Sherlock Fic: The Word That You Hear is Not Mine (1/5)
After months, I finally have the conclusion of this series ready! Thanks for your patience over the last... three years (!!) as I've played in this AU. There are five parts (plus an epilogue), and I plan to post one every day or two until they're all up. Thanks for reading!
Title: The Word That You Hear Is Not Mine, Part I
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 26,500 total; this part ~5000
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, show-level violence and crime
Context: Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series (see the master post to get started), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart and jaune_chat for their constant encouragements, to redandglenda and izzie7 for their editing/Brit-picking/general fixing. Remaining cock-ups are all mine. Special thanks to the team at sh_britglish for answering my real estate questions!
Summary: The standoff with Moriarty results in some changes for the Lords Holmes and their slaves.
Previously, on In My Master’s House:
John and Sherlock foiled plans to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador, which not only angered Moriarty, but also Lord Mycroft, who had intended to turn the assassination to his advantage. After learning about Lord Mycroft’s plans, Lestrade asked to resign his position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave and threw himself into helping Sherlock track down Moriarty, who had kidnapped John. By following a series of puzzles throughout London, Sherlock caught up with Moriarty and his accomplice Colonel Moran in a standoff at the lake on the Holmes estate. John’s quick thinking resulted in Colonel Moran shooting Sherlock and absconding with Moriarty, leaving the brothers Holmes and their slaves to put themselves back together.
Part One
Lestrade double-checked the piece of paper the nurse upstairs had handed him before reassuring himself he wouldn’t mistake anything so simple as a room number. He pushed open the door to reveal a windowless room, no larger than his quarters at the estate. Though it contained three beds, only one was occupied.
John lay face down, stripped to the waist, with a thick pad of gauze taped neatly across his lower back. Angry abrasions circled both his wrists, and an assortment of bruises and welts-mostly healed-littered his back. Above his right shoulder blade clustered a starburst of scar tissue.
Lestrade ignored the temptation to look at the chart at the end of the bed. Though he keenly wanted to know what John had been subjected to when he’d been taken, and therefore what kind of criminal they were dealing with, he respected John’s right to tell him on his own terms, if at all. He wasn’t a copper working a case; he was only a concerned fellow slave, maybe even a friend.
“John.” Lestrade picked up the rickety chair shoved in the corner and moved it up to sit next to John’s bed. “You awake?”
John lifted his head and opened one bleary eye, then the other. “Hullo.” His voice sounded rough and dry, and his movements seemed sluggish. Then he seemed to recognize Lestrade. In an instant, alertness brightened his eyes. “How long have I been out?”
“Twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.”
“Drugs. That explains why my mouth tastes like a dead thing.” John kicked at the sheets until he freed himself enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Have they found them? Moriarty and Moran? Picked up a trail, anything?”
“Nothing.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face, thinking of the increasingly frustrated civility of Wood’s hourly e-mail updates on the search. “They’re good.”
“They’re not invincible.” John untaped his IV, eased it out of his arm, and tossed it aside before glancing around the cell-like room. “Now, what have they done with my clothes?”
“Are you sure you should be up and about?” Lestrade asked with a pointed glance at the bandage on John’s back.
“I’m not the one who got shot.”
“Not for lack of trying, I imagine.” What little of the story of the standoff with Moriarty he’d gleaned during the helicopter ride to hospital was enough to assure Lestrade that both John and Lord Sherlock were completely cracked. “And thanks. For keeping him alive.”
“Wasn’t a choice, really,” John said. Lestrade might have imagined it, but the pronouncement seemed to surprise John. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs. Private room, far away from the slave wing.” Such spacious accommodations meant Lestrade had managed to keep an eye on Lord Sherlock while avoiding Lord Mycroft. “Surgery went well. He’s out of the woods, they’ve said, but he’s not woken up yet. Imagine he’ll be back on the hunt as soon as he’s conscious. Every Imperial lawman in the territory is on the lookout, but no luck yet.”
“I’d be surprised if they did have.” John snatched the chart from its slot at the foot of his bed and began to read.
“Me too. They’re clever. Clever enough to have fooled me.” Lestrade felt a hot swell of shame to remember it. He’d had Jim-bloody Moriarty-working under him for months and never known.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” John looked up from the chart to give Lestrade a sympathetic half-smile. “They fooled the Holmes brothers, and if they could manage that, what chance did the two of us have?”
“You’re right. Still, I’m sorry you got hurt.”
“I’ll mend. Or be replaced, I suppose.” John craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the bandage. “Have they-?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll wait until you’re healed, make sure there’s no infection before they replace the chip.”
“Decent of them.” With a grimace, John pushed to his feet.
“John, listen.” Lestrade resisted the urge to admonish John to sit down and rest. In years of dealing with the Holmeses, he’d learned to recognize a losing battle. “You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate hearing it. Moriarty and Moran are still out there, and if there’s anything you can remember-it might help us. Help the people hunting them, anyway.”
“There’s not much to tell,” John said, without meeting Lestrade’s eyes. “Kept me tied up. Didn’t tell me anything.”
“Did they hurt you?” Lestrade watched John move with a critical eye, evaluating for injuries, maybe something John had hidden when he’d been admitted. “Did they do anything?”
“No.” John opened the room’s tiny cupboard and from inside snatched a threadbare cotton robe with “Property of London Imperial Hospital” stamped on the back. “Not really.”
“John, you can tell me if something happened.” Lestrade studied John’s closed-off posture, his averted eyes, and gentled his tone. “No one’s going to think less of you because of something those madmen did.”
John fixed him with a considering look. “I bet you were a really good cop.”
The words trigged a lingering ache, but the hurt of Lestrade’s destroyed career didn’t go as deep, anymore. He fixed John with a stern look. “If you don’t want to tell me, you should tell someone.”
“They didn’t hurt me, really. The worst I endured was some insufferable gloating.” John pulled on the robe and tugged the sleeves down over the marks on his wrists. “I suppose they wanted to keep me in good shape to serve as bait.”
“More fool, them.”
“What’s going to happen now?” John braced his hands against the sides of the cupboard. “I just go back to… They were going to kill me for what I did to Moran.”
“Well, you’re not in legal trouble anymore. Not now that we know Moran was posing as a lord.” Heads somewhere were sure to roll for that, Lestrade imagined, but not his, and not John’s. “You won’t be reprimanded for shooting a fugitive slave.”
“Surprisingly, that does not make me feel better.” John turned to frown at Lestrade. “And it won’t always be so simple, if I keep helping him. Look what happened to you.” His eyes slid to Lestrade’s neck. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Lestrade’s hand went to his throat, where the comforting weight of his collar, with its inscribed tag, was conspicuous in its absence. The stand-in collar felt too light. “I resigned my position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave.”
“Why?”
“That’s between me and Lord Mycroft,” Lestrade said softly. “You understand.”
John rubbed his fingers against a crease in his forehead, as if massaging away a headache. “Strangely enough, I do.”
A nurse in a bright white uniform and matching collar scampered into the room. She glanced between the two of them desperately. “Watson? Which one of you is John Watson?”
Slowly, John raised his hand.
The nurse darted forward, grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards the door. “Come quick. Your master’s like to bust ‘is stitches if he don’t get his way.”
John threw a resigned glance over his shoulder as the nurse dragged him out of the room. With a deep sigh, Lestrade hurried after them.
--
The panicked nurse only got them out of the slave wing; apparently slave staff weren’t allowed near the noble patients. After that, Lestrade’s special visitor’s badge and deferential politeness carried them past all obstacles. Once on the correct floor, John followed the sound of Sherlock’s ranting down the hallway.
At the doorway, a blue-uniformed guard, one of Lord Mycroft’s staff, barred the way.
“He’s with me,” Lestrade said.
The guard stepped aside, but after a quick glance into the room, Lestrade retreated swiftly. “Go on,” he said, clapping John on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up after.”
Before John could inquire, a shout from inside demanded his attention. Sherlock’s voice, slightly slurred, carried above the general cacophony. “Get away! I’m not taking anything else until you let me up!”
John swept into the room, recklessly shoving past a knot of people to see Sherlock swatting at a nurse holding a syringe. He looked pale and a bit haggard, but he’d lost the agonized pallor that accompanied a near-mortal wound. Weak as he looked, he’d somehow mustered the energy to shout at the hospital staff and fend off unwanted procedures with what seemed to be a martial art specifically adapted for the bedridden.
Pausing just long enough for a deep breath, John let loose with a voice proven to stop soldiers in mid-charge. “Sherlock, do not hit the nurses.”
Sherlock froze. The half-dozen other people in the room stared at John.
Quickly, he tacked on a token, “Sir.”
Sherlock’s eyes darted up and down John’s form, undoubtedly picking up a score of clues about John’s hospital stay, and probably a few things John didn’t know himself. When Sherlock reached out a hand and flexed his fingers, John came to his bedside as if pulled, and let Sherlock grip his fingers.
“Are you injured?” Sherlock asked. “Rope burns, mild infection at the incision on your back, general undernourishment, what else?”
“I’m not hurt,” John said, squeezing his hand.
“I told you he was fine, Sherlock,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from the corner of the room, well out of range of any tantrum.
“Oh, please.” Sherlock managed a passable sneer, even in his weakened state. “As if you’ve never lied to serve your own ends.”
To John’s surprise, Lord Mycroft frowned deeply. John decided quickly that he’d rather not get involved in whatever battle those two were currently fighting, and turned back to Sherlock. “They told me downstairs you were in danger of bursting your stitches. Have you been terrorizing the staff?”
“If anything, they’ve been terrorizing me. Prodding at me, keeping me confined to bed, drugging me so I can barely think, shooting me full of who knows what.”
“And that’s only in the twenty minutes he’s been awake,” Lord Mycroft drawled.
Ignoring him, John turned and raised an eyebrow at the ashen-faced nurse with the syringe.
“It’s just an antibiotic booster,” she said meekly.
“I don’t want it.” Sherlock drew back onto his bed, as if readying for another spate of invalid baritsu.
“Are you always this childish when you’re injured? Here.” John plucked the syringe from the nurse’s fingers. “Will you take it if I do it?”
“Fine. Only everyone else get out. It’s stifling in here.”
“Erm.” From the back of the crowd of hospital staff, a young man with a clipboard raised a finger. “Lord Holmes, sir, the dose should be administered by a trained medical professional.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Then Dr Watson should be eminently capable.”
“But sir,” the man chuckled, “slaves can’t be doctors.”
Sherlock glared at the young man with such forceful malice that John almost began to feel sorry for the blighter.
At last, Lord Mycroft broke the silence. “I’m certain an exception can be made in this case for the patient’s comfort. Now, my brother needs to rest.”
The staff filed out, muttering amongst themselves. With one last wide-eyed glance at John, the nurse closed the door behind her.
John fitted the needle to Sherlock’s IV and plunged the contents into Sherlock’s bloodstream. He looked up to find Sherlock examining him intently.
“Where’s your collar?” Sherlock asked.
John forced back a smile, remembering his own first question upon waking in captivity. “Moriarty took it off me.”
“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled.
John squeezed his arm. “Maybe they’ll recover it when they process the scene. Lestrade said the whole Met was on the case.”
“If it’s up to that lot, it’ll never be recovered.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and flung himself against the pillows.
“It hardly matters now,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from his perch, leaning against the windowsill. John had forgotten his presence.
“The collar may not be an heirloom, but it does have some value,” Sherlock grumbled.
“Yes. Of a sentimental nature.”
Sherlock thrust a finger towards the door. “Leave.”
“I’m afraid I need a word with your John.”
“He doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Sherlock clamped a hand over John’s wrist, staking his claim over the rope burns there and sending a dangerous thrill through John’s blood.
“Let the man answer for himself.”
“I really don’t,” John said, and was rewarded by Sherlock’s triumphant grin.
“Nonetheless, I must speak it.” Lord Mycroft stood slowly and approached the bed. “This concerns you as well, Sherlock. It’s about John’s contract.”
Sherlock struggled to a sitting position. “I told you before, Mycroft, if you had your lawyers insert some sort of obscure-“
“No, no, nothing of the sort.” Lord Mycroft offered them a benign smile, a bureaucrat’s smile. “John, I wanted to convey my appreciation of your work these past weeks.”
“I’ve little interest in your appreciation, sir.” John treasured the slight rise in Lord Mycroft’s eyebrow at that pronouncement, but the greater prize was Sherlock’s smug chuckle.
“My brother’s safety is very important to me, and I could not ask for a better steward of his person than yourself.”
“It’s not yours to ask.”
“No. Well.” Lord Mycroft produced a folder of papers from under his arm and held it out to John. “These are for you.”
“What are they?”
Lord Mycroft merely kept his hand extended and his eyes on John until John took the folder. He flipped it open to reveal an official discharge from the Imperial Army: Honourable Discharge, Medical. He brushed the page aside to find a Fulfilment of Debt certificate, marking the Watson family obligation as fully discharged. He held the certificate up to the light, and saw the official embossing on the Imperial seal; this was no forgery.
“What...?” John breathed.
Sherlock snatched the rest of the folder from John’s lifeless fingers and rifled through the papers. “Mycroft, what have you done?”
“Captain John Hamish Watson agreed to serve undercover as a slave in order to assist in the Empire’s operation concerning the Chinese Ambassador. In return for the execution of this hazardous assignment, the Empire agreed to clear the remainder of his family’s obligation. This paperwork verifies that his slave status was merely a convenient disguise for the duration of the case.”
John rubbed his thumb over the Empress’ signature stamped on the bottom right corner of the document that he never thought he’d live to see. His hands did not shake. “I’m free.”
“Yes, John.”
“No.” Sherlock tossed the folder aside and rounded on his brother. “You can’t do this, Mycroft. John is mine.”
“Officially, he was never a slave in the first place, which means you could not have purchased him.” Lord Mycroft settled into a chair in the corner, as calmly as if he were sitting down to tea. “The Empire will reimburse you for the inconvenience.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money. He belongs to me!”
“You don’t want me to be free?” John turned to Sherlock, who ignored him in favour of struggling free of his sheets.
“What are you playing at? I told you before, Mycroft: taking away my toys has never been an effective way to ensure my compliance.”
“I’m not a toy,” John snapped.
Sherlock did look at him, then, but John saw none of the haughty anger he’d expected. Instead, panic widened Sherlock’s eyes and stopped his breathing. He caught John’s hand in his, shoved the robe’s sleeves up to bare John’s skin, and braceleted John’s wrist with his fingers with surprising gentleness, mindful of the injury this time. “Don’t do this,” he whispered.
“It’s done, Sherlock. It’s settled. And John?” Lord Mycroft nodded to a familiar-looking rucksack beside his chair. “Anthea’s prepared a few things for you.”
John drifted closer, easily breaking the cuff of Sherlock’s grip. Though the rucksack bulged with contents when he picked it up, still the paper in his hand felt heavier.
“Anthea can connect you with the War Department,” Lord Mycroft went on. “They have a number of services available for-“
“Stop this at once. You’ve no right.” Sherlock’s heart monitor began to beep urgently, and an older nurse hurried into the room. “John!”
“Sir, please lie back.” The nurse sped to Sherlock’s side and caught his flailing hands. “You mustn’t get excited.”
“John, I forbid you to leave.” Sherlock fought against the nurse savagely, though in his weakened state, he clearly had no chance. From the corner, Lord Mycroft regarded John with cool, pale eyes. “Come here,” Sherlock shouted. “Come!”
“Sir, you’ll hurt yourself.” The nurse spared a hard glance for John. “You’re setting him off.”
“I’ll leave, then.” John backed towards the door.
“No you won’t!” Sherlock snarled.
Lord Mycroft strode across the room, retrieved the folder Sherlock had thrown, and followed John to the door. “Congratulations, Dr Watson.” He pressed the folder into John’s hands. “Thank you for your service.”
“John, don’t.” Sherlock threw himself hard against the nurse’s restraining hands. Machines around his bed beeped and buzzed angrily.
“Sir, please, calm down!”
“Do as she says, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock paused in his struggle, chest heaving, skin pale and sallow, eyes fixed on John. “Don’t reopen that wound. Not after I went to all the trouble of keeping you held together. ” He turned and marched out of the room.
A flood of hospital staff flowed in after him, and as he put more distance behind him, John could still hear Sherlock shouting, “Let go. Unhand me. I’m perfectly fine. Perfectly!”
--
Lestrade tapped the edge of his pen against the desk in his tiny office-his former office. He crumpled the piece of paper he’d been writing on, and tossed it in the bin. Perhaps it made him a coward, to write a note and leave it while Sally and the others were still abed, but he didn’t want to cause more disruption in the household than he already had. The trip back to the estate had made his circumstances blindingly clear.
Lord Mycroft had made a quick exit after Lord Sherlock had moved on from insulting the medical staff to calling his brother every unflattering name he could think of. He hadn’t run out of terms by the time Lord Mycroft bade him a terse farewell and marched out to his waiting car, Lestrade and security entourage in tow.
The drive back to the estate had been one of the longest car rides of Lestrade’s life. He’d sat staring at his hands, listening intently for any word or movement from his master in the seat beside him. With every swallow, he noticed anew the lightness of his stand-in collar. Morning light had started to paint the horizon pink, heralding a lovely, clear day.
As the car drew up to the gates at the border of the grounds, Lord Mycroft’s mobile chirped.
“Yes?” Lord Mycroft answered. His brisk tone betrayed none of the tiredness Lestrade could read on his face. “I see. No. Hold there, and upgrade surveillance to Grade Three Active. Yes.” Lord Mycroft slipped the mobile back into his jacket pocket and drummed his fingers against the seat.
A week ago, Lestrade might have asked his master about the call; clearly if it had caused Lord Mycroft to fidget, the news must have been upsetting. But now, Lestrade didn’t have the right to pry into his master’s affairs. Or, more properly, he’d never had the right, and had only recently recalled that fact.
“It seems Dr Watson’s given our personnel the slip already,” Lord Mycroft turned away from the window to face Lestrade. “I believe you could have predicted as much.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head, properly deferential.
Lord Mycroft looked at Lestrade for a long moment. Lestrade bore it patiently, feeling his master’s eyes on him and resisting the urge to look at him in return. At last, Lord Mycroft spoke: a clipped, decisive command, “You’ll go to London.”
“I-“ Lestrade bit back his initial protest, reminding himself once more not to talk out of turn. “Sir?”
“I have business there that would suit your talents.” Lord Mycroft turned back to the window. “Among other things, I’d like you to keep a weather eye on Dr Watson.”
“I see.” Lestrade risked a look at Lord Mycroft, and took stock of the tension in his posture, the indentations in the seat of the car where his fingers dug into the upholstery. Even if he were punished for it, Lestrade decided, he had to offer his opinion. “John Watson’s a free man, sir. So you told him.”
“Yes, Gregory. He is a free man.” Lord Mycroft’s gaze snapped back to Lestrade, who bowed his head. “I’m not asking you to be a party to anything sinister. Only to make certain that he’s safe, and that he’s getting on well. If he has financial difficulties, I’ve authorized an account to make contributions for his welfare.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir.”
“Gregory…” Lord Mycroft raised his hand, but it froze in mid-air, hovering halfway between them.
“Sir?” Lestrade turned his eyes up to meet Lord Mycroft’s. He only meant to look for a moment, to check his master’s mood, but he found he couldn’t look away.
The car drew to a halt in front of the main entrance, sending them both rocking back against the seat and breaking the moment.
Lord Mycroft quickly brushed his hands down his trousers and drew his chin up. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s done.”
Wood opened the car door for Lord Mycroft. He stepped out and swept into the house without a backward glance.
Lestrade had gone right to his office, intent on making short work of his business and getting out from underfoot as soon as possible. The words wouldn’t come to him, though. Sally already knew her duty, and would have no trouble running the contingent of personal slaves until Lestrade’s replacement arrived.
A replacement. Lord Mycroft would have to take on someone else, of course. Whatever fondness Lord Mycroft had harboured for an ill-trained slave past his prime, he would have to maintain a lifestyle proper to his rank. Surely there would be no shortage of slaves eager to take up such a coveted position. Someone else would kneel at Lord Mycroft’s feet and mention offhand observations about his appointments, would laugh with him over an etiquette blunder on the ride home from a party, would listen to him breathe in the dark of the night and wish to lift the cares that weighed on him.
Lestrade found himself grinding the pen into the soft wood of the table top, and made himself stop. He scribbled a note, leaving Sally only the smallest part of what he wanted to say:
Take as good care of my replacement as you did of me. If you can teach me to dance, you can teach anyone. All the best, G
He set the note atop a pile of pending reports, where Sally would be sure to see it. As he debated whether or not he should fill out his own transfer of duties form, Anthea bustled in. She wore the same black dress she’d had on yesterday, her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the dark shadows under her eyes showed she hadn’t slept.
“Anthea, are you--?”
“Here.” Anthea produced a packet of folded papers and extended them to Lestrade. She’d done exactly the same thing the first time they’d met, only Lestrade had been behind bars, then. Now, however, Anthea’s voice held an edge that hadn’t been present on that previous occasion. “Details of your new assignment. Don’t worry, nothing like the Milverton debacle.”
“This is for the best, Anthea.” He reached out to take the packet, but Anthea held on.
“Don’t drag this out. I’ll send your things.” She looked Lestrade dead in the eye, giving no attention to the Blackberry that buzzed in her free hand. “If you care about him at all, stay out of his way. He can’t see you after this.”
“Right.” Lestrade wouldn’t be likely to run into his master on the street, but he nodded anyway. He wouldn’t see Lord Mycroft’s face, serene and unguarded in sleep, when he awoke each morning. He wouldn’t hear his master’s polished-smooth voice, conveying volumes in a word, or a sigh, or a silence. He wouldn’t feel Lord Mycroft’s arm around his waist as he drifted off to sleep. “I understand.” He tugged at the papers again, but still Anthea didn’t relent.
“You’re wrong about him.”
Lestrade released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He shook his head, slowly, and watched Anthea’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think so.”
“Then maybe I’m wrong about you.” Anthea let go of the papers, turned on her heel, and walked off with eyes fixed firmly on her phone.
--
[On to Part Two]
Title: The Word That You Hear Is Not Mine, Part I
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 26,500 total; this part ~5000
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, show-level violence and crime
Context: Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series (see the master post to get started), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart and jaune_chat for their constant encouragements, to redandglenda and izzie7 for their editing/Brit-picking/general fixing. Remaining cock-ups are all mine. Special thanks to the team at sh_britglish for answering my real estate questions!
Summary: The standoff with Moriarty results in some changes for the Lords Holmes and their slaves.
Previously, on In My Master’s House:
John and Sherlock foiled plans to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador, which not only angered Moriarty, but also Lord Mycroft, who had intended to turn the assassination to his advantage. After learning about Lord Mycroft’s plans, Lestrade asked to resign his position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave and threw himself into helping Sherlock track down Moriarty, who had kidnapped John. By following a series of puzzles throughout London, Sherlock caught up with Moriarty and his accomplice Colonel Moran in a standoff at the lake on the Holmes estate. John’s quick thinking resulted in Colonel Moran shooting Sherlock and absconding with Moriarty, leaving the brothers Holmes and their slaves to put themselves back together.
Part One
Lestrade double-checked the piece of paper the nurse upstairs had handed him before reassuring himself he wouldn’t mistake anything so simple as a room number. He pushed open the door to reveal a windowless room, no larger than his quarters at the estate. Though it contained three beds, only one was occupied.
John lay face down, stripped to the waist, with a thick pad of gauze taped neatly across his lower back. Angry abrasions circled both his wrists, and an assortment of bruises and welts-mostly healed-littered his back. Above his right shoulder blade clustered a starburst of scar tissue.
Lestrade ignored the temptation to look at the chart at the end of the bed. Though he keenly wanted to know what John had been subjected to when he’d been taken, and therefore what kind of criminal they were dealing with, he respected John’s right to tell him on his own terms, if at all. He wasn’t a copper working a case; he was only a concerned fellow slave, maybe even a friend.
“John.” Lestrade picked up the rickety chair shoved in the corner and moved it up to sit next to John’s bed. “You awake?”
John lifted his head and opened one bleary eye, then the other. “Hullo.” His voice sounded rough and dry, and his movements seemed sluggish. Then he seemed to recognize Lestrade. In an instant, alertness brightened his eyes. “How long have I been out?”
“Twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.”
“Drugs. That explains why my mouth tastes like a dead thing.” John kicked at the sheets until he freed himself enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Have they found them? Moriarty and Moran? Picked up a trail, anything?”
“Nothing.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face, thinking of the increasingly frustrated civility of Wood’s hourly e-mail updates on the search. “They’re good.”
“They’re not invincible.” John untaped his IV, eased it out of his arm, and tossed it aside before glancing around the cell-like room. “Now, what have they done with my clothes?”
“Are you sure you should be up and about?” Lestrade asked with a pointed glance at the bandage on John’s back.
“I’m not the one who got shot.”
“Not for lack of trying, I imagine.” What little of the story of the standoff with Moriarty he’d gleaned during the helicopter ride to hospital was enough to assure Lestrade that both John and Lord Sherlock were completely cracked. “And thanks. For keeping him alive.”
“Wasn’t a choice, really,” John said. Lestrade might have imagined it, but the pronouncement seemed to surprise John. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs. Private room, far away from the slave wing.” Such spacious accommodations meant Lestrade had managed to keep an eye on Lord Sherlock while avoiding Lord Mycroft. “Surgery went well. He’s out of the woods, they’ve said, but he’s not woken up yet. Imagine he’ll be back on the hunt as soon as he’s conscious. Every Imperial lawman in the territory is on the lookout, but no luck yet.”
“I’d be surprised if they did have.” John snatched the chart from its slot at the foot of his bed and began to read.
“Me too. They’re clever. Clever enough to have fooled me.” Lestrade felt a hot swell of shame to remember it. He’d had Jim-bloody Moriarty-working under him for months and never known.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” John looked up from the chart to give Lestrade a sympathetic half-smile. “They fooled the Holmes brothers, and if they could manage that, what chance did the two of us have?”
“You’re right. Still, I’m sorry you got hurt.”
“I’ll mend. Or be replaced, I suppose.” John craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the bandage. “Have they-?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll wait until you’re healed, make sure there’s no infection before they replace the chip.”
“Decent of them.” With a grimace, John pushed to his feet.
“John, listen.” Lestrade resisted the urge to admonish John to sit down and rest. In years of dealing with the Holmeses, he’d learned to recognize a losing battle. “You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate hearing it. Moriarty and Moran are still out there, and if there’s anything you can remember-it might help us. Help the people hunting them, anyway.”
“There’s not much to tell,” John said, without meeting Lestrade’s eyes. “Kept me tied up. Didn’t tell me anything.”
“Did they hurt you?” Lestrade watched John move with a critical eye, evaluating for injuries, maybe something John had hidden when he’d been admitted. “Did they do anything?”
“No.” John opened the room’s tiny cupboard and from inside snatched a threadbare cotton robe with “Property of London Imperial Hospital” stamped on the back. “Not really.”
“John, you can tell me if something happened.” Lestrade studied John’s closed-off posture, his averted eyes, and gentled his tone. “No one’s going to think less of you because of something those madmen did.”
John fixed him with a considering look. “I bet you were a really good cop.”
The words trigged a lingering ache, but the hurt of Lestrade’s destroyed career didn’t go as deep, anymore. He fixed John with a stern look. “If you don’t want to tell me, you should tell someone.”
“They didn’t hurt me, really. The worst I endured was some insufferable gloating.” John pulled on the robe and tugged the sleeves down over the marks on his wrists. “I suppose they wanted to keep me in good shape to serve as bait.”
“More fool, them.”
“What’s going to happen now?” John braced his hands against the sides of the cupboard. “I just go back to… They were going to kill me for what I did to Moran.”
“Well, you’re not in legal trouble anymore. Not now that we know Moran was posing as a lord.” Heads somewhere were sure to roll for that, Lestrade imagined, but not his, and not John’s. “You won’t be reprimanded for shooting a fugitive slave.”
“Surprisingly, that does not make me feel better.” John turned to frown at Lestrade. “And it won’t always be so simple, if I keep helping him. Look what happened to you.” His eyes slid to Lestrade’s neck. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Lestrade’s hand went to his throat, where the comforting weight of his collar, with its inscribed tag, was conspicuous in its absence. The stand-in collar felt too light. “I resigned my position as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave.”
“Why?”
“That’s between me and Lord Mycroft,” Lestrade said softly. “You understand.”
John rubbed his fingers against a crease in his forehead, as if massaging away a headache. “Strangely enough, I do.”
A nurse in a bright white uniform and matching collar scampered into the room. She glanced between the two of them desperately. “Watson? Which one of you is John Watson?”
Slowly, John raised his hand.
The nurse darted forward, grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards the door. “Come quick. Your master’s like to bust ‘is stitches if he don’t get his way.”
John threw a resigned glance over his shoulder as the nurse dragged him out of the room. With a deep sigh, Lestrade hurried after them.
--
The panicked nurse only got them out of the slave wing; apparently slave staff weren’t allowed near the noble patients. After that, Lestrade’s special visitor’s badge and deferential politeness carried them past all obstacles. Once on the correct floor, John followed the sound of Sherlock’s ranting down the hallway.
At the doorway, a blue-uniformed guard, one of Lord Mycroft’s staff, barred the way.
“He’s with me,” Lestrade said.
The guard stepped aside, but after a quick glance into the room, Lestrade retreated swiftly. “Go on,” he said, clapping John on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up after.”
Before John could inquire, a shout from inside demanded his attention. Sherlock’s voice, slightly slurred, carried above the general cacophony. “Get away! I’m not taking anything else until you let me up!”
John swept into the room, recklessly shoving past a knot of people to see Sherlock swatting at a nurse holding a syringe. He looked pale and a bit haggard, but he’d lost the agonized pallor that accompanied a near-mortal wound. Weak as he looked, he’d somehow mustered the energy to shout at the hospital staff and fend off unwanted procedures with what seemed to be a martial art specifically adapted for the bedridden.
Pausing just long enough for a deep breath, John let loose with a voice proven to stop soldiers in mid-charge. “Sherlock, do not hit the nurses.”
Sherlock froze. The half-dozen other people in the room stared at John.
Quickly, he tacked on a token, “Sir.”
Sherlock’s eyes darted up and down John’s form, undoubtedly picking up a score of clues about John’s hospital stay, and probably a few things John didn’t know himself. When Sherlock reached out a hand and flexed his fingers, John came to his bedside as if pulled, and let Sherlock grip his fingers.
“Are you injured?” Sherlock asked. “Rope burns, mild infection at the incision on your back, general undernourishment, what else?”
“I’m not hurt,” John said, squeezing his hand.
“I told you he was fine, Sherlock,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from the corner of the room, well out of range of any tantrum.
“Oh, please.” Sherlock managed a passable sneer, even in his weakened state. “As if you’ve never lied to serve your own ends.”
To John’s surprise, Lord Mycroft frowned deeply. John decided quickly that he’d rather not get involved in whatever battle those two were currently fighting, and turned back to Sherlock. “They told me downstairs you were in danger of bursting your stitches. Have you been terrorizing the staff?”
“If anything, they’ve been terrorizing me. Prodding at me, keeping me confined to bed, drugging me so I can barely think, shooting me full of who knows what.”
“And that’s only in the twenty minutes he’s been awake,” Lord Mycroft drawled.
Ignoring him, John turned and raised an eyebrow at the ashen-faced nurse with the syringe.
“It’s just an antibiotic booster,” she said meekly.
“I don’t want it.” Sherlock drew back onto his bed, as if readying for another spate of invalid baritsu.
“Are you always this childish when you’re injured? Here.” John plucked the syringe from the nurse’s fingers. “Will you take it if I do it?”
“Fine. Only everyone else get out. It’s stifling in here.”
“Erm.” From the back of the crowd of hospital staff, a young man with a clipboard raised a finger. “Lord Holmes, sir, the dose should be administered by a trained medical professional.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Then Dr Watson should be eminently capable.”
“But sir,” the man chuckled, “slaves can’t be doctors.”
Sherlock glared at the young man with such forceful malice that John almost began to feel sorry for the blighter.
At last, Lord Mycroft broke the silence. “I’m certain an exception can be made in this case for the patient’s comfort. Now, my brother needs to rest.”
The staff filed out, muttering amongst themselves. With one last wide-eyed glance at John, the nurse closed the door behind her.
John fitted the needle to Sherlock’s IV and plunged the contents into Sherlock’s bloodstream. He looked up to find Sherlock examining him intently.
“Where’s your collar?” Sherlock asked.
John forced back a smile, remembering his own first question upon waking in captivity. “Moriarty took it off me.”
“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled.
John squeezed his arm. “Maybe they’ll recover it when they process the scene. Lestrade said the whole Met was on the case.”
“If it’s up to that lot, it’ll never be recovered.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and flung himself against the pillows.
“It hardly matters now,” Lord Mycroft spoke up from his perch, leaning against the windowsill. John had forgotten his presence.
“The collar may not be an heirloom, but it does have some value,” Sherlock grumbled.
“Yes. Of a sentimental nature.”
Sherlock thrust a finger towards the door. “Leave.”
“I’m afraid I need a word with your John.”
“He doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Sherlock clamped a hand over John’s wrist, staking his claim over the rope burns there and sending a dangerous thrill through John’s blood.
“Let the man answer for himself.”
“I really don’t,” John said, and was rewarded by Sherlock’s triumphant grin.
“Nonetheless, I must speak it.” Lord Mycroft stood slowly and approached the bed. “This concerns you as well, Sherlock. It’s about John’s contract.”
Sherlock struggled to a sitting position. “I told you before, Mycroft, if you had your lawyers insert some sort of obscure-“
“No, no, nothing of the sort.” Lord Mycroft offered them a benign smile, a bureaucrat’s smile. “John, I wanted to convey my appreciation of your work these past weeks.”
“I’ve little interest in your appreciation, sir.” John treasured the slight rise in Lord Mycroft’s eyebrow at that pronouncement, but the greater prize was Sherlock’s smug chuckle.
“My brother’s safety is very important to me, and I could not ask for a better steward of his person than yourself.”
“It’s not yours to ask.”
“No. Well.” Lord Mycroft produced a folder of papers from under his arm and held it out to John. “These are for you.”
“What are they?”
Lord Mycroft merely kept his hand extended and his eyes on John until John took the folder. He flipped it open to reveal an official discharge from the Imperial Army: Honourable Discharge, Medical. He brushed the page aside to find a Fulfilment of Debt certificate, marking the Watson family obligation as fully discharged. He held the certificate up to the light, and saw the official embossing on the Imperial seal; this was no forgery.
“What...?” John breathed.
Sherlock snatched the rest of the folder from John’s lifeless fingers and rifled through the papers. “Mycroft, what have you done?”
“Captain John Hamish Watson agreed to serve undercover as a slave in order to assist in the Empire’s operation concerning the Chinese Ambassador. In return for the execution of this hazardous assignment, the Empire agreed to clear the remainder of his family’s obligation. This paperwork verifies that his slave status was merely a convenient disguise for the duration of the case.”
John rubbed his thumb over the Empress’ signature stamped on the bottom right corner of the document that he never thought he’d live to see. His hands did not shake. “I’m free.”
“Yes, John.”
“No.” Sherlock tossed the folder aside and rounded on his brother. “You can’t do this, Mycroft. John is mine.”
“Officially, he was never a slave in the first place, which means you could not have purchased him.” Lord Mycroft settled into a chair in the corner, as calmly as if he were sitting down to tea. “The Empire will reimburse you for the inconvenience.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money. He belongs to me!”
“You don’t want me to be free?” John turned to Sherlock, who ignored him in favour of struggling free of his sheets.
“What are you playing at? I told you before, Mycroft: taking away my toys has never been an effective way to ensure my compliance.”
“I’m not a toy,” John snapped.
Sherlock did look at him, then, but John saw none of the haughty anger he’d expected. Instead, panic widened Sherlock’s eyes and stopped his breathing. He caught John’s hand in his, shoved the robe’s sleeves up to bare John’s skin, and braceleted John’s wrist with his fingers with surprising gentleness, mindful of the injury this time. “Don’t do this,” he whispered.
“It’s done, Sherlock. It’s settled. And John?” Lord Mycroft nodded to a familiar-looking rucksack beside his chair. “Anthea’s prepared a few things for you.”
John drifted closer, easily breaking the cuff of Sherlock’s grip. Though the rucksack bulged with contents when he picked it up, still the paper in his hand felt heavier.
“Anthea can connect you with the War Department,” Lord Mycroft went on. “They have a number of services available for-“
“Stop this at once. You’ve no right.” Sherlock’s heart monitor began to beep urgently, and an older nurse hurried into the room. “John!”
“Sir, please lie back.” The nurse sped to Sherlock’s side and caught his flailing hands. “You mustn’t get excited.”
“John, I forbid you to leave.” Sherlock fought against the nurse savagely, though in his weakened state, he clearly had no chance. From the corner, Lord Mycroft regarded John with cool, pale eyes. “Come here,” Sherlock shouted. “Come!”
“Sir, you’ll hurt yourself.” The nurse spared a hard glance for John. “You’re setting him off.”
“I’ll leave, then.” John backed towards the door.
“No you won’t!” Sherlock snarled.
Lord Mycroft strode across the room, retrieved the folder Sherlock had thrown, and followed John to the door. “Congratulations, Dr Watson.” He pressed the folder into John’s hands. “Thank you for your service.”
“John, don’t.” Sherlock threw himself hard against the nurse’s restraining hands. Machines around his bed beeped and buzzed angrily.
“Sir, please, calm down!”
“Do as she says, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock paused in his struggle, chest heaving, skin pale and sallow, eyes fixed on John. “Don’t reopen that wound. Not after I went to all the trouble of keeping you held together. ” He turned and marched out of the room.
A flood of hospital staff flowed in after him, and as he put more distance behind him, John could still hear Sherlock shouting, “Let go. Unhand me. I’m perfectly fine. Perfectly!”
--
Lestrade tapped the edge of his pen against the desk in his tiny office-his former office. He crumpled the piece of paper he’d been writing on, and tossed it in the bin. Perhaps it made him a coward, to write a note and leave it while Sally and the others were still abed, but he didn’t want to cause more disruption in the household than he already had. The trip back to the estate had made his circumstances blindingly clear.
Lord Mycroft had made a quick exit after Lord Sherlock had moved on from insulting the medical staff to calling his brother every unflattering name he could think of. He hadn’t run out of terms by the time Lord Mycroft bade him a terse farewell and marched out to his waiting car, Lestrade and security entourage in tow.
The drive back to the estate had been one of the longest car rides of Lestrade’s life. He’d sat staring at his hands, listening intently for any word or movement from his master in the seat beside him. With every swallow, he noticed anew the lightness of his stand-in collar. Morning light had started to paint the horizon pink, heralding a lovely, clear day.
As the car drew up to the gates at the border of the grounds, Lord Mycroft’s mobile chirped.
“Yes?” Lord Mycroft answered. His brisk tone betrayed none of the tiredness Lestrade could read on his face. “I see. No. Hold there, and upgrade surveillance to Grade Three Active. Yes.” Lord Mycroft slipped the mobile back into his jacket pocket and drummed his fingers against the seat.
A week ago, Lestrade might have asked his master about the call; clearly if it had caused Lord Mycroft to fidget, the news must have been upsetting. But now, Lestrade didn’t have the right to pry into his master’s affairs. Or, more properly, he’d never had the right, and had only recently recalled that fact.
“It seems Dr Watson’s given our personnel the slip already,” Lord Mycroft turned away from the window to face Lestrade. “I believe you could have predicted as much.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head, properly deferential.
Lord Mycroft looked at Lestrade for a long moment. Lestrade bore it patiently, feeling his master’s eyes on him and resisting the urge to look at him in return. At last, Lord Mycroft spoke: a clipped, decisive command, “You’ll go to London.”
“I-“ Lestrade bit back his initial protest, reminding himself once more not to talk out of turn. “Sir?”
“I have business there that would suit your talents.” Lord Mycroft turned back to the window. “Among other things, I’d like you to keep a weather eye on Dr Watson.”
“I see.” Lestrade risked a look at Lord Mycroft, and took stock of the tension in his posture, the indentations in the seat of the car where his fingers dug into the upholstery. Even if he were punished for it, Lestrade decided, he had to offer his opinion. “John Watson’s a free man, sir. So you told him.”
“Yes, Gregory. He is a free man.” Lord Mycroft’s gaze snapped back to Lestrade, who bowed his head. “I’m not asking you to be a party to anything sinister. Only to make certain that he’s safe, and that he’s getting on well. If he has financial difficulties, I’ve authorized an account to make contributions for his welfare.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir.”
“Gregory…” Lord Mycroft raised his hand, but it froze in mid-air, hovering halfway between them.
“Sir?” Lestrade turned his eyes up to meet Lord Mycroft’s. He only meant to look for a moment, to check his master’s mood, but he found he couldn’t look away.
The car drew to a halt in front of the main entrance, sending them both rocking back against the seat and breaking the moment.
Lord Mycroft quickly brushed his hands down his trousers and drew his chin up. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s done.”
Wood opened the car door for Lord Mycroft. He stepped out and swept into the house without a backward glance.
Lestrade had gone right to his office, intent on making short work of his business and getting out from underfoot as soon as possible. The words wouldn’t come to him, though. Sally already knew her duty, and would have no trouble running the contingent of personal slaves until Lestrade’s replacement arrived.
A replacement. Lord Mycroft would have to take on someone else, of course. Whatever fondness Lord Mycroft had harboured for an ill-trained slave past his prime, he would have to maintain a lifestyle proper to his rank. Surely there would be no shortage of slaves eager to take up such a coveted position. Someone else would kneel at Lord Mycroft’s feet and mention offhand observations about his appointments, would laugh with him over an etiquette blunder on the ride home from a party, would listen to him breathe in the dark of the night and wish to lift the cares that weighed on him.
Lestrade found himself grinding the pen into the soft wood of the table top, and made himself stop. He scribbled a note, leaving Sally only the smallest part of what he wanted to say:
Take as good care of my replacement as you did of me. If you can teach me to dance, you can teach anyone. All the best, G
He set the note atop a pile of pending reports, where Sally would be sure to see it. As he debated whether or not he should fill out his own transfer of duties form, Anthea bustled in. She wore the same black dress she’d had on yesterday, her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the dark shadows under her eyes showed she hadn’t slept.
“Anthea, are you--?”
“Here.” Anthea produced a packet of folded papers and extended them to Lestrade. She’d done exactly the same thing the first time they’d met, only Lestrade had been behind bars, then. Now, however, Anthea’s voice held an edge that hadn’t been present on that previous occasion. “Details of your new assignment. Don’t worry, nothing like the Milverton debacle.”
“This is for the best, Anthea.” He reached out to take the packet, but Anthea held on.
“Don’t drag this out. I’ll send your things.” She looked Lestrade dead in the eye, giving no attention to the Blackberry that buzzed in her free hand. “If you care about him at all, stay out of his way. He can’t see you after this.”
“Right.” Lestrade wouldn’t be likely to run into his master on the street, but he nodded anyway. He wouldn’t see Lord Mycroft’s face, serene and unguarded in sleep, when he awoke each morning. He wouldn’t hear his master’s polished-smooth voice, conveying volumes in a word, or a sigh, or a silence. He wouldn’t feel Lord Mycroft’s arm around his waist as he drifted off to sleep. “I understand.” He tugged at the papers again, but still Anthea didn’t relent.
“You’re wrong about him.”
Lestrade released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He shook his head, slowly, and watched Anthea’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think so.”
“Then maybe I’m wrong about you.” Anthea let go of the papers, turned on her heel, and walked off with eyes fixed firmly on her phone.
--
[On to Part Two]