Sherlock Fic: In My Master's House Are Many Rooms
Hey look! Angsty, filthy dirty slave fic! At least I'm consistent, yes/yes?
Title: In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, hints of other pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: present slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, non- and dub-con (plus uncouth justification of such), humiliation, unhealthy D/s dynamics, corporal punishment (including gratuitous use of a riding crop)
Notes: Written for s0mmerspr0ssen for holmestice Summer 2011. Thanks to blue_eyed_1987 for the Brit-pick and catchoo152 for making my sentences more gooderer. Hearts and flowers to my perpetual beta/cheerleader jaune_chat, who asked all the right questions and made all the appropriate noises of sympathy. Rainbows and puppies to the mods, who put up with my lack of time management skills.
Summary: As a new slave in the Holmes household, John is having trouble finding his place.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
John heard footsteps approaching from around the corner of the long hallway and immediately took up the prescribed position: back against the wall, head bowed, ready to serve. He was exempted from the usual procedure of leaving his hands open at his sides. Instead, he folded both hands over the handle of the cane in front of him. He stared at the floor, waiting and prickling at the vulnerability of not being able to watch for danger. Years in Afghanistan in the service of one of her majesty’s feudal regiments had given him the habit of analyzing every passerby, no matter how innocuous seeming, as a potential enemy.
As the footsteps approached, John let his eyes flick up long enough to see that the man had no collar. So fine. John had to stay put. The free man gave John no more notice than he did the flower arrangements on the windowsills. Once he’d passed, John let himself look more boldly. He’d been trying to acquaint himself with the regular visitors to Lord Mycroft’s household, but here was one he’d not seen before: a tall man with a dark, curly fall of hair, fingers flying over his mobile as he stalked down the hallway.
John shook his head and felt his collar shift against his throat. Of course the real mark of his status was the ID chip embedded in the base of his spine, but John had found the old-fashioned collar, a plain black affair with a small silver tag marking him as a member of Lord Mycroft’s stock, more difficult to endure. Perhaps because, doctor or no, he could never hope to remove the chip, while the simple leather collar could be taken off, if he dared. If he hadn’t been wearing it, John wondered if the man he’d just passed would even have known he was a slave.
He pried his shaking hand off the cane and shoved it into his trouser pocket. He mustn’t think such things. The strength and security of the Empire depended on everyone knowing his place. John would simply have to learn; he was no longer a citizen. Dwelling on the circumstances of his enslavement only made him feel exhausted, and so he tried instead to think about healthy things: duty, the preservation of honour, three square meals a day and a roof over his head. Though he was a slave, he should consider himself lucky to have his contract purchased by the very Lord of the regiment in which he’d served. Should. Somehow, he couldn’t muster the appropriate gratitude.
Certain, now, that the man was gone, John resumed his journey across the house to the slave barracks, where he now belonged.
--
John touched his fingers lightly to one of the welts on the slave’s back, but drew them away when she hissed in pain. “Sorry,” he told her gently. Several of the lines seeped blood sluggishly, and one long wound across the girl’s shoulder cut deeper than the rest. It might need stitches.
To Lestrade, who was watching the examination with concern, he said, “Even with the best I can do, she’ll be days healing enough to work again.” John leaned in a fraction closer and lowered his voice. “May I ask… The lads in the regiment always said Lord Mycroft wasn’t one to punish his slaves this way.”
Lestrade shook his head. “Not Lord Mycroft. And not punishment either, if you take the perpetrator at his word.”
“Not His Lordship?” John frowned. Now that he was a member of Lord Mycroft’s household, he had a vested interest in his authority. Luckily for the Empire, his Lord cultivated authority like a garden of the most orderly kind. If someone in the household flouted the Lord’s wishes by treating household slaves this way, perhaps that authority was not so secure as John had been led to believe. “No one would have the gall to lay a hand on his property.”
“Someone would.”
“Not-No. His brother?” He lowered his voice again. “The mad one?”
Lestrade nodded, and John noticed for the first time that he looked drawn and haggard as he hadn’t when they’d been introduced some days ago. “Home from his duties abroad.”
“What duties?” John had seldom heard friends in the regiment gossiping about their Lord’s family, but on the few occasions he had, Lord Mycroft’s eccentric brother had been a common theme. He knew only that the man allegedly performed some special function for the Empire, which John privately thought might be a euphemism for being a useless git.
“No one ever says.” Lestrade shook his head. “Anyway, you needn’t worry. You’re a valuable slave, Dr. Watson. His Lordship appreciates valuable things.” He sounded almost fond. “Plus you won’t exactly have the same duties as Molly here.”
“It hardly hurts at all,” the girl piped up. “He only needed to see what kind of bruises would form from the riding crop."
“Is that what did this?” John asked.
“He’s a genius, is Lord Sherlock,” the girl said. “Done great service to the Empire. I heard the office slaves whispering about it. He’s been looking for- “
“Hush, Molly.” Lestrade laid a hand on her arm, where he wouldn’t hurt her. “Let the doctor fix you up.”
Before John could ask what service, exactly, Lord Sherlock performed for the empire, a young woman appeared at the door, her eyes fixed on a cell phone. She wore a thin collar with a graceful bronze clasp at the front: clearly something custom-made for a valued slave. “Lord Mycroft wants a word with the doctor.”
“Now?” John asked. “I was only starting-“
“Yeah,” said the girl, and disappeared back into the hall without once looking at him.
“What about Molly?” John asked.
Lestrade shook his head. “A slave’s time is not his own, doctor. You’ll get used to it.”
“I’ve told you, I’ll be fine,” Molly said.
John hesitated. “It’ll only take a moment to stitch this.”
“John, no.” Lestrade looked scandalized. “Never keep the masters waiting.”
“Right.” John pushed himself to his feet reluctantly, and Lestrade followed.
“I know it’s difficult.” Lestrade ducked his head, and John’s attention drifted to the thick leather collar around his neck: black leather traced in silver, adorned with a filigreed silver crest of the Holmes family. John didn’t know enough about collar etiquette to determine if the seal merely designated Lestrade’s status as a head slave, or if it symbolized some deeper connection with their mater. “I was born free, like you. But Lord Mycroft is a fair master. A good man. He’s always shown me kindness, even when- ” Lestrade stopped himself, then said, “Well, you could have done much worse, especially right out of the army.”
“Yes, alright.” John pulled his arm away. No matter how earnest Lestrade seemed, John couldn’t take his words at face value. With the images of Molly’s injuries fresh in his mind, he certainly didn’t feel fortunate to be in this house: not with Lord Mycroft’s mad brother running loose. “I’ll come back and help as soon as I can.”
“Maybe.” Lestrade returned to his seat by Molly’s bedside. “Remember what I said, John. Your first duty is to our masters.”
--
The woman, who never once looked up from her mobile, ushered John into the library. At a writing desk sat a serious-looking man John had only seen in press photographs: Lord Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful of London’s feudal Lords and, it was rumoured, a close confidant of the Empress herself.
“Thank you, Anthea” said Lord Mycroft. "Dr. Watson, have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
John looked around for a place to sit. All the furniture looked very grand, very old, and very, very expensive. He decided on a wooden, straight-backed chair near the wall and sat quietly, watching Lord Mycroft mark up some official-looking document. The sitting didn’t bother his leg, but his left hand had begun to tremble ever so slightly. John shifted his cane to his right hand and jammed his left hand in his pocket.
Mycroft pushed his chair out from his desk, stood, and turned around with a pleasant, almost kind smile. “Well. Doctor Watson. You’ve been keeping busy already.”
“Busy, sir?” He remembered, belatedly, that he should stand when his master did, and pushed himself up.
Mycroft nodded an acknowledgement. “Anthea said she found you in the quarters of our personal slaves, doing some mending.”
“Yes, sir.” John tried to figure out how such a thing would have been reported, and then wondered if that was what Anthea had been typing on her mobile. “I’m afraid it’s an old habit. Keeping busy, I mean. In the regiment, we weren’t often idle.”
“No, I should think not. I’m sure you understand that expectations for a slave are quite different.” Mycroft walked a slow half-circle around John, looking him up and down as if to catalogue his appearance. “A slave is a tool, John. A tool stands ready for its owners use at all times.”
After the initial spike of resentment had faded, John made himself consider what that might mean. He hazarded a guess. “You don’t want me treating other slaves, sir?”
“What’s interesting,” Mycroft said from directly behind him, “is that you want to treat your fellow slaves.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’ll learn, John. You’re a slave first.” Mycroft must have noticed some minute change in John’s expression, despite his efforts not to react. “Now, now, don’t fret. If you serve me well, I’ll allow you to continue your little hobby of practising your art with the other slaves in my care. In the meantime, though, you’ll need to fulfil the function for which you were acquired.”
“And what function is that, sir?”John asked. He’d been genuinely curious what such a man would want with him ever since he’d heard that Lord Mycroft had purchased his contract. “I trust you have access to the best… free physicians in the empire.”
“Yes I do.” Mycroft leaned back against his desk and pulled to hand an umbrella that had been leaning against the far side. “Those who handle my slave acquisitions seek out oddities. Slaves with unusual skill sets or bizarre histories.”
“Like an invalid army doctor?”
“Precisely.”
“Sorry, sir,” John said. He knew, even without being an expert in slave etiquette, that he shouldn’t be questioning his master, but Lord Mycroft had called him here to talk, after all. “But why?”
“There’s a position in my household that I’ve been unable to fill for some time.”
“What position is that, sir?”
Mycroft twirled his umbrella and smiled. “I have high hopes for you, Doctor Watson. You only need to continue your duties as you have been, and your suitability for the position will become evident.”
John didn’t enjoy the feeling of being tested on some unknown quality. Since entering the gates of the Holmes estate a week ago, every new experience had seemed to throw him off balance. It was worse than learning to walk with a cane, this constant feeling of uncertainty. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
“Another thing to which you’ll need become accustomed in this house. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”
John knew a dismissal when he heard one. He turned to leave the way he’d come in, and he continued to feel Lord Mycroft’s eyes on him even after he’d closed the door behind him.
--
John abhorred idleness. When he’d lain in bed for weeks at the Imperial Regiment’s convalescent facility, the unwanted leisure had proved worse than the pain. He could think of the pain as an obstacle to overcome, another challenge to face. The long hours alone with his thoughts had proved excruciating: filled with doubts about his decisions and a rising dread of his future as a slave. So far, his tenure in the Holmes household had not been much better.
When he’d arrived, the housekeeper, a kindly-looking woman called Mrs. Hudson, had helped him to settle in a private room in the slave quarters. “When Lord Mycroft thinks you’re ready, you’ll be assigned duties, and not before, mind,” she’d told him.
So John sat in his room, or wandered the grounds, or half-heartedly flipped through the volumes on slave regulations that had been provided for him. Attempts to get involved in the business of the household- with the running of the household infirmary, the groundskeeping, or even the kitchen work- had met with polite but firm rebuffs. Lestrade was the only head slave who’d showed any inclination to let John do something.
When the bell in the courtyard rang for evening muster, all the household slaves would assemble with their various heads to receive orders for the evening, and to address any problems that had arisen during the day. Usually John spent that time as he did the rest of his days: silently going mad in his little box of a room, empty of anything that mattered. Tonight, with Lord Mycroft’s words echoing in his ears, he couldn’t make himself stay there.
As the bell rang out its summons, John grabbed his cane and set off at his fastest pace down the corridor. The assembly room for the personal slaves, over whom Lestrade had charge, was on the third level, quite near the servant’s entrance to the family wing. John presumed it was so situated in order to give the masters easy access to personal slaves at all times. Access which, John reminded himself, resulted in situations like Molly’s.
John strode through the doors to the assembly room as if he belonged. Everyone in the room-more than a dozen men and women all told-jumped to their feet. Lestrade, who had been standing in the centre of the room, turned quickly. His look of concern faded when he recognized John.
“Uh…Hello,” John said.
“Are you lost?” Lestrade asked. Several of the other slaves sat back down on the low couches and chairs artfully arranged around the space. Now that they’d recognized John for an equal, they watched him with undisguised curiosity.
“Came to check on my patient,” John said.
Molly unfolded herself from a settee at the far end of the room that she was sharing with a skinny man in a thin shirt, and waved to him. “I’m really all right,” she said.
“She’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “I’ve put her on light duty for the next three days.”
“I assume you don’t want the marks to scar,” John said. True, there was little danger of that, and John hated to use his medical knowledge to manipulate anyone, but he had very few pieces of leverage in this house. Besides, he knew the importance physical appearance held for personal slaves.
“No,” Lestrade said grudgingly. “Well. Come in and wait until we’ve adjourned, then you can have a look at her.”
“Thank you,” John said politely. He walked across the length of the room to the comfy-looking armchair next to Molly, and managed to sit without his leg collapsing under him.
“Well,” Lestrade said. “As I was saying, the Chinese ambassador has decided to stay another night, and we expect him to come up and make a selection around eight. You’ll all be expected to assemble for that, if you’re not already occupied for the evening.”
“Sir?” a long-legged woman laying on one of the chaise lounges piped up. “What happens if he asks for another one? Shouldn’t he get assigned a permanent, if he’s going to be staying?”
“Any Lord of this house can choose as he wishes, Sally. If he decides to select a long-term personal slave, he’s welcome to do so. Are you volunteering?”
“No, sir,” Sally said, and seemed to shrink back into her couch a little.
“Alright. In the meantime, anyone who’s asked will continue to serve with respect and according to all the rules of the household. Understood?”
“Yes, Lestrade,” the room chorused.
“Alright. I have the primer here on the diplomatic party from the Brazilian Empire that we’ll be entertaining next week. I’ll expect you all to be proficient on the preferences they express. If you have any questions about-“
The door burst open, and John was treated to a replay of the startled flurry of movement that his entrance had precipitated. It took Molly nudging his shoulder to remind him to stand with the rest of the slaves as a tall man with unruly black hair charged into the room, brandishing a mobile in one hand.
“Lestrade, I have need of a slave for the evening.” He glanced up only briefly at the head slave before returning his attention to his mobile. “Have one prepared and sent to my chamber.”
“Lord Sherlock.” Lestrade bowed slightly from the waist, and John wanted to commend him on how calmly he accepted such superciliously-delivered orders. “Do you have any specifications?”
“It doesn’t matter. Wait.” Lord Sherlock looked up from his mobile, scanned the room slowly, and finally pointed. At John. “That one.”
“Sir…” Lestrade took a halting step forward, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. John could sympathize.
“What?” Lord Sherlock had gone back to his mobile, and only looked up again when the silence stretched to an uncomfortable degree. “Spit it out, man.”
“He’s not a personal slave, sir,” Lestrade said at last. “He hasn’t been trained.”
Lord Sherlock turned to John. “All the same, you are a slave.”
John still wasn’t certain what Mycroft intended for him, but he felt certain it hadn’t been this. At his age, with his injuries, he’d never meet the standards to become a personal slave. He hadn’t thought anyone would want him that way. “Yes,” he said, though it wasn’t all the same to him, not at all. “Sir.”
“I see.” Sherlock returned his attention to his mobile and waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll take Molly again.”
“Sir, she’s still recovering from her injuries,” Lestrade said.
“Obviously. Don’t be tedious, Lestrade. I don’t understand how my brother endures it.” He glanced up from his mobile again, and this time his sharp eyes held a hint of menace. “If you’re so determined to prevent me from bothering any of your charges, do you suggest I simply go without subjects for my work?”
“No, sir,” Lestrade said quickly.
“Well I don’t think Mycroft would take kindly to your servicing me personally.”
“I expect not, sir,” Lestrade said. He’d gone very still, but betrayed no other reaction.
“Then which of the household’s slaves should I be allowed to enjoy, Lestrade? How am I to work when you block my experiments at every turn?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I- ”
“Is it my brother’s interference?” Sherlock took a quick step toward Lestrade, who stood his ground with admirable aplomb. “Has Mycroft given you orders to stall me? That’d be just like him, cutting off his nose to spite his face.”
“No, sir.”
“So you’re not following orders, but rather have decided that you prefer your own opinions to those of your masters?”
Now Lestrade's expression had gone tense and closed, but to his credit, he did not back away, but merely inclined his head in deference. “I wouldn’t presume, sir.”
Sherlock moved toward him, sweeping further into the room with an air of authority he wore like a coat. “You’re still an idiot, Lestrade.” He waved a hand around the room. “As they all are. Now. Who would you like to assign to me for the evening?”
Lestrade’s eyes darted quickly around the room. The other slaves looked away or ducked their heads as if to play least-in-sight. Molly made a barely-audible mewling noise in her throat.
John’s left hand was perfectly steady as he stepped forward with the aid of his cane. “If I’m your selection, sir, I’ll go.”
Lord Sherlock cocked his head at an odd angle as he regarded John. “You’re new to the household.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re not meant to be a personal slave. Not in that condition.”
“No, sir,” John said through gritted teeth. He shouldn’t care what a so-called master thought of him, but something about Lord Sherlock made John want to impress him.
Sherlock shook his head. “You’ll not do. I’ll take that one.” He pointed to the young man who’d been sitting on the settee next to Molly. “There.”
The young man nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to bow before Sherlock. John shoved down the strange twinge of disappointment that twisted through him.
“Jim, go get ready,” Lestrade told the young man. To Lord Sherlock, he said, “He’ll be in your room in twenty minutes, sir.”
Sherlock slipped his mobile into his pocket and looked at John again. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s a simple enough question.”
John glanced over at Lestrade, whose look of puzzlement equalled his own. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you--?”
Sherlock spoke right over him. “What are your duties here?”
“I don’t…” John couldn’t quite figure out how to explain that he had no duties. For some reason, he especially hated the idea of giving this man the impression he was useless. “I’ve only just arrived, sir.”
“Yes, clearly. I don’t ask for information I can assess for myself, so kindly confine your answers to my actual questions. Your name?”
“John Watson,” he said automatically. Then, “John, sir.” Slaves had no need of last names.
“An Army doctor. Well, my brother’s collectors must be well pleased with themselves.” His smirk reminded John of a predatory cat he’d once seen in the hills of Afghanistan, whose eyes had glinted hard and black in the moonlight. He hadn’t said he was a doctor, nor that he’d been in the Imperial Army. Sherlock was waving his hand again, beckoning. “Molly. I need to see the progress of this afternoon’s session.”
“Yes, sir.” Molly came closer to Sherlock, stripped off the loose top she was wearing, and presented her bare back for his inspection.
Sherlock ran a finger across her skin, parallel to one of the more painful-looking welts. He drew his hand to his face and inhaled. “These have been treated,” he said sharply.
Molly’s whole body seemed to draw into itself as she flinched. From across the room, Lestrade took a step forward, but said nothing. Sherlock whirled to face John. “I suppose I have you to thank for this, doctor.”
“Yes, sir.” John imagined, judging by the downturned eyes across the room, that a good slave would be bowing and scraping right about now. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but meet Sherlock’s glare. “She needed treatment.”
“And I need to see bruise patterns. In your medical opinion, doctor, would your course of treatment, whatever it was, affect such a thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you, doctor, have ruined my afternoon’s experiment.”
“Experiment?” John’s hand gripped his cane tightly even as he tried to hold on to his temper. “The wounds could have become infected. I was merely trying to prevent-“
“He’s sorry.” Lestrade appeared at John’s side. “I shouldn’t have let him interfere, Lord Sherlock. I apologize, sir.”
Sherlock looked at Lestrade a long moment before saying, “The fault’s not yours, Lestrade." His eyes slid past John quickly, then away. "Molly, run to my chambers and fetch the riding crop. You know where I left it.”
Molly nodded her head once, quickly, then slipped her shirt back on and dashed out of the room.
Sherlock returned his attention to John. “You’ve seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”
John wondered, briefly, if Sherlock might kill him. Considering the stories he’d heard, the possibility wasn’t out of the question. “Yes, sir.”
“What did you think of my work?”
John’s brow furrowed in distaste, and he saw Sherlock’s eager inquiry turn quickly to irritation. John said, “I’d say it was careless work.”
Beside him, Lestrade gave a warning hiss, but John ignored him.
“Careless,” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t presume too much. You haven’t enough information to work with.”
“I’ve seen enough of your handiwork.”
“Have you? Perhaps you’d like an additional demonstration. You did volunteer yourself for the assignment just a moment ago. Are you afraid?”
“No, sir.” John said. He didn’t fear pain, not after having it as a constant companion for so long. In fact, anything would be better than the numb monotony of his life in the house thus far. And furthermore, his pride wouldn’t let him back away now, not with Lord Sherlock acting every inch the master. Something in John rebelled at even the idea of surrender to such authority.
“Fine.” Sherlock had drawn himself up taller and managed to look more aloof than ever. He pointed to the floor at his feet. “Kneel.”
John searched the room for a hint as to whether or not Sherlock was serious, but no one would meet his eyes except Sherlock, who tracked his every move. “Here?” he asked.
Sherlock simply pointed again.
John swallowed once, and forced himself to concentrate on his breathing as he let himself down, first his bad leg, then his good one, to kneel before Sherlock.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s fingertips brushed the crown of John’s head. “Remove your shirt.”
John set his cane on the floor beside him. He tugged at the buttons on his shirt. He’d expected the task to be difficult, but his hands remained perfectly steady.
“Slowly,” Sherlock said.
John made himself undo one button at a time. He tried not to feel the eyes of the other slaves watching him, or the presence of Lestrade at his back, but he couldn’t forget them, even in their silence.
“Up.”
John pushed himself to his feet, with an effort. Sherlock circled him tightly, looking him up and down. He paused behind John, and pressed his fingers against the knot of scar tissue on John’s shoulder. “An imperfect canvas,” Sherlock muttered. “Unfit for personal service, by any measure.”
“Sir,” Lestrade said quietly. “I’m sure one of us would be-“
“Sit down, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “And the rest of you. I want you to watch.”
Lestrade backed away, out of John’s line of sight, and that left only Sherlock, who he could still sense moving behind him.
“Now, John. Go face the column in the centre of the room.”
John moved. He wouldn’t let Sherlock break him. Following orders, even under the eyes of a roomful of other slaves, didn’t feel much like surrender. He’d chosen this, after all. He could have kept his mouth shut when Sherlock had complained about his treating Molly’s wounds. He could have stayed in his room tonight. Instead, he’d gone out courting danger, and it had found him. At least by obeying this way he could spare another slave similar treatment. Surely that was a sacrifice worth making.
“Trousers off,” Sherlock said. “Pants as well.”
John stared at the smooth surface of the marble column before him. He thought, for a moment, of refusing. Then Sherlock’s words rolled back to him: imperfect, unfit. Days of idleness in the house echoed the sentiment. John tugged open his flies, pushed down his clothes, and kicked them away.
The door to the room swung open, but John kept his eyes trained on the white marble before him.
“Here, Lord Sherlock.” Molly, returning with the crop.
“Good.” Sherlock stepped up close; John could feel the heat of him on his bare skin. “Put your hands on the column, at shoulder height. Yes, just so. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise.”
The first blow cracked in the silence of the room and rolled through John like a thunderclap. His hands stayed firmly planted on the stone. The second blow hit at the shoulder, just below the scar. He gulped in a breath as a new degree of pain sizzled along his nervous system. After that, his world narrowed considerably: he knew only that the crop kept impacting his body-there, on his left shoulder blade--there, curling around his right side-- there, just above the curve of his ass. John felt the same giddy rush as he had facing a hail of enemy bullets, but this time knowing he could take the impact, that what Sherlock did to him would not kill him, but in fact made his body sing and scream in defiant agony.
“This is more stimulation than you’ve had in weeks, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice, low and rough, sunk into his consciousness past the cocoon of pain.
John gulped in air, and didn’t answer.
“You’re useless here. Purposeless. You find pleasure in sacrificing yourself this way.” Sherlock pressed his whole body up against John’s back. John gritted his teeth at the pressure against the raw skin. He could feel the hard ridge of Sherlock’s cock pressing against him through layers of fabric as Sherlock whispered in his ear. “There’s always been a little voice inside you leading you into danger, and here you are again, chasing after it. Baiting me.”
Sherlock slid a hand down John’s belly and cupped his hand over John’s growing erection. John’s hips pushed forward of their own volition, until he regained his senses and pulled back. He hadn’t even known he was hard. His hands flexed against the cold stone, steady as anything.
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, little more than an exhale against John’s neck.
Then he pulled away, leaving John cold.
“Forget about that other one, Lestrade. I’ll take John for the night. Clean him up and have him brought to my room,” Sherlock called. “I need to see the progress of those bruises in twenty minutes.” He turned and put his hand on John’s shoulder-the injured one. “You can let go now.” He swept out of the room as imperiously as he’d arrived.
John trailed his hands down the column and let himself sink to the floor.
--
John thought his consciousness might have floated somewhere out beyond the confines of his body, connected to flesh only by a thin tether of pain. He barely heard Lestrade muttering to him as the man blotted blood off of John’s back. The touch felt far away compared to the memory of Sherlock’s weight pressed against him, Sherlock’s breath ghosting on his skin, Sherlock’s voice rumbling in his ear.
“Are you listening to me?”
Fingers dug into John’s arm, and he turned his head to see Lestrade frowning down at him.
“Sorry, what?”
“We don’t have much time. Focus, please.”
John nodded jerkily, because he felt fairly certain Lestrade was trying to help him somehow. He pushed himself up on the sofa where he lay.
“You need to do everything he says, do you understand? Do not argue with him. Christ, do you even know how to…?” Lestrade shook his head. “Of course, you’re a doctor. You at least know the basics. Just… Don’t defy him. I don’t think he’d do you permanent damage, but I’d rather not find out, alright?”
“It would have been someone else, if it hadn’t been me,” John muttered.
Lestrade’s hand stilled on his back, then he resumed his ministrations. “Yes, well. It might have been someone who knows the rules and has been trained for this sort of thing.”
“Lord Sherlock doesn’t seem one much for the rules,” John said. A chuckle rolled out of him. The shaking jarred his back, sending fresh bolts of pain spearing through him. They reminded him of Sherlock’s touch. His cock was starting to swell again.
“Listen, John…” Lestrade moved around to kneel next to John. “Lord Mycroft and Lord Sherlock both, they’re powerful men. They’re used to getting what they want. I know you may find it difficult to obey, but I promise you, if you don’t submit, Lord Sherlock will find a way to break you.”
John laughed, then, and took no notice of the ripples of pain it set off, because what was he now, if not broken: wandering through a strange Lord’s house with no purpose, of no use to anyone. What more could Sherlock take away from him?
“Yes, well. Maybe you’ll be alright after all.” Lestrade stood and extended a hand down to John. “You had better get going. He can get impatient.”
--
On to Part Two
Title: In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, hints of other pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: present slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, non- and dub-con (plus uncouth justification of such), humiliation, unhealthy D/s dynamics, corporal punishment (including gratuitous use of a riding crop)
Notes: Written for s0mmerspr0ssen for holmestice Summer 2011. Thanks to blue_eyed_1987 for the Brit-pick and catchoo152 for making my sentences more gooderer. Hearts and flowers to my perpetual beta/cheerleader jaune_chat, who asked all the right questions and made all the appropriate noises of sympathy. Rainbows and puppies to the mods, who put up with my lack of time management skills.
Summary: As a new slave in the Holmes household, John is having trouble finding his place.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
John heard footsteps approaching from around the corner of the long hallway and immediately took up the prescribed position: back against the wall, head bowed, ready to serve. He was exempted from the usual procedure of leaving his hands open at his sides. Instead, he folded both hands over the handle of the cane in front of him. He stared at the floor, waiting and prickling at the vulnerability of not being able to watch for danger. Years in Afghanistan in the service of one of her majesty’s feudal regiments had given him the habit of analyzing every passerby, no matter how innocuous seeming, as a potential enemy.
As the footsteps approached, John let his eyes flick up long enough to see that the man had no collar. So fine. John had to stay put. The free man gave John no more notice than he did the flower arrangements on the windowsills. Once he’d passed, John let himself look more boldly. He’d been trying to acquaint himself with the regular visitors to Lord Mycroft’s household, but here was one he’d not seen before: a tall man with a dark, curly fall of hair, fingers flying over his mobile as he stalked down the hallway.
John shook his head and felt his collar shift against his throat. Of course the real mark of his status was the ID chip embedded in the base of his spine, but John had found the old-fashioned collar, a plain black affair with a small silver tag marking him as a member of Lord Mycroft’s stock, more difficult to endure. Perhaps because, doctor or no, he could never hope to remove the chip, while the simple leather collar could be taken off, if he dared. If he hadn’t been wearing it, John wondered if the man he’d just passed would even have known he was a slave.
He pried his shaking hand off the cane and shoved it into his trouser pocket. He mustn’t think such things. The strength and security of the Empire depended on everyone knowing his place. John would simply have to learn; he was no longer a citizen. Dwelling on the circumstances of his enslavement only made him feel exhausted, and so he tried instead to think about healthy things: duty, the preservation of honour, three square meals a day and a roof over his head. Though he was a slave, he should consider himself lucky to have his contract purchased by the very Lord of the regiment in which he’d served. Should. Somehow, he couldn’t muster the appropriate gratitude.
Certain, now, that the man was gone, John resumed his journey across the house to the slave barracks, where he now belonged.
--
John touched his fingers lightly to one of the welts on the slave’s back, but drew them away when she hissed in pain. “Sorry,” he told her gently. Several of the lines seeped blood sluggishly, and one long wound across the girl’s shoulder cut deeper than the rest. It might need stitches.
To Lestrade, who was watching the examination with concern, he said, “Even with the best I can do, she’ll be days healing enough to work again.” John leaned in a fraction closer and lowered his voice. “May I ask… The lads in the regiment always said Lord Mycroft wasn’t one to punish his slaves this way.”
Lestrade shook his head. “Not Lord Mycroft. And not punishment either, if you take the perpetrator at his word.”
“Not His Lordship?” John frowned. Now that he was a member of Lord Mycroft’s household, he had a vested interest in his authority. Luckily for the Empire, his Lord cultivated authority like a garden of the most orderly kind. If someone in the household flouted the Lord’s wishes by treating household slaves this way, perhaps that authority was not so secure as John had been led to believe. “No one would have the gall to lay a hand on his property.”
“Someone would.”
“Not-No. His brother?” He lowered his voice again. “The mad one?”
Lestrade nodded, and John noticed for the first time that he looked drawn and haggard as he hadn’t when they’d been introduced some days ago. “Home from his duties abroad.”
“What duties?” John had seldom heard friends in the regiment gossiping about their Lord’s family, but on the few occasions he had, Lord Mycroft’s eccentric brother had been a common theme. He knew only that the man allegedly performed some special function for the Empire, which John privately thought might be a euphemism for being a useless git.
“No one ever says.” Lestrade shook his head. “Anyway, you needn’t worry. You’re a valuable slave, Dr. Watson. His Lordship appreciates valuable things.” He sounded almost fond. “Plus you won’t exactly have the same duties as Molly here.”
“It hardly hurts at all,” the girl piped up. “He only needed to see what kind of bruises would form from the riding crop."
“Is that what did this?” John asked.
“He’s a genius, is Lord Sherlock,” the girl said. “Done great service to the Empire. I heard the office slaves whispering about it. He’s been looking for- “
“Hush, Molly.” Lestrade laid a hand on her arm, where he wouldn’t hurt her. “Let the doctor fix you up.”
Before John could ask what service, exactly, Lord Sherlock performed for the empire, a young woman appeared at the door, her eyes fixed on a cell phone. She wore a thin collar with a graceful bronze clasp at the front: clearly something custom-made for a valued slave. “Lord Mycroft wants a word with the doctor.”
“Now?” John asked. “I was only starting-“
“Yeah,” said the girl, and disappeared back into the hall without once looking at him.
“What about Molly?” John asked.
Lestrade shook his head. “A slave’s time is not his own, doctor. You’ll get used to it.”
“I’ve told you, I’ll be fine,” Molly said.
John hesitated. “It’ll only take a moment to stitch this.”
“John, no.” Lestrade looked scandalized. “Never keep the masters waiting.”
“Right.” John pushed himself to his feet reluctantly, and Lestrade followed.
“I know it’s difficult.” Lestrade ducked his head, and John’s attention drifted to the thick leather collar around his neck: black leather traced in silver, adorned with a filigreed silver crest of the Holmes family. John didn’t know enough about collar etiquette to determine if the seal merely designated Lestrade’s status as a head slave, or if it symbolized some deeper connection with their mater. “I was born free, like you. But Lord Mycroft is a fair master. A good man. He’s always shown me kindness, even when- ” Lestrade stopped himself, then said, “Well, you could have done much worse, especially right out of the army.”
“Yes, alright.” John pulled his arm away. No matter how earnest Lestrade seemed, John couldn’t take his words at face value. With the images of Molly’s injuries fresh in his mind, he certainly didn’t feel fortunate to be in this house: not with Lord Mycroft’s mad brother running loose. “I’ll come back and help as soon as I can.”
“Maybe.” Lestrade returned to his seat by Molly’s bedside. “Remember what I said, John. Your first duty is to our masters.”
--
The woman, who never once looked up from her mobile, ushered John into the library. At a writing desk sat a serious-looking man John had only seen in press photographs: Lord Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful of London’s feudal Lords and, it was rumoured, a close confidant of the Empress herself.
“Thank you, Anthea” said Lord Mycroft. "Dr. Watson, have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
John looked around for a place to sit. All the furniture looked very grand, very old, and very, very expensive. He decided on a wooden, straight-backed chair near the wall and sat quietly, watching Lord Mycroft mark up some official-looking document. The sitting didn’t bother his leg, but his left hand had begun to tremble ever so slightly. John shifted his cane to his right hand and jammed his left hand in his pocket.
Mycroft pushed his chair out from his desk, stood, and turned around with a pleasant, almost kind smile. “Well. Doctor Watson. You’ve been keeping busy already.”
“Busy, sir?” He remembered, belatedly, that he should stand when his master did, and pushed himself up.
Mycroft nodded an acknowledgement. “Anthea said she found you in the quarters of our personal slaves, doing some mending.”
“Yes, sir.” John tried to figure out how such a thing would have been reported, and then wondered if that was what Anthea had been typing on her mobile. “I’m afraid it’s an old habit. Keeping busy, I mean. In the regiment, we weren’t often idle.”
“No, I should think not. I’m sure you understand that expectations for a slave are quite different.” Mycroft walked a slow half-circle around John, looking him up and down as if to catalogue his appearance. “A slave is a tool, John. A tool stands ready for its owners use at all times.”
After the initial spike of resentment had faded, John made himself consider what that might mean. He hazarded a guess. “You don’t want me treating other slaves, sir?”
“What’s interesting,” Mycroft said from directly behind him, “is that you want to treat your fellow slaves.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’ll learn, John. You’re a slave first.” Mycroft must have noticed some minute change in John’s expression, despite his efforts not to react. “Now, now, don’t fret. If you serve me well, I’ll allow you to continue your little hobby of practising your art with the other slaves in my care. In the meantime, though, you’ll need to fulfil the function for which you were acquired.”
“And what function is that, sir?”John asked. He’d been genuinely curious what such a man would want with him ever since he’d heard that Lord Mycroft had purchased his contract. “I trust you have access to the best… free physicians in the empire.”
“Yes I do.” Mycroft leaned back against his desk and pulled to hand an umbrella that had been leaning against the far side. “Those who handle my slave acquisitions seek out oddities. Slaves with unusual skill sets or bizarre histories.”
“Like an invalid army doctor?”
“Precisely.”
“Sorry, sir,” John said. He knew, even without being an expert in slave etiquette, that he shouldn’t be questioning his master, but Lord Mycroft had called him here to talk, after all. “But why?”
“There’s a position in my household that I’ve been unable to fill for some time.”
“What position is that, sir?”
Mycroft twirled his umbrella and smiled. “I have high hopes for you, Doctor Watson. You only need to continue your duties as you have been, and your suitability for the position will become evident.”
John didn’t enjoy the feeling of being tested on some unknown quality. Since entering the gates of the Holmes estate a week ago, every new experience had seemed to throw him off balance. It was worse than learning to walk with a cane, this constant feeling of uncertainty. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
“Another thing to which you’ll need become accustomed in this house. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”
John knew a dismissal when he heard one. He turned to leave the way he’d come in, and he continued to feel Lord Mycroft’s eyes on him even after he’d closed the door behind him.
--
John abhorred idleness. When he’d lain in bed for weeks at the Imperial Regiment’s convalescent facility, the unwanted leisure had proved worse than the pain. He could think of the pain as an obstacle to overcome, another challenge to face. The long hours alone with his thoughts had proved excruciating: filled with doubts about his decisions and a rising dread of his future as a slave. So far, his tenure in the Holmes household had not been much better.
When he’d arrived, the housekeeper, a kindly-looking woman called Mrs. Hudson, had helped him to settle in a private room in the slave quarters. “When Lord Mycroft thinks you’re ready, you’ll be assigned duties, and not before, mind,” she’d told him.
So John sat in his room, or wandered the grounds, or half-heartedly flipped through the volumes on slave regulations that had been provided for him. Attempts to get involved in the business of the household- with the running of the household infirmary, the groundskeeping, or even the kitchen work- had met with polite but firm rebuffs. Lestrade was the only head slave who’d showed any inclination to let John do something.
When the bell in the courtyard rang for evening muster, all the household slaves would assemble with their various heads to receive orders for the evening, and to address any problems that had arisen during the day. Usually John spent that time as he did the rest of his days: silently going mad in his little box of a room, empty of anything that mattered. Tonight, with Lord Mycroft’s words echoing in his ears, he couldn’t make himself stay there.
As the bell rang out its summons, John grabbed his cane and set off at his fastest pace down the corridor. The assembly room for the personal slaves, over whom Lestrade had charge, was on the third level, quite near the servant’s entrance to the family wing. John presumed it was so situated in order to give the masters easy access to personal slaves at all times. Access which, John reminded himself, resulted in situations like Molly’s.
John strode through the doors to the assembly room as if he belonged. Everyone in the room-more than a dozen men and women all told-jumped to their feet. Lestrade, who had been standing in the centre of the room, turned quickly. His look of concern faded when he recognized John.
“Uh…Hello,” John said.
“Are you lost?” Lestrade asked. Several of the other slaves sat back down on the low couches and chairs artfully arranged around the space. Now that they’d recognized John for an equal, they watched him with undisguised curiosity.
“Came to check on my patient,” John said.
Molly unfolded herself from a settee at the far end of the room that she was sharing with a skinny man in a thin shirt, and waved to him. “I’m really all right,” she said.
“She’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “I’ve put her on light duty for the next three days.”
“I assume you don’t want the marks to scar,” John said. True, there was little danger of that, and John hated to use his medical knowledge to manipulate anyone, but he had very few pieces of leverage in this house. Besides, he knew the importance physical appearance held for personal slaves.
“No,” Lestrade said grudgingly. “Well. Come in and wait until we’ve adjourned, then you can have a look at her.”
“Thank you,” John said politely. He walked across the length of the room to the comfy-looking armchair next to Molly, and managed to sit without his leg collapsing under him.
“Well,” Lestrade said. “As I was saying, the Chinese ambassador has decided to stay another night, and we expect him to come up and make a selection around eight. You’ll all be expected to assemble for that, if you’re not already occupied for the evening.”
“Sir?” a long-legged woman laying on one of the chaise lounges piped up. “What happens if he asks for another one? Shouldn’t he get assigned a permanent, if he’s going to be staying?”
“Any Lord of this house can choose as he wishes, Sally. If he decides to select a long-term personal slave, he’s welcome to do so. Are you volunteering?”
“No, sir,” Sally said, and seemed to shrink back into her couch a little.
“Alright. In the meantime, anyone who’s asked will continue to serve with respect and according to all the rules of the household. Understood?”
“Yes, Lestrade,” the room chorused.
“Alright. I have the primer here on the diplomatic party from the Brazilian Empire that we’ll be entertaining next week. I’ll expect you all to be proficient on the preferences they express. If you have any questions about-“
The door burst open, and John was treated to a replay of the startled flurry of movement that his entrance had precipitated. It took Molly nudging his shoulder to remind him to stand with the rest of the slaves as a tall man with unruly black hair charged into the room, brandishing a mobile in one hand.
“Lestrade, I have need of a slave for the evening.” He glanced up only briefly at the head slave before returning his attention to his mobile. “Have one prepared and sent to my chamber.”
“Lord Sherlock.” Lestrade bowed slightly from the waist, and John wanted to commend him on how calmly he accepted such superciliously-delivered orders. “Do you have any specifications?”
“It doesn’t matter. Wait.” Lord Sherlock looked up from his mobile, scanned the room slowly, and finally pointed. At John. “That one.”
“Sir…” Lestrade took a halting step forward, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. John could sympathize.
“What?” Lord Sherlock had gone back to his mobile, and only looked up again when the silence stretched to an uncomfortable degree. “Spit it out, man.”
“He’s not a personal slave, sir,” Lestrade said at last. “He hasn’t been trained.”
Lord Sherlock turned to John. “All the same, you are a slave.”
John still wasn’t certain what Mycroft intended for him, but he felt certain it hadn’t been this. At his age, with his injuries, he’d never meet the standards to become a personal slave. He hadn’t thought anyone would want him that way. “Yes,” he said, though it wasn’t all the same to him, not at all. “Sir.”
“I see.” Sherlock returned his attention to his mobile and waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll take Molly again.”
“Sir, she’s still recovering from her injuries,” Lestrade said.
“Obviously. Don’t be tedious, Lestrade. I don’t understand how my brother endures it.” He glanced up from his mobile again, and this time his sharp eyes held a hint of menace. “If you’re so determined to prevent me from bothering any of your charges, do you suggest I simply go without subjects for my work?”
“No, sir,” Lestrade said quickly.
“Well I don’t think Mycroft would take kindly to your servicing me personally.”
“I expect not, sir,” Lestrade said. He’d gone very still, but betrayed no other reaction.
“Then which of the household’s slaves should I be allowed to enjoy, Lestrade? How am I to work when you block my experiments at every turn?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I- ”
“Is it my brother’s interference?” Sherlock took a quick step toward Lestrade, who stood his ground with admirable aplomb. “Has Mycroft given you orders to stall me? That’d be just like him, cutting off his nose to spite his face.”
“No, sir.”
“So you’re not following orders, but rather have decided that you prefer your own opinions to those of your masters?”
Now Lestrade's expression had gone tense and closed, but to his credit, he did not back away, but merely inclined his head in deference. “I wouldn’t presume, sir.”
Sherlock moved toward him, sweeping further into the room with an air of authority he wore like a coat. “You’re still an idiot, Lestrade.” He waved a hand around the room. “As they all are. Now. Who would you like to assign to me for the evening?”
Lestrade’s eyes darted quickly around the room. The other slaves looked away or ducked their heads as if to play least-in-sight. Molly made a barely-audible mewling noise in her throat.
John’s left hand was perfectly steady as he stepped forward with the aid of his cane. “If I’m your selection, sir, I’ll go.”
Lord Sherlock cocked his head at an odd angle as he regarded John. “You’re new to the household.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re not meant to be a personal slave. Not in that condition.”
“No, sir,” John said through gritted teeth. He shouldn’t care what a so-called master thought of him, but something about Lord Sherlock made John want to impress him.
Sherlock shook his head. “You’ll not do. I’ll take that one.” He pointed to the young man who’d been sitting on the settee next to Molly. “There.”
The young man nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to bow before Sherlock. John shoved down the strange twinge of disappointment that twisted through him.
“Jim, go get ready,” Lestrade told the young man. To Lord Sherlock, he said, “He’ll be in your room in twenty minutes, sir.”
Sherlock slipped his mobile into his pocket and looked at John again. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s a simple enough question.”
John glanced over at Lestrade, whose look of puzzlement equalled his own. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you--?”
Sherlock spoke right over him. “What are your duties here?”
“I don’t…” John couldn’t quite figure out how to explain that he had no duties. For some reason, he especially hated the idea of giving this man the impression he was useless. “I’ve only just arrived, sir.”
“Yes, clearly. I don’t ask for information I can assess for myself, so kindly confine your answers to my actual questions. Your name?”
“John Watson,” he said automatically. Then, “John, sir.” Slaves had no need of last names.
“An Army doctor. Well, my brother’s collectors must be well pleased with themselves.” His smirk reminded John of a predatory cat he’d once seen in the hills of Afghanistan, whose eyes had glinted hard and black in the moonlight. He hadn’t said he was a doctor, nor that he’d been in the Imperial Army. Sherlock was waving his hand again, beckoning. “Molly. I need to see the progress of this afternoon’s session.”
“Yes, sir.” Molly came closer to Sherlock, stripped off the loose top she was wearing, and presented her bare back for his inspection.
Sherlock ran a finger across her skin, parallel to one of the more painful-looking welts. He drew his hand to his face and inhaled. “These have been treated,” he said sharply.
Molly’s whole body seemed to draw into itself as she flinched. From across the room, Lestrade took a step forward, but said nothing. Sherlock whirled to face John. “I suppose I have you to thank for this, doctor.”
“Yes, sir.” John imagined, judging by the downturned eyes across the room, that a good slave would be bowing and scraping right about now. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but meet Sherlock’s glare. “She needed treatment.”
“And I need to see bruise patterns. In your medical opinion, doctor, would your course of treatment, whatever it was, affect such a thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you, doctor, have ruined my afternoon’s experiment.”
“Experiment?” John’s hand gripped his cane tightly even as he tried to hold on to his temper. “The wounds could have become infected. I was merely trying to prevent-“
“He’s sorry.” Lestrade appeared at John’s side. “I shouldn’t have let him interfere, Lord Sherlock. I apologize, sir.”
Sherlock looked at Lestrade a long moment before saying, “The fault’s not yours, Lestrade." His eyes slid past John quickly, then away. "Molly, run to my chambers and fetch the riding crop. You know where I left it.”
Molly nodded her head once, quickly, then slipped her shirt back on and dashed out of the room.
Sherlock returned his attention to John. “You’ve seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”
John wondered, briefly, if Sherlock might kill him. Considering the stories he’d heard, the possibility wasn’t out of the question. “Yes, sir.”
“What did you think of my work?”
John’s brow furrowed in distaste, and he saw Sherlock’s eager inquiry turn quickly to irritation. John said, “I’d say it was careless work.”
Beside him, Lestrade gave a warning hiss, but John ignored him.
“Careless,” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t presume too much. You haven’t enough information to work with.”
“I’ve seen enough of your handiwork.”
“Have you? Perhaps you’d like an additional demonstration. You did volunteer yourself for the assignment just a moment ago. Are you afraid?”
“No, sir.” John said. He didn’t fear pain, not after having it as a constant companion for so long. In fact, anything would be better than the numb monotony of his life in the house thus far. And furthermore, his pride wouldn’t let him back away now, not with Lord Sherlock acting every inch the master. Something in John rebelled at even the idea of surrender to such authority.
“Fine.” Sherlock had drawn himself up taller and managed to look more aloof than ever. He pointed to the floor at his feet. “Kneel.”
John searched the room for a hint as to whether or not Sherlock was serious, but no one would meet his eyes except Sherlock, who tracked his every move. “Here?” he asked.
Sherlock simply pointed again.
John swallowed once, and forced himself to concentrate on his breathing as he let himself down, first his bad leg, then his good one, to kneel before Sherlock.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s fingertips brushed the crown of John’s head. “Remove your shirt.”
John set his cane on the floor beside him. He tugged at the buttons on his shirt. He’d expected the task to be difficult, but his hands remained perfectly steady.
“Slowly,” Sherlock said.
John made himself undo one button at a time. He tried not to feel the eyes of the other slaves watching him, or the presence of Lestrade at his back, but he couldn’t forget them, even in their silence.
“Up.”
John pushed himself to his feet, with an effort. Sherlock circled him tightly, looking him up and down. He paused behind John, and pressed his fingers against the knot of scar tissue on John’s shoulder. “An imperfect canvas,” Sherlock muttered. “Unfit for personal service, by any measure.”
“Sir,” Lestrade said quietly. “I’m sure one of us would be-“
“Sit down, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “And the rest of you. I want you to watch.”
Lestrade backed away, out of John’s line of sight, and that left only Sherlock, who he could still sense moving behind him.
“Now, John. Go face the column in the centre of the room.”
John moved. He wouldn’t let Sherlock break him. Following orders, even under the eyes of a roomful of other slaves, didn’t feel much like surrender. He’d chosen this, after all. He could have kept his mouth shut when Sherlock had complained about his treating Molly’s wounds. He could have stayed in his room tonight. Instead, he’d gone out courting danger, and it had found him. At least by obeying this way he could spare another slave similar treatment. Surely that was a sacrifice worth making.
“Trousers off,” Sherlock said. “Pants as well.”
John stared at the smooth surface of the marble column before him. He thought, for a moment, of refusing. Then Sherlock’s words rolled back to him: imperfect, unfit. Days of idleness in the house echoed the sentiment. John tugged open his flies, pushed down his clothes, and kicked them away.
The door to the room swung open, but John kept his eyes trained on the white marble before him.
“Here, Lord Sherlock.” Molly, returning with the crop.
“Good.” Sherlock stepped up close; John could feel the heat of him on his bare skin. “Put your hands on the column, at shoulder height. Yes, just so. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise.”
The first blow cracked in the silence of the room and rolled through John like a thunderclap. His hands stayed firmly planted on the stone. The second blow hit at the shoulder, just below the scar. He gulped in a breath as a new degree of pain sizzled along his nervous system. After that, his world narrowed considerably: he knew only that the crop kept impacting his body-there, on his left shoulder blade--there, curling around his right side-- there, just above the curve of his ass. John felt the same giddy rush as he had facing a hail of enemy bullets, but this time knowing he could take the impact, that what Sherlock did to him would not kill him, but in fact made his body sing and scream in defiant agony.
“This is more stimulation than you’ve had in weeks, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice, low and rough, sunk into his consciousness past the cocoon of pain.
John gulped in air, and didn’t answer.
“You’re useless here. Purposeless. You find pleasure in sacrificing yourself this way.” Sherlock pressed his whole body up against John’s back. John gritted his teeth at the pressure against the raw skin. He could feel the hard ridge of Sherlock’s cock pressing against him through layers of fabric as Sherlock whispered in his ear. “There’s always been a little voice inside you leading you into danger, and here you are again, chasing after it. Baiting me.”
Sherlock slid a hand down John’s belly and cupped his hand over John’s growing erection. John’s hips pushed forward of their own volition, until he regained his senses and pulled back. He hadn’t even known he was hard. His hands flexed against the cold stone, steady as anything.
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, little more than an exhale against John’s neck.
Then he pulled away, leaving John cold.
“Forget about that other one, Lestrade. I’ll take John for the night. Clean him up and have him brought to my room,” Sherlock called. “I need to see the progress of those bruises in twenty minutes.” He turned and put his hand on John’s shoulder-the injured one. “You can let go now.” He swept out of the room as imperiously as he’d arrived.
John trailed his hands down the column and let himself sink to the floor.
--
John thought his consciousness might have floated somewhere out beyond the confines of his body, connected to flesh only by a thin tether of pain. He barely heard Lestrade muttering to him as the man blotted blood off of John’s back. The touch felt far away compared to the memory of Sherlock’s weight pressed against him, Sherlock’s breath ghosting on his skin, Sherlock’s voice rumbling in his ear.
“Are you listening to me?”
Fingers dug into John’s arm, and he turned his head to see Lestrade frowning down at him.
“Sorry, what?”
“We don’t have much time. Focus, please.”
John nodded jerkily, because he felt fairly certain Lestrade was trying to help him somehow. He pushed himself up on the sofa where he lay.
“You need to do everything he says, do you understand? Do not argue with him. Christ, do you even know how to…?” Lestrade shook his head. “Of course, you’re a doctor. You at least know the basics. Just… Don’t defy him. I don’t think he’d do you permanent damage, but I’d rather not find out, alright?”
“It would have been someone else, if it hadn’t been me,” John muttered.
Lestrade’s hand stilled on his back, then he resumed his ministrations. “Yes, well. It might have been someone who knows the rules and has been trained for this sort of thing.”
“Lord Sherlock doesn’t seem one much for the rules,” John said. A chuckle rolled out of him. The shaking jarred his back, sending fresh bolts of pain spearing through him. They reminded him of Sherlock’s touch. His cock was starting to swell again.
“Listen, John…” Lestrade moved around to kneel next to John. “Lord Mycroft and Lord Sherlock both, they’re powerful men. They’re used to getting what they want. I know you may find it difficult to obey, but I promise you, if you don’t submit, Lord Sherlock will find a way to break you.”
John laughed, then, and took no notice of the ripples of pain it set off, because what was he now, if not broken: wandering through a strange Lord’s house with no purpose, of no use to anyone. What more could Sherlock take away from him?
“Yes, well. Maybe you’ll be alright after all.” Lestrade stood and extended a hand down to John. “You had better get going. He can get impatient.”
--
On to Part Two