Sherlock Fic: Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled (Part 3 of 3)
Um... please don't murder me.
Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled, Part 3 (Sherlock BBC; Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Lestrade had always hated press conferences. As a DI, he’d been utter crap at rattling off reassuring nonsense. He’d preferred instead to get the facts out as quickly as possible and return to work. He felt much the same about tonight’s muster. Standing before the assembled personal slaves of Mycroft’s household supplemented by a troupe of Chinese slaves and an assortment of visiting personal slaves, Lestrade thought for the first time that he might almost prefer a room of blood-thirsty reporters.
“While the table’s being cleared, there will be some light entertainment, provided by the slaves of the Yellow Dragon Circus, here.” He nodded towards the assembled Chinese imports, who stood apart from the others, in an unsmiling knot. “After that, dancing and drinks until the wee hours. Those of you who aren’t assigned to a specific lord or lady, if you find yourselves engaged for the night, kindly drop a notice in the system so we know who’s occupied where.”
Lestrade looked out at the familiar faces of the slaves in his care. On a long sofa, Sally perched a discreet distance from Anderson. Molly sat curled on the floor in front of the overstuffed chair where Jim lounged. The others had arranged themselves around the room as artfully as any slave designer might have displayed them. Though they’d already been drilled extensively on tonight’s events, still they listened attentively. Lestrade wished he dared warn them about the man who’d threatened John. They all looked to him for guidance, and he didn’t feel right sending them off for the night knowing that loose in the house was a man with no qualms about assaulting a helpless slave. But Lestrade couldn’t know for certain who to trust. As much as he hated to imagine that one of his own could betray them, his years in Lord Mycroft’s service had been a hard lesson in reserving judgement.
“Now,” he continued. “There’s been extra security added to the-“
The lounge door slammed open. John rushed in with his jacket buttons askew and his bow tie undone. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late.” He dropped into a chair in the corner and settled his hands on his knees. “Sorry.”
“Right.” Lestrade kept from heaving a sigh by tremendous force of will. “That’s about all. I don’t want to keep you from your duties. I’m certain you’ll make me-and Lord Mycroft-proud. Please, if you can, keep a weather eye on our visiting slaves, and help them if they need anything. Yes?”
“Yes, sir,” the other slaves chorused.
With that, the meeting began to break up. Sally grabbed Anderson’s hand and tugged him into the corridor, while the Yellow Dragon lot stood in the corner, conversing in hushed tones until all the others had filed out. Their de facto leader, a poised woman named Shan, gave Lestrade a shallow bow before ushering her charges out the door.
At last only John was left. He sat fumbling with his bow tie and cursing under his breath.
“Alright?” Lestrade asked.
“Never learned how to do these things.”
“Let me. Lord Mycroft can tie his own well enough, but sometimes he deigns to allow me.” Lestrade motioned John to his feet and took charge of the crumpled bow tie.
“You’d think a lazy git like Sherlock would want someone to dress him, but he actually prefers to do it himself. Probably thinks no one else could manage to make him look so good.”
“He always dressed smartly, even when he was-Well, even when he was going through rough times. It’s just part of who he is.” Lestrade shook his head at John’s questioning look. The story of Sherlock’s past wasn’t his to tell. “Listen. I haven’t turned anything up about the man who assaulted you.”
“Right. I hardly thought he’d turn himself in.” John rolled his shoulders, and Lestrade could see the soldier in him straightening John’s back. “In any case, that may be the least of our problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” John said firmly. “Only Sherlock’s got one of his theories, as always.”
“Anything you care to share?” Lestrade asked without much hope. He knew he wouldn’t betray Mycroft’s secrets to another slave, even one, like John, whom he considered a friend. He expected no less from John.
“No. Sorry.” John straightened his jacket and made for the door, then turned back. “Yes, actually. Sherlock stole your passcard.” John dug in the front pocket of his jacket and produced the thin rectangle of plastic.
“Damn him.” Lestrade accepted the card and tucked it back in his pocket. He hadn’t even noticed its absence. Getting slow, he was, and careless. He dredged up a smile for John. “It’s not the first time.”
John leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is there something in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, something he’d want? I don’t know, a piece of evidence or something?”
“Evidence of what?” Lestrade’s mind flipped through its catalogue of all the important documents he’d seen in Lord Mycroft’s room, and his memory of the files Mycroft casually put away when Lestrade came near. Certainly among all that sensitive information were things Lord Sherlock would be better off not knowing.
“Never mind. It’s not important.” John started for the door, but Lestrade caught him by the arm and held on.
“Evidence of what, John?”
John pursed his lips and looked at Lestrade with the same implacable stubbornness Lestrade had seen Sherlock exhibit.
Lestrade slowly released his grip. “Fine. I know how he is. Just, tell me when you can, will you? There’s enough that could go wrong tonight already without... Well, you know.”
“I know.” John threw himself down on a settee in a slump none of the house’s other personal slaves would have allowed themselves.
“It’s a bloody circus. An actual circus.” Lestrade claimed the other half of the settee with a slightly more refined version of John’s careless sprawl. “A house full of guests, full half of whom have some deep-seated grudge against another guest, an Imperial prince known for drinking excessively, not to mention a troupe of Imperial soldiers camped in the cellar.”
“There are soldiers here?” John threw a cautious glance Lestrade’s way.
“Not regular Army,” Lestrade said quickly. “Her Imperial Highness’s personal troop. They’re guarding some intruder found on the grounds a few nights back. They’ll be more at the banquet.”
“An intruder... Oh.” A look of understanding crept onto John’s face.
“I don’t want to know if you and Sherlock had anything to do with that. Just-don’t tell me.” Lestrade almost tugged a hand through his hair, but remembered in time that he shouldn’t ruffle it. He gave John’s bow tie one last tug instead and rose to his feet. “Are you ready for this?”
“You say that as if you think I’m not.”
“It can be an uncomfortable feeling, being on display.” Lestrade had memorized the titles that went with the guests’ faces. He knew how many of the Empire’s powerful would be watching and judging tonight: not only Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition, but also Lord Mycroft’s old slave. Lestrade expected he’d be privy to his fair share of comments tonight suggesting appropriate replacements. John was likely to hear a variety of frank assessments as well. “There will be a lot of important people scrutinizing you tonight.”
“Let them.” John stood and buttoned his jacket. He looked almost presentable. “I’m not their slave. I’m Sherlock’s.”
Lestrade couldn’t repress a laugh. “You surely are.”
--
“It’s a ridiculous investment. The rail system in the Baltics is crumbling. Are you trying to squander your new wife’s fortune, or are you really that stupid?”
“Sir, allow me to refill your drink.” John stepped between Sherlock and Captain Lennox to add a splash of wine to Sherlock’s mostly-full glass. Half-deaf Lady Worsley, on Sherlock’s right, had given up on Sherlock before the first course, but the irrepressibly cheerful Captain Lennox kept trying to engage Sherlock in conversation. John might have felt sorry for the man, if he hadn’t so enjoyed seeing someone else as thoroughly confused by Sherlock as he so often felt. John stood fussing with the placement of the wine decanter until Captain Lennox had turned away and established a conversation with the red-faced Lord to his left before kneeling again at Sherlock’s side.
“Serving wine is the table slaves’ duty,” Sherlock pointed out
“My duty is making certain you don’t get thrown out of the feast before we... What is it we’re here to do, anyway?” John lowered his voice below the murmur of the crowd. “Shouldn’t we be alerting the police?”
“They’d ruin everything.” Sherlock sipped the wine, which Mrs. Hudson had mentioned cost more than her contract, made a face like he’d swallowed vinegar, and slammed down the glass. “They’d put the Ambassador under heavy guard, tip off the assassin, and he’d disappear. We’d only be delaying the inevitable. No, we need to capture the assassin and learn about his employer.”
John leaned in closer. “Moriarty, you mean.”
“The kind of opponent who can plan an assassination right under Mycroft’s nose.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together and fairly squirmed in his seat. “Oh, he’s clever.”
“It sounds like you’re in love with him, a bit.” John sat back on his heels.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock favoured him with a disdainful glare. “It’s difficult enough to be in love with a single person at a time. How could anyone possibly love more than one?” He threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.
John broke his deferential posture to steal a glance at Sherlock’s face. He was the very picture of petulant nobility. John stifled a smile. “Well, I hope you have some kind of plan.”
“I’d hoped we might not have to sit through all eight courses.”
“What, you were hoping there’d be a murder at table?” John asked, wondering when such questions had become at least half-serious.
“Admit it: it would make the evening more interesting.” Sherlock sipped at the apparently offensive wine again. “I’ve already deduced the vintage Mycroft selected for each course. He would plan eight courses, the gluttonous- “
“Maybe if you tried to enjoy yourself-“
“I’m working, John. And I might stab Captain Lennox with my dessert fork if we’re forced to sit here much longer.”
“Don’t stab anyone,” John advised. “We won’t be able to catch the murderer if you’re hauled off by Imperial soldiers.” He didn’t think his master would indulge in physical violence to go with his verbal barbs, but he took the occasion of a table slave’s bringing a new course to move Sherlock’s knife to a strategically inconvenient spot on the table. “Go on, tell me who you think it is.”
“This isn’t a guessing game, John. What I do isn’t a parlour trick.”
“If you get it right, I’ll give you a reward.”
Sherlock peered down at him. “What sort of reward?”
“Lestrade says he sometimes motivates Lord Mycroft by offering him a prize. Makes things sporting.”
“Prize?” Sherlock took a dainty bite of the dish before him-apparently some sort of paté-while projecting perfect disinterest.
“Something nice he can do for Lord Mycroft. Something fun,” John said slowly. Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. “He meant sex, Sherlock.”
“Oh please, John. I wasn’t hungry before. With the image of those two, I won’t even be able to look at the food.” Sherlock signalled a slave to remove his plate.
“Sorry I mentioned it.” John sat still and kept watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock folded and refolded his napkin three times before asking, “What kind of reward did you have in mind?”
John hid his smile by bowing his head. “What would you like?”
“I have incomplete data in some areas.” Sherlock’s voice dropped so low John felt it more than heard it. “You said you’d make me scream.”
“There are lots of ways to do that.” Several options scrolled vividly through John’s mind, like battle plans. “Remember, I actually had to acquire some skills in my years as a free man.”
“We haven’t yet... That is, I haven’t experimented with...” Sherlock crumpled the napkin in both hands. “I want to be the receptive partner.”
“Oh.” John could see it clearly. Sherlock laid out beneath him, imperious and demanding as ever, ordering John faster, harder, more. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Only if you like,” Sherlock draped the napkin over his lap and smoothed it out quickly. “Many slaves prefer not to participate in that manner. Too much active involvement, apparently. Some find the emotional implications-“
“Sherlock, I want to.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s ankle, where no one was likely to notice such an impertinent gesture. He dared to dip a thumb under Sherlock’s trouser leg to feel his bare skin, just for an instant, before he released his hold and dropped both hands against his knees to resume the appropriate posture. “First you have to earn your prize. So tell me, who do you think it is?”
--
Lestrade craned his neck to see around the assembled guests until he caught sight of a straw-blond slave standing beside Lord Sherlock. Lestrade allowed himself to relax a fraction. He’d nearly lost sight of John once, earlier in the evening, when the guests had streamed into the ballroom after the meal. It had only been a moment-John had appeared from behind a column right where he should be: at Lord Sherlock’s side.
Lestrade hoped Mycroft hadn’t noticed his divided attention, or if he had, that he understood the reason for it. Satisfied that John wasn’t currently being murdered, Lestrade returned his attention-a portion of it anyway-to the after-dinner entertainment. The lion’s share of his awareness he reserved for observing the guests. Lord Dixon had chosen a seat next to Lady Moore, a promising development for Mycroft’s West Country project. Jim knelt at the feet of Colonel Moran, who had a meaty hand curled possessively around the slave’s shoulder. The young prince leaned forward in his chair with an enraptured grin. The prince’s slaves were twins: his age or perhaps a year or two older, they wore deeply veed shirts to show off their trim, muscular chests. The moved in unison, like a pair of matched horses. Lestrade had heard a rumour, shared by Lady Worsley’s doe-eyed personal slave with a too-sweet smile, that the twins would be replaced before the year was out: their novelty seemed to be wearing thin.
The slaves of the other guests were likewise beautifully attired and perfectly behaved, conforming to the highest standards of personal service. Lestrade resisted the urge to straighten his bow tie-he never managed to tie his own as neatly as he could for others-and turned his attention instead to the performers. On the platform erected for the evening at one end of the room, a team of tumblers flew back and forth across the stage. The whole assemblage appeared thoroughly engrossed in the performance. Apparently Mycroft had chosen the entertainment well.
“Gregory.”
Lestrade looked up to see his master’s eyes still trained on the performance, maintaining a perfect expression of what Lestrade might call invested indifference. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you enjoying the entertainment?”
Lestrade puzzled over how to answer appropriately before settling on, “The guests seem to be, my lord.”
“Mm. I’ve never been fond of the circus, either.” Mycroft turned away from the performance to look down at Lestrade. “What would you prefer?”
“I’m not much for event planning, sir.”
“No, Gregory. For yourself. What would you like to do of an evening?”
“I... I don’t quite...” Lestrade stared at his master, trying to read the right answer in his face.
“I would have thought you’d suggest a football match. I know you enjoy football.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade flushed to remember the casual defiance with which he’d joined the gardeners and stable boys in footie on the east lawn years ago. “I’d hoped you forgotten about that.”
“No.” Mycroft looked back to the performance. A shadow of a frown marred the neutrality of his expression. “I find you occupy an ever-increasing amount of space in my mind.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head.
“That wasn’t a complaint.”
Applause filled the ballroom as the tumblers stood at the edge of the platform and bowed. Shan, who’d been leading the entertainments, appeared in her decorative collar, elaborate headdress, and traditional robe. She raised her hands for silence. “From the distant, moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider.”
A bare-chested slave in a mask and billowy trousers dropped from the ceiling in a swirl of ribbons. He performed a series of intricate manoeuvres with the ribbons, pulling himself up and swinging within touching distance of the rapt crowd.
Lestrade barely noticed him. Instead, he attuned himself to his master, who appeared perfectly content to focus on the performance. Lestrade puzzled over Mycroft’s bizarre questions. His strange behaviour of the past few days could have been explained by stress over the banquet planning, but that couldn’t be the entirety of the problem. Mycroft had acknowledged that he’d brought Lord Sherlock here for some purpose. John’s careful non-answers about the information Sherlock found must be somehow related. If the case had lead them to Moriarty, it might be important to alert Mycroft. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to break John’s trust and worry Mycroft unnecessarily. Lestrade’s less-than-desirable traits were enough on display tonight without adding paranoia to the list.
Lestrade made himself focus on the stage. The performer had abandoned the ribbons to demonstrate other feats of his skill. He leapt from the platform to one of the marble columns that lined the ballroom. He climbed the column easily, though Lestrade could have sworn there were no footholds, no place even for a finger to grip. Like the outside walls of the estate: unassailable.
The bird spider waved from the top of the column, near enough to touch the ceiling, and then abruptly slid down, to the gasps of the crowd. When he jumped back onto the platform to bow, the crowd rewarded him with cheers and cries of “bravo.”
The orchestra began to play a jaunty tune as the slave billed as an erotic contortionist took to the platform.
Lestrade watched the bird spider retreat behind the curtain. Tension thrummed in his chest as his eyes swept over the cheerful crowd. He unfolded from his cushion and bowed to his master. “I’m sorry, sir. May I be excused a moment?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but nodded his agreement. “Of course.” When Lestrade turned to leave, Mycroft caught him by the wrist. “Gregory. Hurry back.” He released Lestrade and turned his attention to the stage.
--
From his place at Sherlock’s side, John glanced around the hall, now cleared and transformed into a vast dance floor. His eyes settled on the two white-blond slaves following behind the prince as he greeted admirers. “What about one of them?”
Sherlock made a noise of derision.
“The assassin could be a slave,” John muttered.
Sherlock continued his careful scan of the crowd without looking at John. “Improbable, but not impossible. Not an option to be eliminated yet.”
“Well, who’s most likely to be a killer?” John tried to follow Sherlock’s gaze, but his height didn’t provide him a very good vantage point. “It’s never who you think it is, is it? That bloke the in cellar, for instance, the one who tried a bit of target practice on you the other night, he’s unlikely to cause any trouble.”
Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at John. “In the cellar?”
“Apparently Mycroft has the man locked up in some dark, dank cells of his.”
“Of course.” Sherlock’s eyes slowly widened. John could almost see the wheels turning inside Sherlock’s head. “Oh, of course. I should have seen it sooner. How do you sneak a trained killer in through Mycroft’s security? You let the guards bring him through the front door. Stay here!” Sherlock rushed forward through the crowd, elbowing lords and ladies out of the way.
John hurried after him and grabbed him by the wrist. He hissed in Sherlock’s ear, “If you think I’m going to let you go rushing off into danger-“
“I need you to keep an eye on the Chinese Ambassador.” Sherlock pried John’s hand off and nodded towards the room beyond. “Don’t let him out of your sight, understand?”
“Be careful.” John stood with his hands at his sides and watched Sherlock sweep through the crowd and out of the hall. When Sherlock disappeared from sight, John turned his attention to the press of people around him. The crowd of joined pairs-masters and their slaves-moved in patterns as practiced and intricate as any dance: greeting friends, snubbing rivals, possibly making political deals. Lestrade could have explained it all, but he’d ducked out during the performance-lucky sod-and hadn’t returned.
At last, John spotted the Chinese Ambassador at the edge of the dance floor, talking to a stout, balding lord. He ducked his head and wove through the crowd, trying to ignore the conspicuously empty space in front of him where he master should be. He’d never felt the confinement of his collar so keenly as now, when he faced all the limitations of his station without any of the benefits of an influential master at his side.
As John drew closer, the orchestra, installed on a dais at the end of the hall, began to play. The Chinese Ambassador held out his hand to Molly-apparently she’d been conscripted as his attendant this evening-and drew her onto the dance floor. John quickened his pace, skirting the edge of the floor to keep them in view. They glided with the swirling music, disappearing behind this couple or that. John collided with a tall, willowy slave, who snapped at him in German. When John untangled himself, he could barely make out the figures of Molly and the Chinese Ambassador in the crowd of dancers. He dodged a table slave carrying a tray of champagne flutes, then spotted Sally, elegant in a white sheath dress, standing alone.
He wove his way to her side. “Sally! I need your help.” He snatched the wine glass from her hand and deposited it on a passing slave’s tray. “Do you know how to lead?”
“Of course, but-“
“Come on, please.” John tugged her onto the floor, arranged his hands in the appropriate position, and applied a pleading look.
More out of an apparent wish to avoid impeding the other dancers than any sympathy for John, Sally tugged him into motion.
“Can we just--?” John nodded behind Sally. “That way. Towards the orchestra.”
Sally complied, angling John’s clumsy steps across the floor. “What is this all about?”
“Nothing.” John couldn’t keep his feet moving and come up with a convincing lie at the same time. “Who are you attending?”
“Lady Savage. She’s gone off dancing with Lord Fontecilla.”
“You should keep an eye on her, then.”
“Don’t presume to tell me my duty.” Sally dragged him out of the way of an oncoming couple. “Where’s your master?”
“A bit busy.” John didn’t like the idea of Sherlock running after an assassin on his own, but by all accounts the man had being doing such mad things long before John came into his life.
“Busy causing problems,” Sally scowled.
“He can do as he wishes,” John snapped back. “He’s a Holmes.”
“Exactly.” Sally pulled John to a stop beside a column at the edge of the dance floor. “John, you shouldn’t trust him. He’ll let you down.”
“Excuse me?” John tore his eyes away from the Chinese Ambassador, currently leading Molly in a wide circle around the floor, to look at Sally.
“You should never trust a master, in general,” she said with the conviction of one who’d learned firsthand. “They’ll always let you down. He will, too.”
“That’s not what I’ve seen.”
“Really?” Sally crossed her arms over her chest, creasing the elegant lines of her dress. “He does this. He gets off on it. This, these puzzles. Bet he sees you the same way. Just a little distraction, something for him to play with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.” She turned away from John to look out at the whirling dancers. “One day he’ll come back to Lord Mycroft looking for one of us to be his whipping boy. They always get rid of us in the end. He’ll drop you, too, see if he doesn’t.”
John forced on a polite smile. Sally might know this side of society much better than he, but John knew Sherlock. After one night, he’d found himself letting down his defences, letting Sherlock in, when his soldier’s instincts should have fought at every turn. He’d yet to regret his actions. “That’s my lookout, isn’t it?”
“I’m saying this because you’re one of us. We’re disposable to them. There’s always more where we came from. And no one else will look out for us if we don’t do it for each other, yeah?”
“Yeah.” John swallowed against his collar. Then a hand planted itself firmly against his back, causing him to start.
“You have something that belongs to me, I believe.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled over his shoulder.
“Pardon me, sir.” Sally bowed to Sherlock and hastily withdrew, with one last warning glance at John.
“Where’s the Ambassador?” Sherlock stepped into place at John’s side.
“Far end of the floor, there.”
Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him towards the dancers. “Come on, John.”
“Wait, I can’t!”
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s back and curled a hand around his hip. “Look at me, John. Follow me.”
Sherlock moved, and John stumbled forward. Sally frowned at them from the edge of the dance floor.
“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said. As much to avoid Sally’s glare as anything, John complied. “The violin has the melody. Do you hear the rhythm? Good. Now follow.”
Sherlock moved, and this time John stepped with him. The firm pressure of Sherlock’s hand guided John in the right direction. He danced as confidently as he played the violin, like the music translated movement directly through his limbs. When they joined the flow of the other dancers, John found the steps as easily as falling into a marching cadence. He dared to look, only to find Sherlock grinning at him. His pale, changeable eyes gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers. His hair, which had been carefully coiffed at the beginning of the evening, now tumbled over his forehead in attractive disarray. His skin glowed with the exertion of the chase. He looked every inch a lord, and he was John’s; he’d said so. John banished Sally’s words from his mind and grinned back at Sherlock. “Is there anything you’re not brilliant at?”
“At which I’m not brilliant,” Sherlock corrected.
John ignored him. “Cooking? Boxing?”
“I’ve never found much use for astronomy.” Sherlock’s grin faltered into a scowl. John followed his gaze to see every couple they passed staring at them. “Or at being my brother’s performing monkey.” He steered John to the side of the floor, putting his taller form between John and the curious onlookers.
“I was right,” Sherlock said, once they’d found a less crowded patch of dance floor. “Sulejmani, an Albanian assassin held in the discipline cells, conveniently escaped an hour ago.”
“He’s loose in the house?” John nearly stumbled, but Sherlock guided him back into rhythm.
“Of course not. I neutralized him.”
“Oh.” John felt a sharp pang of disappointment that the case they’d begun together, Sherlock had finished without him. Then he realized Sherlock didn’t seem particularly pleased, either. “Why do you not seem happy? There’s usually smirking, some grinning, a little light gloating. You look like you swallowed a frog.”
“Something’s missing.” Sherlock stared over John’s shoulder, focusing somewhere beyond the room. “Soo Lin knew the Ambassador was in danger. She tried to get help, but didn’t contact her own government.”
“Sherlock?”
“The Ambassador stayed here after the murder of his son back home. He became paranoid about his daughter’s security, but he didn’t send her home. He had to stay here.”
“Sherlock.”
“Either he had orders from his government-unlikely, considering the small number of communiqués he’s received while in residence here--or Moriarty had some plan for him.”
“Lord Sherlock, sir.” John dug his fingers hard into Sherlock’s arm. When he finally had his master’s attention, he nodded to the far edge of the dance floor. “The Ambassador’s leaving.”
--
Lestrade stood alone in the darkness of Lord Mycroft’s room. The place was silent, and neat as always. Papers on the desk sat in precise rows. Lestrade ran his hand over the topmost paper of one stack-a draft of a letter to an arms supplier in the People’s Republic of Kyrgyzstan, requesting information about a customer. The next stack was weighted by a memory stick. Below it lay a pile of blank requisition orders. Nothing unusual. Lestrade resisted the urge to shuffle through the rest of the papers, looking for what might have enticed Lord Sherlock.
Instead, he returned to the corridor and headed out of the family wing, where he nodded at the guard on duty. “Evening, Hopkins.”
“Taking a break from the festivities?” she asked.
“Short one. Is it too terrible being on duty up here tonight?” He nodded towards the courtyard, where the music from the ballroom drifted in from the windows.
“I prefer it. No one cares if I look bored up here.” She waved him on. “G’night, Greg.”
“Good night.” Lestrade headed downstairs to rejoin his master. He’d been paranoid to think an intruder could have got into Lord Mycroft’s rooms. No matter how well a man climbed, there were guards to deal with, and locked doors as well. Of course, Lord Sherlock had bypassed those systems easily.
Lestrade stopped, turned, and retraced his steps.
“Forget something?” Hopkins asked.
Lestrade offered her a flat smile. “It’s probably nothing.” He returned to Lord Mycroft’s room and scanned his passcard to unlock it. This time, he looked into the en-suite and the dressing room. He came back into the bedroom and stood with his arms folded across his chest. If he were a thief, one who could climb anything, how would he break in? No windows in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, but other rooms on the floor had windows that opened onto the balcony. That still wouldn’t solve the problem of getting into the room unseen. None of the other rooms connected to Lord Mycroft’s. There was no other opening into the room except the door.
Lestrade turned in a full circle one last time. His eyes rested on the cold fireplace. Usually the house slaves had built a healthy fire by the time, to allow the room to warm before the master’s return, but tonight the ashes of the morning’s dead fire filled the grate. And there on the stone hearth were sooty footprints leading into the room.
Lestrade turned and ran for the door, but before he could shout, he felt a cloth wrap tight around his throat.
--
John stopped at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, then peeked around the corner to see the next corridor completely empty. “Perhaps he’s going back to his quarters.”
“Early?” Sherlock scoffed. “Without a slave to attend him? He left Molly skulking ‘round the edges of the dance floor.”
“His own personal slave was just killed,” John pointed out.
“No, something’s wrong.” Sherlock strode down the corridor, looked both ways at the junction, and turned left. John hurried to keep up.
“What? You’ve already neutralized the assassin.”
“The Ambassador’s afraid.”
“He doesn’t know he’s out of danger. I assume you didn’t inform him about Sulejmani.”
“Or he’s not out of danger. Oh. Oh.” Sherlock whirled around and grabbed John by the arms. “John, there’s not one crime planned for tonight. There are two.”
“You mean two people want the Ambassador assassinated?”
“No! Well yes, technically. There’s no time. Here.” Sherlock pulled something from his pocket and pressed it into John’s hand.
“Have you been carrying around-Sherlock, really.” John accepted the handgun. It fit into his hand like it belonged there. He slid out the magazine. “At least it’s not loaded. Do you have a fresh clip?”
“Of course not. Ammunition’s in my quarters.”
“Right. Come on, then.” John started back towards the family wing.
“I’ll stay here. Off you go.” Sherlock waved him on.
John planted his feet. “You’ve already faced an assassin once tonight. I don’t fancy the odds of you facing another on your own.”
“The odds of beating a second are not affected by the odds of beating the first. Do you know nothing about statistics?”
“We shouldn’t split up.”
“I can’t watch you every minute, John. I need to find the Ambassador before someone else does. Go.” When John didn’t move, Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Now! That’s an order!”
John raised his chin and stared back at Sherlock until he lowered his gaze.
“This is the best way of stopping what’s about to happen. Will you go on?” Sherlock asked.
“Fine,” John said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Sherlock nodded and sped off down the corridor, coat tails trailing behind him dramatically. John spared the sight a quick smile before he settled the gun at his back in the waistband of his trousers and smoothed his jacket over it. He began to walk as quickly as he dared. He passed the guard on duty at the entrance to the family wing-Hodgkins, perhaps-deeply aware that he was a slave carrying a weapon. She merely nodded at him as he passed, and John relaxed a fraction.
As he turned the corner towards Sherlock’s room, he collided with another slave. The man was pale and covered with soot, and clung to John to keep upright. It took John several seconds to recognize him.
“Lestrade! What the hell happened to you?”
“Bird spider,” he croaked, as if that explained something. He straightened up and stood under his own power. “I’m fine. Why are you alone? Where’s Lord Sherlock?”
“No time.” John shook his head. “Listen, someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. Get some help.”
“John!”
John sped off down the corridor without waiting for a reply. Lestrade would bring help or he wouldn’t, but every moment of delay was another moment Sherlock spent alone and in danger.
Sherlock’s room was a chaos of discarded experiments and piles of clothing. A coil of rope perched atop the violin case. A knife speared a pile of papers on the mantel. John jumped over obstacles on his way to the wardrobe, cursing every second of delay, and opened it to find Sherlock’s ammunition stash. He checked one magazine before slipping it into the Sig and pocketed a second.
He burst out of the room into the darkened corridor and stopped. Sherlock could be anywhere in the building, and between him and John were household guards who wouldn’t be keen on letting an armed slave pass. In Afghanistan, John had once known an Army slave who’d shot a free man, a soldier in the camp: a stupid drunken brawl over a piece of equipment. John had dug two bullets out of the free man’s leg and sent him back to an Empire hospital for recovery. The commander had rounded up all camp personal to watch the slave’s execution by firing squad.
John carefully concealed his loaded weapon, schooled himself into an appropriately deferential posture, and started off as fast as a personal slave should go.
--
“Secure the personal wing, and check Lord Mycroft’s office as well,” Lestrade told Hopkins. “He should be out cold, but call for back-up before you approach him. There may be other intruders.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“That’s a start.”
“I’m on it.” She reached for her radio: no doubts, no explanation needed, merely calm acceptance of the chain of command.
The relief at that reaction helped propel Lestrade onwards. He raced down a back staircase that brought him out near the courtyard. Mycroft’s guards recognized him and let him pass on his way outside, though he must have looked a fright. He paused in the courtyard by the pump to wipe the worst of the soot and blood from his face. Nothing could be done now about the red lines around his throat where the bird spider had tried to choke him, but he was as presentable as he could be under the circumstances.
In the ballroom, Lestrade wove through the press of revellers with the skill of a man accustomed to going unnoticed. He spotted Mycroft at the far end of the hall, deep in conversation with Lady Okoye.
He bowed his head before addressing his master. “Pardon me, my lord.” He dared not say more in front of a guest, but he knew his dishevelled appearance could not fail to impress upon Mycroft the urgency of the situation.
“My apologies, Lady Okoye,” Mycroft said with a handsome bow. “A moment, if you please.”
She nodded and moved quickly away with her personal slave, both looking askance at Lestrade.
“Sir-“ Lestrade began.
“You’ve been fighting.”
“I’m fine. Lord Mycroft. Sir.” Lestrade attempted to angle Mycroft away from the crowd without presuming to touch him. “We have a situation. Someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. There may be--”
“Who told you that?” Mycroft broke in.
“John Watson. But there’s--”
“Wood!” Mycroft hailed the nearest guard, who jumped to attend him. “Find my brother. Detain him if you can. I need to speak to him immediately. Go.” She sped through the crowd. Mycroft grabbed Lestrade’s arm. “Gregory, have you said anything to anyone else?”
“Of course not, sir. I saw--”
“Good.” Mycroft’s fingers dug into Lestrade’s arms, a clear sign of the tension Mycroft was attempting to keep from his expression. “Good.”
“Sir, I’ve been trying to tell you, there was an attempted break-in in your quarters. I’m not certain it had to do with the assassination. The intruder was one of the circus troupe.”
Mycroft’s hands fell away, and he straightened to his full height. “Is the area secure?”
“Security’s sweeping it now.”
“Show me.”
--
John avoided the eyes of each sentry he passed, be they blue-clad guards of Lord Mycroft’s household or red-jacketed Imperial soldiers.
He’d no idea where Sherlock had gone. From the balcony, he could at least see the corridor on three storeys, and perhaps catch a glimpse of his master. The chill night air felt welcome after the stifling confines of the ballroom.
John crept along the balcony, keeping to the shadows. He had no time to explain himself to curious guards. He scanned the windows opposite, looking for any sign of Sherlock or the Ambassador. Some of the rooms were dark, some had their curtains drawn, but none seemed to contain a maddeningly brilliant, socially deficient Imperial lord.
John turned to head back inside-time was ticking away-when he heard raised voices in the courtyard below. He darted forward to peek over the banister.
Sherlock hurried across the cobblestones with the Chinese Ambassador close on his heels. Distant strains of music from the ballroom masked their conversation, but the sharpness of their voices was unmistakable. Sherlock wrenched open the garden door and gestured the Chinese Ambassador inside. Good thought, that, getting out of the open. Sherlock charged up the grand staircase and came to rest on the first storey landing, near the glass-panelled French doors that led out onto the balcony, still a level below John.
“No, get away from the windows,” John muttered. He pulled the gun from his waistband. He’d covered comrades in danger zones before; he knew this tense vigilance, checking every window for a hostile face, watching every gesture for the draw of a gun. Even here, there were too many angles from which a sniper could attack. John had never seen the man that shot him. The pain had come from out of nowhere, as if the wound had appeared from within him. For a moment, staring down at the blood, he hadn’t realized what had happened. John tightened his grip on the Sig. That wouldn’t happen to Sherlock.
John let out his breath on a careful exhale. Across the courtyard, he could see his master move-not far, only enough to bring him in front of the French doors. Over the distant strains of music, John couldn’t hope to make out the conversation. Sherlock stepped forward again, creating a convenient target against the light of the corridor. Another even breath. John’s grip on the Sig remained steady. It had to.
Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. A second figure stepped into the frame of the window. At the left edge of John’s vision, on the second-storey balcony across the courtyard, a glint of metal moved. John spared it a glance-just a glance. A rifle and scope, held by a towering bulk of a man. John had seen that rifle before, he thought, before more urgent matters crowded that fact from his mind.
The man was waiting for a shot. John’s eyes followed the angle of the rifle to the window. Sherlock. John rotated his stance. The gun lined up with the opposite balcony. Careful, now: the stone banister provided at least half cover. He wouldn’t have a second chance. Finger on the trigger. Breathe. Squeeze.
The shot echoed off the stone walls. The figure dropped out of sight behind the banister.
Sherlock grabbed the Ambassador by the arm and pulled him behind the marble column-good thinking, to get under cover-and then dashed out onto the balcony and peered through the darkness towards the direction of the shooting-stupid prat, putting himself at risk. The light blazed behind him, creating a perfect silhouette.
“Get down!” John shouted. Sherlock’s attention snapped to the spot where John stood. John kept his aim steady on the opposite balcony, in case the shooter got up again. “Down!” John ordered, with the snap of command in his voice, and Sherlock stepped back behind cover. The blood pounded in John’s ears, drowning out the music. He thought, for a moment, that he heard the deep thrum of helicopter blades turning, but no: that was only boots pounding on the stone.
John lowered the gun to his side. He had his weapon on the ground by the time the guards reached him. Even as John raised his empty hands, the first red-uniformed Imperial guard slammed the butt of his rifle into John’s head.
John managed a controlled fall, and tucked his arms over his head to protect himself from further blows. The next guard planted a knee on his back and wrenched his arms back to pin them; he threw his whole weight into keeping John down, despite the lack of resistance.
The guard above him raised his rifle to strike John again, but a blue-uniformed officer stepped between the redcoat and John: Wood. It was Wood. “That’s enough. He’s neutralized,” she said. “Take him to a holding cell until Lord Mycroft decides what to do with him.”
The guards hauled him to his feet and began half-leading, half-dragging him back inside. The corridor boiled with more guards. The two redcoats holding him pushed through the crowd, and Wood followed. John could make out some shouts through the confusion.
“Lockdown, now! I want a guard at every exit.”
“Sweep the whole wing; there could be more of them.”
“Jesus, it’s a lord he’s shot.”
“Moran, it’s Colonel Moran.”
Moran. John closed his eyes. A crack shot, with his gun trained on Sherlock. Any remorse he’d felt about pulling the trigger evaporated.
“Fancy that, Lord Sherlock’s little bed slave trying to murder one of his brother’s guests,” said the guard on his left as he hustled John down the stairs. “Wonder what the protocol is for that.”
“Is he dead?” John asked.
“No talking.” The guard on his left tightened his grip on John’s arm, and nearly shoved him off his feet as they reached the ground floor.
“Is he dead, he wants to know. Not yet, lucky boy. Are you hoping he is? If the lord dies, they’ll hang you, live on television. Is that what you wanted? A few minutes of fame?”
“He was going to shoot Lord Sherlock,” John snapped.
“John.” Wood tugged the guard on John’s right out of the way so she could walk next to him. “How do you know he was going to shoot Lord Sherlock?”
“He was waiting until he had a clear shot. The trajectory. I saw him waiting.”
“You’re not a bodyguard, idiot, you’re a bedwarmer,” said the redcoat on his left as he tugged John down the stairs to the basement. “You’d best hope Moran lives. That way you’ll get to keep your miserable life.”
“They’ll castrate you to make you docile,” said the other guard. “Then you’ll get a life sentence of hard labour. Most of you bed slaves sent to those places don’t last long. The other inmates appreciate having a soft-bodied new boy to share around.”
“Stop it,” Wood snapped. “This is Lord Sherlock’s slave, and until there’s been an investigation, he’s not to be mistreated. Not in Lord Mycroft’s house, understand?”
“Wouldn’t want to do anything to upset his Lordship.”
“No, you really wouldn’t,” Wood said grimly.
“Relax, dearie. We were just having a bit of fun.” A redcoat slid the door to John’s cell closed; the lock clicked home with metallic finality.
John grasped the bars to keep himself upright. “Wood. Please. Will you make certain Lord Sherlock’s safe?”
She nodded before turning on her heel and striding out past the knot of redcoats in the doorway.
John braced his back against the cold stone wall of the cell and slid down to the floor. The room still wobbled around him, but sitting, he at least had less chance of falling down.
The plain cell had been emptied of all furniture, and the draft from the narrow, high window was even colder than that in his slave quarters. John tucked his knees up to his chest for warmth and held as still as he could, to avoid aggravating his probable concussion.
He’d stopped the gunman. Sherlock was alive, and hopefully, at least for the moment, out of danger. John thought of the slave he’d known in the Army-the man who’d died by firing squad. He’d had no one to speak for him. It might be that Sherlock would come for John. Or it might be that extricating a slave from the embrace of Imperial justice took too much effort away from Sherlock’s other interests. After all, as Sally said, there were always more where he came from.
John made himself raise his head and look around his prison. At the corner of the cell, a chunk of stone had come loose. It was just the right size to hold in one’s hand and allow a highly effective punch. He slid himself along the floor until he had the best view of the chatting redcoats through the bars of his door. He flexed his fingers around the rough bit of rock, and waited.
--
Behind the desk in his office, Lord Mycroft sat jotting notes onto a paper, which he handed off to Anthea. She touched Lestrade’s hand as she passed, and shut the door behind her, leaving them in silence. It might have been any other day, with the powerful coming to lay their hopes in front of the Lord of Westminster and points north. Except now, Lestrade stood in front of his master, bringing only questions and uncertainty.
“Where have they taken John?”
“To a holding cell.”
“I see.” Lestrade fixed his eyes on the floor, a properly deferential stance.
“Gregory. I must.” Mycroft stood and walked slowly around his desk. “It’s the only thing that has a chance of keeping Sherlock at bay while my people deal with the threat.”
“You aren’t required to explain yourself to me, my lord.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft reached for him, but Lestrade stepped away.
“You can only play the villain so long, sir, until it’s no longer playing.”
Mycroft’s hand dropped to his side.
The door rattled, then swung open with a bang as Sherlock burst through. He strode right past Lestrade to stand toe to toe with his brother. “I want him back. Now.”
“You know that’s not possible. He shot a free man. A lord.” Mycroft walked back behind his desk, but Sherlock followed.
“With good cause. He did prevent the assassination of a foreign dignitary.”
“That he did.” Lord Mycroft gritted his teeth. “Even so, there are procedures, Sherlock.”
“This is a grave inconvenience. I don’t want to be without him.”
“You think a great deal of what you want, Sherlock, and little of anyone else.”
“Very well then.” Sherlock spread his arms. “What is it you want from me?”
Mycroft considered him for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I want assurances that you’ll not go haring off into the hands of our enemies. Should anything happen to me, the responsibilities of our domain would fall to you.”
“God forbid.” Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked over to the darkened window.
“Yes, your concern for my well-being is touching. It’s not like the old days, Sherlock, running around London on your own.”
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes darted to Lestrade and away again so quickly Lestrade wasn’t certain it had happened at all.
“You have responsibilities to consider.”
“If I do, they’re mine to consider, not yours.”
Mycroft braced his hands on his desk. “I can’t stand by while you neglect-“
“You’ve never sat idly by in your life.” Sherlock waved a hand at his brother. “You interfere in every-“
“For the good of the Empire,” Mycroft broke in, drowning Sherlock out. “And for this family-“
“So used to having your own way you can’t even- “
“You’re incapable of listening to reason!”
“So you treat me like a child? Taking my toys away has never been an effective way to influence my behaviour.”
“John Watson is not a toy,” Lestrade snapped. Both Holmes lords turned to face him. He bowed his head. “I apologize, sirs.”
Mycroft tucked his hands behind his back and let out a slow breath before turning back to Sherlock. “He shot a lord. An act like that cannot go unpunished.”
“A moment ago you were full of concern for my welfare. You do remember John acted in my defence as well?”
“I know he did, which is why I have no plans to turn him over to the authorities. These things must be done in the proper way.” Mycroft settled into the chair at his desk.
“Since when have you ever cared about the proper way?” Sherlock stalked over to the desk, picked up the nearest sheaf of papers, and waved them in Mycroft’s face. “You arrange the laws of the Empire to suit yourself-“
“I am a servant of the Empire, and I have never-“
“Your life’s work is manipulating people into doing what you want. Don’t tell me you can’t-“
“Everything is under control.” Mycroft pushed to his feet. “I’m sure you’re fully capable of extracting John from his current difficulties.”
“I’m capable? I’m--? You’re the one who-- . No. No, I see.” Sherlock took a slow step backwards. “You’ve been manufacturing situations from which I have the means to rescue John.”
“We’ll discuss this later,” Mycroft said quickly.
“I don’t think so, brother dear.” Sherlock had that gleam in his eyes now that Lestrade had seen before: a dog on the scent, a detective following the clues. “You want to bind John to me in the only way you know how: gratitude. You think that’s why Lestrade’s been loyal to you all these years-out of obligation for rescuing him from a slow death by exhaustion in the Australian work camps.”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but Sherlock was on a roll now, pacing the room, laying out his deductions.
“So John comes along, and you, assuming I have no other merits to hold his interest--thank you for that-decide to create conditions under which loyalty might reasonably develop, namely: crises from which I must be the saviour. You’ve been punishing him, humiliating him, injuring him, all in the name of strengthening my attachment. Very clever. Oh!” Sherlock whirled around to point a finger at Mycroft. “You must have been doing the same to Lestrade. Did you arrange for him to be sent to Milverton?”
“You’re speculating without sufficient data.” Mycroft stood with his back straight, holding very still. “You’ve no idea what I-“
“What you feel?” Sherlock laughed once: a rough sound, like shattered glass. “Caring is a weakness. You’ve told me so yourself, repeatedly.” He strode forward and grabbed Mycroft’s arm. “Where is John?”
“Sherlock, I will not always be able to look after you.” Mycroft folded his hand over Sherlock’s. “I only want-“
Sherlock shook off Mycroft’s touch. “Where is he?”
“He’s under guard. And he’ll remain so until the danger has passed.”
“Danger that you manufactured. You’re pathetic, Mycroft. You assume Lestrade only serves you out of gratitude for his life? No one’s sense of obligation is that powerful. Is that what I’m meant to have been doing these past years? Is that the brotherly thing to do?” Sherlock stepped around the desk to wave an arm at Lestrade. “Manoeuvring Lestrade into peril so you could swoop in and save the day? Would that have given you the chance to earn what you could never hope to win on your own? Would that have given you a chance for someone to actually love you?”
“That’s enough, Sherlock!” Both brothers’ attention snapped to Lestrade. “Lord Sherlock. Sir.” He bowed his head and turned away. “Excuse me.”
Lestrade fled the room with his face burning. He shouldn’t have spoken like that to Lord Sherlock, no matter his feelings. He hadn’t the right. But he’d never been able to stand quietly by while someone else was attacked. Having been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rage repeatedly, Lestrade had learned not to take these tantrums personally. But Mycroft did not deserve to hear such poisonous suggestions. Sherlock had no right to speak of what lay between Lestrade and his master: that delicate but ever-present feeling that shied away whenever Lestrade dared examine it.
Lestrade swallowed his frustration and put on an attitude of calm confidence for his walk through the buzzing hallways.
“Is it true?” Sally asked in hushed tones, in the corridor leading to the family wing. “Did he shoot a man?”
“It’s being taken care of. Make sure everyone carries on with their duties, yeah?”
Mrs. Hudson stopped him in the kitchen. “Is he alright? When they hauled him through here, I thought he might have been bleeding.”
“I’m checking on him now.”
Lestrade descended the steps to the basement, rehearsing what he’d say to make them let him through. If ever there was a time to take advantage of his rank, it was now. But when he reached the detention block, he found no one standing guard.
“Hello?” His voice echoed down the empty stone corridor.
The light from the stairwell penetrated only a few feet into the corridor of cells. Lestrade ran his hand across the wall until he encountered the switch. The fluorescent lights in the low ceiling flickered to life, illuminating chaos: two still forms in red Imperial guard uniforms lay sprawled on the floor amidst scattered papers. Lestrade reached for his truncheon, which hadn’t been at his side for years, and clenched his fist when he found nothing. Even if he’d had a weapon, it would mean death to use it. No, better to go unarmed.
Lestrade listened intently as he crept forward into the unknown. He pressed his fingers to the neck of the nearest downed guard, and found no pulse. Two bullet holes, inches apart, marred his uniform in the centre of his back. The next guard lay in a pool of blood, with the back of his head smashed in. The sidearm was missing from its holster at the man’s belt.
Lestrade sprung to his feet and ran the few feet down the corridor to the first cell: door ajar, empty. Each of the six cells told the same story: unlocked, unoccupied. Lestrade dashed back to the stairway, looking around for any clue he might have missed. “Watson!” he shouted. The call bounced back to him against the cellar’s stone walls. “John!” He heard only the lingering echo of his own shout.
--
[Thanks for reading! The next installment is currently under construction, and I hope to have it out with less of a gap than there was between this and the previous one. I hope you've enjoyed the series thus far; your encouragement has helped me stick with this baby. The 'verse celebrates its TWO YEAR anniversary tomorrow. Yes, seriously. Thanks for staying with me for this long!]
Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled, Part 3 (Sherlock BBC; Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Lestrade had always hated press conferences. As a DI, he’d been utter crap at rattling off reassuring nonsense. He’d preferred instead to get the facts out as quickly as possible and return to work. He felt much the same about tonight’s muster. Standing before the assembled personal slaves of Mycroft’s household supplemented by a troupe of Chinese slaves and an assortment of visiting personal slaves, Lestrade thought for the first time that he might almost prefer a room of blood-thirsty reporters.
“While the table’s being cleared, there will be some light entertainment, provided by the slaves of the Yellow Dragon Circus, here.” He nodded towards the assembled Chinese imports, who stood apart from the others, in an unsmiling knot. “After that, dancing and drinks until the wee hours. Those of you who aren’t assigned to a specific lord or lady, if you find yourselves engaged for the night, kindly drop a notice in the system so we know who’s occupied where.”
Lestrade looked out at the familiar faces of the slaves in his care. On a long sofa, Sally perched a discreet distance from Anderson. Molly sat curled on the floor in front of the overstuffed chair where Jim lounged. The others had arranged themselves around the room as artfully as any slave designer might have displayed them. Though they’d already been drilled extensively on tonight’s events, still they listened attentively. Lestrade wished he dared warn them about the man who’d threatened John. They all looked to him for guidance, and he didn’t feel right sending them off for the night knowing that loose in the house was a man with no qualms about assaulting a helpless slave. But Lestrade couldn’t know for certain who to trust. As much as he hated to imagine that one of his own could betray them, his years in Lord Mycroft’s service had been a hard lesson in reserving judgement.
“Now,” he continued. “There’s been extra security added to the-“
The lounge door slammed open. John rushed in with his jacket buttons askew and his bow tie undone. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late.” He dropped into a chair in the corner and settled his hands on his knees. “Sorry.”
“Right.” Lestrade kept from heaving a sigh by tremendous force of will. “That’s about all. I don’t want to keep you from your duties. I’m certain you’ll make me-and Lord Mycroft-proud. Please, if you can, keep a weather eye on our visiting slaves, and help them if they need anything. Yes?”
“Yes, sir,” the other slaves chorused.
With that, the meeting began to break up. Sally grabbed Anderson’s hand and tugged him into the corridor, while the Yellow Dragon lot stood in the corner, conversing in hushed tones until all the others had filed out. Their de facto leader, a poised woman named Shan, gave Lestrade a shallow bow before ushering her charges out the door.
At last only John was left. He sat fumbling with his bow tie and cursing under his breath.
“Alright?” Lestrade asked.
“Never learned how to do these things.”
“Let me. Lord Mycroft can tie his own well enough, but sometimes he deigns to allow me.” Lestrade motioned John to his feet and took charge of the crumpled bow tie.
“You’d think a lazy git like Sherlock would want someone to dress him, but he actually prefers to do it himself. Probably thinks no one else could manage to make him look so good.”
“He always dressed smartly, even when he was-Well, even when he was going through rough times. It’s just part of who he is.” Lestrade shook his head at John’s questioning look. The story of Sherlock’s past wasn’t his to tell. “Listen. I haven’t turned anything up about the man who assaulted you.”
“Right. I hardly thought he’d turn himself in.” John rolled his shoulders, and Lestrade could see the soldier in him straightening John’s back. “In any case, that may be the least of our problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” John said firmly. “Only Sherlock’s got one of his theories, as always.”
“Anything you care to share?” Lestrade asked without much hope. He knew he wouldn’t betray Mycroft’s secrets to another slave, even one, like John, whom he considered a friend. He expected no less from John.
“No. Sorry.” John straightened his jacket and made for the door, then turned back. “Yes, actually. Sherlock stole your passcard.” John dug in the front pocket of his jacket and produced the thin rectangle of plastic.
“Damn him.” Lestrade accepted the card and tucked it back in his pocket. He hadn’t even noticed its absence. Getting slow, he was, and careless. He dredged up a smile for John. “It’s not the first time.”
John leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is there something in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, something he’d want? I don’t know, a piece of evidence or something?”
“Evidence of what?” Lestrade’s mind flipped through its catalogue of all the important documents he’d seen in Lord Mycroft’s room, and his memory of the files Mycroft casually put away when Lestrade came near. Certainly among all that sensitive information were things Lord Sherlock would be better off not knowing.
“Never mind. It’s not important.” John started for the door, but Lestrade caught him by the arm and held on.
“Evidence of what, John?”
John pursed his lips and looked at Lestrade with the same implacable stubbornness Lestrade had seen Sherlock exhibit.
Lestrade slowly released his grip. “Fine. I know how he is. Just, tell me when you can, will you? There’s enough that could go wrong tonight already without... Well, you know.”
“I know.” John threw himself down on a settee in a slump none of the house’s other personal slaves would have allowed themselves.
“It’s a bloody circus. An actual circus.” Lestrade claimed the other half of the settee with a slightly more refined version of John’s careless sprawl. “A house full of guests, full half of whom have some deep-seated grudge against another guest, an Imperial prince known for drinking excessively, not to mention a troupe of Imperial soldiers camped in the cellar.”
“There are soldiers here?” John threw a cautious glance Lestrade’s way.
“Not regular Army,” Lestrade said quickly. “Her Imperial Highness’s personal troop. They’re guarding some intruder found on the grounds a few nights back. They’ll be more at the banquet.”
“An intruder... Oh.” A look of understanding crept onto John’s face.
“I don’t want to know if you and Sherlock had anything to do with that. Just-don’t tell me.” Lestrade almost tugged a hand through his hair, but remembered in time that he shouldn’t ruffle it. He gave John’s bow tie one last tug instead and rose to his feet. “Are you ready for this?”
“You say that as if you think I’m not.”
“It can be an uncomfortable feeling, being on display.” Lestrade had memorized the titles that went with the guests’ faces. He knew how many of the Empire’s powerful would be watching and judging tonight: not only Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition, but also Lord Mycroft’s old slave. Lestrade expected he’d be privy to his fair share of comments tonight suggesting appropriate replacements. John was likely to hear a variety of frank assessments as well. “There will be a lot of important people scrutinizing you tonight.”
“Let them.” John stood and buttoned his jacket. He looked almost presentable. “I’m not their slave. I’m Sherlock’s.”
Lestrade couldn’t repress a laugh. “You surely are.”
--
“It’s a ridiculous investment. The rail system in the Baltics is crumbling. Are you trying to squander your new wife’s fortune, or are you really that stupid?”
“Sir, allow me to refill your drink.” John stepped between Sherlock and Captain Lennox to add a splash of wine to Sherlock’s mostly-full glass. Half-deaf Lady Worsley, on Sherlock’s right, had given up on Sherlock before the first course, but the irrepressibly cheerful Captain Lennox kept trying to engage Sherlock in conversation. John might have felt sorry for the man, if he hadn’t so enjoyed seeing someone else as thoroughly confused by Sherlock as he so often felt. John stood fussing with the placement of the wine decanter until Captain Lennox had turned away and established a conversation with the red-faced Lord to his left before kneeling again at Sherlock’s side.
“Serving wine is the table slaves’ duty,” Sherlock pointed out
“My duty is making certain you don’t get thrown out of the feast before we... What is it we’re here to do, anyway?” John lowered his voice below the murmur of the crowd. “Shouldn’t we be alerting the police?”
“They’d ruin everything.” Sherlock sipped the wine, which Mrs. Hudson had mentioned cost more than her contract, made a face like he’d swallowed vinegar, and slammed down the glass. “They’d put the Ambassador under heavy guard, tip off the assassin, and he’d disappear. We’d only be delaying the inevitable. No, we need to capture the assassin and learn about his employer.”
John leaned in closer. “Moriarty, you mean.”
“The kind of opponent who can plan an assassination right under Mycroft’s nose.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together and fairly squirmed in his seat. “Oh, he’s clever.”
“It sounds like you’re in love with him, a bit.” John sat back on his heels.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock favoured him with a disdainful glare. “It’s difficult enough to be in love with a single person at a time. How could anyone possibly love more than one?” He threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.
John broke his deferential posture to steal a glance at Sherlock’s face. He was the very picture of petulant nobility. John stifled a smile. “Well, I hope you have some kind of plan.”
“I’d hoped we might not have to sit through all eight courses.”
“What, you were hoping there’d be a murder at table?” John asked, wondering when such questions had become at least half-serious.
“Admit it: it would make the evening more interesting.” Sherlock sipped at the apparently offensive wine again. “I’ve already deduced the vintage Mycroft selected for each course. He would plan eight courses, the gluttonous- “
“Maybe if you tried to enjoy yourself-“
“I’m working, John. And I might stab Captain Lennox with my dessert fork if we’re forced to sit here much longer.”
“Don’t stab anyone,” John advised. “We won’t be able to catch the murderer if you’re hauled off by Imperial soldiers.” He didn’t think his master would indulge in physical violence to go with his verbal barbs, but he took the occasion of a table slave’s bringing a new course to move Sherlock’s knife to a strategically inconvenient spot on the table. “Go on, tell me who you think it is.”
“This isn’t a guessing game, John. What I do isn’t a parlour trick.”
“If you get it right, I’ll give you a reward.”
Sherlock peered down at him. “What sort of reward?”
“Lestrade says he sometimes motivates Lord Mycroft by offering him a prize. Makes things sporting.”
“Prize?” Sherlock took a dainty bite of the dish before him-apparently some sort of paté-while projecting perfect disinterest.
“Something nice he can do for Lord Mycroft. Something fun,” John said slowly. Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. “He meant sex, Sherlock.”
“Oh please, John. I wasn’t hungry before. With the image of those two, I won’t even be able to look at the food.” Sherlock signalled a slave to remove his plate.
“Sorry I mentioned it.” John sat still and kept watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock folded and refolded his napkin three times before asking, “What kind of reward did you have in mind?”
John hid his smile by bowing his head. “What would you like?”
“I have incomplete data in some areas.” Sherlock’s voice dropped so low John felt it more than heard it. “You said you’d make me scream.”
“There are lots of ways to do that.” Several options scrolled vividly through John’s mind, like battle plans. “Remember, I actually had to acquire some skills in my years as a free man.”
“We haven’t yet... That is, I haven’t experimented with...” Sherlock crumpled the napkin in both hands. “I want to be the receptive partner.”
“Oh.” John could see it clearly. Sherlock laid out beneath him, imperious and demanding as ever, ordering John faster, harder, more. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Only if you like,” Sherlock draped the napkin over his lap and smoothed it out quickly. “Many slaves prefer not to participate in that manner. Too much active involvement, apparently. Some find the emotional implications-“
“Sherlock, I want to.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s ankle, where no one was likely to notice such an impertinent gesture. He dared to dip a thumb under Sherlock’s trouser leg to feel his bare skin, just for an instant, before he released his hold and dropped both hands against his knees to resume the appropriate posture. “First you have to earn your prize. So tell me, who do you think it is?”
--
Lestrade craned his neck to see around the assembled guests until he caught sight of a straw-blond slave standing beside Lord Sherlock. Lestrade allowed himself to relax a fraction. He’d nearly lost sight of John once, earlier in the evening, when the guests had streamed into the ballroom after the meal. It had only been a moment-John had appeared from behind a column right where he should be: at Lord Sherlock’s side.
Lestrade hoped Mycroft hadn’t noticed his divided attention, or if he had, that he understood the reason for it. Satisfied that John wasn’t currently being murdered, Lestrade returned his attention-a portion of it anyway-to the after-dinner entertainment. The lion’s share of his awareness he reserved for observing the guests. Lord Dixon had chosen a seat next to Lady Moore, a promising development for Mycroft’s West Country project. Jim knelt at the feet of Colonel Moran, who had a meaty hand curled possessively around the slave’s shoulder. The young prince leaned forward in his chair with an enraptured grin. The prince’s slaves were twins: his age or perhaps a year or two older, they wore deeply veed shirts to show off their trim, muscular chests. The moved in unison, like a pair of matched horses. Lestrade had heard a rumour, shared by Lady Worsley’s doe-eyed personal slave with a too-sweet smile, that the twins would be replaced before the year was out: their novelty seemed to be wearing thin.
The slaves of the other guests were likewise beautifully attired and perfectly behaved, conforming to the highest standards of personal service. Lestrade resisted the urge to straighten his bow tie-he never managed to tie his own as neatly as he could for others-and turned his attention instead to the performers. On the platform erected for the evening at one end of the room, a team of tumblers flew back and forth across the stage. The whole assemblage appeared thoroughly engrossed in the performance. Apparently Mycroft had chosen the entertainment well.
“Gregory.”
Lestrade looked up to see his master’s eyes still trained on the performance, maintaining a perfect expression of what Lestrade might call invested indifference. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you enjoying the entertainment?”
Lestrade puzzled over how to answer appropriately before settling on, “The guests seem to be, my lord.”
“Mm. I’ve never been fond of the circus, either.” Mycroft turned away from the performance to look down at Lestrade. “What would you prefer?”
“I’m not much for event planning, sir.”
“No, Gregory. For yourself. What would you like to do of an evening?”
“I... I don’t quite...” Lestrade stared at his master, trying to read the right answer in his face.
“I would have thought you’d suggest a football match. I know you enjoy football.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade flushed to remember the casual defiance with which he’d joined the gardeners and stable boys in footie on the east lawn years ago. “I’d hoped you forgotten about that.”
“No.” Mycroft looked back to the performance. A shadow of a frown marred the neutrality of his expression. “I find you occupy an ever-increasing amount of space in my mind.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head.
“That wasn’t a complaint.”
Applause filled the ballroom as the tumblers stood at the edge of the platform and bowed. Shan, who’d been leading the entertainments, appeared in her decorative collar, elaborate headdress, and traditional robe. She raised her hands for silence. “From the distant, moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider.”
A bare-chested slave in a mask and billowy trousers dropped from the ceiling in a swirl of ribbons. He performed a series of intricate manoeuvres with the ribbons, pulling himself up and swinging within touching distance of the rapt crowd.
Lestrade barely noticed him. Instead, he attuned himself to his master, who appeared perfectly content to focus on the performance. Lestrade puzzled over Mycroft’s bizarre questions. His strange behaviour of the past few days could have been explained by stress over the banquet planning, but that couldn’t be the entirety of the problem. Mycroft had acknowledged that he’d brought Lord Sherlock here for some purpose. John’s careful non-answers about the information Sherlock found must be somehow related. If the case had lead them to Moriarty, it might be important to alert Mycroft. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to break John’s trust and worry Mycroft unnecessarily. Lestrade’s less-than-desirable traits were enough on display tonight without adding paranoia to the list.
Lestrade made himself focus on the stage. The performer had abandoned the ribbons to demonstrate other feats of his skill. He leapt from the platform to one of the marble columns that lined the ballroom. He climbed the column easily, though Lestrade could have sworn there were no footholds, no place even for a finger to grip. Like the outside walls of the estate: unassailable.
The bird spider waved from the top of the column, near enough to touch the ceiling, and then abruptly slid down, to the gasps of the crowd. When he jumped back onto the platform to bow, the crowd rewarded him with cheers and cries of “bravo.”
The orchestra began to play a jaunty tune as the slave billed as an erotic contortionist took to the platform.
Lestrade watched the bird spider retreat behind the curtain. Tension thrummed in his chest as his eyes swept over the cheerful crowd. He unfolded from his cushion and bowed to his master. “I’m sorry, sir. May I be excused a moment?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but nodded his agreement. “Of course.” When Lestrade turned to leave, Mycroft caught him by the wrist. “Gregory. Hurry back.” He released Lestrade and turned his attention to the stage.
--
From his place at Sherlock’s side, John glanced around the hall, now cleared and transformed into a vast dance floor. His eyes settled on the two white-blond slaves following behind the prince as he greeted admirers. “What about one of them?”
Sherlock made a noise of derision.
“The assassin could be a slave,” John muttered.
Sherlock continued his careful scan of the crowd without looking at John. “Improbable, but not impossible. Not an option to be eliminated yet.”
“Well, who’s most likely to be a killer?” John tried to follow Sherlock’s gaze, but his height didn’t provide him a very good vantage point. “It’s never who you think it is, is it? That bloke the in cellar, for instance, the one who tried a bit of target practice on you the other night, he’s unlikely to cause any trouble.”
Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at John. “In the cellar?”
“Apparently Mycroft has the man locked up in some dark, dank cells of his.”
“Of course.” Sherlock’s eyes slowly widened. John could almost see the wheels turning inside Sherlock’s head. “Oh, of course. I should have seen it sooner. How do you sneak a trained killer in through Mycroft’s security? You let the guards bring him through the front door. Stay here!” Sherlock rushed forward through the crowd, elbowing lords and ladies out of the way.
John hurried after him and grabbed him by the wrist. He hissed in Sherlock’s ear, “If you think I’m going to let you go rushing off into danger-“
“I need you to keep an eye on the Chinese Ambassador.” Sherlock pried John’s hand off and nodded towards the room beyond. “Don’t let him out of your sight, understand?”
“Be careful.” John stood with his hands at his sides and watched Sherlock sweep through the crowd and out of the hall. When Sherlock disappeared from sight, John turned his attention to the press of people around him. The crowd of joined pairs-masters and their slaves-moved in patterns as practiced and intricate as any dance: greeting friends, snubbing rivals, possibly making political deals. Lestrade could have explained it all, but he’d ducked out during the performance-lucky sod-and hadn’t returned.
At last, John spotted the Chinese Ambassador at the edge of the dance floor, talking to a stout, balding lord. He ducked his head and wove through the crowd, trying to ignore the conspicuously empty space in front of him where he master should be. He’d never felt the confinement of his collar so keenly as now, when he faced all the limitations of his station without any of the benefits of an influential master at his side.
As John drew closer, the orchestra, installed on a dais at the end of the hall, began to play. The Chinese Ambassador held out his hand to Molly-apparently she’d been conscripted as his attendant this evening-and drew her onto the dance floor. John quickened his pace, skirting the edge of the floor to keep them in view. They glided with the swirling music, disappearing behind this couple or that. John collided with a tall, willowy slave, who snapped at him in German. When John untangled himself, he could barely make out the figures of Molly and the Chinese Ambassador in the crowd of dancers. He dodged a table slave carrying a tray of champagne flutes, then spotted Sally, elegant in a white sheath dress, standing alone.
He wove his way to her side. “Sally! I need your help.” He snatched the wine glass from her hand and deposited it on a passing slave’s tray. “Do you know how to lead?”
“Of course, but-“
“Come on, please.” John tugged her onto the floor, arranged his hands in the appropriate position, and applied a pleading look.
More out of an apparent wish to avoid impeding the other dancers than any sympathy for John, Sally tugged him into motion.
“Can we just--?” John nodded behind Sally. “That way. Towards the orchestra.”
Sally complied, angling John’s clumsy steps across the floor. “What is this all about?”
“Nothing.” John couldn’t keep his feet moving and come up with a convincing lie at the same time. “Who are you attending?”
“Lady Savage. She’s gone off dancing with Lord Fontecilla.”
“You should keep an eye on her, then.”
“Don’t presume to tell me my duty.” Sally dragged him out of the way of an oncoming couple. “Where’s your master?”
“A bit busy.” John didn’t like the idea of Sherlock running after an assassin on his own, but by all accounts the man had being doing such mad things long before John came into his life.
“Busy causing problems,” Sally scowled.
“He can do as he wishes,” John snapped back. “He’s a Holmes.”
“Exactly.” Sally pulled John to a stop beside a column at the edge of the dance floor. “John, you shouldn’t trust him. He’ll let you down.”
“Excuse me?” John tore his eyes away from the Chinese Ambassador, currently leading Molly in a wide circle around the floor, to look at Sally.
“You should never trust a master, in general,” she said with the conviction of one who’d learned firsthand. “They’ll always let you down. He will, too.”
“That’s not what I’ve seen.”
“Really?” Sally crossed her arms over her chest, creasing the elegant lines of her dress. “He does this. He gets off on it. This, these puzzles. Bet he sees you the same way. Just a little distraction, something for him to play with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.” She turned away from John to look out at the whirling dancers. “One day he’ll come back to Lord Mycroft looking for one of us to be his whipping boy. They always get rid of us in the end. He’ll drop you, too, see if he doesn’t.”
John forced on a polite smile. Sally might know this side of society much better than he, but John knew Sherlock. After one night, he’d found himself letting down his defences, letting Sherlock in, when his soldier’s instincts should have fought at every turn. He’d yet to regret his actions. “That’s my lookout, isn’t it?”
“I’m saying this because you’re one of us. We’re disposable to them. There’s always more where we came from. And no one else will look out for us if we don’t do it for each other, yeah?”
“Yeah.” John swallowed against his collar. Then a hand planted itself firmly against his back, causing him to start.
“You have something that belongs to me, I believe.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled over his shoulder.
“Pardon me, sir.” Sally bowed to Sherlock and hastily withdrew, with one last warning glance at John.
“Where’s the Ambassador?” Sherlock stepped into place at John’s side.
“Far end of the floor, there.”
Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him towards the dancers. “Come on, John.”
“Wait, I can’t!”
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s back and curled a hand around his hip. “Look at me, John. Follow me.”
Sherlock moved, and John stumbled forward. Sally frowned at them from the edge of the dance floor.
“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said. As much to avoid Sally’s glare as anything, John complied. “The violin has the melody. Do you hear the rhythm? Good. Now follow.”
Sherlock moved, and this time John stepped with him. The firm pressure of Sherlock’s hand guided John in the right direction. He danced as confidently as he played the violin, like the music translated movement directly through his limbs. When they joined the flow of the other dancers, John found the steps as easily as falling into a marching cadence. He dared to look, only to find Sherlock grinning at him. His pale, changeable eyes gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers. His hair, which had been carefully coiffed at the beginning of the evening, now tumbled over his forehead in attractive disarray. His skin glowed with the exertion of the chase. He looked every inch a lord, and he was John’s; he’d said so. John banished Sally’s words from his mind and grinned back at Sherlock. “Is there anything you’re not brilliant at?”
“At which I’m not brilliant,” Sherlock corrected.
John ignored him. “Cooking? Boxing?”
“I’ve never found much use for astronomy.” Sherlock’s grin faltered into a scowl. John followed his gaze to see every couple they passed staring at them. “Or at being my brother’s performing monkey.” He steered John to the side of the floor, putting his taller form between John and the curious onlookers.
“I was right,” Sherlock said, once they’d found a less crowded patch of dance floor. “Sulejmani, an Albanian assassin held in the discipline cells, conveniently escaped an hour ago.”
“He’s loose in the house?” John nearly stumbled, but Sherlock guided him back into rhythm.
“Of course not. I neutralized him.”
“Oh.” John felt a sharp pang of disappointment that the case they’d begun together, Sherlock had finished without him. Then he realized Sherlock didn’t seem particularly pleased, either. “Why do you not seem happy? There’s usually smirking, some grinning, a little light gloating. You look like you swallowed a frog.”
“Something’s missing.” Sherlock stared over John’s shoulder, focusing somewhere beyond the room. “Soo Lin knew the Ambassador was in danger. She tried to get help, but didn’t contact her own government.”
“Sherlock?”
“The Ambassador stayed here after the murder of his son back home. He became paranoid about his daughter’s security, but he didn’t send her home. He had to stay here.”
“Sherlock.”
“Either he had orders from his government-unlikely, considering the small number of communiqués he’s received while in residence here--or Moriarty had some plan for him.”
“Lord Sherlock, sir.” John dug his fingers hard into Sherlock’s arm. When he finally had his master’s attention, he nodded to the far edge of the dance floor. “The Ambassador’s leaving.”
--
Lestrade stood alone in the darkness of Lord Mycroft’s room. The place was silent, and neat as always. Papers on the desk sat in precise rows. Lestrade ran his hand over the topmost paper of one stack-a draft of a letter to an arms supplier in the People’s Republic of Kyrgyzstan, requesting information about a customer. The next stack was weighted by a memory stick. Below it lay a pile of blank requisition orders. Nothing unusual. Lestrade resisted the urge to shuffle through the rest of the papers, looking for what might have enticed Lord Sherlock.
Instead, he returned to the corridor and headed out of the family wing, where he nodded at the guard on duty. “Evening, Hopkins.”
“Taking a break from the festivities?” she asked.
“Short one. Is it too terrible being on duty up here tonight?” He nodded towards the courtyard, where the music from the ballroom drifted in from the windows.
“I prefer it. No one cares if I look bored up here.” She waved him on. “G’night, Greg.”
“Good night.” Lestrade headed downstairs to rejoin his master. He’d been paranoid to think an intruder could have got into Lord Mycroft’s rooms. No matter how well a man climbed, there were guards to deal with, and locked doors as well. Of course, Lord Sherlock had bypassed those systems easily.
Lestrade stopped, turned, and retraced his steps.
“Forget something?” Hopkins asked.
Lestrade offered her a flat smile. “It’s probably nothing.” He returned to Lord Mycroft’s room and scanned his passcard to unlock it. This time, he looked into the en-suite and the dressing room. He came back into the bedroom and stood with his arms folded across his chest. If he were a thief, one who could climb anything, how would he break in? No windows in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, but other rooms on the floor had windows that opened onto the balcony. That still wouldn’t solve the problem of getting into the room unseen. None of the other rooms connected to Lord Mycroft’s. There was no other opening into the room except the door.
Lestrade turned in a full circle one last time. His eyes rested on the cold fireplace. Usually the house slaves had built a healthy fire by the time, to allow the room to warm before the master’s return, but tonight the ashes of the morning’s dead fire filled the grate. And there on the stone hearth were sooty footprints leading into the room.
Lestrade turned and ran for the door, but before he could shout, he felt a cloth wrap tight around his throat.
--
John stopped at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, then peeked around the corner to see the next corridor completely empty. “Perhaps he’s going back to his quarters.”
“Early?” Sherlock scoffed. “Without a slave to attend him? He left Molly skulking ‘round the edges of the dance floor.”
“His own personal slave was just killed,” John pointed out.
“No, something’s wrong.” Sherlock strode down the corridor, looked both ways at the junction, and turned left. John hurried to keep up.
“What? You’ve already neutralized the assassin.”
“The Ambassador’s afraid.”
“He doesn’t know he’s out of danger. I assume you didn’t inform him about Sulejmani.”
“Or he’s not out of danger. Oh. Oh.” Sherlock whirled around and grabbed John by the arms. “John, there’s not one crime planned for tonight. There are two.”
“You mean two people want the Ambassador assassinated?”
“No! Well yes, technically. There’s no time. Here.” Sherlock pulled something from his pocket and pressed it into John’s hand.
“Have you been carrying around-Sherlock, really.” John accepted the handgun. It fit into his hand like it belonged there. He slid out the magazine. “At least it’s not loaded. Do you have a fresh clip?”
“Of course not. Ammunition’s in my quarters.”
“Right. Come on, then.” John started back towards the family wing.
“I’ll stay here. Off you go.” Sherlock waved him on.
John planted his feet. “You’ve already faced an assassin once tonight. I don’t fancy the odds of you facing another on your own.”
“The odds of beating a second are not affected by the odds of beating the first. Do you know nothing about statistics?”
“We shouldn’t split up.”
“I can’t watch you every minute, John. I need to find the Ambassador before someone else does. Go.” When John didn’t move, Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Now! That’s an order!”
John raised his chin and stared back at Sherlock until he lowered his gaze.
“This is the best way of stopping what’s about to happen. Will you go on?” Sherlock asked.
“Fine,” John said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Sherlock nodded and sped off down the corridor, coat tails trailing behind him dramatically. John spared the sight a quick smile before he settled the gun at his back in the waistband of his trousers and smoothed his jacket over it. He began to walk as quickly as he dared. He passed the guard on duty at the entrance to the family wing-Hodgkins, perhaps-deeply aware that he was a slave carrying a weapon. She merely nodded at him as he passed, and John relaxed a fraction.
As he turned the corner towards Sherlock’s room, he collided with another slave. The man was pale and covered with soot, and clung to John to keep upright. It took John several seconds to recognize him.
“Lestrade! What the hell happened to you?”
“Bird spider,” he croaked, as if that explained something. He straightened up and stood under his own power. “I’m fine. Why are you alone? Where’s Lord Sherlock?”
“No time.” John shook his head. “Listen, someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. Get some help.”
“John!”
John sped off down the corridor without waiting for a reply. Lestrade would bring help or he wouldn’t, but every moment of delay was another moment Sherlock spent alone and in danger.
Sherlock’s room was a chaos of discarded experiments and piles of clothing. A coil of rope perched atop the violin case. A knife speared a pile of papers on the mantel. John jumped over obstacles on his way to the wardrobe, cursing every second of delay, and opened it to find Sherlock’s ammunition stash. He checked one magazine before slipping it into the Sig and pocketed a second.
He burst out of the room into the darkened corridor and stopped. Sherlock could be anywhere in the building, and between him and John were household guards who wouldn’t be keen on letting an armed slave pass. In Afghanistan, John had once known an Army slave who’d shot a free man, a soldier in the camp: a stupid drunken brawl over a piece of equipment. John had dug two bullets out of the free man’s leg and sent him back to an Empire hospital for recovery. The commander had rounded up all camp personal to watch the slave’s execution by firing squad.
John carefully concealed his loaded weapon, schooled himself into an appropriately deferential posture, and started off as fast as a personal slave should go.
--
“Secure the personal wing, and check Lord Mycroft’s office as well,” Lestrade told Hopkins. “He should be out cold, but call for back-up before you approach him. There may be other intruders.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“That’s a start.”
“I’m on it.” She reached for her radio: no doubts, no explanation needed, merely calm acceptance of the chain of command.
The relief at that reaction helped propel Lestrade onwards. He raced down a back staircase that brought him out near the courtyard. Mycroft’s guards recognized him and let him pass on his way outside, though he must have looked a fright. He paused in the courtyard by the pump to wipe the worst of the soot and blood from his face. Nothing could be done now about the red lines around his throat where the bird spider had tried to choke him, but he was as presentable as he could be under the circumstances.
In the ballroom, Lestrade wove through the press of revellers with the skill of a man accustomed to going unnoticed. He spotted Mycroft at the far end of the hall, deep in conversation with Lady Okoye.
He bowed his head before addressing his master. “Pardon me, my lord.” He dared not say more in front of a guest, but he knew his dishevelled appearance could not fail to impress upon Mycroft the urgency of the situation.
“My apologies, Lady Okoye,” Mycroft said with a handsome bow. “A moment, if you please.”
She nodded and moved quickly away with her personal slave, both looking askance at Lestrade.
“Sir-“ Lestrade began.
“You’ve been fighting.”
“I’m fine. Lord Mycroft. Sir.” Lestrade attempted to angle Mycroft away from the crowd without presuming to touch him. “We have a situation. Someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. There may be--”
“Who told you that?” Mycroft broke in.
“John Watson. But there’s--”
“Wood!” Mycroft hailed the nearest guard, who jumped to attend him. “Find my brother. Detain him if you can. I need to speak to him immediately. Go.” She sped through the crowd. Mycroft grabbed Lestrade’s arm. “Gregory, have you said anything to anyone else?”
“Of course not, sir. I saw--”
“Good.” Mycroft’s fingers dug into Lestrade’s arms, a clear sign of the tension Mycroft was attempting to keep from his expression. “Good.”
“Sir, I’ve been trying to tell you, there was an attempted break-in in your quarters. I’m not certain it had to do with the assassination. The intruder was one of the circus troupe.”
Mycroft’s hands fell away, and he straightened to his full height. “Is the area secure?”
“Security’s sweeping it now.”
“Show me.”
--
John avoided the eyes of each sentry he passed, be they blue-clad guards of Lord Mycroft’s household or red-jacketed Imperial soldiers.
He’d no idea where Sherlock had gone. From the balcony, he could at least see the corridor on three storeys, and perhaps catch a glimpse of his master. The chill night air felt welcome after the stifling confines of the ballroom.
John crept along the balcony, keeping to the shadows. He had no time to explain himself to curious guards. He scanned the windows opposite, looking for any sign of Sherlock or the Ambassador. Some of the rooms were dark, some had their curtains drawn, but none seemed to contain a maddeningly brilliant, socially deficient Imperial lord.
John turned to head back inside-time was ticking away-when he heard raised voices in the courtyard below. He darted forward to peek over the banister.
Sherlock hurried across the cobblestones with the Chinese Ambassador close on his heels. Distant strains of music from the ballroom masked their conversation, but the sharpness of their voices was unmistakable. Sherlock wrenched open the garden door and gestured the Chinese Ambassador inside. Good thought, that, getting out of the open. Sherlock charged up the grand staircase and came to rest on the first storey landing, near the glass-panelled French doors that led out onto the balcony, still a level below John.
“No, get away from the windows,” John muttered. He pulled the gun from his waistband. He’d covered comrades in danger zones before; he knew this tense vigilance, checking every window for a hostile face, watching every gesture for the draw of a gun. Even here, there were too many angles from which a sniper could attack. John had never seen the man that shot him. The pain had come from out of nowhere, as if the wound had appeared from within him. For a moment, staring down at the blood, he hadn’t realized what had happened. John tightened his grip on the Sig. That wouldn’t happen to Sherlock.
John let out his breath on a careful exhale. Across the courtyard, he could see his master move-not far, only enough to bring him in front of the French doors. Over the distant strains of music, John couldn’t hope to make out the conversation. Sherlock stepped forward again, creating a convenient target against the light of the corridor. Another even breath. John’s grip on the Sig remained steady. It had to.
Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. A second figure stepped into the frame of the window. At the left edge of John’s vision, on the second-storey balcony across the courtyard, a glint of metal moved. John spared it a glance-just a glance. A rifle and scope, held by a towering bulk of a man. John had seen that rifle before, he thought, before more urgent matters crowded that fact from his mind.
The man was waiting for a shot. John’s eyes followed the angle of the rifle to the window. Sherlock. John rotated his stance. The gun lined up with the opposite balcony. Careful, now: the stone banister provided at least half cover. He wouldn’t have a second chance. Finger on the trigger. Breathe. Squeeze.
The shot echoed off the stone walls. The figure dropped out of sight behind the banister.
Sherlock grabbed the Ambassador by the arm and pulled him behind the marble column-good thinking, to get under cover-and then dashed out onto the balcony and peered through the darkness towards the direction of the shooting-stupid prat, putting himself at risk. The light blazed behind him, creating a perfect silhouette.
“Get down!” John shouted. Sherlock’s attention snapped to the spot where John stood. John kept his aim steady on the opposite balcony, in case the shooter got up again. “Down!” John ordered, with the snap of command in his voice, and Sherlock stepped back behind cover. The blood pounded in John’s ears, drowning out the music. He thought, for a moment, that he heard the deep thrum of helicopter blades turning, but no: that was only boots pounding on the stone.
John lowered the gun to his side. He had his weapon on the ground by the time the guards reached him. Even as John raised his empty hands, the first red-uniformed Imperial guard slammed the butt of his rifle into John’s head.
John managed a controlled fall, and tucked his arms over his head to protect himself from further blows. The next guard planted a knee on his back and wrenched his arms back to pin them; he threw his whole weight into keeping John down, despite the lack of resistance.
The guard above him raised his rifle to strike John again, but a blue-uniformed officer stepped between the redcoat and John: Wood. It was Wood. “That’s enough. He’s neutralized,” she said. “Take him to a holding cell until Lord Mycroft decides what to do with him.”
The guards hauled him to his feet and began half-leading, half-dragging him back inside. The corridor boiled with more guards. The two redcoats holding him pushed through the crowd, and Wood followed. John could make out some shouts through the confusion.
“Lockdown, now! I want a guard at every exit.”
“Sweep the whole wing; there could be more of them.”
“Jesus, it’s a lord he’s shot.”
“Moran, it’s Colonel Moran.”
Moran. John closed his eyes. A crack shot, with his gun trained on Sherlock. Any remorse he’d felt about pulling the trigger evaporated.
“Fancy that, Lord Sherlock’s little bed slave trying to murder one of his brother’s guests,” said the guard on his left as he hustled John down the stairs. “Wonder what the protocol is for that.”
“Is he dead?” John asked.
“No talking.” The guard on his left tightened his grip on John’s arm, and nearly shoved him off his feet as they reached the ground floor.
“Is he dead, he wants to know. Not yet, lucky boy. Are you hoping he is? If the lord dies, they’ll hang you, live on television. Is that what you wanted? A few minutes of fame?”
“He was going to shoot Lord Sherlock,” John snapped.
“John.” Wood tugged the guard on John’s right out of the way so she could walk next to him. “How do you know he was going to shoot Lord Sherlock?”
“He was waiting until he had a clear shot. The trajectory. I saw him waiting.”
“You’re not a bodyguard, idiot, you’re a bedwarmer,” said the redcoat on his left as he tugged John down the stairs to the basement. “You’d best hope Moran lives. That way you’ll get to keep your miserable life.”
“They’ll castrate you to make you docile,” said the other guard. “Then you’ll get a life sentence of hard labour. Most of you bed slaves sent to those places don’t last long. The other inmates appreciate having a soft-bodied new boy to share around.”
“Stop it,” Wood snapped. “This is Lord Sherlock’s slave, and until there’s been an investigation, he’s not to be mistreated. Not in Lord Mycroft’s house, understand?”
“Wouldn’t want to do anything to upset his Lordship.”
“No, you really wouldn’t,” Wood said grimly.
“Relax, dearie. We were just having a bit of fun.” A redcoat slid the door to John’s cell closed; the lock clicked home with metallic finality.
John grasped the bars to keep himself upright. “Wood. Please. Will you make certain Lord Sherlock’s safe?”
She nodded before turning on her heel and striding out past the knot of redcoats in the doorway.
John braced his back against the cold stone wall of the cell and slid down to the floor. The room still wobbled around him, but sitting, he at least had less chance of falling down.
The plain cell had been emptied of all furniture, and the draft from the narrow, high window was even colder than that in his slave quarters. John tucked his knees up to his chest for warmth and held as still as he could, to avoid aggravating his probable concussion.
He’d stopped the gunman. Sherlock was alive, and hopefully, at least for the moment, out of danger. John thought of the slave he’d known in the Army-the man who’d died by firing squad. He’d had no one to speak for him. It might be that Sherlock would come for John. Or it might be that extricating a slave from the embrace of Imperial justice took too much effort away from Sherlock’s other interests. After all, as Sally said, there were always more where he came from.
John made himself raise his head and look around his prison. At the corner of the cell, a chunk of stone had come loose. It was just the right size to hold in one’s hand and allow a highly effective punch. He slid himself along the floor until he had the best view of the chatting redcoats through the bars of his door. He flexed his fingers around the rough bit of rock, and waited.
--
Behind the desk in his office, Lord Mycroft sat jotting notes onto a paper, which he handed off to Anthea. She touched Lestrade’s hand as she passed, and shut the door behind her, leaving them in silence. It might have been any other day, with the powerful coming to lay their hopes in front of the Lord of Westminster and points north. Except now, Lestrade stood in front of his master, bringing only questions and uncertainty.
“Where have they taken John?”
“To a holding cell.”
“I see.” Lestrade fixed his eyes on the floor, a properly deferential stance.
“Gregory. I must.” Mycroft stood and walked slowly around his desk. “It’s the only thing that has a chance of keeping Sherlock at bay while my people deal with the threat.”
“You aren’t required to explain yourself to me, my lord.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft reached for him, but Lestrade stepped away.
“You can only play the villain so long, sir, until it’s no longer playing.”
Mycroft’s hand dropped to his side.
The door rattled, then swung open with a bang as Sherlock burst through. He strode right past Lestrade to stand toe to toe with his brother. “I want him back. Now.”
“You know that’s not possible. He shot a free man. A lord.” Mycroft walked back behind his desk, but Sherlock followed.
“With good cause. He did prevent the assassination of a foreign dignitary.”
“That he did.” Lord Mycroft gritted his teeth. “Even so, there are procedures, Sherlock.”
“This is a grave inconvenience. I don’t want to be without him.”
“You think a great deal of what you want, Sherlock, and little of anyone else.”
“Very well then.” Sherlock spread his arms. “What is it you want from me?”
Mycroft considered him for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I want assurances that you’ll not go haring off into the hands of our enemies. Should anything happen to me, the responsibilities of our domain would fall to you.”
“God forbid.” Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked over to the darkened window.
“Yes, your concern for my well-being is touching. It’s not like the old days, Sherlock, running around London on your own.”
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes darted to Lestrade and away again so quickly Lestrade wasn’t certain it had happened at all.
“You have responsibilities to consider.”
“If I do, they’re mine to consider, not yours.”
Mycroft braced his hands on his desk. “I can’t stand by while you neglect-“
“You’ve never sat idly by in your life.” Sherlock waved a hand at his brother. “You interfere in every-“
“For the good of the Empire,” Mycroft broke in, drowning Sherlock out. “And for this family-“
“So used to having your own way you can’t even- “
“You’re incapable of listening to reason!”
“So you treat me like a child? Taking my toys away has never been an effective way to influence my behaviour.”
“John Watson is not a toy,” Lestrade snapped. Both Holmes lords turned to face him. He bowed his head. “I apologize, sirs.”
Mycroft tucked his hands behind his back and let out a slow breath before turning back to Sherlock. “He shot a lord. An act like that cannot go unpunished.”
“A moment ago you were full of concern for my welfare. You do remember John acted in my defence as well?”
“I know he did, which is why I have no plans to turn him over to the authorities. These things must be done in the proper way.” Mycroft settled into the chair at his desk.
“Since when have you ever cared about the proper way?” Sherlock stalked over to the desk, picked up the nearest sheaf of papers, and waved them in Mycroft’s face. “You arrange the laws of the Empire to suit yourself-“
“I am a servant of the Empire, and I have never-“
“Your life’s work is manipulating people into doing what you want. Don’t tell me you can’t-“
“Everything is under control.” Mycroft pushed to his feet. “I’m sure you’re fully capable of extracting John from his current difficulties.”
“I’m capable? I’m--? You’re the one who-- . No. No, I see.” Sherlock took a slow step backwards. “You’ve been manufacturing situations from which I have the means to rescue John.”
“We’ll discuss this later,” Mycroft said quickly.
“I don’t think so, brother dear.” Sherlock had that gleam in his eyes now that Lestrade had seen before: a dog on the scent, a detective following the clues. “You want to bind John to me in the only way you know how: gratitude. You think that’s why Lestrade’s been loyal to you all these years-out of obligation for rescuing him from a slow death by exhaustion in the Australian work camps.”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but Sherlock was on a roll now, pacing the room, laying out his deductions.
“So John comes along, and you, assuming I have no other merits to hold his interest--thank you for that-decide to create conditions under which loyalty might reasonably develop, namely: crises from which I must be the saviour. You’ve been punishing him, humiliating him, injuring him, all in the name of strengthening my attachment. Very clever. Oh!” Sherlock whirled around to point a finger at Mycroft. “You must have been doing the same to Lestrade. Did you arrange for him to be sent to Milverton?”
“You’re speculating without sufficient data.” Mycroft stood with his back straight, holding very still. “You’ve no idea what I-“
“What you feel?” Sherlock laughed once: a rough sound, like shattered glass. “Caring is a weakness. You’ve told me so yourself, repeatedly.” He strode forward and grabbed Mycroft’s arm. “Where is John?”
“Sherlock, I will not always be able to look after you.” Mycroft folded his hand over Sherlock’s. “I only want-“
Sherlock shook off Mycroft’s touch. “Where is he?”
“He’s under guard. And he’ll remain so until the danger has passed.”
“Danger that you manufactured. You’re pathetic, Mycroft. You assume Lestrade only serves you out of gratitude for his life? No one’s sense of obligation is that powerful. Is that what I’m meant to have been doing these past years? Is that the brotherly thing to do?” Sherlock stepped around the desk to wave an arm at Lestrade. “Manoeuvring Lestrade into peril so you could swoop in and save the day? Would that have given you the chance to earn what you could never hope to win on your own? Would that have given you a chance for someone to actually love you?”
“That’s enough, Sherlock!” Both brothers’ attention snapped to Lestrade. “Lord Sherlock. Sir.” He bowed his head and turned away. “Excuse me.”
Lestrade fled the room with his face burning. He shouldn’t have spoken like that to Lord Sherlock, no matter his feelings. He hadn’t the right. But he’d never been able to stand quietly by while someone else was attacked. Having been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rage repeatedly, Lestrade had learned not to take these tantrums personally. But Mycroft did not deserve to hear such poisonous suggestions. Sherlock had no right to speak of what lay between Lestrade and his master: that delicate but ever-present feeling that shied away whenever Lestrade dared examine it.
Lestrade swallowed his frustration and put on an attitude of calm confidence for his walk through the buzzing hallways.
“Is it true?” Sally asked in hushed tones, in the corridor leading to the family wing. “Did he shoot a man?”
“It’s being taken care of. Make sure everyone carries on with their duties, yeah?”
Mrs. Hudson stopped him in the kitchen. “Is he alright? When they hauled him through here, I thought he might have been bleeding.”
“I’m checking on him now.”
Lestrade descended the steps to the basement, rehearsing what he’d say to make them let him through. If ever there was a time to take advantage of his rank, it was now. But when he reached the detention block, he found no one standing guard.
“Hello?” His voice echoed down the empty stone corridor.
The light from the stairwell penetrated only a few feet into the corridor of cells. Lestrade ran his hand across the wall until he encountered the switch. The fluorescent lights in the low ceiling flickered to life, illuminating chaos: two still forms in red Imperial guard uniforms lay sprawled on the floor amidst scattered papers. Lestrade reached for his truncheon, which hadn’t been at his side for years, and clenched his fist when he found nothing. Even if he’d had a weapon, it would mean death to use it. No, better to go unarmed.
Lestrade listened intently as he crept forward into the unknown. He pressed his fingers to the neck of the nearest downed guard, and found no pulse. Two bullet holes, inches apart, marred his uniform in the centre of his back. The next guard lay in a pool of blood, with the back of his head smashed in. The sidearm was missing from its holster at the man’s belt.
Lestrade sprung to his feet and ran the few feet down the corridor to the first cell: door ajar, empty. Each of the six cells told the same story: unlocked, unoccupied. Lestrade dashed back to the stairway, looking around for any clue he might have missed. “Watson!” he shouted. The call bounced back to him against the cellar’s stone walls. “John!” He heard only the lingering echo of his own shout.
--
[Thanks for reading! The next installment is currently under construction, and I hope to have it out with less of a gap than there was between this and the previous one. I hope you've enjoyed the series thus far; your encouragement has helped me stick with this baby. The 'verse celebrates its TWO YEAR anniversary tomorrow. Yes, seriously. Thanks for staying with me for this long!]