Collared Chapter 11/11
Title: Collared
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: This chapter R, (whole fic NC-17)
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 10,000/83,000
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10
Chapter 11
If there was any mercy to the situation, it was that that the guests really weren’t all that imaginative. They watched avidly as John attempted to imitate various animals. Chicken was expected. Horse was more awkward, because John’s leg decided to stiffen up and he ended up scuttling about the tile like a neighing crab. After that came a request that he be a cat. John raised a brow perplexed when meowing failed to satisfy the the woman. It turned out she really wanted to see John be petted, but since no one was allowed to touch him that job could only fall to Sherlock and he flat out refused to join John in his humiliation. The guest settled for sitting John by Sherlock’s feet and having him licking his own hand. That elicited only a few half-hearted guffaws and John sensed audience begin to drift away in boredom.
It was all very stupid, but not painful. If this was all they demanded of him, he knew he was getting off easy. Sherlock seemed to think so as well, because, when he wasn’t stifling yawns, he wore a small, disdainful smile.
The animal game ended when an elderly dame unwisely asked John to imitate a monkey. With glee, John grabbed the first non-breakable thing within reach (a canape off her plate) and flung it in her face while “ooking” and scratching his armpit. The stunned look on the slaveowner’s face as the cracker briefly stuck to her cheek was priceless. Even better was the her outraged expression when the room positively erupted in laughter.
Even Sherlock laughed and then absolutely refused to punish John for his insolence. “It seemed an accurate representation of monkey behaviour to me,” he said dryly.
She stomped off as quickly as her thick heel pumps would take her.
Those left had unfortunately been inspired by John’s food throwing and started up a new game. This time, John was required to balance various hors d’oeuvres on his face on threat of being told “heel” if they fell off. This was a much more torturous game, and not just because of the collar shock waiting when he inevitably failed his task. It was ticklish, crumbs and fluids threatened his eyes, and inevitably his bad leg started to ache with a vengeance. He ended up standing wearily by Sherlock’s side with a pitted martini olive split half-way open and shoved over the tip of his nose. Keeping the thing from rolling off required him to cant his head back so far that he could only stare at the ceiling.
Thankfully audience seemed to have a short attention span as well as a lack of imagination. They rapidly became bored of just watching John do nothing, olive or no. Though John couldn’t see any of it, the chuckles quickly died out and then there was nothing but the general din of conversation, broken only by noise of glasses clinking and footsteps on the polished marble.
When, at last, the olive gave up it’s grip and rolled off his cheek to the ground, there was no one left to appreciate it. Sherlock neglected to punish him. Or even notice. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd, fingers at his lips, a pensive look on his face.
John sighed with relief, nudging the olive behind Sherlock’s seat with his shoe. He wiped his face as discretely as he could with his hands. Then wondered if he risked stealing a sip from a tumbler abandoned on a nearby ledge.
Sherlock’s voice startled him. “See the man next to Mycroft?”
John immediately stood at attention and looked where Sherlock indicated. “Yes, sir.”
Some thirty feet away across the sparsely populated ballroom, Mycroft appeared to be engaged in a heated conversation with a tall, lean man. Or to be more accurate, the man seemed to be heated, Mycroft was his usual unflappable self.
“You met him earlier this evening,” said Sherlock softly. “Remember Mr. Jones? Angry about the debt default legislation not passing? To think I ever questioned his guilt. Just looking at his clothes, his mannerisms, the involvement is obvious. Interesting choice, his being here, though. I would think he’d wish to lay low and not attract so much attention to himself. But then desperation often does cause one to act rashly.”
Across the room, Mycroft’s smarmy expression seemed to set off the man even more and now his voice carried across the room. Though John couldn’t make out the words, the tone of outrage was unmistakable. John couldn’t help but to feel sympathetic. He’d felt similarly upset when faced with the brunt of Mycroft’s smugness. Around the room, the general conversation level seemed to die down as people looked to see what the commotion was.
“Temporary slavery?” Mycroft’s voice carried across the now eerily quiet room.
“Yes!” shouted Jones. He almost reached out to grab Mycroft’s hands, but then, at the glare, thought better of it. “We take these young people with too much debt - in return for paying off their bills, we allow them to sell themselves, voluntarily, for one, three, five years. The Crown, of course, takes a cut. The temporary slaves emerge from their contract, not only debt free, but with a new appreciation for hard work and perhaps even a new skill set they can use to find employment. Factory owners such as myself have a constant supply of young workers. The creditors get paid. Everybody wins.”
“Temporarily,” said Mycroft. “Perhaps.”
Encouraged, Jones went on. “We can even extend the option of voluntary slavery to those not in debt! Young, strong workers can give five years of their lives and receive at the end a generous lump payment, more than they could possibly save themselves. They can use this payment to invest in businesses of their own, or to buy a house, or a nest egg for their eventual retirement!”
“Or perhaps you could simply pay your workers a liveable wage and improve your work conditions to such a point that freemen would actually deign to work at your factories.” Mycroft’s voice cut painfully across the room. “I frankly think you vastly overestimate the stupidity of freemen, when you think that they’d voluntarily give up their personhood to work in one of those death-traps you call factories.”
John felt the warmth of solidarity with Mycroft in that moment, which surprised and disconcerted him. He didn’t want to agree with Mycroft on anything.
Around the room, there were some embarrassed titters at Jones’ humiliation, then, as if on cue, conversation rose up and blocked the rest of the argument. John could clearly see that it had gone on, but he couldn’t read lips. From the expressions on the guest’s faces, there wasn’t much doubt that the jackals were feasting on this new bit of gossip. Horrid people.
“You said guilt?” murmured John, picking up the old conversation. “What is Mr. Jones guilty of?”
“Apples, John. Nuts.”
The sight and smell of a filth covered plane came vividly back to John. He remembered the stacks of yellow invoices. 34 lb., 19 lb.. A man’s body splayed across an office floor, his head viciously bashed in. John suddenly had no sympathy at all for Mr. Jones. He deserved every titter and malicious glance thrown his way.
“Why isn’t he in jail?” John asked disgustedly.
“Lack of evidence,” Sherlock moaned. “Apparently my deduction of the involvement of a metalworks factory was deemed too circumstantial for the MET. Whatever. There are almost three dozen Washington freemen unaccounted for. It’s now obvious where they went. I’ve sent Lestrade a text. There should be a raid on Jones’ Wellington factory in the next few hours. This will not be a good night for him.”
Good, thought John.
“Be careful around him, John. He is a very desperate man and your involvement in unearthing and dismantling that slave ring was well documented in your blog.”
Mr. Jones seemed by chance to glance their way. His eyes met John’s and stuck. John felt a coldness ripple through his flesh. Mycroft took that moment to slip off to talk with the help behind the bar, ending the one sided argument by putting a row of wineglasses and liquor bottles between them. For a moment Jones looked confused at having lost his quarry. Then he straightened up and balled his fists and made his way across the ballroom floor to where John stood.
But when he arrived, Mr. Jones attention was not on John at all. He stared witheringly at Sherlock. “You think you are so clever, don’t you,” he snarled. “Putting on this dog and pony show with your brother. That collar. Using a known terrorist - if he even was that. I don’t entirely believe that this isn’t all complete fiction cobbled together by the two of you. But it won’t work. I’m on to your game.”
“What won’t work?” asked Sherlock, his innocent tone ringing false to John’s ears.
Mr. Jones stamped a foot, impatiently. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You are bloody Sherlock Holmes, the famous investigator. You should be good for something other than taking slaves out of the system.”
“Illegal slaves,” replied Sherlock.
“Needed slaves.”
“Yes, I heard your slaves were getting rather long in the tooth. Dropping like flies, aren’t they? Tragedy.”
“-And besides the point. The solution to this labor crisis is obvious. The only reason Mycroft isn’t forwarding it to the committee himself is that he has a much more sinister plan.” Jones’ lips drew down dramatically.
That got a smile out of Sherlock. He leaned forward. “Yes, I’m the first to agree, Mycroft is quite sinister.” He then sat up straight and laced his fingers under his chin. “Very well. I’m not in the habit of listening to conspiracy theories, well, at least not from anyone but paying clients. But do go ahead and tell me yours. This party is a painful bore and I could use a good laugh.”
Mr. Jones already flushed face turned darker. “This collar is nothing but a giant waste of everyone’s time. Mycroft thinks he can keep us distracted with the prospect of a perfect slave, while he slowly restricts the labor supply with his petty laws and his coddling of abolitionists.” Here he glanced at John. “If Mycroft has his way, me and most of the people here in this room out of business in a few years.”
“Why ever would he do that?” asked Sherlock.
“Power. He who controls the slaves, controls the economy of the entire British Empire. Mycroft has positioned himself like a spider in a web, spinning out a law here, neglecting abolitionists there, pushing us bit by bit to the point of economic collapse, when we are all live or die by his mercy.”
“Mycroft sounds positively despicable,” said Sherlock with a smile. “Do go on. I’m not sure how you can say he’s neglected the abolitionists, he took down John’s cell only a month ago.”
“I’m sure he knew about the Oregon Abolitionists long before he took that cell down. Who knows how long he’d have let the mayhem go on if Watson hadn’t threatened his precious internal collar.”
“Ah,” Sherlock turned to John. “Apparently Mycroft is a secret abolitionist, John. Doesn’t that make you feel warm towards him.”
John didn’t believe it for a second. He let his skepticism paint his expression.
“Anyway,” said Sherlock flippantly, “Do go on, I’m ever so entertained. Why on Earth is my evil older brother restricting the supply of slaves again? What’s he to gain from this? Fall of the Empire? Setting himself up as God maybe.”
“He wants to completely control the supply of slaves,” said Jones, exasperated. “Soon the only way we will get the slaves we need is though him. He’ll blackmail the lot of us into supporting his agenda. Anyone who opposes his will will face economic ruin. He’ll be our de facto ruler.”
“Oh, King Mycroft! Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock grinned. “Well, you certainly have it all figured out, don’t you. And here I thought Mycroft was just introducing a more effective and ethical slave training tool to all you slave holders, should you need or want it. But no, I see, you are right. He’s really taking over the world.” There was no mistaking his mocking tone.
Jones looked grimly prideful. “Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Holmes. Even you can’t deny that this collar is nothing a delaying tactic. I don’t care about this collar. I have no desire at all to fuck the help.”
Here he glared at John with utter disgust. I’ve no desire to fuck you either, John thought back.
Jones went on. “I need strong bodies that can work long hours on my machines - not happy drug addicts or whatever this collar is supposed to make them. They are slaves, for gods sake, not people. Criminals, parasites, indigent, who cares about their feelings. No, the existing collars are perfectly fine, and much, much less expensive. What we need is quantity, not quality, and this new collar does nothing to ease the drought of slaves.”
Jones thrust his finger out at Sherlock, who took one of his own fingers and pushed it away. “And what do you think ranting to me will do about it?”
Jones backed off a few feet, flustered, as if he wasn’t sure himself why he was telling Sherlock. “You strike me as being reasonable, Mr. Holmes, and now that you are a slaveowner yourself, you have a stake in this as well. You can talk to him. I think you have more influence on your brother than you think,” said Mr. Jones. “He listens to you. He worries about you. I dare say he’s even somewhat obsessed with you.”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “It’s terribly annoying.”
“Then convince him to abandon this ruinous path and listen to me for once. I have a solution to the problem, Sherlock. One that will turn this labor drought into a flood. One that will leave the Empire prosperous for another 300 years.”
Sherlock tapped his chin. “Yes, I heard. Temporary slavery, wasn’t it? Indentured servitude? Interesting notion.”
Jones looked briefly hopeful. “Exactly. You know it would work.”
John swallowed. He longed to join in the conversation and tell Jones just why it wouldn’t, but damn it, he couldn’t.
To John’s amazement, Sherlock shook his head. “Temporary slavery isn’t so temporary if the owner works the slave to death. With so little invested and a constant supply of new bodies, there’s no real incentive for you not to squeeze every last drop of profit out of your stock, even to the point of destroying their health. They become utterly expendable to you.”
Yes, thought John, gazing at Sherlock in amazement. I couldn’t have said that better.
“Of course, the supply of voluntary slaves would dry up quickly as these temporary slaves start dying, so you’d likely get no more than a small number of initial volunteers. Just enough, perhaps, to to float you, personally, towards solvency, but not really enough to bolster the economy as a whole.”
Mr. Jones turned white, but said nothing.
“But congratulations, Mr. Jones,” said Sherlock, with a vicious smile, “for being even more of a cold hearted bastard than my brother. Believe me, that is an achievement.”
Jones was absolutely stiff with rage. “You insult me.”
“Oh, don’t be so thin skinned.” Sherlock leaned forward and tsked. “If you want some sensible advice, forget trying to change Mycroft’s mind. Instead, I suggest you give up gambling. You are clearly rubbish at it.” At Mr. Jones gasp, he laughed. “Oh, don’t look shocked, you are obviously deeply in debt. Look at the state of your shoes! That suit. You haven’t had the funds to buy clothes in years. And where else would all the money go? Surely not to a mistress.”
John gaped. Who in their right mind would gamble themselves into debt? Jones of all people had to know the risk of defaulting. Or did he simply think that he was so rich that the rules wouldn’t apply to him?
“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it: you’re afraid,” Sherlock went on like a steam roller. “Afraid of losing your factories, afraid of losing your good name, afraid of being poor. You tried to gamble your way back to solvency but that only made matters worse. Then you tried cutting corners and diverted funds from your factory, but it just kept snowballing. Your slaves, unable to keep up with the harsher work load and ever worsening diet and conditions, started to die, and not just from old age, though that’s what you’d like to believe. It’s reached the tipping point now, you’ve become late on filling orders. Your reputation as a company has become tarnished as unreliable. But even if slaves were widely available to solve your labor crunch, you still don’t have the funds to buy them - not full price at least.”
“What are you talking about?” said Jones. “Be quiet!”
“So you resorted to illegal slavery - oh yes, I know about that. It worked for a while, your production jumped quite nicely in the last two months. But then John and I shut down your supplier and now you are back in the same muddle. And now you are here, begging me, of all people, to help you, when really you ought to be more worried that I’ll call the police.”
Jones grew paler and paler as Sherlock spoke.
“Perhaps you should take yourself on as a temporary slave, hmm?” Sherlock said.
John smiled at that.
Jones eyes grew larger. He fisted his hands for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and stalked angrily away. John watched in satisfaction as he strode across the room throwing out angry looks at anyone who dared approach him. There was a nervous tittering in his wake.
“John,” said Sherlock, after a minute. “My mouth is dry. Please, go fetch one of the glasses of wine from the bar. The red, please.”
John did a double take. “Sir? You want me to leave you?”
Sherlock glared. “Don’t make me punish you, John. People are still watching.”
“I -“ John took a hesitant step forward. Though it was only across the short width of the room, the bar looked a very long way away, and there were clusters of people moving about between him and it.
“Come now, you are braver than this,” said Sherlock. “Remember, you only obey me. Not them. It’s perfectly safe. They have been told not to touch you.”
Yes, but do they remember that, thought John. It seemed to him that they forgot that rule when it was convenient. There was no help for it though. He walked carefully across the ballroom as if it were a minefield. Thankfully, the room was largely empty and that he could skirt the clumps of slaveowners without much trouble. A few turned to look at him as he passed, but none attempted to talk or touch him. He reached the bar unmolested.
There were rows of white and red wine in identical glasses set up in rows on one end of the bar. The bartender was busy at the other end making a mixed drink for one of the guests.
John did a double take. The bartender was Anthea! She wearing a black dress and sporting a slave collar around her neck. But she’s not a slave. John glanced around and recognised one of the other “slaves” carrying a load of canapes as one of the trio who’d brought his clothes that afternoon. His eyes then went from one “slave” to the next. Some were quite familiar, some less so. They were all Imperial Guard, not slaves at all. John was perhaps the only slave in the place.
John resisted the urge to touch his own fake collar. He reached out and grabbed a glass of merlot almost absently, wondering if the party goers realised that the “slaves” serving them were probably spying on their conversations. There seemed to be one near by to every group, hanging back with their trays of food. Idiots, John thought, they are so used to treating slaves as furniture that they’ve forgotten that we are people, with eyes and ears and brains.
John was so thoroughly distracted as he stepped away from the bar that he nearly walked into Mr. Jones. John jumped and gasped, stopping abruptly to keep from ploughing right into him.
The man grabbed the top of John’s glass to prevent himself from being splashed. He said nothing, but his face had blanched so badly he looked like he’d seen a ghost or become terribly ill. John worried for a moment that he might vomit on him.
“I’m sorry,” John said, tugging slightly at the glass, but Jones’ grip was firm, preventing him from moving on. He continued to stare down John as if appraising him. John saw a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. “Please, sir, I’ve got to go.”
“What do you get out of this farce, Watson?” Jones asked at last. “You can’t tell me that you enjoy being a slave. I don’t believe it. You are far too proud. Is that collar really so addictive that you enjoy working for him now? Or are they holding something more over your head to insure your cooperation?”
“Sir, please let go of the glass,” said John more firmly.
Reluctantly, Mr. Jones lifted his hand away and wiped it on a handkerchief. “I don’t buy for a moment that you’ve been reformed. Neither will anyone else.”
John shrugged and headed back towards Sherlock, who was waving his hand in an impatient beaconing motion. John quickly crossed back to him. He’d doubtless seen John talking to Mr. Jones, and from the expression Sherlock didn’t like that a bit.
“Give that to me,” snapped Sherlock as he came within reach. “I told you not to talk to strangers.” He looked over Johns shoulder. And John turned and saw that Jones was hovering a few feet away, as if gathering courage to approach Sherlock again.
“John,” said Sherlock. “The wine.”
Belatedly, John handed him the glass and felt the wave of happiness from the collar. As he pulled his hand away he noticed little fine white powder on the back of his finger knuckles. Funny, the glass hadn’t seemed dusty. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering if the plaster might be drifting down from all the stomping about going on upstairs. Then it hit him what the powder was.
“No!” he screamed. “Stop, Sherlock, stop!”
But the wine glass was already at Sherlock’s mouth. He’d lifted it up to take a large swallow.
Oh god no, god no!
Without thinking John grabbed the glass, spilling its contents all over Sherlock’s expensive tuxedo. He couldn’t help but see the wine dripping from Sherlock’s chin or the way Sherlock’s eyes had suddenly widened with shock. Somewhere near him there was a woman cried out.
“Spit it out!” begged John. “Don’t drink! It’s poison! It’s poison!”
Sherlock simply brought his hand up to his chest and coughed. A look of terror crossed his face.
Oh no, oh no! He turned to see see the smugly satisfied look on Jones’ face. In that moment Jones embodied everything that John hated. A slaveowner who thinks nothing of the lives of anyone but himself, whose ideas were to put more and more innocents under a cruel collar and grind them down under unrelenting work until they died.
He couldn’t be allowed to live.
John was already doomed (and Harry too - oh god - Mycroft would never forgive him for causing a fuss) but he could do one last good thing for the world. He could take this man, this monster, out of it.
In a single movement, John tapped the wineglass against the wall shattering half and leaving the rest a sharp spike. By now the room had gone silent with shock, seeing Sherlock clutching his throat, the wine looking like dark blood spread across his chest. Everyone stared at him as he raced to where Mr. Jones stood. He grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady him and drew back his poison soaked glass shard.
Letting out an cry of despair and horror that echoed around the room, he thrust the improvised weapon into the man’s jugular.
At the last moment, Mr. Jones fell backwards. John barely saw the black clad “slave” yanking Jones’ shoulders and throwing him to the floor. He couldn’t see any more because there was Mycroft, shouting (actually shouting) “HEEL, JOHN!” at him. Pain blossomed up and mixed with his terror and despair.
“Poison!” John managed to gasp, over the agony. “Sherlock’s been poisoned! He poisoned Sherlock’s drink! We need an ambulance!”
“What?” cried a woman. “What the devil is he talking about.”
The pain had receded. John found himself crouched on the floor in a loose ring of party goers. Mycroft stood by his elbow, with three more black clad, collared minions just behind him. He looked at his hand and saw just a trace of the dust left. “It’s on my hand. You can test it, figure out what it is. It’s in the glass. A powder. Someone help Sherlock! Please!”
John looked wildly around by he didn’t see any trace of Sherlock.
“John who poisoned Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. His voice was low and deadly.
“Mr. Jones!” gasped John. “He did it. It was in his hand and he put his hand over the drink. And I gave it to Sherlock. I didn’t know!”
“I did not!” Mr. Jones cried out. He’d pushed free of the minion and stood up, holding his throat. His fingers were bloody. John had scratched him at least. If only enough of the poison had gotten into his blood stream to poison him. “This is a completely unprovoked attack. The man’s a mad dog! A terrorist! Couldn’t wait to kill us. Your collar is worthless!”
Mycroft looked at Mr. Jones. “Tell me Mr. Jones. If I examine the cup, will I not find your prints on the glass?” As if on cue, one of the minions held the broken glass delicately in a glove-clad hand. “Will I not find poison in the wine?”
The audience was riveted.
“If there is any poison in the glass, Watson put it there, himself.”
“How?” asked Mycroft, smiling again, like a shark. “Anyone can see John has no place to stow poison on his body. I picked his outfit myself. Someone would have to have given it to him, which leads us back to you again. And look, your handkerchief is soiled with wine.” There were murmurs.
“Why would I attempt to murder your brother?” snarled Mr. Jones.
“Perhaps to frame John in order discredit and injure me. After all I’m the one standing in the way of your ill thought through agenda. People were listening to us argue not half an hour ago.”
“My ideas are perfectly sound,” protested Mr. Jones.
“Yes, if your desire is to feed the abolitionist movement with endless pictures of innocent free civilians being brutalised as slaves. The empire is already on the precipice of civil war. When we begin stooping to tricking the innocent into slavery, then we have lost all our moral high ground.”
There were uncomfortable murmurs from the crowd that suggested maintaining the moral high ground wasn’t a high priority for most of the people here.
“Do you not understand the ramifications of what you are suggesting?” asked Mycroft, sounding utterly reasonable and deeply disappointed at the same time. “John has richly earned his collar with his bombings and mayhem. The population sees his slavery and feels safer. The moment we start putting people in collars simply because they are poor, they will rise up and riot. Every slaveowner here would be a personal risk.” Mycroft’s smile disappeared. “Your lack of business sense is no reason to upheave the whole economy.”
Mr. Jones laughed. “Christ, you aren’t omniscient, Mycroft. You’d have us all believe you on nothing more than your say so, but you have no evidence for it - any of it. And I think enough people know me to vouch that I’d never commit murder simply to get my legislative agenda passed.”
“That’s true -“ said Mycroft. “But you might stoop to murdering the man investigating your illegal slave dealings.”
The crowd parted and Sherlock stood there in his stained suited glory, looking utterly, fantastically fine. John let out a whimper of relief. He must not have ingested much of the poison after all. Sherlock put his phone away as he strode up to John.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade just texted,” he said, casually. “They found the missing Washington Colony freemen chained to the equipment in Mr. Jones’ Wellington factory. Bad luck, old boy. You are being charged with kidnapping, assault, false enslavement and tax evasion.”
“Sherlock,” said John softly. He almost hugged the man’s knees, he was so grateful the man was alive.
Sherlock looked down at him, as if surprised to see him sitting on the floor. He raised a brow, then looked back up. “I didn’t drink your poison, thank god.” he said to Jones. “By the way, that cut looks nasty. Let’s hope it infects.”
Mycroft lifted a hand and his minions seized Jones by his arms and dragged him out of the room.
“I’ll see you at your collar fitting,” Sherlock called out.
There was a general uproar which Mycroft attempted to calm down. He circled around, using his arms like an orchestra conductor. “Dearest friends, my deepest apologies for all the drama and I hope you forgive the unscheduled excitement. As this room has become a crime scene, I’m afraid we all need to vacate. So I’ll take this opportunity to begin the formal presentation. If you would all follow me to the theatre room….”
He then ushered them away, giving John a quick smile, before getting lost in the slow shuffle out the door.
John stared, stunned. Why had he smiled?
He felt a hand against his shoulder and realised he was still sitting on the ground in an all but empty ballroom. Anthea was marking off the area around Sherlock’s abandoned, wine stained seat with tape while the other “slaves” took up posts at the doors.
“Stand up,” said Sherlock. “It’s over. We can go home now.”
John stood up, and for once the collars bliss wasn’t enough to counteract the tension in his belly. “I saw you drink the wine. How?”
“You saw me place the glass to my lips and pretend to drink. All show. I knew Jones was watching.”
“You knew it was poisoned. Why did you even pretend? Why did you risk it?” John’s mind was reeling. If Sherlock had died, what would have happened to him? Who would Mycroft have given him to next?
Or would he have given him to anyone at all? Perhaps Mycroft would have simply had John killed for his part in his brother’s murder. Slaves were killed for far less. Perhaps that would have even been a mercy, because John couldn’t bear to think of life as a slave without Sherlock, his only friend, not being there for him.
Sherlock simply shrugged. “I had to give him the option of stopping me,” he said, as though it were obvious.
He gave John’s shoulder a tug and then started leading him, not to the hall where the rest of the guests had gone, but to the stairs leading up to the mezzanine.
“Why?” John called up at him.
“Don’t you see,” said Sherlock, gaining speed on the stairs, almost as if he were deliberately trying to leave John behind. “If I’d simply declared the wine to be poisoned the moment you handed it to me, he might have been able to argue to a judge that it was a mistake and he thought you would be the one drinking it. Attempted destruction of property is only a crime to the degree that the property is actually damaged. You were unhurt, ergo, the whole exercise would have been for naught. It wasn’t until I raised the glass to my lips and he, watching, made no move to stop me, that it became attempted murder.”
John shook his head, then realised Sherlock wasn’t even looking. His leg was aching something awful, but he forced himself to mount the stairs as quickly as he could. “I’m sure Mycroft would have found a way to punish him anyway,” he called after Sherlock. “In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t drag me off by my ear for my part in it,” he said much softer to himself.
“Oh, Mycroft knew,” said Sherlock, leaning over the rail and looking down at him. “He knew the moment Jones arranged to purchase the poison. He does so love to keep track of that sort of thing.”
John reached the landing and swung about on the bannister to aim himself down one of the arms of the mezzanine. Sherlock was already half way down the gallery. It turned out that this level wasn’t much wider than a hall, sparsely populated with statues and other objet d’art. John found his eyes drawn to the large oil paintings of smoke and canons and brightly uniformed soldiers falling in untidy heaps. He shuddered, then picked up the pace to keep up with Sherlock, who was striding briskly towards a door at the far end.
“He knew that Jones planned on murdering you - and he let it happen?” John asked, as he trotted. He couldn’t believe it. Nothing in John’s experience lead him to think that Mycroft wouldn’t do all he could to protect his protect his beloved brother.
“Murder me?” said Sherlock, surprised. “Naturally not! I doubt Jones even knew I’d be here at the party. No, the poison was meant for Mycroft, of course, but I knew if I painted a large enough target on myself, he’d change his aim.” Sherlock barely slowed down to open the door and John nearly was smacked in the face as it swung back into place.
“That’s even worse,” said John, moving up at last to walk side by side with Sherlock. They were in a narrow hall leading to a separate wing of the manor. Things were built more to human scale here. Even the windows were plainer and looked down on the darkened vineyards. “I can’t imagine why Mycroft would allow you to risk yourself. Doesn’t he have minions to take those risks for him?”
“I didn’t drink it,” said Sherlock exasperated. “That’s the point. And really, John, I was entirely safe, unlike Mycroft who was constantly being distracted. We gave Jones the opportunity to get his revenge in a safe, well observed, well controlled environment. Mycroft got rid of a political enemy. I tied up the last loose end on that illegal slavery ring and gave the MET one more reason to tolerate my participation in their affairs. Win, most decidedly win.”
Sherlock seemed to be counting unmarked doors. He stopped in front of one of the doors on the right.
“Honestly, John, the only surprise this entire night was you.”
“Me?” said John.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “You tried to save me. I didn’t need it, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you, of your own volition, took the poison away and then threw yourself at someone you’d deemed a threat to me. Don’t think that didn’t impress the crowd. That collar proved its worth more in those moments than it had in all the humiliating tests before. It’s one thing to say you love me, John, it’s quite another to demonstrate it.”
“Oh god,” said John. His mind reeled. What have I done?
“Extra expense be damned, it wouldn’t surprise me if Mycroft’s collar became the new standard in the next few years.”
“Oh, god!” John repeated.
Sherlock frowned. “Why are you so upset? You were far more magnificent that either Mycroft or I allowed for. Neither of us thought you’d figure the wine was poisoned. I guessed you might try your doctoring skills to save me once I dropped the glass and started choking. Mycroft worried that you’d just flee in panic. But your way was far better. Marvellous theatre. Quite memorable.”
Sherlock didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door on what apparently was a guest’s suite and stepped inside. John didn’t really have a chance to get a good look at it. Sherlock had already crossed the room and then paused briefly at an inner door.
“I’m going to get out of these ridiculous clothes and freshened up,” he said, pulling off his wine-stained coat. “I’ve left you some of your street clothes in the adjoining suite, if you care to change. Might want to wash your face while you’re at it, John. It’s a bit crumby. After that I’ll call us a cab and we can leave. Our part at this party is done, thank God.”
He stepped into the en suite and closed the door.
John stood for a second staring at the richly stained oak panelling, too shocked at the abruptness of everything to really know what to do next. Then, slowly at first, but then with an increasing pace, he walked back out, through the suite and into the hallway. He searched vaguely for his promised clothes with a mind was full to the point of numbness. Stepping a few feet in a random direction, he found his eyes caught on the gibbous moon trying to escape from a veil of thin clouds. He stopped, putting his hands on the cold sill.
He was aware suddenly of the terrible quiet around him. For the first time in days, he was completely alone. Unwatched. The hall seemed dark, unfriendly and foreign. He felt utterly lost, rudderless at sea. His guts turned acid with undigested emotions.
Sherlock was safe. Sherlock and Mycroft had planned everything … therefore it was, none of it, John’s fault. If it wasn’t Johns fault then Mycroft was pleased at his performance. Then perhaps Harry was saved. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knew. John had no way to make Mycroft honour a promise. But it could be that she was safe. And that would be good, because he couldn’t bear to think of her having wires threaded through her brain.
On the other hand, by saving her, he’d all but ensured that others would suffer his collar. How could he have let that happen?
On the other, other hand, he’d kept Jones from ever abusing another a slave again.
On the other, other, other hand, Mycroft, who was arguably worse, would.
John’s head spun. Don’t feel guilty, it’s not your fault, he told himself, slapping his hands on his thighs. I’m not brilliant. I can’t be expected to out think the brightest people on earth.
Besides, Sherlock seemed pleased enough. That was good. And Mycroft promised that he’d hand sole ownership over to Sherlock, and that was better. At least that was something that couldn’t be faked or lied about. Having only one master with single set of agendas would be a relief.
What had his life come to if he found comfort in this?
Despair deeper than John had ever known gripped his chest. He leaned against the window pane, biting back tears for himself, for his impotence, for all the innocent people who would now be tormented by this collar based on his actions tonight. This was his breaking point, for sure. Part of him longed for Sherlock to order him, just to feel good again. And that made it worse. He was an addict. A bloody addict. The lowest of the low.
He heard the sound of of a door closing not far away, and then footsteps. John sucked in a breath of terror, worried that some guest would discover him alone and wandering and take exception to it. The last thing he needed was to be beaten up by some posh prejudiced arsehole out for a bit of private vengeance. Then his mind seemed to flip and he thought perhaps that might be a good thing to be treated as bad. If being caught wandering without a master made him look like a less of a perfect slave, perhaps it could be a way to discredit the collar….
Or wait. There was a better way. One way that no one in the building could deny. An embarrassment that Mycroft couldn’t prevent nor sweep under a rug. The answer to everything came in a blinding burst, as euphoric in its pleasure as the collar itself.
Suicide.
John sucked in a breath that seemed to squeak though his tight chest.
It had to be suicide, not murder, not assault. His death at the hands of a guest would be nothing more than destruction of unwanted property to these people. Meaningless. Pointless. Worthless. But his death by his own hand - now that would cast doubts on the collar itself, wouldn’t it? Who would invest money in a collar that drove men to suicide? It was supposed to make him happy and complacent, right? That was the sell, wasn’t it? Who would pay for a collar that killed it’s stock?
Okay. Okay. John stood straighter. Much as he wanted to live (oh he did, even now, he did) - he could die for this. Yes. One last act of rebellion. One last strike for freedom. A single blow to Mycroft’s relentless power. He was brave enough and it would give him (briefly) a moment of self-respect.
But he couldn’t waste any time now. No. Down the hall, around the bend, somewhere, a steady set of foot steps grew closer. Once he was found the opportunity would be closed for who knew how long.
Stomach girded, mind fixed on a goal, John moved quickly and silently to the door to the right of the one to Sherlock’s suite. It was unlocked, dark and empty. Good. Closing the door behind himself with the gentlest of clicks, John surveyed a dim room filled with the dark silhouettes of furniture. Light from somewhere outside in the garden caught in the gauzy curtains flanking a set of french doors. Through the glass, John saw a private balcony. There. That would do.
He opened the twin doors, pushing them gently out into the cool, quiet night. Then, refusing to give in to fear, he strode determinedly out onto the stone balcony. Adrenaline made his skin tingle. He barely felt the nip in the moist night air.
He leaned over the rail and surveyed the dry stone moat some 30 feet below. The drop was far enough to instantly kill unless he was terribly unlucky. This will work, he thought, dispassionately.
John’s breath seemed to catch in his chest. His nerves vibrated and nausea threatened to make his empty stomach turn inside out. But despite that, he knew he could do this. He had more than enough reason to. A moment’s pain and it would be all over. The great nothingness. He’d never have to obey another order, or feel guilty every time his collar pleasured him. He wouldn’t even have to deal with the messy aftermath of his body smashing against the flagstones. This would be his final “fuck you” to the world.
Behind him the lights in the room suddenly burst on. John jumped, but didn’t turn around. Times up.
“Oh, there you are, John,” said Mycroft, his voice practically oozing with smugness. “Got a bit lost have you? Or just sight-seeing?”
John stiffened. Now or never! (Oh god, I don’t want to.) Now or never! He took a deep breath and steeled himself to lever over the rail. One, Two…
His body burst in flames.
John screamed as his skin was lapped with invisible fire, every nerve seared, and then it drove deeper, slowly eating through fat, muscle and bone, until it finally extinguished itself in his brain. It was the worst collar punishment he’d ever suffered - longer than any cry to “heel” had been. The torture lasted an eon. Longer.
John was barely aware of arms giving out, or the way his knees bent weakly as he fell to the balcony floor. He barely noticed himself writhing in uncoordinated agony. It had to stop, it had to. Any second it had to.
Then the pain was gone and he was left bathed in sweat with nothing but the fading ghost of its memory. He collapsed flat on the cold stone floor, his body cold and exhausted.
“Oh, John,” said Mycroft, peering down at him. “I told you that slaves weren’t allowed those decisions. The collar was designed to prevent suicide. It activates on its own if you attempt self-harm.”
He reached down to help John up to his feet. “Come along, come inside. Don’t be upset. You’ll feel better after I’ve debriefed you.”
Anger surged through John. Almost without thinking, John pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Mycroft’s arm and attempted to flip him over the rail. If John couldn’t kill himself, he could at least kill the biggest bane of his life! It would likely be the last thing he ever did, but it would be a good thing.
Mycroft didn’t resist. He seemed so surprised that he fell against the rail and just stared gape mouthed, as John mustered all of his strength to push the man up and over the side. “Don’t!” he said a delayed second later. “Don’t! Wait!” He didn’t tell John to heel.
He didn’t have to. Before he could get Mycroft’s centre of gravity anywhere near the tipping point, the collar kicked in on it’s own again. Once more he fell to the ground helplessly. Over the pain he heard Mycroft’s alarmed voice saying, “Nor will it allow you to harm your masters! Stop that! Stop thinking that at once!”
The collar cut off and John lay gasping on the floor, unable to move. His entire spirit had been cored. He had no motivation to anything anymore. He was completely, utterly defeated.
“John, patience,” said Mycroft, pulling his coat back into place. “Patience. Stop hurting yourself. Lie still and rest.”
Since John didn’t have the energy to move anyway, it was inevitable that he’d obey. The collar kicked in gloriously, bathing him in pure relief. Oh so good. Exactly what he needed. He could lie here forever and feel that.
To John’s complete amazement, Mycroft lowered himself to the balcony’s stone floor. He did so stiffly, like a man who hasn’t had to kneel or sit in anything but a chair for years. At last, rather painfully he sat with his back to heavy stone rail, his trousers hitched up so high that his sock suspenders peeked out.
“It’s okay,” he said, reaching a hand out to pat John’s shoulder, tenderly. “Shh. It’ll all be fine. It was a hard night for you, but the worst is over. No more humiliations. No more awful slave owners gawking and spouting their self-satisfied tripe at you. You did your job beautifully and I will reward you as promised. I’ll see that Harriet gets everything she needs to avoid the collar. Soon as you know it, you’ll be back with Sherlock, traipsing about solving those mysteries that he so loves together. You’ve been enjoying that. So relax. Relax. Let it all go. Breathe. The worst is over.”
John couldn’t help breathing. The collar inevitably rewarded him again for it. It was what he needed, yes, that rush of bliss. The only good, reliable thing left in his life. And when the pleasure left him, he was no longer cramping from the tightness of his muscles. His body felt like he’d shaken a long illness and was just climbing back to health again.
He pulled himself away from Mycroft’s patronising hand and propped himself into a sitting position just out of arm’s reach. A wave of fatalism over took him. Emotion drained. He was just too tired to care anymore.
“That’s it,” said Mycroft, approvingly. “Pull yourself together. Are you ready to listen?”
“It’s not like I have a choice,” said John dully.
Mycroft smiled. “There’s always a choice, but some are better than others. And it’s better to be informed than not.”
John snorted.
“I’m first to admit that I’ve put you through hell this last month,” said Mycroft. “Though an argument can be made that you paved the way to this by your own criminal actions, I think you’ve had that point rubbed in quite enough for one evening. We all make choices, some of them good but difficult. Some of them, while justified, are bad. Some of them are downright terrible, but the only option available to avoid an even worse fate. What I’ve done to you is terrible, John.”
“I agree,” said John. Was Mycroft actually apologising? Why bother?
“I told you weeks ago that the the British Empire rests on three legs: Loyalty, Innovation, and Labour. Cut off one of those legs and we will fall swifter and more bloodily than than the Romans did millennia ago. Whether we like it or not, slavery is sewn deeply into the fabric of our economy and society and can’t simply be ripped out with pipe bombs and exploded factories. Abolitionism will only hasten the day the Empire shatters into a hundred unstable factions. A new dark ages for all.” Mycroft smiled hopefully at John, as if expecting his approval.
John sighed, slouching even further. “I see,” he said, bitterly. “Bad as it is, slavery is better than the alternative - therefore you are okay with with it.” He threw up his hands. “Well, you’ve won. I can’t fight you. I can’t escape you. So, sure. Whatever you want me to believe, Mycroft, I’ll buy it. It’s your show. Slavery good.”
“John, please,” said Mycroft, shifting uncomfortably. “You miss my point. We can’t rip away slavery without unravelling our society, but we can pluck at it. Carefully. We can reduce it, thread by thread. We can replace key parts. Be we have to do it methodically, thoughtfully, with an eye to the future.”
A hollow laugh welled up in John’s chest and he turned and stared incredulously at Mycroft. “Are you saying - are you saying that you are a secret abolitionist?”’
“I’ve been working towards abolition a lot longer than you have,” said Mycroft. “A law here. An ordinance there. Slow strangulation is far more effective than random bombs.”
“The bombs did their job.”
“Did they really?” asked Mycroft. “Oh, John, you’ve seen the result of that. Cut off the supply of legal slaves without reducing the demand and we only end up with illegal slavery. And as you’ve seen with illegal slavery, there are no limits, no checks or balances on who gets put in a collar or what conditions they are subjected to afterwards. Now come at it the other way around - reduce demand and the supply will dry up without a whimper.”
John, despite himself, listened. “And you can do that? Reduce the demand?”
Mycroft smiled smugly. “I have been shaking hands, and attending meetings, and whispering wise words into the ears of those who see slaves as only slightly more than vermin. I’ve appealed to their greed, their short-sightedness, their vanity, and their prejudices, and in return they have slowly seen reason. And I have reduced demand. Every year a slaveholder finds that it is simply cheaper to hire freeman than jump through the hoops I’ve set up. Every year a modern factory, run with the latest machinery and well trained and paid workers, drives an antiquated slave competitor out of business. It’s tedious at times, keeping things stressful for the slaveholders without making it obvious how artificial their plight is. But it has been successful.”
John thought about the abandoned slave orphanages. The failed debt legislation.
“But money is only half the battle,” said Mycroft, wincing and shifting his weight. “There’s a much more insidious factor holding slavery in place that I simply can’t legislate away. That’s why I needed you.”
“And what’s that?” asked John, curiosity eating away at his despair.
“Social status, of course,” said Mycroft as if it were obvious. “Half of the people at this party only use slaves domestically. For them it’s not about the economy, it’s about the status symbol. They have considerable influence that must be managed. For them, I designed your collar.”
“So they’d be seduced with a perfect slave, and won’t care what happens to the factories.” John’s eyes widened with amazement.
“Exactly. They will happily throw the New Moneyed under a bus for the sake of a better behaved slave. Kudos to them.”
“So, thanks to me, you have them all in your hand,” said John bitterly. “Well, lovely for you, Mycroft. Maybe not so lovely to those perfect slaves, but who cares about them.”
“I care about them, John,” said Mycroft with a gasp of exasperation. “Engineering social change amongst the gentry takes time. But brain surgery is is expensive, and it can’t be mass produced like an external collar. The only people who will ever wear a collar like yours will be the very worst of our criminal class. And for them, whose to say, the pleasure of the collar might be a better fate than the gallows, but even you would have a hard time feeling too sympathetic to their plight.”
John tightened his lips grimly.
“Mmph!” John looked at the pained grunt and saw Mycroft shifting himself awkwardly up to his feet. “Forgive me, I’m simply not limber enough to enjoy a long sit down on the floor. Besides, you are shivering. Let’s go inside. Sherlock will be out of his shower soon.”
John hadn’t really noticed that he was shivering, but he was. The urge to injure himself was gone, and the inside did look inviting. Mycroft closed the doors behind them, then took one of the two arm chairs near the cold fireplace. John stood by the vent while the manor’s feeble central heating did it’s best to rewarm the room.
“Sit down,” Mycroft said pointing to the other chair. John obeyed, finding himself looking eagerly forward to the collar’s response. It triggered just as John took his seat, making him feel even more relaxed and okay.
“How long have you been at this?” John asked with idle curiosity.
“Planning? Since primary school. Though it took a decade to get to a position where I could execute my ideas.”
“And this is as far as you’ve gotten,” said John, somewhat flippantly, but he’d figured at this point that Mycroft wasn’t really going to punish him for something as trivial as insolence. Mycroft had laid out his cards, bizarre and unexpected though they were. “I should think, with your mind, you’d have abolished slavery in a summer.”
Mycroft curled his lip with offence. “Well, to be truthful, slavery is hardly the only iron I have in the fire. As soon as I’ve dealt with this collar, I can devote my full efforts to helping the Empire to amicably divest itself of the most costly parts and shore up the central sustainable core. It won’t be easy. Our people will put up a fuss at losing two rocks and a sheep if it has a British flag planted in it. I’ll be massaging a wounded national pride for the next twenty years at least, I imagine.”
“My god,” said John, incredulously. “You do want to be King.”
Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “Dear lord, no! Never! All that pomp and ceremony, not to mention the public scrutiny? I’d never get anything done!”
He turned his head. “Go ahead and ask,” he said after a moment. “You want to know - why of all the abolitionists and political enemies of mine, did I pick you.”
“Yes,” said John, feeling just the slightest flicker of his earlier ire. “Why me?”
Mycroft leaned forward and patted his knee with a grin. “Because I knew you could handle it, John. And you have. There aren’t many people who could put up with my brother. Besides,” Mycroft went on. “Even if you weren’t a slave, Sherlock would likely treat you like one, anyway.”
John choked out a laugh. That was actually true. Sherlock did have a habit of treating everyone as if they were particularly dimwitted servants. If anything, he treated John with more respect.
The door opened half way though John’s laugh and Sherlock strode into the room, back in his normal tailored suit and Belstaff coat. His wet hair was slicked back and a look of suspicion soured his face, as if he knew they’d just been talking about him.
“Ah, there you are, John!” Sherlock said, voice rumbling. “Has Mycroft been letting the cat out of the bag at last? Good. Well then we can discontinue all the pretending.” He turned to Mycroft. “You’ve had your fun with him, now turn him over to me, as promised.”
Mycroft rose and levelled a disdainful eye at his brother. “I said I would and I will, but you in turn must make me a promise.” Sherlock’s frown increased. Obviously, he was not in the mood for promising anything. “Tell me that you will be careful with him. Owning a person is a very big responsibility. I won’t have him be abused or neglected.”
“Oh, that,” said Sherlock, as if John’s life was nothing worth worrying about. “Of course, I promise. I’m not very well going to injure the only person who has even come close to being worth my company.”
John rolled his eyes.
“And you, John,” said Mycroft, sharply. “When I hand over your reins to Sherlock that doesn’t mean that I won’t be keeping an eye on you. If you start blowing up buildings, or hurting Sherlock, or anything that might endanger my agenda, I shall be very upset. I might not be able to tell you to heel, but I still have an army at my disposal. Don’t make me use them.”
“No, sir,” said John, smartly.
Mycroft smiled. “Very well. I name Sherlock as your new primary owner and relinquish my own ownership. Heel, John.”
What the hell! The completely unexpected punishment outraged John. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it! But just as he rose from his seat to protest, he realised that no actual punishment had happened. The collar lay mute. He levelled a look of surprise at Mycroft, “What was that about?!”
Mycroft just seemed a little wistful. “Just a simple test.”
“You don’t go telling me to ‘heel’ as a test!” groused John. “What if it’d worked?”
“Leave it be, John,” said Sherlock, looking utterly satisfied.
Mycroft nodded and strode towards the door. “I shall leave the two of you to go about your business. I’ve still got a theatre full of miserable slave owners to deal with and the presentation should be finishing any moment. You know your way out, I expect.” He gave John one last nod and then let himself out. For a moment the quaint guest’s suite was quiet but for the low hum of the heating.
“So it’s just you and me now,” said John, at last.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, with satisfaction. “You and me.”
On to the Epilogue
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: This chapter R, (whole fic NC-17)
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 10,000/83,000
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10
Chapter 11
If there was any mercy to the situation, it was that that the guests really weren’t all that imaginative. They watched avidly as John attempted to imitate various animals. Chicken was expected. Horse was more awkward, because John’s leg decided to stiffen up and he ended up scuttling about the tile like a neighing crab. After that came a request that he be a cat. John raised a brow perplexed when meowing failed to satisfy the the woman. It turned out she really wanted to see John be petted, but since no one was allowed to touch him that job could only fall to Sherlock and he flat out refused to join John in his humiliation. The guest settled for sitting John by Sherlock’s feet and having him licking his own hand. That elicited only a few half-hearted guffaws and John sensed audience begin to drift away in boredom.
It was all very stupid, but not painful. If this was all they demanded of him, he knew he was getting off easy. Sherlock seemed to think so as well, because, when he wasn’t stifling yawns, he wore a small, disdainful smile.
The animal game ended when an elderly dame unwisely asked John to imitate a monkey. With glee, John grabbed the first non-breakable thing within reach (a canape off her plate) and flung it in her face while “ooking” and scratching his armpit. The stunned look on the slaveowner’s face as the cracker briefly stuck to her cheek was priceless. Even better was the her outraged expression when the room positively erupted in laughter.
Even Sherlock laughed and then absolutely refused to punish John for his insolence. “It seemed an accurate representation of monkey behaviour to me,” he said dryly.
She stomped off as quickly as her thick heel pumps would take her.
Those left had unfortunately been inspired by John’s food throwing and started up a new game. This time, John was required to balance various hors d’oeuvres on his face on threat of being told “heel” if they fell off. This was a much more torturous game, and not just because of the collar shock waiting when he inevitably failed his task. It was ticklish, crumbs and fluids threatened his eyes, and inevitably his bad leg started to ache with a vengeance. He ended up standing wearily by Sherlock’s side with a pitted martini olive split half-way open and shoved over the tip of his nose. Keeping the thing from rolling off required him to cant his head back so far that he could only stare at the ceiling.
Thankfully audience seemed to have a short attention span as well as a lack of imagination. They rapidly became bored of just watching John do nothing, olive or no. Though John couldn’t see any of it, the chuckles quickly died out and then there was nothing but the general din of conversation, broken only by noise of glasses clinking and footsteps on the polished marble.
When, at last, the olive gave up it’s grip and rolled off his cheek to the ground, there was no one left to appreciate it. Sherlock neglected to punish him. Or even notice. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd, fingers at his lips, a pensive look on his face.
John sighed with relief, nudging the olive behind Sherlock’s seat with his shoe. He wiped his face as discretely as he could with his hands. Then wondered if he risked stealing a sip from a tumbler abandoned on a nearby ledge.
Sherlock’s voice startled him. “See the man next to Mycroft?”
John immediately stood at attention and looked where Sherlock indicated. “Yes, sir.”
Some thirty feet away across the sparsely populated ballroom, Mycroft appeared to be engaged in a heated conversation with a tall, lean man. Or to be more accurate, the man seemed to be heated, Mycroft was his usual unflappable self.
“You met him earlier this evening,” said Sherlock softly. “Remember Mr. Jones? Angry about the debt default legislation not passing? To think I ever questioned his guilt. Just looking at his clothes, his mannerisms, the involvement is obvious. Interesting choice, his being here, though. I would think he’d wish to lay low and not attract so much attention to himself. But then desperation often does cause one to act rashly.”
Across the room, Mycroft’s smarmy expression seemed to set off the man even more and now his voice carried across the room. Though John couldn’t make out the words, the tone of outrage was unmistakable. John couldn’t help but to feel sympathetic. He’d felt similarly upset when faced with the brunt of Mycroft’s smugness. Around the room, the general conversation level seemed to die down as people looked to see what the commotion was.
“Temporary slavery?” Mycroft’s voice carried across the now eerily quiet room.
“Yes!” shouted Jones. He almost reached out to grab Mycroft’s hands, but then, at the glare, thought better of it. “We take these young people with too much debt - in return for paying off their bills, we allow them to sell themselves, voluntarily, for one, three, five years. The Crown, of course, takes a cut. The temporary slaves emerge from their contract, not only debt free, but with a new appreciation for hard work and perhaps even a new skill set they can use to find employment. Factory owners such as myself have a constant supply of young workers. The creditors get paid. Everybody wins.”
“Temporarily,” said Mycroft. “Perhaps.”
Encouraged, Jones went on. “We can even extend the option of voluntary slavery to those not in debt! Young, strong workers can give five years of their lives and receive at the end a generous lump payment, more than they could possibly save themselves. They can use this payment to invest in businesses of their own, or to buy a house, or a nest egg for their eventual retirement!”
“Or perhaps you could simply pay your workers a liveable wage and improve your work conditions to such a point that freemen would actually deign to work at your factories.” Mycroft’s voice cut painfully across the room. “I frankly think you vastly overestimate the stupidity of freemen, when you think that they’d voluntarily give up their personhood to work in one of those death-traps you call factories.”
John felt the warmth of solidarity with Mycroft in that moment, which surprised and disconcerted him. He didn’t want to agree with Mycroft on anything.
Around the room, there were some embarrassed titters at Jones’ humiliation, then, as if on cue, conversation rose up and blocked the rest of the argument. John could clearly see that it had gone on, but he couldn’t read lips. From the expressions on the guest’s faces, there wasn’t much doubt that the jackals were feasting on this new bit of gossip. Horrid people.
“You said guilt?” murmured John, picking up the old conversation. “What is Mr. Jones guilty of?”
“Apples, John. Nuts.”
The sight and smell of a filth covered plane came vividly back to John. He remembered the stacks of yellow invoices. 34 lb., 19 lb.. A man’s body splayed across an office floor, his head viciously bashed in. John suddenly had no sympathy at all for Mr. Jones. He deserved every titter and malicious glance thrown his way.
“Why isn’t he in jail?” John asked disgustedly.
“Lack of evidence,” Sherlock moaned. “Apparently my deduction of the involvement of a metalworks factory was deemed too circumstantial for the MET. Whatever. There are almost three dozen Washington freemen unaccounted for. It’s now obvious where they went. I’ve sent Lestrade a text. There should be a raid on Jones’ Wellington factory in the next few hours. This will not be a good night for him.”
Good, thought John.
“Be careful around him, John. He is a very desperate man and your involvement in unearthing and dismantling that slave ring was well documented in your blog.”
Mr. Jones seemed by chance to glance their way. His eyes met John’s and stuck. John felt a coldness ripple through his flesh. Mycroft took that moment to slip off to talk with the help behind the bar, ending the one sided argument by putting a row of wineglasses and liquor bottles between them. For a moment Jones looked confused at having lost his quarry. Then he straightened up and balled his fists and made his way across the ballroom floor to where John stood.
But when he arrived, Mr. Jones attention was not on John at all. He stared witheringly at Sherlock. “You think you are so clever, don’t you,” he snarled. “Putting on this dog and pony show with your brother. That collar. Using a known terrorist - if he even was that. I don’t entirely believe that this isn’t all complete fiction cobbled together by the two of you. But it won’t work. I’m on to your game.”
“What won’t work?” asked Sherlock, his innocent tone ringing false to John’s ears.
Mr. Jones stamped a foot, impatiently. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You are bloody Sherlock Holmes, the famous investigator. You should be good for something other than taking slaves out of the system.”
“Illegal slaves,” replied Sherlock.
“Needed slaves.”
“Yes, I heard your slaves were getting rather long in the tooth. Dropping like flies, aren’t they? Tragedy.”
“-And besides the point. The solution to this labor crisis is obvious. The only reason Mycroft isn’t forwarding it to the committee himself is that he has a much more sinister plan.” Jones’ lips drew down dramatically.
That got a smile out of Sherlock. He leaned forward. “Yes, I’m the first to agree, Mycroft is quite sinister.” He then sat up straight and laced his fingers under his chin. “Very well. I’m not in the habit of listening to conspiracy theories, well, at least not from anyone but paying clients. But do go ahead and tell me yours. This party is a painful bore and I could use a good laugh.”
Mr. Jones already flushed face turned darker. “This collar is nothing but a giant waste of everyone’s time. Mycroft thinks he can keep us distracted with the prospect of a perfect slave, while he slowly restricts the labor supply with his petty laws and his coddling of abolitionists.” Here he glanced at John. “If Mycroft has his way, me and most of the people here in this room out of business in a few years.”
“Why ever would he do that?” asked Sherlock.
“Power. He who controls the slaves, controls the economy of the entire British Empire. Mycroft has positioned himself like a spider in a web, spinning out a law here, neglecting abolitionists there, pushing us bit by bit to the point of economic collapse, when we are all live or die by his mercy.”
“Mycroft sounds positively despicable,” said Sherlock with a smile. “Do go on. I’m not sure how you can say he’s neglected the abolitionists, he took down John’s cell only a month ago.”
“I’m sure he knew about the Oregon Abolitionists long before he took that cell down. Who knows how long he’d have let the mayhem go on if Watson hadn’t threatened his precious internal collar.”
“Ah,” Sherlock turned to John. “Apparently Mycroft is a secret abolitionist, John. Doesn’t that make you feel warm towards him.”
John didn’t believe it for a second. He let his skepticism paint his expression.
“Anyway,” said Sherlock flippantly, “Do go on, I’m ever so entertained. Why on Earth is my evil older brother restricting the supply of slaves again? What’s he to gain from this? Fall of the Empire? Setting himself up as God maybe.”
“He wants to completely control the supply of slaves,” said Jones, exasperated. “Soon the only way we will get the slaves we need is though him. He’ll blackmail the lot of us into supporting his agenda. Anyone who opposes his will will face economic ruin. He’ll be our de facto ruler.”
“Oh, King Mycroft! Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock grinned. “Well, you certainly have it all figured out, don’t you. And here I thought Mycroft was just introducing a more effective and ethical slave training tool to all you slave holders, should you need or want it. But no, I see, you are right. He’s really taking over the world.” There was no mistaking his mocking tone.
Jones looked grimly prideful. “Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Holmes. Even you can’t deny that this collar is nothing a delaying tactic. I don’t care about this collar. I have no desire at all to fuck the help.”
Here he glared at John with utter disgust. I’ve no desire to fuck you either, John thought back.
Jones went on. “I need strong bodies that can work long hours on my machines - not happy drug addicts or whatever this collar is supposed to make them. They are slaves, for gods sake, not people. Criminals, parasites, indigent, who cares about their feelings. No, the existing collars are perfectly fine, and much, much less expensive. What we need is quantity, not quality, and this new collar does nothing to ease the drought of slaves.”
Jones thrust his finger out at Sherlock, who took one of his own fingers and pushed it away. “And what do you think ranting to me will do about it?”
Jones backed off a few feet, flustered, as if he wasn’t sure himself why he was telling Sherlock. “You strike me as being reasonable, Mr. Holmes, and now that you are a slaveowner yourself, you have a stake in this as well. You can talk to him. I think you have more influence on your brother than you think,” said Mr. Jones. “He listens to you. He worries about you. I dare say he’s even somewhat obsessed with you.”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “It’s terribly annoying.”
“Then convince him to abandon this ruinous path and listen to me for once. I have a solution to the problem, Sherlock. One that will turn this labor drought into a flood. One that will leave the Empire prosperous for another 300 years.”
Sherlock tapped his chin. “Yes, I heard. Temporary slavery, wasn’t it? Indentured servitude? Interesting notion.”
Jones looked briefly hopeful. “Exactly. You know it would work.”
John swallowed. He longed to join in the conversation and tell Jones just why it wouldn’t, but damn it, he couldn’t.
To John’s amazement, Sherlock shook his head. “Temporary slavery isn’t so temporary if the owner works the slave to death. With so little invested and a constant supply of new bodies, there’s no real incentive for you not to squeeze every last drop of profit out of your stock, even to the point of destroying their health. They become utterly expendable to you.”
Yes, thought John, gazing at Sherlock in amazement. I couldn’t have said that better.
“Of course, the supply of voluntary slaves would dry up quickly as these temporary slaves start dying, so you’d likely get no more than a small number of initial volunteers. Just enough, perhaps, to to float you, personally, towards solvency, but not really enough to bolster the economy as a whole.”
Mr. Jones turned white, but said nothing.
“But congratulations, Mr. Jones,” said Sherlock, with a vicious smile, “for being even more of a cold hearted bastard than my brother. Believe me, that is an achievement.”
Jones was absolutely stiff with rage. “You insult me.”
“Oh, don’t be so thin skinned.” Sherlock leaned forward and tsked. “If you want some sensible advice, forget trying to change Mycroft’s mind. Instead, I suggest you give up gambling. You are clearly rubbish at it.” At Mr. Jones gasp, he laughed. “Oh, don’t look shocked, you are obviously deeply in debt. Look at the state of your shoes! That suit. You haven’t had the funds to buy clothes in years. And where else would all the money go? Surely not to a mistress.”
John gaped. Who in their right mind would gamble themselves into debt? Jones of all people had to know the risk of defaulting. Or did he simply think that he was so rich that the rules wouldn’t apply to him?
“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it: you’re afraid,” Sherlock went on like a steam roller. “Afraid of losing your factories, afraid of losing your good name, afraid of being poor. You tried to gamble your way back to solvency but that only made matters worse. Then you tried cutting corners and diverted funds from your factory, but it just kept snowballing. Your slaves, unable to keep up with the harsher work load and ever worsening diet and conditions, started to die, and not just from old age, though that’s what you’d like to believe. It’s reached the tipping point now, you’ve become late on filling orders. Your reputation as a company has become tarnished as unreliable. But even if slaves were widely available to solve your labor crunch, you still don’t have the funds to buy them - not full price at least.”
“What are you talking about?” said Jones. “Be quiet!”
“So you resorted to illegal slavery - oh yes, I know about that. It worked for a while, your production jumped quite nicely in the last two months. But then John and I shut down your supplier and now you are back in the same muddle. And now you are here, begging me, of all people, to help you, when really you ought to be more worried that I’ll call the police.”
Jones grew paler and paler as Sherlock spoke.
“Perhaps you should take yourself on as a temporary slave, hmm?” Sherlock said.
John smiled at that.
Jones eyes grew larger. He fisted his hands for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and stalked angrily away. John watched in satisfaction as he strode across the room throwing out angry looks at anyone who dared approach him. There was a nervous tittering in his wake.
“John,” said Sherlock, after a minute. “My mouth is dry. Please, go fetch one of the glasses of wine from the bar. The red, please.”
John did a double take. “Sir? You want me to leave you?”
Sherlock glared. “Don’t make me punish you, John. People are still watching.”
“I -“ John took a hesitant step forward. Though it was only across the short width of the room, the bar looked a very long way away, and there were clusters of people moving about between him and it.
“Come now, you are braver than this,” said Sherlock. “Remember, you only obey me. Not them. It’s perfectly safe. They have been told not to touch you.”
Yes, but do they remember that, thought John. It seemed to him that they forgot that rule when it was convenient. There was no help for it though. He walked carefully across the ballroom as if it were a minefield. Thankfully, the room was largely empty and that he could skirt the clumps of slaveowners without much trouble. A few turned to look at him as he passed, but none attempted to talk or touch him. He reached the bar unmolested.
There were rows of white and red wine in identical glasses set up in rows on one end of the bar. The bartender was busy at the other end making a mixed drink for one of the guests.
John did a double take. The bartender was Anthea! She wearing a black dress and sporting a slave collar around her neck. But she’s not a slave. John glanced around and recognised one of the other “slaves” carrying a load of canapes as one of the trio who’d brought his clothes that afternoon. His eyes then went from one “slave” to the next. Some were quite familiar, some less so. They were all Imperial Guard, not slaves at all. John was perhaps the only slave in the place.
John resisted the urge to touch his own fake collar. He reached out and grabbed a glass of merlot almost absently, wondering if the party goers realised that the “slaves” serving them were probably spying on their conversations. There seemed to be one near by to every group, hanging back with their trays of food. Idiots, John thought, they are so used to treating slaves as furniture that they’ve forgotten that we are people, with eyes and ears and brains.
John was so thoroughly distracted as he stepped away from the bar that he nearly walked into Mr. Jones. John jumped and gasped, stopping abruptly to keep from ploughing right into him.
The man grabbed the top of John’s glass to prevent himself from being splashed. He said nothing, but his face had blanched so badly he looked like he’d seen a ghost or become terribly ill. John worried for a moment that he might vomit on him.
“I’m sorry,” John said, tugging slightly at the glass, but Jones’ grip was firm, preventing him from moving on. He continued to stare down John as if appraising him. John saw a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. “Please, sir, I’ve got to go.”
“What do you get out of this farce, Watson?” Jones asked at last. “You can’t tell me that you enjoy being a slave. I don’t believe it. You are far too proud. Is that collar really so addictive that you enjoy working for him now? Or are they holding something more over your head to insure your cooperation?”
“Sir, please let go of the glass,” said John more firmly.
Reluctantly, Mr. Jones lifted his hand away and wiped it on a handkerchief. “I don’t buy for a moment that you’ve been reformed. Neither will anyone else.”
John shrugged and headed back towards Sherlock, who was waving his hand in an impatient beaconing motion. John quickly crossed back to him. He’d doubtless seen John talking to Mr. Jones, and from the expression Sherlock didn’t like that a bit.
“Give that to me,” snapped Sherlock as he came within reach. “I told you not to talk to strangers.” He looked over Johns shoulder. And John turned and saw that Jones was hovering a few feet away, as if gathering courage to approach Sherlock again.
“John,” said Sherlock. “The wine.”
Belatedly, John handed him the glass and felt the wave of happiness from the collar. As he pulled his hand away he noticed little fine white powder on the back of his finger knuckles. Funny, the glass hadn’t seemed dusty. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering if the plaster might be drifting down from all the stomping about going on upstairs. Then it hit him what the powder was.
“No!” he screamed. “Stop, Sherlock, stop!”
But the wine glass was already at Sherlock’s mouth. He’d lifted it up to take a large swallow.
Oh god no, god no!
Without thinking John grabbed the glass, spilling its contents all over Sherlock’s expensive tuxedo. He couldn’t help but see the wine dripping from Sherlock’s chin or the way Sherlock’s eyes had suddenly widened with shock. Somewhere near him there was a woman cried out.
“Spit it out!” begged John. “Don’t drink! It’s poison! It’s poison!”
Sherlock simply brought his hand up to his chest and coughed. A look of terror crossed his face.
Oh no, oh no! He turned to see see the smugly satisfied look on Jones’ face. In that moment Jones embodied everything that John hated. A slaveowner who thinks nothing of the lives of anyone but himself, whose ideas were to put more and more innocents under a cruel collar and grind them down under unrelenting work until they died.
He couldn’t be allowed to live.
John was already doomed (and Harry too - oh god - Mycroft would never forgive him for causing a fuss) but he could do one last good thing for the world. He could take this man, this monster, out of it.
In a single movement, John tapped the wineglass against the wall shattering half and leaving the rest a sharp spike. By now the room had gone silent with shock, seeing Sherlock clutching his throat, the wine looking like dark blood spread across his chest. Everyone stared at him as he raced to where Mr. Jones stood. He grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady him and drew back his poison soaked glass shard.
Letting out an cry of despair and horror that echoed around the room, he thrust the improvised weapon into the man’s jugular.
At the last moment, Mr. Jones fell backwards. John barely saw the black clad “slave” yanking Jones’ shoulders and throwing him to the floor. He couldn’t see any more because there was Mycroft, shouting (actually shouting) “HEEL, JOHN!” at him. Pain blossomed up and mixed with his terror and despair.
“Poison!” John managed to gasp, over the agony. “Sherlock’s been poisoned! He poisoned Sherlock’s drink! We need an ambulance!”
“What?” cried a woman. “What the devil is he talking about.”
The pain had receded. John found himself crouched on the floor in a loose ring of party goers. Mycroft stood by his elbow, with three more black clad, collared minions just behind him. He looked at his hand and saw just a trace of the dust left. “It’s on my hand. You can test it, figure out what it is. It’s in the glass. A powder. Someone help Sherlock! Please!”
John looked wildly around by he didn’t see any trace of Sherlock.
“John who poisoned Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. His voice was low and deadly.
“Mr. Jones!” gasped John. “He did it. It was in his hand and he put his hand over the drink. And I gave it to Sherlock. I didn’t know!”
“I did not!” Mr. Jones cried out. He’d pushed free of the minion and stood up, holding his throat. His fingers were bloody. John had scratched him at least. If only enough of the poison had gotten into his blood stream to poison him. “This is a completely unprovoked attack. The man’s a mad dog! A terrorist! Couldn’t wait to kill us. Your collar is worthless!”
Mycroft looked at Mr. Jones. “Tell me Mr. Jones. If I examine the cup, will I not find your prints on the glass?” As if on cue, one of the minions held the broken glass delicately in a glove-clad hand. “Will I not find poison in the wine?”
The audience was riveted.
“If there is any poison in the glass, Watson put it there, himself.”
“How?” asked Mycroft, smiling again, like a shark. “Anyone can see John has no place to stow poison on his body. I picked his outfit myself. Someone would have to have given it to him, which leads us back to you again. And look, your handkerchief is soiled with wine.” There were murmurs.
“Why would I attempt to murder your brother?” snarled Mr. Jones.
“Perhaps to frame John in order discredit and injure me. After all I’m the one standing in the way of your ill thought through agenda. People were listening to us argue not half an hour ago.”
“My ideas are perfectly sound,” protested Mr. Jones.
“Yes, if your desire is to feed the abolitionist movement with endless pictures of innocent free civilians being brutalised as slaves. The empire is already on the precipice of civil war. When we begin stooping to tricking the innocent into slavery, then we have lost all our moral high ground.”
There were uncomfortable murmurs from the crowd that suggested maintaining the moral high ground wasn’t a high priority for most of the people here.
“Do you not understand the ramifications of what you are suggesting?” asked Mycroft, sounding utterly reasonable and deeply disappointed at the same time. “John has richly earned his collar with his bombings and mayhem. The population sees his slavery and feels safer. The moment we start putting people in collars simply because they are poor, they will rise up and riot. Every slaveowner here would be a personal risk.” Mycroft’s smile disappeared. “Your lack of business sense is no reason to upheave the whole economy.”
Mr. Jones laughed. “Christ, you aren’t omniscient, Mycroft. You’d have us all believe you on nothing more than your say so, but you have no evidence for it - any of it. And I think enough people know me to vouch that I’d never commit murder simply to get my legislative agenda passed.”
“That’s true -“ said Mycroft. “But you might stoop to murdering the man investigating your illegal slave dealings.”
The crowd parted and Sherlock stood there in his stained suited glory, looking utterly, fantastically fine. John let out a whimper of relief. He must not have ingested much of the poison after all. Sherlock put his phone away as he strode up to John.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade just texted,” he said, casually. “They found the missing Washington Colony freemen chained to the equipment in Mr. Jones’ Wellington factory. Bad luck, old boy. You are being charged with kidnapping, assault, false enslavement and tax evasion.”
“Sherlock,” said John softly. He almost hugged the man’s knees, he was so grateful the man was alive.
Sherlock looked down at him, as if surprised to see him sitting on the floor. He raised a brow, then looked back up. “I didn’t drink your poison, thank god.” he said to Jones. “By the way, that cut looks nasty. Let’s hope it infects.”
Mycroft lifted a hand and his minions seized Jones by his arms and dragged him out of the room.
“I’ll see you at your collar fitting,” Sherlock called out.
There was a general uproar which Mycroft attempted to calm down. He circled around, using his arms like an orchestra conductor. “Dearest friends, my deepest apologies for all the drama and I hope you forgive the unscheduled excitement. As this room has become a crime scene, I’m afraid we all need to vacate. So I’ll take this opportunity to begin the formal presentation. If you would all follow me to the theatre room….”
He then ushered them away, giving John a quick smile, before getting lost in the slow shuffle out the door.
John stared, stunned. Why had he smiled?
He felt a hand against his shoulder and realised he was still sitting on the ground in an all but empty ballroom. Anthea was marking off the area around Sherlock’s abandoned, wine stained seat with tape while the other “slaves” took up posts at the doors.
“Stand up,” said Sherlock. “It’s over. We can go home now.”
John stood up, and for once the collars bliss wasn’t enough to counteract the tension in his belly. “I saw you drink the wine. How?”
“You saw me place the glass to my lips and pretend to drink. All show. I knew Jones was watching.”
“You knew it was poisoned. Why did you even pretend? Why did you risk it?” John’s mind was reeling. If Sherlock had died, what would have happened to him? Who would Mycroft have given him to next?
Or would he have given him to anyone at all? Perhaps Mycroft would have simply had John killed for his part in his brother’s murder. Slaves were killed for far less. Perhaps that would have even been a mercy, because John couldn’t bear to think of life as a slave without Sherlock, his only friend, not being there for him.
Sherlock simply shrugged. “I had to give him the option of stopping me,” he said, as though it were obvious.
He gave John’s shoulder a tug and then started leading him, not to the hall where the rest of the guests had gone, but to the stairs leading up to the mezzanine.
“Why?” John called up at him.
“Don’t you see,” said Sherlock, gaining speed on the stairs, almost as if he were deliberately trying to leave John behind. “If I’d simply declared the wine to be poisoned the moment you handed it to me, he might have been able to argue to a judge that it was a mistake and he thought you would be the one drinking it. Attempted destruction of property is only a crime to the degree that the property is actually damaged. You were unhurt, ergo, the whole exercise would have been for naught. It wasn’t until I raised the glass to my lips and he, watching, made no move to stop me, that it became attempted murder.”
John shook his head, then realised Sherlock wasn’t even looking. His leg was aching something awful, but he forced himself to mount the stairs as quickly as he could. “I’m sure Mycroft would have found a way to punish him anyway,” he called after Sherlock. “In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t drag me off by my ear for my part in it,” he said much softer to himself.
“Oh, Mycroft knew,” said Sherlock, leaning over the rail and looking down at him. “He knew the moment Jones arranged to purchase the poison. He does so love to keep track of that sort of thing.”
John reached the landing and swung about on the bannister to aim himself down one of the arms of the mezzanine. Sherlock was already half way down the gallery. It turned out that this level wasn’t much wider than a hall, sparsely populated with statues and other objet d’art. John found his eyes drawn to the large oil paintings of smoke and canons and brightly uniformed soldiers falling in untidy heaps. He shuddered, then picked up the pace to keep up with Sherlock, who was striding briskly towards a door at the far end.
“He knew that Jones planned on murdering you - and he let it happen?” John asked, as he trotted. He couldn’t believe it. Nothing in John’s experience lead him to think that Mycroft wouldn’t do all he could to protect his protect his beloved brother.
“Murder me?” said Sherlock, surprised. “Naturally not! I doubt Jones even knew I’d be here at the party. No, the poison was meant for Mycroft, of course, but I knew if I painted a large enough target on myself, he’d change his aim.” Sherlock barely slowed down to open the door and John nearly was smacked in the face as it swung back into place.
“That’s even worse,” said John, moving up at last to walk side by side with Sherlock. They were in a narrow hall leading to a separate wing of the manor. Things were built more to human scale here. Even the windows were plainer and looked down on the darkened vineyards. “I can’t imagine why Mycroft would allow you to risk yourself. Doesn’t he have minions to take those risks for him?”
“I didn’t drink it,” said Sherlock exasperated. “That’s the point. And really, John, I was entirely safe, unlike Mycroft who was constantly being distracted. We gave Jones the opportunity to get his revenge in a safe, well observed, well controlled environment. Mycroft got rid of a political enemy. I tied up the last loose end on that illegal slavery ring and gave the MET one more reason to tolerate my participation in their affairs. Win, most decidedly win.”
Sherlock seemed to be counting unmarked doors. He stopped in front of one of the doors on the right.
“Honestly, John, the only surprise this entire night was you.”
“Me?” said John.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “You tried to save me. I didn’t need it, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you, of your own volition, took the poison away and then threw yourself at someone you’d deemed a threat to me. Don’t think that didn’t impress the crowd. That collar proved its worth more in those moments than it had in all the humiliating tests before. It’s one thing to say you love me, John, it’s quite another to demonstrate it.”
“Oh god,” said John. His mind reeled. What have I done?
“Extra expense be damned, it wouldn’t surprise me if Mycroft’s collar became the new standard in the next few years.”
“Oh, god!” John repeated.
Sherlock frowned. “Why are you so upset? You were far more magnificent that either Mycroft or I allowed for. Neither of us thought you’d figure the wine was poisoned. I guessed you might try your doctoring skills to save me once I dropped the glass and started choking. Mycroft worried that you’d just flee in panic. But your way was far better. Marvellous theatre. Quite memorable.”
Sherlock didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door on what apparently was a guest’s suite and stepped inside. John didn’t really have a chance to get a good look at it. Sherlock had already crossed the room and then paused briefly at an inner door.
“I’m going to get out of these ridiculous clothes and freshened up,” he said, pulling off his wine-stained coat. “I’ve left you some of your street clothes in the adjoining suite, if you care to change. Might want to wash your face while you’re at it, John. It’s a bit crumby. After that I’ll call us a cab and we can leave. Our part at this party is done, thank God.”
He stepped into the en suite and closed the door.
John stood for a second staring at the richly stained oak panelling, too shocked at the abruptness of everything to really know what to do next. Then, slowly at first, but then with an increasing pace, he walked back out, through the suite and into the hallway. He searched vaguely for his promised clothes with a mind was full to the point of numbness. Stepping a few feet in a random direction, he found his eyes caught on the gibbous moon trying to escape from a veil of thin clouds. He stopped, putting his hands on the cold sill.
He was aware suddenly of the terrible quiet around him. For the first time in days, he was completely alone. Unwatched. The hall seemed dark, unfriendly and foreign. He felt utterly lost, rudderless at sea. His guts turned acid with undigested emotions.
Sherlock was safe. Sherlock and Mycroft had planned everything … therefore it was, none of it, John’s fault. If it wasn’t Johns fault then Mycroft was pleased at his performance. Then perhaps Harry was saved. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knew. John had no way to make Mycroft honour a promise. But it could be that she was safe. And that would be good, because he couldn’t bear to think of her having wires threaded through her brain.
On the other hand, by saving her, he’d all but ensured that others would suffer his collar. How could he have let that happen?
On the other, other hand, he’d kept Jones from ever abusing another a slave again.
On the other, other, other hand, Mycroft, who was arguably worse, would.
John’s head spun. Don’t feel guilty, it’s not your fault, he told himself, slapping his hands on his thighs. I’m not brilliant. I can’t be expected to out think the brightest people on earth.
Besides, Sherlock seemed pleased enough. That was good. And Mycroft promised that he’d hand sole ownership over to Sherlock, and that was better. At least that was something that couldn’t be faked or lied about. Having only one master with single set of agendas would be a relief.
What had his life come to if he found comfort in this?
Despair deeper than John had ever known gripped his chest. He leaned against the window pane, biting back tears for himself, for his impotence, for all the innocent people who would now be tormented by this collar based on his actions tonight. This was his breaking point, for sure. Part of him longed for Sherlock to order him, just to feel good again. And that made it worse. He was an addict. A bloody addict. The lowest of the low.
He heard the sound of of a door closing not far away, and then footsteps. John sucked in a breath of terror, worried that some guest would discover him alone and wandering and take exception to it. The last thing he needed was to be beaten up by some posh prejudiced arsehole out for a bit of private vengeance. Then his mind seemed to flip and he thought perhaps that might be a good thing to be treated as bad. If being caught wandering without a master made him look like a less of a perfect slave, perhaps it could be a way to discredit the collar….
Or wait. There was a better way. One way that no one in the building could deny. An embarrassment that Mycroft couldn’t prevent nor sweep under a rug. The answer to everything came in a blinding burst, as euphoric in its pleasure as the collar itself.
Suicide.
John sucked in a breath that seemed to squeak though his tight chest.
It had to be suicide, not murder, not assault. His death at the hands of a guest would be nothing more than destruction of unwanted property to these people. Meaningless. Pointless. Worthless. But his death by his own hand - now that would cast doubts on the collar itself, wouldn’t it? Who would invest money in a collar that drove men to suicide? It was supposed to make him happy and complacent, right? That was the sell, wasn’t it? Who would pay for a collar that killed it’s stock?
Okay. Okay. John stood straighter. Much as he wanted to live (oh he did, even now, he did) - he could die for this. Yes. One last act of rebellion. One last strike for freedom. A single blow to Mycroft’s relentless power. He was brave enough and it would give him (briefly) a moment of self-respect.
But he couldn’t waste any time now. No. Down the hall, around the bend, somewhere, a steady set of foot steps grew closer. Once he was found the opportunity would be closed for who knew how long.
Stomach girded, mind fixed on a goal, John moved quickly and silently to the door to the right of the one to Sherlock’s suite. It was unlocked, dark and empty. Good. Closing the door behind himself with the gentlest of clicks, John surveyed a dim room filled with the dark silhouettes of furniture. Light from somewhere outside in the garden caught in the gauzy curtains flanking a set of french doors. Through the glass, John saw a private balcony. There. That would do.
He opened the twin doors, pushing them gently out into the cool, quiet night. Then, refusing to give in to fear, he strode determinedly out onto the stone balcony. Adrenaline made his skin tingle. He barely felt the nip in the moist night air.
He leaned over the rail and surveyed the dry stone moat some 30 feet below. The drop was far enough to instantly kill unless he was terribly unlucky. This will work, he thought, dispassionately.
John’s breath seemed to catch in his chest. His nerves vibrated and nausea threatened to make his empty stomach turn inside out. But despite that, he knew he could do this. He had more than enough reason to. A moment’s pain and it would be all over. The great nothingness. He’d never have to obey another order, or feel guilty every time his collar pleasured him. He wouldn’t even have to deal with the messy aftermath of his body smashing against the flagstones. This would be his final “fuck you” to the world.
Behind him the lights in the room suddenly burst on. John jumped, but didn’t turn around. Times up.
“Oh, there you are, John,” said Mycroft, his voice practically oozing with smugness. “Got a bit lost have you? Or just sight-seeing?”
John stiffened. Now or never! (Oh god, I don’t want to.) Now or never! He took a deep breath and steeled himself to lever over the rail. One, Two…
His body burst in flames.
John screamed as his skin was lapped with invisible fire, every nerve seared, and then it drove deeper, slowly eating through fat, muscle and bone, until it finally extinguished itself in his brain. It was the worst collar punishment he’d ever suffered - longer than any cry to “heel” had been. The torture lasted an eon. Longer.
John was barely aware of arms giving out, or the way his knees bent weakly as he fell to the balcony floor. He barely noticed himself writhing in uncoordinated agony. It had to stop, it had to. Any second it had to.
Then the pain was gone and he was left bathed in sweat with nothing but the fading ghost of its memory. He collapsed flat on the cold stone floor, his body cold and exhausted.
“Oh, John,” said Mycroft, peering down at him. “I told you that slaves weren’t allowed those decisions. The collar was designed to prevent suicide. It activates on its own if you attempt self-harm.”
He reached down to help John up to his feet. “Come along, come inside. Don’t be upset. You’ll feel better after I’ve debriefed you.”
Anger surged through John. Almost without thinking, John pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Mycroft’s arm and attempted to flip him over the rail. If John couldn’t kill himself, he could at least kill the biggest bane of his life! It would likely be the last thing he ever did, but it would be a good thing.
Mycroft didn’t resist. He seemed so surprised that he fell against the rail and just stared gape mouthed, as John mustered all of his strength to push the man up and over the side. “Don’t!” he said a delayed second later. “Don’t! Wait!” He didn’t tell John to heel.
He didn’t have to. Before he could get Mycroft’s centre of gravity anywhere near the tipping point, the collar kicked in on it’s own again. Once more he fell to the ground helplessly. Over the pain he heard Mycroft’s alarmed voice saying, “Nor will it allow you to harm your masters! Stop that! Stop thinking that at once!”
The collar cut off and John lay gasping on the floor, unable to move. His entire spirit had been cored. He had no motivation to anything anymore. He was completely, utterly defeated.
“John, patience,” said Mycroft, pulling his coat back into place. “Patience. Stop hurting yourself. Lie still and rest.”
Since John didn’t have the energy to move anyway, it was inevitable that he’d obey. The collar kicked in gloriously, bathing him in pure relief. Oh so good. Exactly what he needed. He could lie here forever and feel that.
To John’s complete amazement, Mycroft lowered himself to the balcony’s stone floor. He did so stiffly, like a man who hasn’t had to kneel or sit in anything but a chair for years. At last, rather painfully he sat with his back to heavy stone rail, his trousers hitched up so high that his sock suspenders peeked out.
“It’s okay,” he said, reaching a hand out to pat John’s shoulder, tenderly. “Shh. It’ll all be fine. It was a hard night for you, but the worst is over. No more humiliations. No more awful slave owners gawking and spouting their self-satisfied tripe at you. You did your job beautifully and I will reward you as promised. I’ll see that Harriet gets everything she needs to avoid the collar. Soon as you know it, you’ll be back with Sherlock, traipsing about solving those mysteries that he so loves together. You’ve been enjoying that. So relax. Relax. Let it all go. Breathe. The worst is over.”
John couldn’t help breathing. The collar inevitably rewarded him again for it. It was what he needed, yes, that rush of bliss. The only good, reliable thing left in his life. And when the pleasure left him, he was no longer cramping from the tightness of his muscles. His body felt like he’d shaken a long illness and was just climbing back to health again.
He pulled himself away from Mycroft’s patronising hand and propped himself into a sitting position just out of arm’s reach. A wave of fatalism over took him. Emotion drained. He was just too tired to care anymore.
“That’s it,” said Mycroft, approvingly. “Pull yourself together. Are you ready to listen?”
“It’s not like I have a choice,” said John dully.
Mycroft smiled. “There’s always a choice, but some are better than others. And it’s better to be informed than not.”
John snorted.
“I’m first to admit that I’ve put you through hell this last month,” said Mycroft. “Though an argument can be made that you paved the way to this by your own criminal actions, I think you’ve had that point rubbed in quite enough for one evening. We all make choices, some of them good but difficult. Some of them, while justified, are bad. Some of them are downright terrible, but the only option available to avoid an even worse fate. What I’ve done to you is terrible, John.”
“I agree,” said John. Was Mycroft actually apologising? Why bother?
“I told you weeks ago that the the British Empire rests on three legs: Loyalty, Innovation, and Labour. Cut off one of those legs and we will fall swifter and more bloodily than than the Romans did millennia ago. Whether we like it or not, slavery is sewn deeply into the fabric of our economy and society and can’t simply be ripped out with pipe bombs and exploded factories. Abolitionism will only hasten the day the Empire shatters into a hundred unstable factions. A new dark ages for all.” Mycroft smiled hopefully at John, as if expecting his approval.
John sighed, slouching even further. “I see,” he said, bitterly. “Bad as it is, slavery is better than the alternative - therefore you are okay with with it.” He threw up his hands. “Well, you’ve won. I can’t fight you. I can’t escape you. So, sure. Whatever you want me to believe, Mycroft, I’ll buy it. It’s your show. Slavery good.”
“John, please,” said Mycroft, shifting uncomfortably. “You miss my point. We can’t rip away slavery without unravelling our society, but we can pluck at it. Carefully. We can reduce it, thread by thread. We can replace key parts. Be we have to do it methodically, thoughtfully, with an eye to the future.”
A hollow laugh welled up in John’s chest and he turned and stared incredulously at Mycroft. “Are you saying - are you saying that you are a secret abolitionist?”’
“I’ve been working towards abolition a lot longer than you have,” said Mycroft. “A law here. An ordinance there. Slow strangulation is far more effective than random bombs.”
“The bombs did their job.”
“Did they really?” asked Mycroft. “Oh, John, you’ve seen the result of that. Cut off the supply of legal slaves without reducing the demand and we only end up with illegal slavery. And as you’ve seen with illegal slavery, there are no limits, no checks or balances on who gets put in a collar or what conditions they are subjected to afterwards. Now come at it the other way around - reduce demand and the supply will dry up without a whimper.”
John, despite himself, listened. “And you can do that? Reduce the demand?”
Mycroft smiled smugly. “I have been shaking hands, and attending meetings, and whispering wise words into the ears of those who see slaves as only slightly more than vermin. I’ve appealed to their greed, their short-sightedness, their vanity, and their prejudices, and in return they have slowly seen reason. And I have reduced demand. Every year a slaveholder finds that it is simply cheaper to hire freeman than jump through the hoops I’ve set up. Every year a modern factory, run with the latest machinery and well trained and paid workers, drives an antiquated slave competitor out of business. It’s tedious at times, keeping things stressful for the slaveholders without making it obvious how artificial their plight is. But it has been successful.”
John thought about the abandoned slave orphanages. The failed debt legislation.
“But money is only half the battle,” said Mycroft, wincing and shifting his weight. “There’s a much more insidious factor holding slavery in place that I simply can’t legislate away. That’s why I needed you.”
“And what’s that?” asked John, curiosity eating away at his despair.
“Social status, of course,” said Mycroft as if it were obvious. “Half of the people at this party only use slaves domestically. For them it’s not about the economy, it’s about the status symbol. They have considerable influence that must be managed. For them, I designed your collar.”
“So they’d be seduced with a perfect slave, and won’t care what happens to the factories.” John’s eyes widened with amazement.
“Exactly. They will happily throw the New Moneyed under a bus for the sake of a better behaved slave. Kudos to them.”
“So, thanks to me, you have them all in your hand,” said John bitterly. “Well, lovely for you, Mycroft. Maybe not so lovely to those perfect slaves, but who cares about them.”
“I care about them, John,” said Mycroft with a gasp of exasperation. “Engineering social change amongst the gentry takes time. But brain surgery is is expensive, and it can’t be mass produced like an external collar. The only people who will ever wear a collar like yours will be the very worst of our criminal class. And for them, whose to say, the pleasure of the collar might be a better fate than the gallows, but even you would have a hard time feeling too sympathetic to their plight.”
John tightened his lips grimly.
“Mmph!” John looked at the pained grunt and saw Mycroft shifting himself awkwardly up to his feet. “Forgive me, I’m simply not limber enough to enjoy a long sit down on the floor. Besides, you are shivering. Let’s go inside. Sherlock will be out of his shower soon.”
John hadn’t really noticed that he was shivering, but he was. The urge to injure himself was gone, and the inside did look inviting. Mycroft closed the doors behind them, then took one of the two arm chairs near the cold fireplace. John stood by the vent while the manor’s feeble central heating did it’s best to rewarm the room.
“Sit down,” Mycroft said pointing to the other chair. John obeyed, finding himself looking eagerly forward to the collar’s response. It triggered just as John took his seat, making him feel even more relaxed and okay.
“How long have you been at this?” John asked with idle curiosity.
“Planning? Since primary school. Though it took a decade to get to a position where I could execute my ideas.”
“And this is as far as you’ve gotten,” said John, somewhat flippantly, but he’d figured at this point that Mycroft wasn’t really going to punish him for something as trivial as insolence. Mycroft had laid out his cards, bizarre and unexpected though they were. “I should think, with your mind, you’d have abolished slavery in a summer.”
Mycroft curled his lip with offence. “Well, to be truthful, slavery is hardly the only iron I have in the fire. As soon as I’ve dealt with this collar, I can devote my full efforts to helping the Empire to amicably divest itself of the most costly parts and shore up the central sustainable core. It won’t be easy. Our people will put up a fuss at losing two rocks and a sheep if it has a British flag planted in it. I’ll be massaging a wounded national pride for the next twenty years at least, I imagine.”
“My god,” said John, incredulously. “You do want to be King.”
Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “Dear lord, no! Never! All that pomp and ceremony, not to mention the public scrutiny? I’d never get anything done!”
He turned his head. “Go ahead and ask,” he said after a moment. “You want to know - why of all the abolitionists and political enemies of mine, did I pick you.”
“Yes,” said John, feeling just the slightest flicker of his earlier ire. “Why me?”
Mycroft leaned forward and patted his knee with a grin. “Because I knew you could handle it, John. And you have. There aren’t many people who could put up with my brother. Besides,” Mycroft went on. “Even if you weren’t a slave, Sherlock would likely treat you like one, anyway.”
John choked out a laugh. That was actually true. Sherlock did have a habit of treating everyone as if they were particularly dimwitted servants. If anything, he treated John with more respect.
The door opened half way though John’s laugh and Sherlock strode into the room, back in his normal tailored suit and Belstaff coat. His wet hair was slicked back and a look of suspicion soured his face, as if he knew they’d just been talking about him.
“Ah, there you are, John!” Sherlock said, voice rumbling. “Has Mycroft been letting the cat out of the bag at last? Good. Well then we can discontinue all the pretending.” He turned to Mycroft. “You’ve had your fun with him, now turn him over to me, as promised.”
Mycroft rose and levelled a disdainful eye at his brother. “I said I would and I will, but you in turn must make me a promise.” Sherlock’s frown increased. Obviously, he was not in the mood for promising anything. “Tell me that you will be careful with him. Owning a person is a very big responsibility. I won’t have him be abused or neglected.”
“Oh, that,” said Sherlock, as if John’s life was nothing worth worrying about. “Of course, I promise. I’m not very well going to injure the only person who has even come close to being worth my company.”
John rolled his eyes.
“And you, John,” said Mycroft, sharply. “When I hand over your reins to Sherlock that doesn’t mean that I won’t be keeping an eye on you. If you start blowing up buildings, or hurting Sherlock, or anything that might endanger my agenda, I shall be very upset. I might not be able to tell you to heel, but I still have an army at my disposal. Don’t make me use them.”
“No, sir,” said John, smartly.
Mycroft smiled. “Very well. I name Sherlock as your new primary owner and relinquish my own ownership. Heel, John.”
What the hell! The completely unexpected punishment outraged John. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it! But just as he rose from his seat to protest, he realised that no actual punishment had happened. The collar lay mute. He levelled a look of surprise at Mycroft, “What was that about?!”
Mycroft just seemed a little wistful. “Just a simple test.”
“You don’t go telling me to ‘heel’ as a test!” groused John. “What if it’d worked?”
“Leave it be, John,” said Sherlock, looking utterly satisfied.
Mycroft nodded and strode towards the door. “I shall leave the two of you to go about your business. I’ve still got a theatre full of miserable slave owners to deal with and the presentation should be finishing any moment. You know your way out, I expect.” He gave John one last nod and then let himself out. For a moment the quaint guest’s suite was quiet but for the low hum of the heating.
“So it’s just you and me now,” said John, at last.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, with satisfaction. “You and me.”
On to the Epilogue