Sherlock Fic: The Place Where I Am Going
Title: The Place Where I Am Going
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, mentions of Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Warnings: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, drug use and abuse, discussions of crime and death, including domestic abuse
Word count: ~11,000
Author’s note: Part of the My Master’s House universe. If you haven’t read prior stories, here’s all you need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs to Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the British Empire.
Other note: Many thanks to jaune_chat for her mad beta skills, morganstuart for her service as Lestrade consultant extraordinaire, and blue_eyed_1987 for ironing out my Americanisms. Also, there is no actual sex in this installment. I apologize.
Summary: Lestrade tries to help John adjust to life in the Holmes household as he reflects on the circumstances that brought him there.
“It’s not what I’d call intuitive,” John said. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Pull out the chair for him,” Lestrade said. He walked a few places down the lengthy banquet table, and slid out one of the heavy wooden monstrosities that passed for chairs. “Seat assignments will be made by Wednesday, so you’ll have plenty of time to memorize Lord Sherlock’s place.”
“And then I just stand there looking foolish?”
“That’s up to you, I suppose, though I don’t think Lord Sherlock’s fond of foolish, in general.” Lestrade pushed the chair back into precise alignment with its fellows. “Personal slaves can kneel by their masters, or stand against the wall. Just don’t get in the table slaves’ way. They tend to have short tempers and sharp elbows.”
“Right.” John managed only a fleeting attempt at a smile, and Lestrade could see the strain in it. In fact, John hadn’t looked very happy since the topic of this banquet had first come up at evening muster yesterday.
“You’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “These formal occasions have a lot of rules, but they’re predictable, at least. That’s more than I can say for a day with Lord Sherlock.”
That did earn a tired smile, at least. “Tell me I’m not the only one who has to suffer through this.”
“Sadly, no. Some of the others will be standing in for guests who didn’t bring their own personal slaves. And I’ll be on duty, of course.” Lestrade pointed to the stretch of wall behind the head table, which was free of furniture, wall hangings, and other decorations. “There. Lord Mycroft likes me to stand so I can observe the room. There’s a lot to see at a formal banquet like this: who’s talking to which seat-mates, who brought their own personal slave and how they’re being treated, who’s drinking and eating what-“
“Is all of that really necessary?”
Lestrade nodded. He’d asked Mycroft the same question, once, and had received a pitying look and an extensive lecture. “Two weeks ago Mycroft noticed Lady Cecin-Barry was only pretending to drink her wine, so he wrote to the Empress about adjusting her succession plans for the nobility in the Lake District. It’s all important to someone.”
“Yes, alright,” John said slowly. He seemed to be re-calibrating his assumptions about the dinner. If all the explanation he’d received so far was from Sherlock, Lestrade wasn’t surprised that reality would be an adjustment.
“You should try to convince Sherlock to attend dinner on Tuesday, when Mycroft’s dining with those military chaps,” Lestrade said. “It would be good practice attending to your duties while paying attention to the rest of the room. Plus then I’d have some company in my role as wallflower.”
“I doubt Sherlock is too keen on attending more formal dinners than he has to.”
“No, you’re right there,” Lestrade said. “Once, to get out of attending a cocktail party at the Czech Embassy, he took- “ He snapped his mouth closed on the last part of that sentence. “Anyway. Yes, he’s not much one for formal social occasions.”
“Why do you do that? Leave off in the middle of a story?” John’s expression hardened. “Is it a matter of Imperial security? Do I not have the clearance to hear about Sherlock’s grand escapades in shirking?”
“It’s not- ” Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Do I ask you about Afghanistan?”
“No,” John said, but he didn’t look in the least chagrined.
“No. Please do me the courtesy of leaving this alone, then.”
“Alright,” he said reasonably enough, though Lestrade doubted this was the last time John would ask about his past.
“So.” Lestrade tapped his hands against the back of the chair he’d been gripping. “What do you do if another slave addresses you?”
“Ignore him? Answer back? I-No I have no idea.” John threw himself into the nearest chair, nudging out of its neat alignment. “Aren’t I supposed to be here for Sherlock? Why do these other people matter?”
“Oh, John,” Lestrade chuckled. He strolled around the table and took the seat opposite John. “Sherlock’s from one of the most important families in the Empire, and he’s done something out of character.”
“And what’s that?”
“He acquired you.” Lestrade watched John’s eyes go wide, then narrow in thought. “Very first slave he’s ever owned. Everyone’s wondering what that means. Is he taking up the mantle of noble responsibility his brother’s been trying to impose for years? Is he preparing for a power play against Lord Mycroft? Is he under the thrall of some smouldering temptress planted by an enemy?”
“Oh yes, it’s that last one, I’m sure of it.”
“They’re going to be watching both of you,” Lestrade warned. He didn’t envy John the scrutiny. He’d hated his first few weeks being seen in public with Mycroft. “And you should be watching them. It’s all interconnected. The way two slaves interact can have implications for their masters. A slave might try to get information out of you, or ask you for a favour. Add in possible interactions with other masters and it all gets rather complicated.”
“I’m starting to appreciate why Sherlock tries to avoid these things.” John rubbed a hand against his forehead. “How do you memorize all this etiquette?”
“I can’t say I had an easy time of it at first,” Lestrade said. “But I had to learn it, and so I did. It’s not as bad as all that. I know you’ve memorized the name of all the bones in the human body, and the symptoms of any STD an Imperial soldier could pick up in the Eastern colonies, and all sorts of other rot, so just think of this room as an organism made up of power and influence. Each part plays its role. Think you can handle that?
“You have got a pretty keen grasp on all this political bollocks.” John leaned back in his chair. “It’s impressive.”
“That’s Mycroft’s influence, that is.” Lestrade smiled, thinking how frequently Mycroft despaired of his lack of capacity for political intrigue. “I never was, before.”
John was watching him with an appraising look. “You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you?”
“He’s my master, John,” Lestrade muttered.
“Well, all the same, one hardly thinks a man could master you if you didn’t mean him to.”
Lestrade surprised himself by barking out a laugh. “That’s a rather romantic notion, John. We’ve both of us been more than lucky in our circumstances. Not every slave can boast the same. But… Thank you.”
--
“I believe I have the situation under control, Detective Sergeant,” Dimmock said stiffly.
“Of course.” Lestrade slid his notebook into his coat pocket and forced a polite nod. Never mind he’d been called out of his bed in the middle of night to come here. The missing man, Ian Monkford, must have some sort of important connections for Dimmock to be interested.
With Dimmock’s promotion to detective inspector barely a month behind him, Dimmock didn’t have much seniority on Lestrade. However, since rumours had begun to circulate about the promotion being the work of his uncle, a minor Lord who worked in city administration, Dimmock had been throwing his weight around rather ostentatiously, in a misguided attempt to prove his fitness for the position.
Lestrade turned away from the blood-spattered couch and the missing man’s wife and left the field to Dimmock. The man was a good enough colleague, if a bit overly tenacious in clinging to his theories. Lestrade figured that after a few months, when Dimmock realized no one was going to take away his promotion, he’d mellow. Perhaps then Lestrade would get a shot at a promotion, himself.
While Dimmock talked to the probably-widow, Lestrade slipped away to the back room, where a forensics technician was taking samples from the sticky puddle of blood on the kitchen tiles. A thin young woman in a long slip sat on a chair in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. She had her eyes fixed on the wall, and didn’t speak to or acknowledge any of the Met officers who passed. She didn’t look up when Lestrade entered, or when he slipped back out.
Lestrade headed back down the flat’s long hallway, which was lined with elaborate wall sconces, and spotted the patrolman who’d been first on the scene. Lestrade searched his memory for the man’s name. “Gillies.” He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Whose slave?”
“Monkford’s, I gather.”
“Monkford’s?”
“Yeah.” Gillies shrugged. “A renter. From one’a them dodgy companies caters to the nouveau riche, figurin out leases from Lords what don’t need all they got. Bloody business, if you ask me. Some class of people ain’t fit to own a human being.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said absently. He could picture Monkford, with a flash apartment like this, loving the idea of having a slave on his arm. A social climber, then. “You get her name?”
“Whose?” Gillies looked puzzled.
“The slave.”
“Oh. No. Didn’t catch it.”
Didn’t ask, more like, Lestrade thought, but he thanked Gillies anyway and went back to the kitchen.
The girl noticed his return this time. She drew her feet up off the floor, away from the sluggishly spreading pool of blood, and hugged them to her chest.
”Miss?” Lestrade stepped toward her with his hands open and outstretched. “You’ll need to answer some questions.”
Though Lestrade couldn’t own slaves himself-that was the exclusive purview of Imperial Lords and Ladies-he’d handled his fair share. The High Commissioner had purchased scores of contracted slaves for use within the Met; they carried out everything from administrative work to car maintenance. Lestrade had never availed himself of any of the so-called comfort slaves some stations kept for officers who worked long hours away from home, but he’d often cultivated allies among the slaves who handled administrative functions. It didn’t hurt to have someone who liked you handling the waiting list for DNA testing.
“Miss?” Closer now, and in the orange-y city light pouring in through the window, Lestrade could see dark bruises beneath the girl’s plastic collar, as if she’d been pulled around by it. “What’s your name?”
“Ava,” she said, in a voice too hoarse for her youth and beauty.
“That’s a pretty name,” Lestrade said.
The girl shivered and ducked her head away.
“Come on.” Lestrade held out his hand, and Ava’s gaze swung to focus on it. Lestrade kept his voice firm and full of command. “Come here, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ava stood and put her hand in Lestrade’s. ”Good girl,” he said. She stepped daintily past the puddle of blood and let Lestrade lead her to the kitchen table.
“Now, I’m going to ask questions, and you shake your head yes or no, alright?”
She nodded.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head: no.
“Did you see how this blood got here?”
She shook her head again.
“Do you know where Ian Monkford is?”
Another shake.
Lestrade pulled his notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note, mostly to busy his hands, but a bit to save himself looking into Ava’s empty eyes. He asked, “Did you see him today?”
Head shake.
“Last night?”
She nodded.
“How long have you been staying with the Monkfords?”
“Since the autumn,” she said softly.
“As long as that?”
“Yes. Don’t know how long a lease he signed.”
The north country, Lestrade thought, from her accent. He wondered how she’d come to slavery. Seemed a bit young for a convicted criminal. Family debt, perhaps. “How long have you had that collar?”
“Less’n a week,” she said. When Lestrade didn’t scold her, she kept talking. “Had a lovely jewelled one, I did, but he took it off me.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Hocked it,” she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. “There was never enough money.”
“There’s more blood? Well, that’s overdoing it a bit, would you say?” A tall man in a long black coat swept into the room and stopped just short of the edge of the drying puddle of blood. Lestrade didn’t recognize the man’s unruly black hair or elegant cheekbones, but he could have been another inspector, or perhaps some kind of Imperial observer. The officers at the door wouldn’t have let him in if he didn’t have a right to be here. “Amateurs, every one,” the man muttered.
Ava shrank back in her chair, and Lestrade stood up, positioning himself a bit in front of where she sat. “Do you mind? I’m talking to a witness.”
Dimmock had followed the man in, and now stood with his hands shoved into coat pockets. “This is Charles,” he muttered. No last name, so not an official personage. The way Dimmock was turned resolutely away, Lestrade half expected this bloke was some sort of chum, or lover, maybe, who’d asked to tag along.
“Charles Butler.” The man pulled off a leather glove and extended a hand. “You must be DS Lestrade.”
“Yes. How did you-?”
“It’s obvious,” Charles said. “Your- ”
“What did the slave have to say?” Dimmock interrupted.
“Ava said that Monkford’s held her contract for a few months, but money had been getting tight recently.”
“He had debts,” Dimmock said.
“Yes, that much is obvious.” Charles walked carefully along the perimeter of the bloodied section of the floor. “The questions is where has he fled to?”
“Fled to?” Lestrade frowned. “Not far, bleeding like he must have been.”
“Hm, no.” Charles abandoned his contemplation of the floor and gave Lestrade a condescending smile. “Have your lab test the blood. This isn’t a murder. It’s insurance fraud.” The man stormed out with a swirl of coat and a negligent slamming of the door.
Dimmock didn’t meet Lestrade’s eyes, but headed right out of out the kitchen.
Lestrade pursued him. “Who was that?” he asked, trying to keep the edge of incredulity out of his voice.
“Found him at an underground boxing hall when I was working the Wently case.” Dimmock heaved a sigh. “Bit of a prat, but he’s been damn useful on a few cases. If he says test the blood, you should do it.”
“Is Charles Butler his real name?”
“I’ve not made any effort to find out,” Dimmock said sharply. “And if you’re clever, you won’t either.”
When the results came back from the lab they revealed the blood had been frozen and thawed. Two hours later, Lestrade received a text: Monkford in Columbia. You’re welcome. -CB
--
“The painting’s a fake. It has to be.”
“I’m busy, Charles.” Lestrade signed another report and tossed it on the “mostly done” pile. “I do in fact have duties to perform that don’t involve being an audience for your ego.”
“More now that you’re a DI.” Charles leaned a hip on the desk, effectively blocking out the light by which Lestrade was reading. “I daresay any assistance I offered on that case with Lord Robert St. Simon might have been to your advantage.”
“As might my decade or so of hard work. If you’ve come to offer your congratulations, do it and get out.” He swatted at Charles with the papers he was holding, and the man retreated from the desk to prowl the room.
“Don’t you see, that painting is why the man was murdered!”
“Experts have verified that painting,” Lestrade explained, though he knew Charles hated to hear facts repeated. “Experts who actually know things about art history and painting technique, who provide the kind of testimony that holds up in a courtroom.”
“I must talk to the gallery staff who moved the painting,” Charles muttered.
“Fine.” Lestrade signed the next report, and onto the pile it went. “All you have to do is get an invitation to the Czech ambassador’s cocktail party. They’re not letting anyone into that Embassy until after the ambassador and her friends have had their little soiree and they’ve done the unveiling.”
“What? No, how interminably dull.”
“Not to mention not open to commoners.” Lestrade finally looked up from his paperwork to see Charles gazing intently at the blank wall, hands folded under his chin. “Also, Charles, the murder didn’t even take place at the gallery or the Embassy.”
“No, a cocktail party is out of the question,” Charles said, as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ll find out another way.” A beep from his phone distracted him again.
Lestrade returned his attention to his paperwork, until he realized his office had been silent for a worryingly long time. He glanced up to see Charles leaning against the wall with the phone in both hands, grinning down at him.
“If I told you I knew where the murderer was hiding would you come?” Charles asked.
“Please tell me this isn’t one of your hypothetical locations,” Lestrade said warily.
Charles tucked his scarf around his throat and made for the door. “I recommend you bring a weapon.”
Later, as Lestrade tried to drag a freakishly tall assassin away from crushing Charles’s throat, he wondered if it would have been wiser to have given Charles the benefit of the doubt about that painting.
--
The morgue wasn’t the worst place to be on a Tuesday evening, Lestrade reflected, especially when it involved harassing Charles Butler as he examined a highly suspicious corpse of a recently deceased television star. It certainly beat paperwork. “Do you really never watch telly?” Lestrade asked. “Ever?”
“I watch nature documentaries,” Charles said. He pressed a finger against the skin of the dead woman’s forehead before straightening up. “She’s been poisoned.”
“That’s not what the toxicology report says.”
“Or you imbeciles don’t know what to look for. Let me see that.” Charles reached for the printout. His rolled sleeve caught on the edge of the counter and edged up his skinny arm.
Lestrade’s eyes caught on the tiny pinprick holes in the thin skin of the inside of his elbow. His hand darted out to grab Charles’ wrist. Lestrade pushed the sleeve further up, revealing a sordid history of track marks written on Charles’ skin. He stared for a moment before he could speak. “What is this?”
“If one of the Empire’s finest doesn’t know, then-“
“What is this? What have you done? Charles!”
“It’s not your concern.” Charles tried to free himself, but Lestrade held on.
“How long?” Lestrade demanded.
Charles kept his eyes on the dead body.
“The whole time we’ve been working together?”
“This has nothing to do with the work.”
Lestrade dropped Charles’ arm and snatched back the tox report. “Get out.”
“Don’t be so squeamish. What I do on my own time has no bearing on the case I’m about to solve.” He held out his hand for the report, not bothering to hide evidence of his addiction. “Give that back.”
Lestrade felt the same calm come over him that he’d felt the first time a suspect had come at him with a knife and a murderous gleam in his eyes. He said, “Get out, Charles.”
“You can’t throw me out.” Charles’ mouth parted on a silent laugh, as if the idea that anyone could make him do anything was patently absurd.
“I am throwing you out right now. I’ve allowed you in on cases because you clearly have a gift, and these victims deserve the best justice I can give them. But you are selfishly putting that in jeopardy.” He pulled the white sheet up over the body of the woman they’d been examining, as if to shield her from the argument. “I will not let you ruin yourself or anyone one else on my watch.” He strode over to the morgue door, pushed it open, and held it. “Get out. If you come back before you’re clean, I’ll arrest you myself.”
Charles, looking more shell-shocked than contrite, wandered out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade with a puzzling murder, a theory about poison, and a deeply unpleasant sick feeling simmering in his belly.
--
“It’s not a matter of whether he killed the sister, not really,” Lestrade said. “It doesn’t explain the mysterious music.” He looked up at the imposing outline of the club, but it offered no clues.
“Nor will it,” said Charles, as he prodded a piece of alley trash with his foot. “Unless you allow me access to the evidence.”
“I can’t.” There hadn’t been any clues at all since a hysterical young Lady had turned up at the Yard two days ago. Lestrade didn’t know where else to turn. Still, he had no intention of giving Charles free rein. “It’s bad enough you show up at crime scenes. I can’t have you rooting through evidence storage.”
“Those moronic minions of yours are so used to seeing me around I doubt they’d notice,” Charles said, and began slowly pacing down the alley.
“Not morons,” Lestrade said automatically. And the ‘minions’ had certainly noticed when Charles had abruptly stopped showing up at crime scenes six months ago. They’d never asked Lestrade about the lapse, but when Charles had returned, complaints about his caustic behaviour hadn’t been filed for a whole week. Lestrade considered, for a moment, telling him he’d been missed, then decided Charles had no need of an ego boost.
“Alright,” Charles said, stopping in front of a banged-up skip. “Give me a leg up.”
Lestrade cupped his hands, which Charles used as a step to clamber in. “If the Imperial Advisors at the Met ever got wind of-“
“Yes, yes. Your precious career would come to an abrupt and inglorious end.” Charles stood up in the skip, holding an old shoe. He sniffed at it, frowned, tossed it over his shoulder, then regarded Lestrade placidly. “You’re not going to solve this without me.”
As much as it galled him, Lestrade suspected that statement was nothing more than the truth. “I did sometimes solve cases before you came along,” he said. But there was a girl’s life at stake here, and Lestrade’s pride was not so hard as to give up Charles’ help to soothe his ego.
“No good.” Charles climbed out of the skip and brushed off his coat. “I’ll have to see the room.”
“Don’t you think we’ve tried that?” Lestrade asked. Charles waved a hand dismissively and set off down the alley. Lestrade pursued him around the corner. “It’s not so simple. You can’t barge into a clubhouse for members of the peerage and-“
Charles pushed open the front door of the club and walked in, bold as the polished brass door handles. “Charles!” Lestrade hissed. He took one step inside, and halted at the coolly inquisitive look of the desk attendant.
For his part, Charles walked up to the front desk, and gave the girl there a charming smile. “Lord Sherlock Holmes. I’d like to engage room forty seven.”
“Of course, Lord Holmes.” The attendant entered something into her computer terminal. After a moment, in which Lestrade stood frozen by the door, she slid an old-fashioned brass key across the desk. “Shall I put the charges on your account?”
“Naturally,” Charles said. “Come along, Lestrade.” He picked up the key and swept toward the lift.
Lestrade had little choice but to follow. Once the doors closed behind them, Lestrade grabbed Charles’ arm. “What are you doing? I should arrest you for impersonating a Lord.”
“If you were going to arrest me, you’d have done so long ago.” Charles shrugged free of Lestrade’s grip and straightened his coat. “Besides, on this occasion I’ve broken no laws.”
The lift pinged and the door slid open. Charles jumped out of the lift, examined the numbered signs, and took off down the left-hand corridor.
Lestrade followed doggedly. “Charles, you just told that girl you were a Lord. More than that, you told her you’re the mad brother of the Lord whose territory includes the part of the city we’re standing in right now. What could-“
Charles whirled around so fast Lestrade almost ran into him. “I am not mad.”
Lestrade stared for a moment as he compared that statement to his accusations. “Your name isn’t Charles Butler, is it?”
Charles fixed his gaze somewhere on the wall behind Lestrade. “You never truly believed that it was.”
“You’re a Lord.”
“Yes.”
“Your brother is Mycroft Holmes.”
“Yes.”
The pieces of the world were merrily re-arranging themselves in Lestrade’s head. “You’re a Lord,” he said again.
“Yes.” Charles was developing that patented disgusted sneer he adopted when someone was rapidly becoming tiresome. “And you should be glad I am, or you’d never get the evidence you need to solve this case.” He turned his back on Lestrade and continued his examination of the room numbers.
Lestrade thought of the times he’d spoken rudely to “Charles,” threatened him with arrest, laid a hand on him. He’d never realized how close he’d been to bringing about his own ruin. He felt as if he’d seen a house cat morph into a lion before his eyes.
“Are you coming?” came a sharp voice from the end of the hallway.
Lestrade followed Lord Sherlock Holmes.
--
“I’m not the drugs squad,” Lestrade protested.
“Listen, mate,” said the forensics tech. “It’s your murder, it’s your evidence.” He held out the clear evidence bag of white powder.
Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be rifling through the dead man’s pockets. He was going to need supervising soon. “Fine,” Lestrade said.
“Sign here.”
Lestrade took the clipboard, and was scribbling his signature at the bottom of the form when a tall figure appeared by his side. Lestrade shoved the evidence bag down into the bottom of his coat pocket.
“The murder wasn’t about drugs,” Sherlock said.
The tech gave Lestrade a “do you believe this guy” look, but Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow.
He wasn’t afraid of provoking Holmes, not really, but he’d become more aware now, in everything he did, of showing a proper respect. Protocol did exist for dealing with aristocracy, of course. Free citizens didn’t live their lives in fear of the Empire. Well, citizens in other lands, perhaps. But in London, in the heart of the Empire, Lestrade should have been flattered to have such a powerful man take an interest in his work. He had nothing to hide. Nothing except the civilian ex-junkie nobleman who insisted on showing up to crime scenes while masquerading as a commoner.
“So” Lestrade said. “Are you going to enlighten us?”.
Sherlock paused for effect, and drew himself up to his full height to deliver his punchline. “The murder was committed to cover up the theft of secret government missile plans.”
Lestrade and the forensics tech exchanged a look. “You’re making that up,” Lestrade said. “You must be.”
“Shall I take you through it, then?” Sherlock asked. His self-satisfaction nearly shone through his pores.
“Please.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock launched into another of his brilliant chains of logic.
It wasn’t until Lestrade had sent out the bulletin describing the missing murderer, checked in at the morgue to get a report from the medical examiner, and drank two cups of very strong tea that he thought to check in the evidence he’d picked up at the scene. He rifled through the pockets of his coat, but found only his mobile. The drugs were gone.
Lestrade didn’t remember dialling, but seconds later he was pacing the confines of his office, listening to Sherlock’s phone ring out. “Pick up, pick up. You mad wanker, pick up!”
He dismissed out of hand the possibility that he might have misplaced the drugs. He knew, somewhere in the cold centre of his stomach, where they’d gone. The only question was why. Perhaps Sherlock had only taken them for a lark, to punish Lestrade for doubting his theory. Perhaps he was off somewhere running chemical tests on the composition of the power. Or perhaps he was preparing a cocaine solution for himself to get dangerously high, and Lord Mycroft Holmes was going to have Lestrade executed for corrupting his baby brother. “Pick up!”
“You know I prefer to text.” Sherlock leaned against the doorway to Lestrade’s office. His eyes were wide and black, his grin too bright. “Wonderful news, Lestrade. I’ve managed to secure the cooperation of a witness.”
Lestrade pulled Sherlock into his office and kicked the door closed. “You’re high.”
“I’m on fire,” Sherlock corrected with a manic gleam in his eye. He went to Lestrade’s desk and picked up a file. “I need another case. I’ll bet I can solve this one in eight hours. Time me.”
“Where have you been?” Lestrade snatched the file folder out of his hand. “Charles. What did you do with the drugs you nicked?”
“I told you. I made a witness very friendly. You’re always complaining I don’t contribute to any of the boring parts of policework. But I do. I do boring things all the time, by necessity, my dull friend.” Sherlock jabbed a finger at Lestrade’s chest.
“Charles.” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and held them down at his sides. “Show me.”
As Sherlock dragged him out of the station, DI Dimmock was stepping out of the lift. He frowned at Lestrade, and spared a considering look for Sherlock. Lestrade returned a quick shake of his head, and then they were off.
After a short drive and a brief foot chase through Fitzrovia, Lestrade was almost hopeful that Sherlock had kept all the drugs for himself-which would have been bad enough. But he should have known better than to hope that Sherlock would misremember or misrepresent the facts of a case. At last, Sherlock lead him up three flights of stairs to an unlocked flat where a blonde woman lay pale and still on a sofa.
“She’s the sort of person I hate to associate with, but when we got to chatting, she was quite forthcoming about her brother’s drug trade. I recovered the missile plans. You can say thank you.”
“This is Joe Harrison’s sister? Andrew West’s fiancé?”
“Of course.” Sherlock leaned against the arm of the sofa, looking up at Lestrade rather like a cat who’d dragged in a dead bird. “She confirmed what I suspected about-- “
“Shut up,” Lestrade snapped. He crouched next to the sofa and took hold of the woman’s wrist. Her pulse was very weak. He pried an eyelid open to find her pupils blown. “How much did she take?”
“As much as she wanted. There was plenty, and she seemed rather upset.” Sherlock held up a baggie with a trace of white powder inside. Lestrade tried to remember how much had been inside the bag that morning. “Isn’t that strange? Nothing even happened to her. She was so upset.”
“Her fiancé’s dead, Sherlock, and her brother’s the one killed him.” At Sherlock’s unexpected silence, he looked up to see the man still and frowning. “How much did you take?”
“Why would she be so upset?” He sank down in a large wing-backed chair, looking more forlorn and childlike than Lestrade had ever seen him.
“The cocaine, Sherlock. How much?”
“Just enough to be polite,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Street drugs are notoriously unreliable. Never know what’s pure.”
Lestrade grabbed his phone from his coat. As he called for medics, Sherlock rattled on about the information he’d got from his witness.
Lestrade hung up and held the girl’s hand in both of his. His fault. He might as well have given her the overdose himself, for all his carelessness. He’d known Sherlock’s weaknesses, and he hadn’t guarded against them.
“You’re fortunate I have the entire Imperial Rail timetable memorized,” Sherlock was saying.
Lestrade was a practical man, but he’d failed himself in this. He had done this. He’d known he was dealing with a spoiled child with no thought for the safety of others, and Lestrade had let him in anyway. He was sworn to protect, and instead he’d brought destruction. This was all his own doing.
Sherlock ran on and on. The drug dealers. The debt. The bloody missile plans.
“Charles.” Lestrade stood. “Charles.” He turned to the chair where Sherlock sat. “Sherlock.” The man paused in his explanation and looked up. “You have to leave. You can’t be found here.”
“Nonsense. I can be found wherever I wish.” Sherlock settled back into the chair and pulled his knees to his chest.
Something in the gesture reminded Lestrade of that girl, the slave he’d been questioning when Sherlock first barged into his crime scene. Lestrade spoke calmly, soothingly to Sherlock, the way he had to that witness. “This girl is in a bad way. You don’t want to get caught up in the inquest.” Lestrade knew how it would go. He’d seen the way the Empire treated those who failed it. Sherlock hadn’t been the one who’d sworn to uphold certain principles. He didn’t deserve to face these particular consequences. “You need to leave,” he said again. “There will be questions. Questions even you won’t be able to talk your way out of.”
“You as well. They’ll question you,” Sherlock countered. Then the facts seemed to catch up with him at last. “Oh.”
“Get out, Charles.” Lights flashed outside the window. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and pulled him bodily out of the chair. “Go on.” Sherlock took three quick steps toward the door before turning back. He looked from the girl on the sofa to Lestrade, and back to the girl. “Sherlock, go.” Lestrade put his best note of command into his voice, into the tone that had occasionally managed to make Sherlock listen. “Now, Sherlock.”
Sherlock ran down the back stairs and was gone. As the sirens wailed, Lestrade stayed holding the cold hand of the last witness of his last case.
--
Done here? On to Part Two
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, mentions of Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Warnings: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, drug use and abuse, discussions of crime and death, including domestic abuse
Word count: ~11,000
Author’s note: Part of the My Master’s House universe. If you haven’t read prior stories, here’s all you need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs to Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the British Empire.
Other note: Many thanks to jaune_chat for her mad beta skills, morganstuart for her service as Lestrade consultant extraordinaire, and blue_eyed_1987 for ironing out my Americanisms. Also, there is no actual sex in this installment. I apologize.
Summary: Lestrade tries to help John adjust to life in the Holmes household as he reflects on the circumstances that brought him there.
“It’s not what I’d call intuitive,” John said. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Pull out the chair for him,” Lestrade said. He walked a few places down the lengthy banquet table, and slid out one of the heavy wooden monstrosities that passed for chairs. “Seat assignments will be made by Wednesday, so you’ll have plenty of time to memorize Lord Sherlock’s place.”
“And then I just stand there looking foolish?”
“That’s up to you, I suppose, though I don’t think Lord Sherlock’s fond of foolish, in general.” Lestrade pushed the chair back into precise alignment with its fellows. “Personal slaves can kneel by their masters, or stand against the wall. Just don’t get in the table slaves’ way. They tend to have short tempers and sharp elbows.”
“Right.” John managed only a fleeting attempt at a smile, and Lestrade could see the strain in it. In fact, John hadn’t looked very happy since the topic of this banquet had first come up at evening muster yesterday.
“You’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “These formal occasions have a lot of rules, but they’re predictable, at least. That’s more than I can say for a day with Lord Sherlock.”
That did earn a tired smile, at least. “Tell me I’m not the only one who has to suffer through this.”
“Sadly, no. Some of the others will be standing in for guests who didn’t bring their own personal slaves. And I’ll be on duty, of course.” Lestrade pointed to the stretch of wall behind the head table, which was free of furniture, wall hangings, and other decorations. “There. Lord Mycroft likes me to stand so I can observe the room. There’s a lot to see at a formal banquet like this: who’s talking to which seat-mates, who brought their own personal slave and how they’re being treated, who’s drinking and eating what-“
“Is all of that really necessary?”
Lestrade nodded. He’d asked Mycroft the same question, once, and had received a pitying look and an extensive lecture. “Two weeks ago Mycroft noticed Lady Cecin-Barry was only pretending to drink her wine, so he wrote to the Empress about adjusting her succession plans for the nobility in the Lake District. It’s all important to someone.”
“Yes, alright,” John said slowly. He seemed to be re-calibrating his assumptions about the dinner. If all the explanation he’d received so far was from Sherlock, Lestrade wasn’t surprised that reality would be an adjustment.
“You should try to convince Sherlock to attend dinner on Tuesday, when Mycroft’s dining with those military chaps,” Lestrade said. “It would be good practice attending to your duties while paying attention to the rest of the room. Plus then I’d have some company in my role as wallflower.”
“I doubt Sherlock is too keen on attending more formal dinners than he has to.”
“No, you’re right there,” Lestrade said. “Once, to get out of attending a cocktail party at the Czech Embassy, he took- “ He snapped his mouth closed on the last part of that sentence. “Anyway. Yes, he’s not much one for formal social occasions.”
“Why do you do that? Leave off in the middle of a story?” John’s expression hardened. “Is it a matter of Imperial security? Do I not have the clearance to hear about Sherlock’s grand escapades in shirking?”
“It’s not- ” Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Do I ask you about Afghanistan?”
“No,” John said, but he didn’t look in the least chagrined.
“No. Please do me the courtesy of leaving this alone, then.”
“Alright,” he said reasonably enough, though Lestrade doubted this was the last time John would ask about his past.
“So.” Lestrade tapped his hands against the back of the chair he’d been gripping. “What do you do if another slave addresses you?”
“Ignore him? Answer back? I-No I have no idea.” John threw himself into the nearest chair, nudging out of its neat alignment. “Aren’t I supposed to be here for Sherlock? Why do these other people matter?”
“Oh, John,” Lestrade chuckled. He strolled around the table and took the seat opposite John. “Sherlock’s from one of the most important families in the Empire, and he’s done something out of character.”
“And what’s that?”
“He acquired you.” Lestrade watched John’s eyes go wide, then narrow in thought. “Very first slave he’s ever owned. Everyone’s wondering what that means. Is he taking up the mantle of noble responsibility his brother’s been trying to impose for years? Is he preparing for a power play against Lord Mycroft? Is he under the thrall of some smouldering temptress planted by an enemy?”
“Oh yes, it’s that last one, I’m sure of it.”
“They’re going to be watching both of you,” Lestrade warned. He didn’t envy John the scrutiny. He’d hated his first few weeks being seen in public with Mycroft. “And you should be watching them. It’s all interconnected. The way two slaves interact can have implications for their masters. A slave might try to get information out of you, or ask you for a favour. Add in possible interactions with other masters and it all gets rather complicated.”
“I’m starting to appreciate why Sherlock tries to avoid these things.” John rubbed a hand against his forehead. “How do you memorize all this etiquette?”
“I can’t say I had an easy time of it at first,” Lestrade said. “But I had to learn it, and so I did. It’s not as bad as all that. I know you’ve memorized the name of all the bones in the human body, and the symptoms of any STD an Imperial soldier could pick up in the Eastern colonies, and all sorts of other rot, so just think of this room as an organism made up of power and influence. Each part plays its role. Think you can handle that?
“You have got a pretty keen grasp on all this political bollocks.” John leaned back in his chair. “It’s impressive.”
“That’s Mycroft’s influence, that is.” Lestrade smiled, thinking how frequently Mycroft despaired of his lack of capacity for political intrigue. “I never was, before.”
John was watching him with an appraising look. “You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you?”
“He’s my master, John,” Lestrade muttered.
“Well, all the same, one hardly thinks a man could master you if you didn’t mean him to.”
Lestrade surprised himself by barking out a laugh. “That’s a rather romantic notion, John. We’ve both of us been more than lucky in our circumstances. Not every slave can boast the same. But… Thank you.”
--
“I believe I have the situation under control, Detective Sergeant,” Dimmock said stiffly.
“Of course.” Lestrade slid his notebook into his coat pocket and forced a polite nod. Never mind he’d been called out of his bed in the middle of night to come here. The missing man, Ian Monkford, must have some sort of important connections for Dimmock to be interested.
With Dimmock’s promotion to detective inspector barely a month behind him, Dimmock didn’t have much seniority on Lestrade. However, since rumours had begun to circulate about the promotion being the work of his uncle, a minor Lord who worked in city administration, Dimmock had been throwing his weight around rather ostentatiously, in a misguided attempt to prove his fitness for the position.
Lestrade turned away from the blood-spattered couch and the missing man’s wife and left the field to Dimmock. The man was a good enough colleague, if a bit overly tenacious in clinging to his theories. Lestrade figured that after a few months, when Dimmock realized no one was going to take away his promotion, he’d mellow. Perhaps then Lestrade would get a shot at a promotion, himself.
While Dimmock talked to the probably-widow, Lestrade slipped away to the back room, where a forensics technician was taking samples from the sticky puddle of blood on the kitchen tiles. A thin young woman in a long slip sat on a chair in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. She had her eyes fixed on the wall, and didn’t speak to or acknowledge any of the Met officers who passed. She didn’t look up when Lestrade entered, or when he slipped back out.
Lestrade headed back down the flat’s long hallway, which was lined with elaborate wall sconces, and spotted the patrolman who’d been first on the scene. Lestrade searched his memory for the man’s name. “Gillies.” He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Whose slave?”
“Monkford’s, I gather.”
“Monkford’s?”
“Yeah.” Gillies shrugged. “A renter. From one’a them dodgy companies caters to the nouveau riche, figurin out leases from Lords what don’t need all they got. Bloody business, if you ask me. Some class of people ain’t fit to own a human being.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said absently. He could picture Monkford, with a flash apartment like this, loving the idea of having a slave on his arm. A social climber, then. “You get her name?”
“Whose?” Gillies looked puzzled.
“The slave.”
“Oh. No. Didn’t catch it.”
Didn’t ask, more like, Lestrade thought, but he thanked Gillies anyway and went back to the kitchen.
The girl noticed his return this time. She drew her feet up off the floor, away from the sluggishly spreading pool of blood, and hugged them to her chest.
”Miss?” Lestrade stepped toward her with his hands open and outstretched. “You’ll need to answer some questions.”
Though Lestrade couldn’t own slaves himself-that was the exclusive purview of Imperial Lords and Ladies-he’d handled his fair share. The High Commissioner had purchased scores of contracted slaves for use within the Met; they carried out everything from administrative work to car maintenance. Lestrade had never availed himself of any of the so-called comfort slaves some stations kept for officers who worked long hours away from home, but he’d often cultivated allies among the slaves who handled administrative functions. It didn’t hurt to have someone who liked you handling the waiting list for DNA testing.
“Miss?” Closer now, and in the orange-y city light pouring in through the window, Lestrade could see dark bruises beneath the girl’s plastic collar, as if she’d been pulled around by it. “What’s your name?”
“Ava,” she said, in a voice too hoarse for her youth and beauty.
“That’s a pretty name,” Lestrade said.
The girl shivered and ducked her head away.
“Come on.” Lestrade held out his hand, and Ava’s gaze swung to focus on it. Lestrade kept his voice firm and full of command. “Come here, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ava stood and put her hand in Lestrade’s. ”Good girl,” he said. She stepped daintily past the puddle of blood and let Lestrade lead her to the kitchen table.
“Now, I’m going to ask questions, and you shake your head yes or no, alright?”
She nodded.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head: no.
“Did you see how this blood got here?”
She shook her head again.
“Do you know where Ian Monkford is?”
Another shake.
Lestrade pulled his notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note, mostly to busy his hands, but a bit to save himself looking into Ava’s empty eyes. He asked, “Did you see him today?”
Head shake.
“Last night?”
She nodded.
“How long have you been staying with the Monkfords?”
“Since the autumn,” she said softly.
“As long as that?”
“Yes. Don’t know how long a lease he signed.”
The north country, Lestrade thought, from her accent. He wondered how she’d come to slavery. Seemed a bit young for a convicted criminal. Family debt, perhaps. “How long have you had that collar?”
“Less’n a week,” she said. When Lestrade didn’t scold her, she kept talking. “Had a lovely jewelled one, I did, but he took it off me.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Hocked it,” she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. “There was never enough money.”
“There’s more blood? Well, that’s overdoing it a bit, would you say?” A tall man in a long black coat swept into the room and stopped just short of the edge of the drying puddle of blood. Lestrade didn’t recognize the man’s unruly black hair or elegant cheekbones, but he could have been another inspector, or perhaps some kind of Imperial observer. The officers at the door wouldn’t have let him in if he didn’t have a right to be here. “Amateurs, every one,” the man muttered.
Ava shrank back in her chair, and Lestrade stood up, positioning himself a bit in front of where she sat. “Do you mind? I’m talking to a witness.”
Dimmock had followed the man in, and now stood with his hands shoved into coat pockets. “This is Charles,” he muttered. No last name, so not an official personage. The way Dimmock was turned resolutely away, Lestrade half expected this bloke was some sort of chum, or lover, maybe, who’d asked to tag along.
“Charles Butler.” The man pulled off a leather glove and extended a hand. “You must be DS Lestrade.”
“Yes. How did you-?”
“It’s obvious,” Charles said. “Your- ”
“What did the slave have to say?” Dimmock interrupted.
“Ava said that Monkford’s held her contract for a few months, but money had been getting tight recently.”
“He had debts,” Dimmock said.
“Yes, that much is obvious.” Charles walked carefully along the perimeter of the bloodied section of the floor. “The questions is where has he fled to?”
“Fled to?” Lestrade frowned. “Not far, bleeding like he must have been.”
“Hm, no.” Charles abandoned his contemplation of the floor and gave Lestrade a condescending smile. “Have your lab test the blood. This isn’t a murder. It’s insurance fraud.” The man stormed out with a swirl of coat and a negligent slamming of the door.
Dimmock didn’t meet Lestrade’s eyes, but headed right out of out the kitchen.
Lestrade pursued him. “Who was that?” he asked, trying to keep the edge of incredulity out of his voice.
“Found him at an underground boxing hall when I was working the Wently case.” Dimmock heaved a sigh. “Bit of a prat, but he’s been damn useful on a few cases. If he says test the blood, you should do it.”
“Is Charles Butler his real name?”
“I’ve not made any effort to find out,” Dimmock said sharply. “And if you’re clever, you won’t either.”
When the results came back from the lab they revealed the blood had been frozen and thawed. Two hours later, Lestrade received a text: Monkford in Columbia. You’re welcome. -CB
--
“The painting’s a fake. It has to be.”
“I’m busy, Charles.” Lestrade signed another report and tossed it on the “mostly done” pile. “I do in fact have duties to perform that don’t involve being an audience for your ego.”
“More now that you’re a DI.” Charles leaned a hip on the desk, effectively blocking out the light by which Lestrade was reading. “I daresay any assistance I offered on that case with Lord Robert St. Simon might have been to your advantage.”
“As might my decade or so of hard work. If you’ve come to offer your congratulations, do it and get out.” He swatted at Charles with the papers he was holding, and the man retreated from the desk to prowl the room.
“Don’t you see, that painting is why the man was murdered!”
“Experts have verified that painting,” Lestrade explained, though he knew Charles hated to hear facts repeated. “Experts who actually know things about art history and painting technique, who provide the kind of testimony that holds up in a courtroom.”
“I must talk to the gallery staff who moved the painting,” Charles muttered.
“Fine.” Lestrade signed the next report, and onto the pile it went. “All you have to do is get an invitation to the Czech ambassador’s cocktail party. They’re not letting anyone into that Embassy until after the ambassador and her friends have had their little soiree and they’ve done the unveiling.”
“What? No, how interminably dull.”
“Not to mention not open to commoners.” Lestrade finally looked up from his paperwork to see Charles gazing intently at the blank wall, hands folded under his chin. “Also, Charles, the murder didn’t even take place at the gallery or the Embassy.”
“No, a cocktail party is out of the question,” Charles said, as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ll find out another way.” A beep from his phone distracted him again.
Lestrade returned his attention to his paperwork, until he realized his office had been silent for a worryingly long time. He glanced up to see Charles leaning against the wall with the phone in both hands, grinning down at him.
“If I told you I knew where the murderer was hiding would you come?” Charles asked.
“Please tell me this isn’t one of your hypothetical locations,” Lestrade said warily.
Charles tucked his scarf around his throat and made for the door. “I recommend you bring a weapon.”
Later, as Lestrade tried to drag a freakishly tall assassin away from crushing Charles’s throat, he wondered if it would have been wiser to have given Charles the benefit of the doubt about that painting.
--
The morgue wasn’t the worst place to be on a Tuesday evening, Lestrade reflected, especially when it involved harassing Charles Butler as he examined a highly suspicious corpse of a recently deceased television star. It certainly beat paperwork. “Do you really never watch telly?” Lestrade asked. “Ever?”
“I watch nature documentaries,” Charles said. He pressed a finger against the skin of the dead woman’s forehead before straightening up. “She’s been poisoned.”
“That’s not what the toxicology report says.”
“Or you imbeciles don’t know what to look for. Let me see that.” Charles reached for the printout. His rolled sleeve caught on the edge of the counter and edged up his skinny arm.
Lestrade’s eyes caught on the tiny pinprick holes in the thin skin of the inside of his elbow. His hand darted out to grab Charles’ wrist. Lestrade pushed the sleeve further up, revealing a sordid history of track marks written on Charles’ skin. He stared for a moment before he could speak. “What is this?”
“If one of the Empire’s finest doesn’t know, then-“
“What is this? What have you done? Charles!”
“It’s not your concern.” Charles tried to free himself, but Lestrade held on.
“How long?” Lestrade demanded.
Charles kept his eyes on the dead body.
“The whole time we’ve been working together?”
“This has nothing to do with the work.”
Lestrade dropped Charles’ arm and snatched back the tox report. “Get out.”
“Don’t be so squeamish. What I do on my own time has no bearing on the case I’m about to solve.” He held out his hand for the report, not bothering to hide evidence of his addiction. “Give that back.”
Lestrade felt the same calm come over him that he’d felt the first time a suspect had come at him with a knife and a murderous gleam in his eyes. He said, “Get out, Charles.”
“You can’t throw me out.” Charles’ mouth parted on a silent laugh, as if the idea that anyone could make him do anything was patently absurd.
“I am throwing you out right now. I’ve allowed you in on cases because you clearly have a gift, and these victims deserve the best justice I can give them. But you are selfishly putting that in jeopardy.” He pulled the white sheet up over the body of the woman they’d been examining, as if to shield her from the argument. “I will not let you ruin yourself or anyone one else on my watch.” He strode over to the morgue door, pushed it open, and held it. “Get out. If you come back before you’re clean, I’ll arrest you myself.”
Charles, looking more shell-shocked than contrite, wandered out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade with a puzzling murder, a theory about poison, and a deeply unpleasant sick feeling simmering in his belly.
--
“It’s not a matter of whether he killed the sister, not really,” Lestrade said. “It doesn’t explain the mysterious music.” He looked up at the imposing outline of the club, but it offered no clues.
“Nor will it,” said Charles, as he prodded a piece of alley trash with his foot. “Unless you allow me access to the evidence.”
“I can’t.” There hadn’t been any clues at all since a hysterical young Lady had turned up at the Yard two days ago. Lestrade didn’t know where else to turn. Still, he had no intention of giving Charles free rein. “It’s bad enough you show up at crime scenes. I can’t have you rooting through evidence storage.”
“Those moronic minions of yours are so used to seeing me around I doubt they’d notice,” Charles said, and began slowly pacing down the alley.
“Not morons,” Lestrade said automatically. And the ‘minions’ had certainly noticed when Charles had abruptly stopped showing up at crime scenes six months ago. They’d never asked Lestrade about the lapse, but when Charles had returned, complaints about his caustic behaviour hadn’t been filed for a whole week. Lestrade considered, for a moment, telling him he’d been missed, then decided Charles had no need of an ego boost.
“Alright,” Charles said, stopping in front of a banged-up skip. “Give me a leg up.”
Lestrade cupped his hands, which Charles used as a step to clamber in. “If the Imperial Advisors at the Met ever got wind of-“
“Yes, yes. Your precious career would come to an abrupt and inglorious end.” Charles stood up in the skip, holding an old shoe. He sniffed at it, frowned, tossed it over his shoulder, then regarded Lestrade placidly. “You’re not going to solve this without me.”
As much as it galled him, Lestrade suspected that statement was nothing more than the truth. “I did sometimes solve cases before you came along,” he said. But there was a girl’s life at stake here, and Lestrade’s pride was not so hard as to give up Charles’ help to soothe his ego.
“No good.” Charles climbed out of the skip and brushed off his coat. “I’ll have to see the room.”
“Don’t you think we’ve tried that?” Lestrade asked. Charles waved a hand dismissively and set off down the alley. Lestrade pursued him around the corner. “It’s not so simple. You can’t barge into a clubhouse for members of the peerage and-“
Charles pushed open the front door of the club and walked in, bold as the polished brass door handles. “Charles!” Lestrade hissed. He took one step inside, and halted at the coolly inquisitive look of the desk attendant.
For his part, Charles walked up to the front desk, and gave the girl there a charming smile. “Lord Sherlock Holmes. I’d like to engage room forty seven.”
“Of course, Lord Holmes.” The attendant entered something into her computer terminal. After a moment, in which Lestrade stood frozen by the door, she slid an old-fashioned brass key across the desk. “Shall I put the charges on your account?”
“Naturally,” Charles said. “Come along, Lestrade.” He picked up the key and swept toward the lift.
Lestrade had little choice but to follow. Once the doors closed behind them, Lestrade grabbed Charles’ arm. “What are you doing? I should arrest you for impersonating a Lord.”
“If you were going to arrest me, you’d have done so long ago.” Charles shrugged free of Lestrade’s grip and straightened his coat. “Besides, on this occasion I’ve broken no laws.”
The lift pinged and the door slid open. Charles jumped out of the lift, examined the numbered signs, and took off down the left-hand corridor.
Lestrade followed doggedly. “Charles, you just told that girl you were a Lord. More than that, you told her you’re the mad brother of the Lord whose territory includes the part of the city we’re standing in right now. What could-“
Charles whirled around so fast Lestrade almost ran into him. “I am not mad.”
Lestrade stared for a moment as he compared that statement to his accusations. “Your name isn’t Charles Butler, is it?”
Charles fixed his gaze somewhere on the wall behind Lestrade. “You never truly believed that it was.”
“You’re a Lord.”
“Yes.”
“Your brother is Mycroft Holmes.”
“Yes.”
The pieces of the world were merrily re-arranging themselves in Lestrade’s head. “You’re a Lord,” he said again.
“Yes.” Charles was developing that patented disgusted sneer he adopted when someone was rapidly becoming tiresome. “And you should be glad I am, or you’d never get the evidence you need to solve this case.” He turned his back on Lestrade and continued his examination of the room numbers.
Lestrade thought of the times he’d spoken rudely to “Charles,” threatened him with arrest, laid a hand on him. He’d never realized how close he’d been to bringing about his own ruin. He felt as if he’d seen a house cat morph into a lion before his eyes.
“Are you coming?” came a sharp voice from the end of the hallway.
Lestrade followed Lord Sherlock Holmes.
--
“I’m not the drugs squad,” Lestrade protested.
“Listen, mate,” said the forensics tech. “It’s your murder, it’s your evidence.” He held out the clear evidence bag of white powder.
Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be rifling through the dead man’s pockets. He was going to need supervising soon. “Fine,” Lestrade said.
“Sign here.”
Lestrade took the clipboard, and was scribbling his signature at the bottom of the form when a tall figure appeared by his side. Lestrade shoved the evidence bag down into the bottom of his coat pocket.
“The murder wasn’t about drugs,” Sherlock said.
The tech gave Lestrade a “do you believe this guy” look, but Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow.
He wasn’t afraid of provoking Holmes, not really, but he’d become more aware now, in everything he did, of showing a proper respect. Protocol did exist for dealing with aristocracy, of course. Free citizens didn’t live their lives in fear of the Empire. Well, citizens in other lands, perhaps. But in London, in the heart of the Empire, Lestrade should have been flattered to have such a powerful man take an interest in his work. He had nothing to hide. Nothing except the civilian ex-junkie nobleman who insisted on showing up to crime scenes while masquerading as a commoner.
“So” Lestrade said. “Are you going to enlighten us?”.
Sherlock paused for effect, and drew himself up to his full height to deliver his punchline. “The murder was committed to cover up the theft of secret government missile plans.”
Lestrade and the forensics tech exchanged a look. “You’re making that up,” Lestrade said. “You must be.”
“Shall I take you through it, then?” Sherlock asked. His self-satisfaction nearly shone through his pores.
“Please.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock launched into another of his brilliant chains of logic.
It wasn’t until Lestrade had sent out the bulletin describing the missing murderer, checked in at the morgue to get a report from the medical examiner, and drank two cups of very strong tea that he thought to check in the evidence he’d picked up at the scene. He rifled through the pockets of his coat, but found only his mobile. The drugs were gone.
Lestrade didn’t remember dialling, but seconds later he was pacing the confines of his office, listening to Sherlock’s phone ring out. “Pick up, pick up. You mad wanker, pick up!”
He dismissed out of hand the possibility that he might have misplaced the drugs. He knew, somewhere in the cold centre of his stomach, where they’d gone. The only question was why. Perhaps Sherlock had only taken them for a lark, to punish Lestrade for doubting his theory. Perhaps he was off somewhere running chemical tests on the composition of the power. Or perhaps he was preparing a cocaine solution for himself to get dangerously high, and Lord Mycroft Holmes was going to have Lestrade executed for corrupting his baby brother. “Pick up!”
“You know I prefer to text.” Sherlock leaned against the doorway to Lestrade’s office. His eyes were wide and black, his grin too bright. “Wonderful news, Lestrade. I’ve managed to secure the cooperation of a witness.”
Lestrade pulled Sherlock into his office and kicked the door closed. “You’re high.”
“I’m on fire,” Sherlock corrected with a manic gleam in his eye. He went to Lestrade’s desk and picked up a file. “I need another case. I’ll bet I can solve this one in eight hours. Time me.”
“Where have you been?” Lestrade snatched the file folder out of his hand. “Charles. What did you do with the drugs you nicked?”
“I told you. I made a witness very friendly. You’re always complaining I don’t contribute to any of the boring parts of policework. But I do. I do boring things all the time, by necessity, my dull friend.” Sherlock jabbed a finger at Lestrade’s chest.
“Charles.” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and held them down at his sides. “Show me.”
As Sherlock dragged him out of the station, DI Dimmock was stepping out of the lift. He frowned at Lestrade, and spared a considering look for Sherlock. Lestrade returned a quick shake of his head, and then they were off.
After a short drive and a brief foot chase through Fitzrovia, Lestrade was almost hopeful that Sherlock had kept all the drugs for himself-which would have been bad enough. But he should have known better than to hope that Sherlock would misremember or misrepresent the facts of a case. At last, Sherlock lead him up three flights of stairs to an unlocked flat where a blonde woman lay pale and still on a sofa.
“She’s the sort of person I hate to associate with, but when we got to chatting, she was quite forthcoming about her brother’s drug trade. I recovered the missile plans. You can say thank you.”
“This is Joe Harrison’s sister? Andrew West’s fiancé?”
“Of course.” Sherlock leaned against the arm of the sofa, looking up at Lestrade rather like a cat who’d dragged in a dead bird. “She confirmed what I suspected about-- “
“Shut up,” Lestrade snapped. He crouched next to the sofa and took hold of the woman’s wrist. Her pulse was very weak. He pried an eyelid open to find her pupils blown. “How much did she take?”
“As much as she wanted. There was plenty, and she seemed rather upset.” Sherlock held up a baggie with a trace of white powder inside. Lestrade tried to remember how much had been inside the bag that morning. “Isn’t that strange? Nothing even happened to her. She was so upset.”
“Her fiancé’s dead, Sherlock, and her brother’s the one killed him.” At Sherlock’s unexpected silence, he looked up to see the man still and frowning. “How much did you take?”
“Why would she be so upset?” He sank down in a large wing-backed chair, looking more forlorn and childlike than Lestrade had ever seen him.
“The cocaine, Sherlock. How much?”
“Just enough to be polite,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Street drugs are notoriously unreliable. Never know what’s pure.”
Lestrade grabbed his phone from his coat. As he called for medics, Sherlock rattled on about the information he’d got from his witness.
Lestrade hung up and held the girl’s hand in both of his. His fault. He might as well have given her the overdose himself, for all his carelessness. He’d known Sherlock’s weaknesses, and he hadn’t guarded against them.
“You’re fortunate I have the entire Imperial Rail timetable memorized,” Sherlock was saying.
Lestrade was a practical man, but he’d failed himself in this. He had done this. He’d known he was dealing with a spoiled child with no thought for the safety of others, and Lestrade had let him in anyway. He was sworn to protect, and instead he’d brought destruction. This was all his own doing.
Sherlock ran on and on. The drug dealers. The debt. The bloody missile plans.
“Charles.” Lestrade stood. “Charles.” He turned to the chair where Sherlock sat. “Sherlock.” The man paused in his explanation and looked up. “You have to leave. You can’t be found here.”
“Nonsense. I can be found wherever I wish.” Sherlock settled back into the chair and pulled his knees to his chest.
Something in the gesture reminded Lestrade of that girl, the slave he’d been questioning when Sherlock first barged into his crime scene. Lestrade spoke calmly, soothingly to Sherlock, the way he had to that witness. “This girl is in a bad way. You don’t want to get caught up in the inquest.” Lestrade knew how it would go. He’d seen the way the Empire treated those who failed it. Sherlock hadn’t been the one who’d sworn to uphold certain principles. He didn’t deserve to face these particular consequences. “You need to leave,” he said again. “There will be questions. Questions even you won’t be able to talk your way out of.”
“You as well. They’ll question you,” Sherlock countered. Then the facts seemed to catch up with him at last. “Oh.”
“Get out, Charles.” Lights flashed outside the window. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms and pulled him bodily out of the chair. “Go on.” Sherlock took three quick steps toward the door before turning back. He looked from the girl on the sofa to Lestrade, and back to the girl. “Sherlock, go.” Lestrade put his best note of command into his voice, into the tone that had occasionally managed to make Sherlock listen. “Now, Sherlock.”
Sherlock ran down the back stairs and was gone. As the sirens wailed, Lestrade stayed holding the cold hand of the last witness of his last case.
--
Done here? On to Part Two