number of brushes and other mysterious implements neatly arranged on top. “What--?”
“Dressing room. Where the valet waits to be summoned.”
“Who in the house has a-“
Sherlock opened the next door onto a palatial room done in rich wood panelling and soothing creams. The remains of a fire crackled in the oversized hearth, throwing shadows on the walls. A door on the far side opened onto a huge white-tiled en suite. A monstrous desk with a green lamp stood laden with papers. “Lord Mycroft’s rooms.”
“Yes, John. We’ll make a detective of you yet.” Sherlock stepped inside and motioned for John to follow.
“Where did you get that card?”
“Lestrade is notoriously bad at remembering new codes, which are changed daily for the master suite. At last security just gave him an override card. I pick pocketed him.” Sherlock closed the door, made a bee-line for the desk, and began shuffling through papers.
“Alright,” John sighed. “Taking my objections to pick pocketing Lestrade as given-“
“Tedious.”
“Why are we here?” He stepped cautiously into the semi-dark room, careful not to touch any of the ancient and expensive-looking furniture.
“Looking for clues.”
“To...?”
“You work it out.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand and continued his ransacking of Mycroft’s desk.
“If Soo Lin was getting desperate, that means whatever she wanted to prevent was happening soon. At the banquet?”
“Yes, of course.”
“If the Ambassador is working for Moriarty, then Soo Lin shouldn’t have anything to fear from him.” John risked perching on the edge of a wooden chair next to the desk. “Perhaps Moriarty is threatening her--no. She’s not important enough. But she doesn’t like whatever it is Moriarty has planned. Maybe she offered to defect to the British Empire in exchange for protection, and Moriarty found out.”
“That’s actually a plausible idea,” Sherlock said without looking up.
“Thanks.”
“Totally wrong, of course. For shame, John.” Sherlock threw him a despairing look. “You should never theorize in advance of facts.”
Lights blazed suddenly from overhead. John jumped to his feet and whirled to see Anthea standing in the doorway, mobile in hand and eyebrow raised.
“Lord Sherlock, what a surprise,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “May I ask what brings you to Lord Mycroft’s rooms, sir?”
“John and I are making a project of shagging in every room on the estate, and Mycroft does have such a sumptuous bed.” Sherlock swept around the desk and linked his arm with John’s.
“Well, perhaps another time, sir.” She held the door open.
“Come on, sir.” John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him from the room, keeping his head down so Anthea wouldn’t see his furious blush.
“Was that really necessary, sir?” he asked once they were in the safety of the corridor
“No, but it was fun.” Sherlock headed down the hallway in the opposite direction from which they’d come.
“Did you get what you needed, at least?”
“More than that.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and his fingers began dancing over the surface at an impressive speed. “I know what’s going to happen tonight.”
“Besides a fancy dinner party?”
“Much better than that, John.” Sherlock grinned, and his eyes danced with the peculiar mix of joy and madness John knew well. “The Chinese Ambassador is going to be assassinated.”
--
Next part
Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled, Part 2 (Sherlock BBC; Sherlock/JohnMycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
When John returned from the showers, he found a note taped to the door of his room. “You’re needed in the gardens immediately.” The untidy scrawl could have belonged to any of the slaves in the wing, so John threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs, through the kitchen, and out into the courtyard.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, a peal of thunder shook the courtyard and sheets of rain descended from the sky.
“Perfect,” John muttered. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and trudged down the path, shoes squishing with every step. He would have to have a talk with Sherlock about appropriate times to work out of doors.
But when John passed the hedges that marked the start of the formal gardens, he didn’t find Lord Sherlock measuring rainfall or digging up earthworms or examining variations in the colour of wet cobblestones. Instead, he found Lord Mycroft standing beneath a wide black umbrella in a little circle immune from the wet. In his right hand he held a cigarette.
John considered a comment about the health risks of tobacco, before deciding that no comment he made could possibly convince Lord Mycroft to change his mind, let alone alter his behaviour.
Lord Mycroft took a long drag as John approached, then dropped the butt on the cobblestones and crushed it with his heel. “Doctor Watson, so kind of you to join me.”
“Not a doctor anymore, sir.” John came to a stop a respectful three feet away and stood in the downpour. “A slave can’t hold a medical licence.”
“Hm.” Lord Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re still practising.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” John dropped his gaze to the appropriate level.
“When I first summoned you to my library, it was because I’d learned you’d taken an interest in treating my slaves.”
“Was that it? I thought your purposes ran more to general intimidation, my lord.”
Mycroft turned his gaze to the darkened sky. “It’s been brought to my attention that you provided medical treatment this morning for the slave of a visiting dignitary.”
“Yes.” John didn’t bother to deny it. News travelled quickly on the estate, it seemed. “Yes, sir.”
“May I ask why you thought it necessary to interfere in such a case?”
“Because I took an oath to practise my craft to the best of my ability.” Once a doctor, always a doctor, Mrs. Hudson had said, and she’d been right; John could not forget his medical training any more than he could ignore the impulse to act when he saw someone in pain. “No one else was going to help her, sir.”
“I would have thought that from your earlier experience here you would have learned that the body, and therefore the health of a slave belongs not to the slave, but to the master who holds the contract.”
“You didn’t actually object to my treating Molly Hooper,” John pointed out.
“No. However, I am a man of modern, liberal sensibilities.”
“Are you, sir?” John managed to hold back a derisive laugh.
Lord Mycroft levelled an unreadable glance at John. “Yes.” He seemed to realize for the first time that John stood in the rain. “Pardon my rudeness. You seem to be unprepared for the weather.” He stepped forward to position himself next to John, so that his broad umbrella shielded them both from the wet. “You seem to think that I’m some sort of tyrant, but I assure you that the Chinese ambassador is much more traditional, and unfortunately, much more paranoid than I.”
“What do you mean paranoid?” The sudden shelter from the rain didn’t stop the chill that ran through John.
“The Ambassador’s slaves were told not to speak to anyone in my household.” Lord Mycroft stared out at the dead grey sky. “Sedition is a very serious charge for slaves belonging to a diplomat of his importance. She has no way of proving whether she spoke to you or not, and the evidence of her medical treatment was reason enough to cast suspicion upon her.”
“What happened?” The chill that had gripped John settled in the centre of his chest, making it difficult to breathe. “Sir, what happened?”
“She’s dead, Dr. Watson.”
“I see.” John had seen her less than an hour ago. He could still hear the high, thin sound of her voice, whispering words he couldn’t understand. At his side, his hand clenched into a fist. “How?”
“Exsanguinated. I gather her throat was slit.” Mycroft spared a brief glance towards the path, but no one else was out in this deluge. “It’s possible the Ambassador even carried out the sentence himself. He’d be perfectly within his rights, by the laws of his own Empire.”
“You let this happen.” Heedless of protocol, John looked directly at Lord Mycroft, who met his gaze calmly.
“I did not cause this. You cannot fix everything, Dr. Watson. In fact, sometimes you can do more harm than good by trying, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s what you’d like me to do, is it, sir?” John asked through clenched teeth. “Stop trying?”
“Of course not.”
“Excuse me, sir. I have duties to attend to.” John stepped out from under Lord Mycroft’s umbrella, into the downpour, and headed for the path.
“This conversation is not finished.” Lord Mycroft’s sharp call pierced through the rain.
John turned back and gave a little bow. “I’m sorry, sir. My master doesn’t permit me to speak to other lords.” He strode away towards the house.
--
Lestrade found the residential section of the house quiet, which was not unusual at this time of day. Still, Mycroft hadn’t been in his office, which suggested he may still be in his rooms; he occasionally preferred to work from there, where he was less likely to be interrupted.
At the branch of the corridor that led to the family wing, Lestrade nodded to the guard on duty, standing at ease beside her tall wooden desk. “Wood,” he said. “I saw no less than six guards between here and the kitchens. Busy day?”
“We’ve beefed up security for the banquet tonight.” Wood offered him a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be a long night for all of us, I’m sure.”
“Too right.” Lestrade inclined his head down the corridor. “Is His Lordship in his quarters, do you know?”
“Went out for a walk.”
“A...?” Lestrade glanced over to the hallway’s tall windows, where the drawn curtains allowed a clear view of the hazy downpour drenching the grounds of the estate.
Wood shook her head. “Don’t ask me, Greg.”
“Right. Well, I’m certainly not going out after him.” Lestrade had enough to manage today without catching a cold from standing about in the rain. And besides, a little respite from his duties with Mycroft would give him time to pursue some other matters. “Oh, Wood. I wondered if you might... I was just in the cellars, and I noticed there were some Imperial soldiers down by the holding cells.”
“Oh, that lot.” Wood glanced quickly down the hallway; they were alone, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. “They’re a barrel of laughs.”
“Do you know why they’re here?”
“My understanding is they’re to take charge of a prisoner. Some intruder they caught on the grounds the other night.”
“Caught on the grounds?” Lestrade’s thoughts spun down several paths at once, trying to understand what that might mean. “An assassin? Was Lord Mycroft informed? I haven’t heard anything about-“
“Then you didn’t hear it from me, understand?” Wood held up her hands. “All I know is that they sent an advance team before His Imperial Highness arrives for the banquet, and they sent a few extra to deal with this.”
“Thanks, Wood.” Lestrade bit back his other questions; it wouldn’t do to land Wood in trouble. “You attending the banquet tonight, or you on sentry duty all day?”
“Yes, lucky me, I get to stand around the great hall looking ornamental.” She struck an exaggerated pose of military attention.
“I’ll see you there.” Lestrade gave her a mock salute.
She laughed and waved him away. “Stay dry!”
Lestrade followed the corridor to its turning point, then unfastened a set of French doors that led onto the long balcony. The roof’s overhang shielded part of the balcony from the rain, so Lestrade could stay out of the wet as he walked the length of it. The balcony of the family wing faced the balcony of the guest wing across the decorative courtyard, and, off to the east, provided views of the sprawling gardens, so he might discern where, exactly, his wayward master had gone walking. Jasper had once explained that the manor’s original design had something to do with providing opportunities for young suitors from visiting families to see and be seen without endangering the virtue of the family’s eligible sons and daughters. Now, it provided a useful lookout on the grounds and a glimpse of the arriving guests.
Lestrade had been studying the guests for days, of course, but he’d put more effort into memorizing the banquet seating arrangements than the room assignments. Still, when he saw lamps lit in several of the guest rooms, he tried to remember who was assigned the balcony-side rooms. Lady Price, who was arriving this morning with three slaves of her own. Lord Colonel Moran, at the far end, already had Jim assigned to him; Lestrade had better check on Jim today, to make sure Colonel Moran’s run-in with John yesterday hadn’t resulted in consequences for Jim. Lord Dixon had been housed next door to Lady Moore, the better to encourage their budding affair, which Mycroft had been nurturing as part of some design for the power structure of the west country. Captain Lennox, who’d need a slave to serve at table tonight. A guard was posted in the courtyard below, though mostly for appearances. The stone walls were smooth and featureless, hardly conducive to climbing. The estate was likely one of the most secure places in the Empire.
“You’re not as stupid as most of Mycroft’s staff.”
Lestrade didn’t need to look to recognize that voice. “Good morning, Lord Sherlock.”
“He respects your investigative skills, such as they are.” Lord Sherlock stepped up beside Lestrade, just far enough onto the balcony that the falling rain didn’t splash onto his highly-polished shoes. “So why, when a simple mystery arose regarding the tryst of a visiting ambassador’s daughter, did he not ask you to investigate?”
Lestrade bowed his head to the appropriately deferential degree, which had the welcome side effect of hiding his frown. Mycroft had reasons of his own for bringing Lord Sherlock here, he knew, and they had nothing to do with any doubts Mycroft might have as to Lestrade’s abilities. Probably nothing. “Not such a simple case. If I recall, it took you several attempts to find the answer.”
“Merely steps on the path to a correct solution.” Lord Sherlock inclined his head towards Lestrade. “Usually my brother goes to great lengths to make sure you and I are not under the same roof for any span of time. He seems to think you’re still sensitive about your arrest and all that, which makes no sense. That was years ago. Why would you still be upset?”
“Why indeed?” Lestrade sighed.
“Mycroft wanted me here for a reason. What do you know about Moriarty?”
Lestrade fixed his attention on the rain drops spattering against the stone banister and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. Lord Sherlock might be capable of wresting information from an unwilling informant in any number of ways, but Lestrade resolved not to give away his master’s secrets without a fight. “If I knew anything, Lord Sherlock, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say.”
“Do you really think that Mycroft would have let all this go on-an ambassador’s daughter disgraced under his roof, Imperial soldiers stationed on the estate, armed intruders running around the grounds-if it weren’t part of some larger scheme?” Lord Sherlock scoffed. “My brother leaves very little to chance.”
“What Lord Mycroft does, he does for the good of the realm.”
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to the Chinese Ambassador’s dead slave.”
“Soo Lin is dead?” Lestrade turned to face Lord Sherlock.
“Not to mention the Chinese Ambassador’s dead son, the two hired assassins the household guards shot on the grounds, and the three dead customs officials at Portsmouth who handled importing those Chinese slaves.” Lord Sherlock ticked them off on his fingers. “Mycroft’s racking up quite a body count for this little project, isn’t he?”
Lestrade kept his expression neutral, despite his surprise at the number of deaths Lord Sherlock seemed to think were related. As had often happened when he and Lord Sherlock worked together, he didn’t yet grasp the logic of the connections, but he felt a nagging suspicion that Sherlock’s conclusions were correct. Still, he’d seen no evidence to support what Lord Sherlock was suggesting. “Is Lord Mycroft personally responsible for every death in his territory?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Lestrade.” Lord Sherlock favoured him with a derisive glare. “Even you should be able to put together the pattern. He’s planning something, and he doesn’t mind shedding some blood in the course of his work. Not his own blood of course, but anyone who gets in his way. How long will you keep making excuses for him?”
“Moriarty is more dangerous than you can imagine,” Lestrade snapped. If Sherlock had seen Mycroft staying up nights, tracing the threads of his various schemes, perhaps he’d understand. “The Empress trusts Lord Mycroft to deal with him, and if you-“
“So Moriarty is a man.” Lord Sherlock’s eyes widened.
Lestrade replayed his last few words in his head, and cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to let himself be drawn into an argument with a Holmes. “Lord Sherlock- “
“That’s all for now,” Lord Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell me.”
“No, sir,” Lestrade said stiffly.
Lord Sherlock swept through the French doors back into the house, leaving Lestrade in the cold.
--
John left a trail of water and mud on his way back to the personal slaves’ wing, where he found Anthea standing in the corridor, holding two garment bags.
“This is formal daywear.” She held up the first bag as John scanned his print to open the door to his room. “Don’t let Sherlock spill anything on you, or get you messy, or drag you out in the rain again.”
“It wasn’t him.” John kicked off his waterlogged shoes and snatched a towel from the floor. “It was Lord Mycroft.”
“Lord Mycroft dragged you out in the rain?” Anthea asked from the doorway.
“He wanted to have a chat.” John applied the towel vigorously to his dripping hair, while adding to his mental list of things he would have liked to have said to Lord Mycroft in that chat, most of them involving obscure curse words he’d learned in the Army. “Did you know he smokes?”
“Only when he’s under too much stress.” Anthea hung the daywear on the wardrobe door and stood with her head bowed. “I’m sorry about what happened with Soo Lin.”
“I should have done something more.” John tossed the towel to the floor, where it puddled like blood.
“John, people don’t treat slaves that way if they plan to keep them.” Anthea touched the tips of her fingers to John’s shoulder, which ached dully. “Nothing you did or could have done would have saved her.”
“You don’t know that.” John shook off her touch, and with it a deluge of rainwater.
“I know more than you think.” Anthea held up the remaining garment bag. “Now, this is evening wear. Specially tailored not to wrinkle when you kneel.”
“What a great advance for civilization.” John slumped into the room’s solitary chair, weighed down by sodden clothes and guilt.
Anthea hung the evening wear next to the daywear. “You know, if you need help, you should ask Lestrade.”
“I can work out how to fasten my own trousers, thanks.”
“I mean about Soo Lin.” She turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you think you’re the first slave to feel responsible for another slave’s misfortune? We are at the mercy of our masters, John, all of us. You can no more protect another slave from her master than you can protect yourself. You’ll go mad trying.”
“Then I’ll go mad. Is there anything else?”
Anthea slipped her phone out of her pocket and disappeared out the door.
A warm shower made John feel almost human again, even if the formal daywear-a crisp white shirt with a thin black tie, jacket, and crisply pressed trousers-made him long for the relative comfort of his Army dress uniform.
Once properly attired-John double-checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure he wouldn’t be a target for reproach--he hurried to the family library, where Sherlock would likely be waiting impatiently, if he hadn’t got bored and faffed off.
John heard voices as he approached the ornately carved doors and quickened his pace. Sherlock tended to throw social graces to the wind when in pursuit of clues, and a house full of important guests provided ample opportunity for disaster. But when John burst through the doors, he found an unfamiliar lady perched on one of the large oak tables, bare legs swinging, sending the hem of her skirt moving against her thighs. A slave with a bright red collar knelt at her feet, holding up her own skirt with one hand while the other worked between her legs.
The door banged shut. Both women’s attention snapped to John. He quickly averted his eyes. The marble floor was inlaid with a complicated design of interwoven knots, he discovered. “I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t... I’m looking for my master.”
“It’s alright,” the woman said. “Don’t be afraid, dear.”
John held back the automatic retort that he wasn’t afraid, merely surprised. It wasn’t every day he walked in on two beautiful women doing-and besides, why did no one believe in privacy in this house? “Sorry to have disturbed you, my lady.”
“You don’t disturb me. Stay, Kate.” The lady slid off the table and prowled towards John. He didn’t dare lift his eyes, but he could see her dainty feet encased in tremendously high black pumps as she clicked towards him.
“You’re new to the household.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition.” She waved a finger at his collar. “I thought you’d be taller.”
John kept his eyes averted and stood still.
“Kate, come here.”
The slave abandoned her position and came to stand beside her mistress.
“What do you think?” the lady asked.
The slave raked her eyes over John, lingering on the close cut of his trousers. “Works for me.”
“Everything works on you,” the lady said with an exasperated sigh. She turned back to John. “Old for a personal slave, aren’t you? Not the conventional type, either. You must have some impressive skills to have enticed Lord Sherlock.” The slave, Kate, whispered something in the lady’s ear, and she grinned. “He does have eccentric tastes, that one.” She glanced at John. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m not at liberty to comment, ma’am.” John let his eyes stray to the library beyond, looking for any sign of his master. If Sherlock had already left, he’d have to extricate himself, and quickly.
“Oh come, I’m not asking you to confess any intimate secrets. I’m just interested in what assets he sees in you.”
John thought for a moment he might be facing a repeat of Moran’s advances, but the woman merely inclined her head and examined him from a safe distance.
“I am very good at knowing what people want.” The lady began a slow circuit around him, her heels clicking on the marble. “You’re a strange one, though. Most slaves want to remain unnoticed. To do their duty and no more. You... You want to be useful.”
“I know my duty, ma’am.” John straightened his back and fixed his eyes on the floor.
“It’s more than duty.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Duty doesn’t give you that special glow.”
“Get away from him.”
John never heard the doors open, but suddenly they were swinging shut, and Sherlock had appeared in the narrow space between John and the woman.
“Lord Sherlock, really. I meant nothing by it.” The lady gave Sherlock a winning smile. “We’ve all been so curious about your new acquisition. Surely you’ll let some of us enjoy a turn around the floor with him tonight. It can be such fun to appreciate another master’s good fortune, even just for a dance or two.”
“John is mine.” Sherlock’s hand darted back to grab John’s wrist.
“Of course, dear.” She pulled Kate against her side and pressed a kiss to her hair. “I remember the first blush of having a new personal slave. The mindless passion it excites for a time. The delicious indulgence of learning a new slave’s charms.” She glanced at John. “Enjoy it while you can, my boy. Lord Sherlock, I’ll see you this evening.” She sauntered towards the library doors, and Sherlock turned to watch her go.
Kate hurried forward and pressed something into John’s hand with a wink. He barely had time to see what it was before Sherlock crashed into him and shoved him backwards.
“She won’t have you.” Sherlock tore John’s jacket off his shoulders and flung it to the floor.
“It’s just a dance, Sherlock. Not that I want to dance with her, but aren’t such things expected to-“
“No.” Sherlock tugged John’s tie loose, then tore his shirt free and ripped it over his head. “You’re mine, and you do what I want.”
Sherlock pushed John again, but this time John held his ground. “I am a person, you realize.”
“My person.” Sherlock dived forwards to take possession of John’s mouth.
When they at last broke for air, John waved towards the door. “She’s gone. Sherlock, she’s gone. You don’t have to prove--”
“I don’t care.” Sherlock tugged at John’s belt until it slid from its buckle, then started in on his trousers. “You’re mine. I’ll have you right here if I want to. Let them see. Let them all see.”
John shouldn’t have been encouraging this, probably. He should make another protest about being treated as an object, surely, but his blood thrummed through his veins at Sherlock’s possessive display, drowning out his objections.
“We agreed,” Sherlock growled. “You’re mine exclusively, and now they’ll know it.”
John recalled Sherlock’s suggestive threats a few days previous-of having John suck on Sherlock’s fingers in public, of Sherlock feeding him scraps at the dinner table, of keeping John’s libido in check with a remote-control vibrating toy. Sherlock had clearly given real thought to flaunting his mastery of John for all to see. John’s cock throbbed in the confines of his pants. He clutched Sherlock’s arms to keep from swaying.
Sherlock’s expression brightened and turned smug. “You want this.”
“So do you.”
“Obviously.” The sun pouring through the high stained glass windows haloed Sherlock in coloured light like some ethereal being. His usually pale eyes looked dark and hungry in the shadows.
John swallowed against his collar. “Have me, then.”
Sherlock spun John around and shoved him between the shoulders to pin him facedown against the table. The hard oak felt smooth against his cheek. John remembered thinking, when Lord Mycroft had been scolding them for the book-throwing experiment, that the tables were probably as old as the house itself. Most likely Lord Mycroft wouldn’t approve of the use the table was being put to now. A helpless giggle escaped John and echoed around the cavernous room until Sherlock’s baritone chuckle chased it through the rafters.
“We can’t giggle,” John said. “It’s a library!”
“I don’t care. Make all the noise you like.”
Sherlock stripped John of his pants and trousers and flung them aside. He kicked at John’s ankles until he spread his legs, then again until John was obscenely displayed, open and on view for anyone who might walk through the doors.
Sherlock leaned over John. The soft material of his suit felt warm against John’s naked back. Sherlock’s silky voice rumbled in John’s ear. “Do you think I can make them hear you out in the gardens?”
“Do your worst.”
Sherlock’s graceful fingers smoothed over John’s hips as he stood, then slid down his thighs. Then lower, as Sherlock knelt.
“What--?” was all John had time to get out before he felt Sherlock’s mouth against his thigh. A quick nip of kitten-sharp teeth against the curve of John’s arse made him jump. Then Sherlock laved a path up the juncture of his thigh and leg. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath. He pressed his forehead into the wood and fought the urge to spread his legs even wider.
“You said I’d never learned how to make someone enjoy getting off with me. ‘Spectacularly ignorant’ was the term you used, I believe.” Sherlock’s whisper shivered over John’s skin, leaving goose flesh in its wake. “I’ve been researching.”
John managed a noise of confused inquiry before Sherlock raked his fingers down the flesh of John’s arse, then dug in to spread his cheeks apart. The first swipe of Sherlock’s tongue across John’s hole sent him bucking forward against the table. Sherlock followed him relentlessly, stroking his tongue over John’s cleft again and again until John let out a helpless whine.
“There.” Sherlock pulled back briefly. “I’m sure you can do better.” Sherlock dived forward again. This time his tongue speared inside John, an intimate invasion. John’s surprised yelp bounced against the high walls and reflected back at him. He’d forgotten how this felt, to have someone inside him this way. It had been years upon years since anyone had done this for him, and even then, it hadn’t felt so personal. Sherlock licked and tongued him with single-minded determination, as eager as a fresh army recruit showing off his skills at the shooting range.
Sherlock licked a firm stripe against John’s slick hole. “You do like this.” His hand slid through John’s thighs to cup his heavy balls, then gave his erection a gentle squeeze. “What part of it arouses you?” He rubbed his thumb under John’s sac. “It is the depravity of the act? Many cultures consider rimming taboo.” He delved his tongue back inside John, a brief caress. “No, it’s the danger, isn’t it? Knowing that anyone could walk through those doors and see you spread open for my pleasure.” Sherlock pushed to his feet and planted a hand at the small of John’s back. “If Mycroft walked in right now, you’d stay here, with your legs spread.” Sherlock sucked on a finger with an obscene, wet noise, then slowly, firmly pressed it inside John. “Even if he stood here lecturing me, you’d let me keep fingering you while we talked. You would stay and let me do as I please, because you’re mine.”
“Oh God.” Even as John’s cheeks heated at that image, his cock throbbed desperately.
With his free hand, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder, pulled him upright, and turned him towards the door. Naked, impaled on Sherlock’s finger, and harder than he’d ever been in his life, John groaned.
“Let them all see. They can’t have you. They won’t ever touch you. You’re mine.” Sherlock’s grip tightened against John’s injured shoulder. “Say it.”
John could feel the hard outline of Sherlock’s erection in his trousers pressed against him. Sherlock: reckless and determined to please and half mad with need, all for John. “I’m yours,” John told him.
“Yes.” Sherlock let go of John, only long enough to turn him around for a kiss.
John planted his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to make him pause. “You had better fuck me right now, Sherlock, or I’ll take it back.”
“You won’t take it back.” Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and steered him onto the table. “You’re an honourable man.”
“Damn right.” From his perch on the table, John almost matched Sherlock for height. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before opening his hand. “Here. A gift from that woman’s slave.” John handed him the small tube he’d been holding onto.
Sherlock scowled, but he took the lube. “Let them be as clever as they want. They won’t have you. Not like I have you.” Sherlock coated his fingers, slid them back inside John, and stretched him impatiently. He made short work of his buttons and zip, pausing only long enough to pull his cock free and slick it before positioning himself between John’s legs. “Now, what was it you wanted?”
“Fuck me, damnit!” John shouted. His words boomed through the space, but before they had time to echo back, Sherlock had speared into him. He buried himself in one relentless push until he was entirely draped against John’s chest.
John breathed in and out, feeling the burn and stretch radiate throughout his body. His blood pulsed in time with his cock. Long, graceful fingers stroked his face. He opened his eyes.
Sherlock stared down at him, startlingly close. “Good?”
John had fantasized, before, that he’d chosen to be with Sherlock. The fantasies had allowed him to perform his duties, but he hadn’t noticed when they’d stopped being necessary. God help him, he wanted this, wanted Sherlock. The man infuriated and perplexed John, but he also treated him like a man: like he mattered beyond what his body could provide.
Sherlock wore a slight frown at John’s silence. “Not good?”
“Good.” John grinned. He didn’t need to pretend. “Very good.”
Sherlock braced his hands against the table, and drew out slowly. He snapped his hips forward, sending his cock driving into John with devastating skill. John groaned and slumped back against the smooth, hard wood of the table. Sherlock pounded into him relentlessly, making the ancient table creak.
“God yes,” John gasped. He didn’t need to pretend any more. If he were free, he’d want this. He’d beg for it, if Sherlock asked. Pleasure built inside him on every thrust. His hands scrabbled for something to grip, but found only smooth wood. He hooked an ankle around Sherlock’s waist to urge him deeper. There-Sherlock hit the spot that sent John bucking up against him.
“No,” Sherlock growled. “I changed my mind. I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. All of this belongs to me. All of you. No one could learn you like I can. Each time, I discover something new about how you work. I know what you enjoy. No one else could please you like this. I’m right. I know I’m right.”
Sherlock’s clever fingers wrapped around John’s straining cock and made him scream. John’s back arched, impaling him more deeply on Sherlock’s cock as he howled his release to the rafters.
John lay panting, boneless and wrecked, as Sherlock pulled out of him. John kept his ankle hooked around Sherlock’s thigh to pen him in.
Sherlock’s hand sped over his cock as he stared down at John.
“That’s it,” John urged. “Bloody gorgeous. Come on, love. Let me see you finish.”
Sherlock’s dark eyes fluttered closed, and his face went slack as he spilled his release across John’s naked body. Even fully clothed, he seemed as bare as John. Totally stripped of artifice, in that moment he seemed as natural and unashamed as an animal. John’s spent cock gave a feeble twitch at the sight, a warning of an attraction-no, more than that: affection--that only grew with each day John spent in this man’s power.
Sherlock stumbled back to slump into an overstuffed chair. He licked a stray drop of come from his palm before tucking himself back into his trousers. Silence settled over the library once more as they caught their breath.
At last, Sherlock’s voice came floating to John’s ears. “You realize I did summon you here with the intention of doing some research.”
“Yes,” John said drowsily. “The game is on, after all.”
“It is. Yes it is.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. “I’ll start pulling rare editions, you scan the indices.” He stalked towards the nearest shelf. He ran his fingertips over the spines of the books, as if he could read them by touch, but he never took his eyes off John. “Do get up, John. You’re terribly distracting.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.” John dragged his fingers through the stripes of semen on his belly, smearing them across his bare chest.
“Stop it! I want...” Sherlock tore his eyes away from John and slumped against the shelf. “The work, John. There’s the work.”
“Of course.” Contrite, John slid off the table and began gathering his scattered clothes. No matter how natural it seemed between them when they were both sweaty and spent in the wake of their orgasms, John still had a role to fulfil, and orders to follow.
Sherlock appeared behind John and grasped him by the shoulders. “After the banquet tonight,” he promised.
“Good.” John smiled. “I want a chance to make you scream.”
--
The personal slaves’ lounge was deserted, but in his cramped office, Lestrade found Jim behind the desk with three laptops perched on top of the piled-up paperwork.
“Oh, sorry. Sally was having trouble uploading some files this morning, so I was updating software. I thought you’d be in audiences all day.”
“No.” Although Jim couldn’t have meant it as an accusation, Lestrade felt the failure in his admission; no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to be the man Mycroft needed right now. “I have a break.”
“Did he send you away? Lord Mycroft?” Jim peered up at him, eyes bright in the glow of multiple computer screens.
“No,” Lestrade said slowly.
“Oh. I thought, because...” Jim shook his head and busied himself with shutting down the laptops. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What, Jim?”
“One of the guests said something to me last night, about a permanent change.” John wound up the power cord for a laptop, carefully avoiding Lestrade’s eyes.
“You were with Colonel Moran Last night. Is everything alright? What did he say?”
“Just that it seemed almost criminal to deprive Lord Mycroft of such a valuable asset. He could have meant anything,” Jim hastened to add. “I didn’t think Lord Mycroft would ever sell you.”
The clipped end of the sentence in Jim’s Dublin accent reminded Lestrade of the bill of sale he’d seen on Mycroft’s desk. He didn’t remember the numbers, but he felt sure one of the entries had borne the IRE country code. Lestrade’s realization must have shown on his face, because Jim’s eyes widened, and he clutched a laptop to his chest.
“Is he selling someone?” His voice dropped to a weak whisper. “Is he... did he mean me? Is he selling me?”
“I haven’t heard anything, Jim. Colonel Moran might have meant anything.” Lestrade dredged up an encouraging smile despite the sick feeling in his belly. “Don’t upset yourself over something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Jim stumbled forward and clutched Lestrade’s arm. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Lestrade-Excuse me, sorry Jim.” Sally appeared in the doorway of the tiny office, creating an even more claustrophobic space.
“I’ll come back later.” Jim scurried out, clutching his computer.
“What’s his problem?” Sally closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Have you heard about the Ambassador’s personal slave?”
“Soo Lin Yao. I just found out.”
“I already spoke to the Ambassador’s agent about the body. He wanted it disposed of, so the guards are taking care of the cremation. Housekeeping is over there now, scrubbing out the room.”
“Already? But the evidence-No.” Lestrade’s logic caught up to him, and he shook his head. “Of course there’s not going to be an investigation.”
“The Ambassador said it was an internal matter,” Sally said tightly. “‘Disposing of unwanted property.’”
“Christ.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I never saw him strike her. Never even gave her a harsh word. Not in front of me, in any case.” Lestrade slumped into his desk chair. “That poor girl. Can you... I know it might be classified, considering her position, but I’d like to check her registration, find out if she had a family. Anyone waiting for her contract to be done.”
“I’ll ask Jim to take a look. He’s got a way with electronic records.” Sally remained leaning against the door. “Also, the Ambassador’s going to need a replacement for tonight.”
“He’s not having one of my people,” Lestrade snapped.
“Sir?”
“Lord Mycroft’s people, I mean. He won’t.” Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What about that lot you’ve been orienting? The circus slaves. Yellow Butterfly whatsit? Anyone who qualifies?”
“Yellow Dragon Circus. Maybe.” Sally looked doubtful. “It’s rather an eclectic lot, sir.”
“Let him have the bloody erotic contortionist, for all I care.”
“Sir.” Sally’s eyes flitted to the door behind her. Of course, she was right. The house had ears, and Lestrade was out of line.
“I know. He’s a guest. It’s none of my business, and it’s not my decision.” Lestrade clutched the edge of his desk and squeezed until his fingers turned white. “He’s entitled to the best we can give him.”
“Things like this happen all the time, Gregory.” Sally ventured a step closer.
“Not under this roof.” Lestrade knew, he’d learned over and over, that he had no power to keep anyone safe, but each new lesson hurt as much as the first.
“Will you talk to that new lot?” Sally held up a file folder. “I’ve briefed them on procedures for tonight, but they don’t seem particularly keen.”
Lestrade frowned at the folder. A stray bit of information tugged at his memory. “Sally, where did they come through customs?”
“Portsmouth, I think. Why?”
“No reason.” Lestrade shook off the deep weariness that had settled in his bones and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, of course I’ll talk to him. Lead the way.”
--
John tapped his fingers on the sturdy oak table he’d recently been lying on as he regarded the volume Sherlock had given him. “So you knew it was a Hangzhou code, you just weren’t sure how to decipher it?” John flipped through the pages and found the one Sherlock had asked for. “Here.”
Sherlock took the book from John and ran his finger down the page. “There are any number of variations, but the reference would need to be something readily available: a book the Tong could find wherever they went. You provided the answer to that yourself: Freedom Through Obedience, required reading.“ He scribbled a note on the paper in front of him before handing the book back. “But as I said, it’s not the cipher that’s important. I couldn’t see it until that last set of numbers you brought me. Then it was only a matter of cross-referencing editions. Three eighty-one.”
John flipped to the back of the book. “You knew Soo Lin had been leaving messages.” He stopped at three eighty-one and turned the book around for Sherlock to see.
“Of course.” Sherlock wrote down a single word. “But why? Was she working with the Ambassador or against him? This latest development confirms my suspicion. One twenty-two.”
“He murdered her, Sherlock.” John found the page and passed off the book once more.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock made another note. “Forty-six.”
“Oh right, of course.” John found his jaw clenched tight. “‘Wilful property destruction,’ whatever the appropriate term is whenever one of your lot snuffs out one of us. Bloody inventory reduction.”
“I agree she was murdered.” Sherlock found the page himself and scribbled on his notepad. “But I doubt the Ambassador is the culprit.”
“Oh.” John considered that. “He got someone to do it for him.”
“Unlikely. He didn’t want her dead. No, the killer is a person who’s arrived recently. One who can move through the house unnoticed.”
“A slave.”
“Very good, John. Another guest’s, most likely, or someone else in the Ambassador’s entourage. Someone well-placed to observe the Ambassador’s movements and report to his employer.”
“The Chinese Empire has someone checking up on its own Ambassador?”
“No, his employer. Do keep up, John, you know I loathe repeating myself. Moriarty.” Sherlock said the word with a flourish, as if he liked the taste of it.
John frowned. “Moriarty is paying the Chinese Ambassador?”
“I believe there’s an echo in here.”
“How do you--?”
Sherlock flipped his notepad around to show John the words he’d copied, the words signified by the numbers carved into Soo Lin’s flesh:
more
ray
art
he.
John stared at the message. “How--?”
“Come on.” Sherlock snatched up the piece of paper, shoved it in his pocket, and strode to the door. John hurried to keep up.
“Soo Lin was running out of time. The pressure must have increased recently to drive her to such extreme measures.”
“What measures?” John fell into step beside Sherlock.
“Carving those symbols into her arms and legs. It would have hurt.”
“Carving... what?” John pictured the cuts in Soo Lin’s skin: angry slices into her delicate skin. It would have hurt quite a lot, and yet she’d barely flinched when John had bandaged her wounds.
“You must have noticed the cuts were self-inflicted,” Sherlock went on. “The angle of the cuts, the discrepancy of the depth of entry between the right and left arms-“
“Why?” John ran a few steps to catch up to Sherlock as he swept around a corner. “Why would she do that?”
“So that someone would observe, John.”
“Someone who?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock spun to a stop in the middle of the corridor. “She hadn’t received a satisfactory response to her other messages, so she had to try something new. She was desperate enough to seek help from an outsider: me.”
“How could she possibly know the message would get to you?”
“Simple,” Sherlock said, though his delighted grin suggested he’d enjoy explaining it anyway. “First she had to know I could decipher the code. At lunch yesterday, I was looking at photos of the painted ciphers and the deciphered messages on my mobile. I dropped my phone under the table and, having no personal slave of my own in attendance, asked Soo Lin to retrieve it for me. Yes, I took the opportunity of your absence to dine with Mycroft. You can thank me later.
“The rest is simple. Between Molly’s welts and Mrs. Hudson’s hip, you’ve worked up quite a reputation as a good Samaritan. Soo Lin knew a serious enough injury would entice you to help her. You would, of course, faithfully report what you saw to your master. I daresay she didn’t expect Moriarty’s agent to catch up with her quite so quickly.”
John recalled the way Soo Lin had spoken to him, even knowing he couldn’t understand. “Or she knew, and she did it anyway.”
“Unimportant.” Sherlock took off down the corridor again, and John followed. “In any case, she delivered an essential piece of data.”
“Which helps us how, exactly?”
“Here we are.” Sherlock stopped at one of the identical doors spaced along the hallway and produced a thin card from his pocket.
“Whose room is this?” John asked.
A swipe through the security panel next to the door produced a beep and a green light. “Come along.”
John had no choice but to follow Sherlock into a closet-sized room that held a padded bench and a dresser with a number of brushes and other mysterious implements neatly arranged on top. “What--?”
“Dressing room. Where the valet waits to be summoned.”
“Who in the house has a-“
Sherlock opened the next door onto a palatial room done in rich wood panelling and soothing creams. The remains of a fire crackled in the oversized hearth, throwing shadows on the walls. A door on the far side opened onto a huge white-tiled en suite. A monstrous desk with a green lamp stood laden with papers. “Lord Mycroft’s rooms.”
“Yes, John. We’ll make a detective of you yet.” Sherlock stepped inside and motioned for John to follow.
“Where did you get that card?”
“Lestrade is notoriously bad at remembering new codes, which are changed daily for the master suite. At last security just gave him an override card. I pick pocketed him.” Sherlock closed the door, made a bee-line for the desk, and began shuffling through papers.
“Alright,” John sighed. “Taking my objections to pick pocketing Lestrade as given-“
“Tedious.”
“Why are we here?” He stepped cautiously into the semi-dark room, careful not to touch any of the ancient and expensive-looking furniture.
“Looking for clues.”
“To...?”
“You work it out.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand and continued his ransacking of Mycroft’s desk.
“If Soo Lin was getting desperate, that means whatever she wanted to prevent was happening soon. At the banquet?”
“Yes, of course.”
“If the Ambassador is working for Moriarty, then Soo Lin shouldn’t have anything to fear from him.” John risked perching on the edge of a wooden chair next to the desk. “Perhaps Moriarty is threatening her--no. She’s not important enough. But she doesn’t like whatever it is Moriarty has planned. Maybe she offered to defect to the British Empire in exchange for protection, and Moriarty found out.”
“That’s actually a plausible idea,” Sherlock said without looking up.
“Thanks.”
“Totally wrong, of course. For shame, John.” Sherlock threw him a despairing look. “You should never theorize in advance of facts.”
Lights blazed suddenly from overhead. John jumped to his feet and whirled to see Anthea standing in the doorway, mobile in hand and eyebrow raised.
“Lord Sherlock, what a surprise,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “May I ask what brings you to Lord Mycroft’s rooms, sir?”
“John and I are making a project of shagging in every room on the estate, and Mycroft does have such a sumptuous bed.” Sherlock swept around the desk and linked his arm with John’s.
“Well, perhaps another time, sir.” She held the door open.
“Come on, sir.” John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him from the room, keeping his head down so Anthea wouldn’t see his furious blush.
“Was that really necessary, sir?” he asked once they were in the safety of the corridor
“No, but it was fun.” Sherlock headed down the hallway in the opposite direction from which they’d come.
“Did you get what you needed, at least?”
“More than that.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and his fingers began dancing over the surface at an impressive speed. “I know what’s going to happen tonight.”
“Besides a fancy dinner party?”
“Much better than that, John.” Sherlock grinned, and his eyes danced with the peculiar mix of joy and madness John knew well. “The Chinese Ambassador is going to be assassinated.”
--
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