Sherlock Fic: If It Were Not So, I Would Have Told You (Part 1 of 3)
Now for the long-delayed next installment of the In My Master's House series! This installment has three parts, all complete, which will be posted over the next three days. After that, I estimate at least another month before I'll be ready with the next installment. And there will be at least two more after that, ha. Oh, I've created a slave AU monster. Onto the porn, yes/yes?
Title: If It Were Not So, I Would Have Told You
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~20,000
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, dub-con and discussion of such, attempted non-con, not necessarily healthy or well-negotiated D/s dynamics, humiliation, corporal punishment, bondage, semi-graphic descriptions of violence
Context: Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series (see the master post to get started), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.
Notes: Thanks to the fine folks at sh-britglish for explaining sport shooting, morganstuart for providing indispensible character insights, jaune_chat for late-night plot-fixing gchats and emergency conference calls, and blue-eyed-1987 for making things more British.
Summary: Everyone in the Holmes household is considering who to trust. Tricky thing about trust: preserved, it yields great strength, but once broken, it takes a great length of time to repair.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
--
The too-bright desert. John’s gun solid in his hands, his pack heavy on his back, his mates around him, marching on while he stood still. A man-- short but sturdy, dirty blond hair sticking out under his helmet---lay facedown just to the side of the road. Blood leaked from his right shoulder and soaked into the red dirt.
“Leave him.” Lord Sherlock, in the field uniform of a major, stepped in front of John. Blocked his view of the body-no, the wounded man.
“I can help him.” John started forward.
Sherlock stopped him with a hand against his shoulder. “He’s gone, John. I need you.”
“Don’t you have enough already?”
“I need you.”
John could hear his unit marching on, out of sight over the crest of the hill. The bleeding man wasn’t moving. Wounded in the shoulder, blond hair. Something about him seemed familiar. He looked to Sherlock. “What do you want from me?”
“Follow me. You’ll find out.” Sherlock glided past John, out onto the road.
John stared at the body growing cold in the dirt.
“Captain Watson. John.”
John turned. Sherlock’s hand stretched out toward him, pale in the bright sunlight. “Will you come with me?”
--
John woke up lying on his belly. Something had stirred him, and a quick assessment of his surroundings revealed the culprit: a slick finger breaching his ass. John shifted, but the finger followed, pushing deeper inside of him.
“Sherlock, it’s too early,” John grumbled. In point of fact, he had no idea of the time, but he did know that his body needed more rest. His sleep had not been peaceful.
“I’ve been awake for hours.” Sherlock squeezed another slick finger inside of John and stroked both together at a leisurely pace.
John’s sleep-fogged mind tried to imagine what Sherlock might have been doing silently in the dark of John’s room for that long, then gave it up as a bad job. “At least wait until I’m properly awake.”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
John dropped his head onto the pillow and tried to decide whether to struggle or just relax. “You know, I can’t actually give my consent if I’m asleep.”
“It doesn’t matter what your feelings are towards me.” Sherlock’s right hand squeezed the back of John’s neck, above his collar, and pushed his face down hard. With his other hand, he spread his fingers inside John. “I don’t need your consent.”
John squirmed beneath him, and blurted out, “But you do want it.”
“What?” Sherlock’s grip eased up.
“You want my consent.” John felt a rush of relief when Sherlock remained still. At least he was listening. “You don’t want to hold me down as I struggle.”
Sherlock eased his fingers out of John, slowly. The silence stretched until John thought Sherlock might not respond at all. At last, Sherlock said, “I do want to hold you down.” Sherlock’s hand trailed down John’s neck, across the width of his collar, and down his back. “I often think about throwing you to the ground and taking you without shame, as animals do. It’s distracting.”
John pressed his eyes closed. He shouldn’t find that idea arousing. Deep as he was in Sherlock’s power already, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge fantasies that matched up eerily well with his master’s. Besides, he reminded himself, as a slave, he had only himself to look out for his own well-being. “So you like the idea of my fighting you, calling for you to stop.”
“That’s not what I said.” Sherlock’s hand traced around the muscle of John’s arse before curling around his hip. “When I think about this scenario, you are an enthusiastic participant.”
“So you do want my consent.” John turned on his side so he could look up at Sherlock, who was still squeezed in between John and the wall.
“I wouldn’t object to it.” Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on his hand resting on John’s hip.
“Fine, then.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask for it.”
“I shouldn’t need to.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You belong to me. You’re mine to use as I wish.”
John’s jaw clenched tight, and he felt anger clash against the arousal that had been simmering inside him, like water thrown into hot oil. “Perhaps I liked it better when you were shamming,” he said.
“Then make up your mind!” Sherlock released John and sat up, leaning his back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. “It’s difficult enough to have a slave in my charge. Must I be saddled with one so...”
“Insightful?” John offered.
“Obstinate!” Sherlock moved quickly, planting his hand on John’s far side and looming over him. “I’d very much like to fuck you now, John. Are you amenable?”
“Why should I be?”
“Why--?” Sherlock’s incredulous expression made John smile. “Because I’m your master!”
“Wrong answer.” John shook his head, sure that he was about to earn himself a slap.
Instead, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Because I can ensure you’ll achieve orgasm in return,” he said slowly.
“Getting warmer,” John said.
Sherlock released a rough exhalation of breath, but he didn’t yet move to take what he wanted. Instead, he said, “Because I want you terribly, and may not be able to concentrate on the work until I have you.”
John raised his eyebrows at that admission. He rolled over onto his back, pretending to consider Sherlock’s answer. “Say the magic word.”
“Magic?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again. “Now you expect magic from me?”
“I meant please, Sherlock.” John reached out to drag a hand down Sherlock’s side, soothingly. “Say please.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, John.” Sherlock tensed under John’s hand, but he didn’t strike John, didn’t berate him. Instead, he seemed to be waging some internal battle.
“It’s only polite,” John said. He let his hand rove further down, sliding over Sherlock’s flank, then delving back to ghost over the firm muscle of his arse. He was playing with fire, he knew, but the thrill had him rock hard.
Sherlock closed his eyes for the space of one breath, then opened them again. “Please, John.”
John stared back searchingly, looking for any trace of deception. “Do you mean that?”
“Please!” Sherlock growled. No sham in his words or his eyes, just barely-restrained desperation.
John felt an easing within him, like a dislocated joint sliding into place. He said, “Yes.”
Sherlock lunged forward and shoved John hard, tumbling him onto the ground. John caught himself on his hands and the balls of his feet. A moment later Sherlock was on top of him, his weight bearing John down to the floor, trapping his erection against the threadbare rug.
Sherlock’s hands moved along John’s sides, his back, his arms, as if unsure which part of John they wanted most to claim. Sherlock’s cock nudged against John’s ass, leaving damp smudges of pre-come against his skin. John shivered under the rough touch of Sherlock’s tongue, dragging up his shoulder blade, over the scar.
John pressed his face to the floor, closed his eyes, and gulped in breath. He’d begun to harden during their discussion and at seeing the look of desperation in Sherlock’s eyes. Now his body fairly thrummed with pleasure at the feel of Sherlock holding him down. He tried to muster a sense of shame for how far he’d fallen, but any trepidations had been washed away in the flood of pleasure he’d felt when Sherlock asked for his permission.
“Yes,” John said again.
Sherlock answered with a wordless growl. He pressed the full length of his body against John, enveloping him.
John knew Sherlock couldn’t wait much longer, and with his earlier ministrations, John was ready for him. “Go on.” John spread his legs and canted his hips up as best he could. “I can take it.”
Sherlock’s attention distilled to one task, then. He entered John, quick and rough, without ceremony, and began to ride him with single-minded intensity. His breath was hot on the back of John’s neck, warming the leather of his collar. One hand braced against the small of John’s back, holding him in place. Sherlock had abandoned himself entirely to the act-to John.
Small, desperate sounds-wholly unlike Sherlock’s usual brisk baritone-escaped Sherlock’s control. John pushed up against Sherlock’s hold, not resisting, but spurring his master on, spreading his legs for leverage. He almost collapsed when Sherlock’s next stroke hit a spot that sent fissions of pleasure sparking across his skin. Sherlock noticed the change in him and began seeking out the angle that could cause that reaction: a glorious full-body shudder as every one of John’s muscles clenched.
“Do you like this?” Sherlock whispered.
John spared the breath for a laugh, because Sherlock was asking a real question, not engaging in rhetorical dirty talk.
Sherlock reached a hand beneath John and exhaled sharply when he found him hard. “Tell me again. Please.”
“Yes,” John gasped.
Now that Sherlock had taken an interest in learning John’s body, he excelled in it as he excelled in everything else. His hand twisted around the crown of John’s cock in just the right way to send John’s back arching, thrusting desperately into Sherlock’s fist and back again onto his cock. Sherlock’s breathless voice echoed John’s. “Yes.”
The rumble of that voice reverberated in John’s chest, buoyed by the sensations that surrounded him and penetrated him. Sherlock held John in his hand, conquered him from the inside, subsumed him, as if Sherlock was the only thing that mattered: John’s God, his master.
Sherlock timed his thrusts perfectly with his hand on John to bring them off together: Sherlock catching his breath and clinging to John just a moment before John tipped over the edge, spilling over Sherlock’s fingers. John’s trembling limbs held them up only an instant after before they both collapsed onto the rug.
For several minutes, John could only breathe. Any thoughts that tried to form were shattered immediately by the triumphant pounding of his blood.
Sherlock remained silent as well, slumped against John’s back, with his nose buried in the crook of John’s neck.
At last, the protesting muscles in John’s shoulder drove him to extract himself from the two-man pile-up. He pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the bed for support. He didn’t look down to see whether or not Sherlock was watching him. “I’m off to the shower.”
Sherlock grunted in response.
John grabbed the robe Anthea had left him last night and padded down the hall to the personal slaves’ communal showers. As he stood under the hot spray, he tried to calm the panicked racing of his heart. John wasn’t losing his mind. He wasn’t giving himself away entirely. He just hadn’t known quite how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen.
Long after he was clean, John stood with his hands braced against the tile wall, letting the spray sluice down his back, where he imagined he could still feel Sherlock’s hands on him: a touch that burned like a brand, a touch he’d invited.
When he returned, Sherlock was still face-down on the rug in what looked to be a thoroughly uncomfortable sprawl.
“Do you need something?” John asked. He quickly squeezed his mouth shut, reminding himself not to offer Sherlock anything else; he’d already given away too much.
“It’s untenable, this uncertainty,” Sherlock muttered into the rug. He rolled onto his side slowly, and looked up at John. “If I had an expert to consult, if I had more data, I’d have solved this by now. How can I make bricks without clay? Even you don’t have any useful information.”
John released a tense breath he’d been holding since returning to the room. Sherlock was lamenting about the case and hurling insults. All back to normal, then.
“You don’t know that.” John slung his towel over the door of the cupboard and began the search for clothes. “I do know a thing or two. What’s the problem?”
“You can’t help.” Sherlock propped his head up on his elbow and narrowed his eyes at John. “You told me you’d never been in love.”
“That was true at the time.” John had selected a t-shirt, pulled it on, and begun reaching for trousers when he realized what he’d said. He froze where he was, hand outstretched.
The room filled up with heavy silence until John felt the weight of it settling on him like a physical force. Behind him, Sherlock seemed disinclined to make any response. Telling himself firmly that he’d braved worse danger than this, John turned to face his master.
Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rug, hands braced against his knees, looking up at John with an expression of cold neutrality.
John’s mind sorted through a dozen possible excuses, rejecting each one like an unsuitable playing card as he watched Sherlock observe him, stone-faced. He said the only thing protocol left to him. “Sir?”
“Right. Yes.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. His eyes darted around the room, observing everything except John. “I’ve work to do.” He snatched his own dressing gown off the floor and shrugged it on before gathering his notes from the night before, the photo print-out of the markings painted on the rock, and John’s copy of Freedom through Obedience off the table. “Get dressed. Wear something warm. Meet me in the kitchen.” He tugged open the door and left without another look at John.
--
When Lestrade snapped awake in the darkness of his master’s room, he heard the shower running. He groped for his watch on the nightstand, and frowned at the time. He shouldn’t have been abed while Mycroft was awake. That sort of indulgence was for indolent bed slaves, not for men like Lestrade, with real work to do. Well, as real as any slave’s work could be.
Lestrade swallowed the sour taste in his mouth as he replayed Mycroft’s words from the night before. “The Imperial Police Force lost a good thing in you.” Hardly. Lestrade could barely manage to keep his small section of the household running smoothly. He had no hope of unravelling the mystery of his master’s strange behaviour, and no power to protect anyone he cared about.
Lestrade kicked off the covers and climbed out of bed. Without knowing how long Mycroft had been up already, it was difficult to gauge how much time he’d have before other duties intruded, but Lestrade wanted to have something to show for himself: some task completed. Once he got up and got to work, he’d shake off this damn melancholy.
A chill had crept into the room overnight, so Lestrade retrieved his shirt and slid it on as he went about turning on the lights. He circled around to the desk, where he’d left his tablet the night before. Reports would be coming in from the other personal slaves’ evening duties, so Lestrade could get a head start on sorting through those.
As Lestrade picked up his tablet, he noticed the pile of Mycroft’s papers on the desk beside it. His eyes caught on a list of numbers neatly lined up on the top document. He leaned in closer: sixteen-digit alphanumeric codes, all starting with the three-letter code for dominion of origin, in this case, CHI for Chinese Empire. Slave contract numbers. Lestrade pressed his hand flat against the desk as his eyes scanned the rest of the document: customs approval for importing slaves. Lestrade’s hand moved of its own volition to push the top sheet aside, revealing the next document down: this one a bill of sale, with contract numbers beginning with ENG, AUS, IND... Slaves from the Empire.
Lestrade’s eyes raced down the list, and felt a shameful rush of relief at seeing his own contract number was not present. These documents were surely routine: Lord Mycroft was responsible for any number of slaves who worked across his territory. They could even have been documents belonging to someone else, submitted for Mycroft’s review.
Lestrade moved to slide the top paper back onto the stack when his eye caught on a familiar number on the bill of sale: IRE-0112-358-13-2134. His own was the only contract code he’d committed to memory, but he saw others-those of the personal slaves he managed-often enough for one to look familiar. They were listed on the activity reports the personal slaves filled out; he’d only have to look at the reports to compare the numbers. He reached for his tablet.
“Gregory.”
Lestrade whirled around. Mycroft stood two paces away, wrapped in his dressing gown, skin still damp from the shower. He wore a painstakingly neutral expression. “Gregory, what is the passcode override to the personal slaves’ wing?”
Lestrade closed his mouth on his first response, which was that Mycroft must already know it, and answered, “One four six one, then twenty-four fourteen.”
“And the code to your own room?”
Lestrade swallowed hard as his mind raced around the questions, trying to see their meaning. He ventured a weak smile. “Are you planning to come for a visit?”
“No,” Mycroft said softly. “Tell me the code.”
“One two three four.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“It didn’t seem important to change it from the default.”
“Re-set the code. I want you to change it to the following: one eight nine five. Yes?”
“One eight nine five,” Lestrade repeated.
“Good, Gregory.” Mycroft turned aside, showing Lestrade his back. “You may go. Send Clarke in. And I’ll be in private meetings all morning, so there’s no need to attend after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade grabbed his tablet and headed for the door.
“Gregory.”
“Yes, sir?” Lestrade stopped where he was, and cursed the jab of fear that struck him. Mycroft wouldn’t hurt him. Mycroft hadn’t ever hurt him. He turned around to look.
Mycroft held up the top document from the pile on his desk. “The Chinese Ambassador asked to bring in some personal slaves to help serve at the banquet. I trust I can count on you to help prepare them for the event.”
Of course. A simple explanation. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Only when Lestrade stood at the entrance to the personal slaves’ wing, pressing his thumb against the scanner, did he notice the numeric pad for the override code and realize that he had no hope of remembering the numbers he’d seen on the bill of sale.
--
John entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the worktop, wrapping up a sandwich. Sherlock stood watching her, wearing a coat: not his normal long, black affair, but a finely tailored tweed jacket, paired with boots.
“It’s only my opinion, of course,” Mrs Hudson was saying. “But I do have a sense about these things.”
“Ah, John. At last.” Sherlock extricated himself from his sprawling lean against the cabinets.
“Would you like a cup of tea, John?” Mrs. Hudson turned a warm smile on him.
“He doesn’t have time.” Sherlock set his own empty teacup on the worktop. “We have a schedule to keep.” He swept out of the kitchen.
“He seems to be in one of his moods this morning.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Came down at half eight asking me to pack a lunch, as if I didn’t have enough to do keeping all the house slaves jumping on a day where we have so many guests. Suppose he hasn’t much choice, though. Cook won’t speak to him. Hasn’t for years.”
“Yes.” John only felt grateful that Sherlock had showed no inclination to discuss this morning’s lapse. He leaned on the worktop and observed the extensive spread of lunch materials. “I can finish this, if you’ve got things to be doing.”
“You’re a sweetheart.” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. “I do hope he keeps you.”
“John!” Sherlock’s voice carried easily from the hallway. “Come along!”
“Never you mind, dear.” Mrs. Hudson finished wrapping up the sandwich and placed it in a neat row next to the bag of crisps and a foil packet that looked enticingly like a stack of biscuits. “Just see he remembers to take this lunch with him when he goes out, whenever that is.”
“Will do,” John promised.
“John!”
John followed the sound of Sherlock’s command, though he made no attempt to speed his pace. He found Sherlock in the narrow corridor, arms crossed over his chest. “You called, sir?”
“I’ve told you we’ve places to be this morning. You know I loathe repeating myself.” Sherlock charged off down the hallway, but stopped after five paces to wait for John to catch up.
“Where are these places, sir?”
“Outside,” Sherlock said, racing ahead once more.
“Right.” John eyed Sherlock’s unusual attire, and looked down at his own clothes: a shirt along with one of the jumpers Sherlock had provided, and a pair of jeans. He hoped he’d at least be allowed to fetch his coat. “When you said dress warmly, I thought-”
“No more thinking. It doesn’t suit you.”
John clenched his teeth and stopped walking. He couldn’t walk, count to ten, and hold his temper all at the same time; he needed to prioritize.
Sherlock stopped as well, turned back, and pointed an imperious finger at John. “Don’t. Stop being angry. Stop it.”
“I can’t just turn off my emotions like that, your Lordship,” John gritted out. “And even if I could, there’s no reason I should. What goes on in the privacy of my own head is my own to control.”
“Privacy is a luxury that’s not yours to enjoy.” Sherlock turned to stride away, then stopped, threw his head back, and dragged his hands through his tangled hair. “Fine,” he said, without looking at John. “Feel whatever you like. Just do as I say in front of our guests. Yes?”
“Fine,” John said slowly. Sherlock took off again immediately, and John picked up his pace. He followed Sherlock around the corner to emerge in the front entrance hall.
Two men John didn’t recognize stood talking near the doorway. John couldn’t guess their rank except from their fine clothes and lack of collars, so he quickly lowered his eyes and dropped back to follow the proper two steps behind Sherlock.
“Holmes, you old nutter!” One of the men moved forward to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. A quick glance gave John the impression of slicked back dark hair and a sneering face reminiscent of a weasel. “You got my note, I see.”
“Yes, of course, Wilkes.” Sherlock offered his hand, surprisingly politely.
“Holmes, this is Lord Colonel Moran.” Wilkes gestured to his companion. “Moran, Sherlock’s an old school chum of mine.”
John risked a glance up to see a solidly built man with close-cut brown hair and a proud bearing.
“Pleased to meet you,” Moran said. “Will you be walking out with us, Lord Holmes?”
“I look forward to it,” Sherlock said smoothly. “Did you not bring a slave down?”
“Your brother said he’d be happy to provide,” Wilkes said, “so I didn’t bother to bring one from the club.”
“Your favourite was already engaged, and you didn’t want to spend the time breaking in another on the road.”
“See, Moran? I told you, he had this trick he used to do at uni.” Wilkes’ smile was not quite pleasant. “Put the wind up everyone. We hated him. He could look at you and tell you your life story.”
“Oh come off it, Seb.” Moran gave a good-natured chuckle. “No one can do that.”
“He can. You’d come to breakfast in the formal hall and this chap - he would know who you’d been shagging the previous night. Got old George Hanover’s personal slave sold like a shot after you’d told us all she’d been-“
“Yes, alright,” Sherlock broke in.
“Go on, tell us how you knew how my usual slave was otherwise engaged.” Wilkes crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock.
The moment of expectant silence stretched until John glanced up at Sherlock face, which bore a worryingly neutral expression. His eyes darted to John for an instant, and then he said, “I was chatting to the housekeeper. Heard it from her.” He turned to the other man. “What about you, Colonel Moran?”
“I’m between slaves at the moment.”
“Well, I’m sure my slave could perform double duty today,” Sherlock said. He put his hand on John’s bowed head, and John had to fight the instinct to shake him off. What seemed acceptable between them when they were alone felt wrong somehow in front of strangers. “This one is late of the Imperial Army.”
“Is that so?” Moran asked. “Where did he serve?”
“Afghanistan, apparently.”
John curled his toes to avoid balling his hands into fists. He had no wish to discuss his military service, but even less did he wish to be talked about as if he were an inanimate object. Sherlock might be able to deduce his history, but he didn’t own it.
“Amazing what they let slaves get up to nowadays, isn’t it?” Wilkes offered.
A guardswoman garbed in blue rushed in from the hallway with an eye on her watch. John could see, from the corner of his eye, that she was the same woman who’d delivered a note to Sherlock yesterday. “Excuse me, Lord Sherlock.” She held out the sealed note he’d given her.
“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock tore open the letter, scanned it, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, tell my brother I’ll be there at once.”
The woman, looking slightly bemused, nodded and departed. Sherlock turned to Wilkes and Moran and shook his head sadly. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you after all.”
“Pity.” Wilkes didn’t quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“Yes, perhaps next time,” said Moran. “Say, Lord Holmes, why don’t you leave your man with us? A little workout will do him good. A former military man must be positively stifling in all this luxury.”
John threw an incredulous glance at Sherlock, only to be greeted with an impatient gesture. “Fine, fine. I won’t need his services for the rest of the day, so you’re welcome to him.”
“You’re too kind,” said Moran.
“Behave yourself, John.” With that, Sherlock swept off, leaving John alone with strangers.
--
Lestrade took advantage of the bustle in the staff kitchen to grab himself a cup of tea unobserved. He stood in the biting chill of the kitchen garden, letting the cup warm his hands. He only wanted to clear his head of the unease that had crept up on him like London fog. He breathed in the cold air and wished fervently for a cigarette. When he’d been a DI, he’d sorted out many an important clue on his smoke breaks. He stood until his cup grew cold as his hands, but no revelation presented itself.
Fortified with tea, Lestrade felt ready to face his master again. He headed to the library-up the back stairs and down the main corridor-and spotted Anthea trotting towards him. She held her phone in one hand, an extension of her fingers, and over her arm hung a pristine red silk robe.
“Anthea.”
“Good morning, gorgeous.” A quick glance up at him provoked a second, longer look. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”
“Do I look awful?” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been neglecting himself these last busy weeks. He frowned, then made himself stop as he recalled how the expression made his wrinkles deepen. Such cosmetic imperfections would lessen his value to Mycroft more quickly.
“Relax,” Anthea said. “You look fine. His Lordship seemed... distracted today. Thought you might have been keeping him up.”
“No.” Lestrade didn’t volunteer any more information. He’d long ago resolved not to burden others with his failure. “Listen, do you know when those new slaves are coming in?”
Her fingers froze over her phone, and she frowned at the screen. “What new slaves?”
“The ones the Chinese Ambassador is bringing in for the banquet. If I need to arrange lodging for them and set up an orientation, I... “ He noticed Anthea press her lips together to smooth out a frown. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.”
Anthea’s phone chimed, and she scrolled through a message. “Oh, those slaves. Lord Mycroft assigned an escort to bring them from the station. They’ll be here early afternoon.”
“Right, thanks.” He watched her step past him, then called out, “Anthea...”
She stopped, and threw back an inquisitive, “Hm?”
“He wouldn’t sell one of our contracts, would he?”
Anthea attention jumped from her mobile screen to his face. “He’s not selling you.”
“What about another of the household staff? One of my people?”
“Your people? They’re not your people. They’re Lord Mycroft’s.” She shifted her phone to her other hand so she could wrap her hand around Lestrade’s fingers. “We are, too.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked at her collar, at Mycroft’s initials proclaiming ownership, and felt the weight of his own collar, so dearly earned, heavy against his neck.
“Greg, you can’t worry about everyone. Don’t you have enough on your plate?” She nodded toward the foyer, where Sherlock was sweeping towards them up the grand staircase. “Bye.” She snatched her hand back and beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.
“Lestrade!” Sherlock bounded towards him.
“Yes, sir?” Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his gaze. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of movement in the foyer below: John Watson was headed outside with two men whose faces Lestrade dimly recalled from studying dossiers of the banquet guests.
“I need information,” Sherlock announced.
“Sir, excuse me, I’m sorry,” he said, fumbling his way through a breach of etiquette, “but are you sending John with those men?”
“I don’t need him right now.”
Lestrade couldn’t ask any of the half-dozen questions that sprang to mind, and he found himself saying instead, “They’re going shooting.”
“Of course they’re going shooting. Really, Lestrade, are your detective skills so dull you can’t deduce that two men in shooting jackets are going shooting?”
“I suppose that must be it, sir,” Lestrade said absently. He leaned forward to follow their progress, but the small party had already disappeared from view.
“Now, if you’re quite finished. Information. The new slaves are arriving today.”
Lestrade turned quickly back to Sherlock, but managed to keep his eyes properly averted. “You’ve already got a personal slave, sir.” He bit back any further defence of John, since venturing any opinion on the subject would overstep the bounds of his position.
“Mycroft keeps a whole stable of them,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Yes, but he only has one-“ One of me. Which was nothing special, in the grand scheme of the Empire. Lestrade forced his attention back to the question at hand. “Why do you want other slaves, sir?”
“I don’t,” Sherlock said. “I merely want to see the slaves the Ambassador is bringing in. Bit odd, isn’t it, bringing in a group of their own slaves?”
“We do have an important formal dinner tomorrow, if you’ll recall, sir.”
“Yes, but surely there are some British slaves available.” Sherlock waved a hand to indicate the whole of the estate. “We hardly need to import.”
“Slave protocol in the Chinese Empire is different to ours. Our lot can serve well enough for day-to-day use, but for anything sensitive or formal, they’re better served by some of their own.”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “It’s not like Mycroft to be so thoughtful about his fellow diplomats’ comforts.”
“It’s safer this way, sir,” Lestrade said tightly. “It matters to Lord Mycroft that his slaves be treated well. No slave wants to be blamed for inadvertently causing offense to a foreign diplomat. When the Ambassador suggested it, Lord Mycroft was happy to agree. He wouldn’t- Hang on.” Something about Sherlock too-attentive expression stopped Lestrade. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you? Contradicting me, winding me up so I’ll give you answers.”
“Yes, very good. You’ve caught me,” Sherlock said impatiently. He grabbed Lestrade’s shoulders. “Now this is important, Lestrade. When did the Ambassador make his request?”
--
[Done here? Proceed to Part Two or visit the 'verse master post.]
Title: If It Were Not So, I Would Have Told You
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~20,000
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, dub-con and discussion of such, attempted non-con, not necessarily healthy or well-negotiated D/s dynamics, humiliation, corporal punishment, bondage, semi-graphic descriptions of violence
Context: Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series (see the master post to get started), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.
Notes: Thanks to the fine folks at sh-britglish for explaining sport shooting, morganstuart for providing indispensible character insights, jaune_chat for late-night plot-fixing gchats and emergency conference calls, and blue-eyed-1987 for making things more British.
Summary: Everyone in the Holmes household is considering who to trust. Tricky thing about trust: preserved, it yields great strength, but once broken, it takes a great length of time to repair.
[Note: if you can't see the breaks between paragraphs, trying using the Mozilla Firefox browser, or click "view in my style" in the LJ toolbar at the top of the page]
--
The too-bright desert. John’s gun solid in his hands, his pack heavy on his back, his mates around him, marching on while he stood still. A man-- short but sturdy, dirty blond hair sticking out under his helmet---lay facedown just to the side of the road. Blood leaked from his right shoulder and soaked into the red dirt.
“Leave him.” Lord Sherlock, in the field uniform of a major, stepped in front of John. Blocked his view of the body-no, the wounded man.
“I can help him.” John started forward.
Sherlock stopped him with a hand against his shoulder. “He’s gone, John. I need you.”
“Don’t you have enough already?”
“I need you.”
John could hear his unit marching on, out of sight over the crest of the hill. The bleeding man wasn’t moving. Wounded in the shoulder, blond hair. Something about him seemed familiar. He looked to Sherlock. “What do you want from me?”
“Follow me. You’ll find out.” Sherlock glided past John, out onto the road.
John stared at the body growing cold in the dirt.
“Captain Watson. John.”
John turned. Sherlock’s hand stretched out toward him, pale in the bright sunlight. “Will you come with me?”
--
John woke up lying on his belly. Something had stirred him, and a quick assessment of his surroundings revealed the culprit: a slick finger breaching his ass. John shifted, but the finger followed, pushing deeper inside of him.
“Sherlock, it’s too early,” John grumbled. In point of fact, he had no idea of the time, but he did know that his body needed more rest. His sleep had not been peaceful.
“I’ve been awake for hours.” Sherlock squeezed another slick finger inside of John and stroked both together at a leisurely pace.
John’s sleep-fogged mind tried to imagine what Sherlock might have been doing silently in the dark of John’s room for that long, then gave it up as a bad job. “At least wait until I’m properly awake.”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
John dropped his head onto the pillow and tried to decide whether to struggle or just relax. “You know, I can’t actually give my consent if I’m asleep.”
“It doesn’t matter what your feelings are towards me.” Sherlock’s right hand squeezed the back of John’s neck, above his collar, and pushed his face down hard. With his other hand, he spread his fingers inside John. “I don’t need your consent.”
John squirmed beneath him, and blurted out, “But you do want it.”
“What?” Sherlock’s grip eased up.
“You want my consent.” John felt a rush of relief when Sherlock remained still. At least he was listening. “You don’t want to hold me down as I struggle.”
Sherlock eased his fingers out of John, slowly. The silence stretched until John thought Sherlock might not respond at all. At last, Sherlock said, “I do want to hold you down.” Sherlock’s hand trailed down John’s neck, across the width of his collar, and down his back. “I often think about throwing you to the ground and taking you without shame, as animals do. It’s distracting.”
John pressed his eyes closed. He shouldn’t find that idea arousing. Deep as he was in Sherlock’s power already, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge fantasies that matched up eerily well with his master’s. Besides, he reminded himself, as a slave, he had only himself to look out for his own well-being. “So you like the idea of my fighting you, calling for you to stop.”
“That’s not what I said.” Sherlock’s hand traced around the muscle of John’s arse before curling around his hip. “When I think about this scenario, you are an enthusiastic participant.”
“So you do want my consent.” John turned on his side so he could look up at Sherlock, who was still squeezed in between John and the wall.
“I wouldn’t object to it.” Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on his hand resting on John’s hip.
“Fine, then.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask for it.”
“I shouldn’t need to.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You belong to me. You’re mine to use as I wish.”
John’s jaw clenched tight, and he felt anger clash against the arousal that had been simmering inside him, like water thrown into hot oil. “Perhaps I liked it better when you were shamming,” he said.
“Then make up your mind!” Sherlock released John and sat up, leaning his back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. “It’s difficult enough to have a slave in my charge. Must I be saddled with one so...”
“Insightful?” John offered.
“Obstinate!” Sherlock moved quickly, planting his hand on John’s far side and looming over him. “I’d very much like to fuck you now, John. Are you amenable?”
“Why should I be?”
“Why--?” Sherlock’s incredulous expression made John smile. “Because I’m your master!”
“Wrong answer.” John shook his head, sure that he was about to earn himself a slap.
Instead, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Because I can ensure you’ll achieve orgasm in return,” he said slowly.
“Getting warmer,” John said.
Sherlock released a rough exhalation of breath, but he didn’t yet move to take what he wanted. Instead, he said, “Because I want you terribly, and may not be able to concentrate on the work until I have you.”
John raised his eyebrows at that admission. He rolled over onto his back, pretending to consider Sherlock’s answer. “Say the magic word.”
“Magic?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again. “Now you expect magic from me?”
“I meant please, Sherlock.” John reached out to drag a hand down Sherlock’s side, soothingly. “Say please.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, John.” Sherlock tensed under John’s hand, but he didn’t strike John, didn’t berate him. Instead, he seemed to be waging some internal battle.
“It’s only polite,” John said. He let his hand rove further down, sliding over Sherlock’s flank, then delving back to ghost over the firm muscle of his arse. He was playing with fire, he knew, but the thrill had him rock hard.
Sherlock closed his eyes for the space of one breath, then opened them again. “Please, John.”
John stared back searchingly, looking for any trace of deception. “Do you mean that?”
“Please!” Sherlock growled. No sham in his words or his eyes, just barely-restrained desperation.
John felt an easing within him, like a dislocated joint sliding into place. He said, “Yes.”
Sherlock lunged forward and shoved John hard, tumbling him onto the ground. John caught himself on his hands and the balls of his feet. A moment later Sherlock was on top of him, his weight bearing John down to the floor, trapping his erection against the threadbare rug.
Sherlock’s hands moved along John’s sides, his back, his arms, as if unsure which part of John they wanted most to claim. Sherlock’s cock nudged against John’s ass, leaving damp smudges of pre-come against his skin. John shivered under the rough touch of Sherlock’s tongue, dragging up his shoulder blade, over the scar.
John pressed his face to the floor, closed his eyes, and gulped in breath. He’d begun to harden during their discussion and at seeing the look of desperation in Sherlock’s eyes. Now his body fairly thrummed with pleasure at the feel of Sherlock holding him down. He tried to muster a sense of shame for how far he’d fallen, but any trepidations had been washed away in the flood of pleasure he’d felt when Sherlock asked for his permission.
“Yes,” John said again.
Sherlock answered with a wordless growl. He pressed the full length of his body against John, enveloping him.
John knew Sherlock couldn’t wait much longer, and with his earlier ministrations, John was ready for him. “Go on.” John spread his legs and canted his hips up as best he could. “I can take it.”
Sherlock’s attention distilled to one task, then. He entered John, quick and rough, without ceremony, and began to ride him with single-minded intensity. His breath was hot on the back of John’s neck, warming the leather of his collar. One hand braced against the small of John’s back, holding him in place. Sherlock had abandoned himself entirely to the act-to John.
Small, desperate sounds-wholly unlike Sherlock’s usual brisk baritone-escaped Sherlock’s control. John pushed up against Sherlock’s hold, not resisting, but spurring his master on, spreading his legs for leverage. He almost collapsed when Sherlock’s next stroke hit a spot that sent fissions of pleasure sparking across his skin. Sherlock noticed the change in him and began seeking out the angle that could cause that reaction: a glorious full-body shudder as every one of John’s muscles clenched.
“Do you like this?” Sherlock whispered.
John spared the breath for a laugh, because Sherlock was asking a real question, not engaging in rhetorical dirty talk.
Sherlock reached a hand beneath John and exhaled sharply when he found him hard. “Tell me again. Please.”
“Yes,” John gasped.
Now that Sherlock had taken an interest in learning John’s body, he excelled in it as he excelled in everything else. His hand twisted around the crown of John’s cock in just the right way to send John’s back arching, thrusting desperately into Sherlock’s fist and back again onto his cock. Sherlock’s breathless voice echoed John’s. “Yes.”
The rumble of that voice reverberated in John’s chest, buoyed by the sensations that surrounded him and penetrated him. Sherlock held John in his hand, conquered him from the inside, subsumed him, as if Sherlock was the only thing that mattered: John’s God, his master.
Sherlock timed his thrusts perfectly with his hand on John to bring them off together: Sherlock catching his breath and clinging to John just a moment before John tipped over the edge, spilling over Sherlock’s fingers. John’s trembling limbs held them up only an instant after before they both collapsed onto the rug.
For several minutes, John could only breathe. Any thoughts that tried to form were shattered immediately by the triumphant pounding of his blood.
Sherlock remained silent as well, slumped against John’s back, with his nose buried in the crook of John’s neck.
At last, the protesting muscles in John’s shoulder drove him to extract himself from the two-man pile-up. He pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the bed for support. He didn’t look down to see whether or not Sherlock was watching him. “I’m off to the shower.”
Sherlock grunted in response.
John grabbed the robe Anthea had left him last night and padded down the hall to the personal slaves’ communal showers. As he stood under the hot spray, he tried to calm the panicked racing of his heart. John wasn’t losing his mind. He wasn’t giving himself away entirely. He just hadn’t known quite how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen.
Long after he was clean, John stood with his hands braced against the tile wall, letting the spray sluice down his back, where he imagined he could still feel Sherlock’s hands on him: a touch that burned like a brand, a touch he’d invited.
When he returned, Sherlock was still face-down on the rug in what looked to be a thoroughly uncomfortable sprawl.
“Do you need something?” John asked. He quickly squeezed his mouth shut, reminding himself not to offer Sherlock anything else; he’d already given away too much.
“It’s untenable, this uncertainty,” Sherlock muttered into the rug. He rolled onto his side slowly, and looked up at John. “If I had an expert to consult, if I had more data, I’d have solved this by now. How can I make bricks without clay? Even you don’t have any useful information.”
John released a tense breath he’d been holding since returning to the room. Sherlock was lamenting about the case and hurling insults. All back to normal, then.
“You don’t know that.” John slung his towel over the door of the cupboard and began the search for clothes. “I do know a thing or two. What’s the problem?”
“You can’t help.” Sherlock propped his head up on his elbow and narrowed his eyes at John. “You told me you’d never been in love.”
“That was true at the time.” John had selected a t-shirt, pulled it on, and begun reaching for trousers when he realized what he’d said. He froze where he was, hand outstretched.
The room filled up with heavy silence until John felt the weight of it settling on him like a physical force. Behind him, Sherlock seemed disinclined to make any response. Telling himself firmly that he’d braved worse danger than this, John turned to face his master.
Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rug, hands braced against his knees, looking up at John with an expression of cold neutrality.
John’s mind sorted through a dozen possible excuses, rejecting each one like an unsuitable playing card as he watched Sherlock observe him, stone-faced. He said the only thing protocol left to him. “Sir?”
“Right. Yes.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. His eyes darted around the room, observing everything except John. “I’ve work to do.” He snatched his own dressing gown off the floor and shrugged it on before gathering his notes from the night before, the photo print-out of the markings painted on the rock, and John’s copy of Freedom through Obedience off the table. “Get dressed. Wear something warm. Meet me in the kitchen.” He tugged open the door and left without another look at John.
--
When Lestrade snapped awake in the darkness of his master’s room, he heard the shower running. He groped for his watch on the nightstand, and frowned at the time. He shouldn’t have been abed while Mycroft was awake. That sort of indulgence was for indolent bed slaves, not for men like Lestrade, with real work to do. Well, as real as any slave’s work could be.
Lestrade swallowed the sour taste in his mouth as he replayed Mycroft’s words from the night before. “The Imperial Police Force lost a good thing in you.” Hardly. Lestrade could barely manage to keep his small section of the household running smoothly. He had no hope of unravelling the mystery of his master’s strange behaviour, and no power to protect anyone he cared about.
Lestrade kicked off the covers and climbed out of bed. Without knowing how long Mycroft had been up already, it was difficult to gauge how much time he’d have before other duties intruded, but Lestrade wanted to have something to show for himself: some task completed. Once he got up and got to work, he’d shake off this damn melancholy.
A chill had crept into the room overnight, so Lestrade retrieved his shirt and slid it on as he went about turning on the lights. He circled around to the desk, where he’d left his tablet the night before. Reports would be coming in from the other personal slaves’ evening duties, so Lestrade could get a head start on sorting through those.
As Lestrade picked up his tablet, he noticed the pile of Mycroft’s papers on the desk beside it. His eyes caught on a list of numbers neatly lined up on the top document. He leaned in closer: sixteen-digit alphanumeric codes, all starting with the three-letter code for dominion of origin, in this case, CHI for Chinese Empire. Slave contract numbers. Lestrade pressed his hand flat against the desk as his eyes scanned the rest of the document: customs approval for importing slaves. Lestrade’s hand moved of its own volition to push the top sheet aside, revealing the next document down: this one a bill of sale, with contract numbers beginning with ENG, AUS, IND... Slaves from the Empire.
Lestrade’s eyes raced down the list, and felt a shameful rush of relief at seeing his own contract number was not present. These documents were surely routine: Lord Mycroft was responsible for any number of slaves who worked across his territory. They could even have been documents belonging to someone else, submitted for Mycroft’s review.
Lestrade moved to slide the top paper back onto the stack when his eye caught on a familiar number on the bill of sale: IRE-0112-358-13-2134. His own was the only contract code he’d committed to memory, but he saw others-those of the personal slaves he managed-often enough for one to look familiar. They were listed on the activity reports the personal slaves filled out; he’d only have to look at the reports to compare the numbers. He reached for his tablet.
“Gregory.”
Lestrade whirled around. Mycroft stood two paces away, wrapped in his dressing gown, skin still damp from the shower. He wore a painstakingly neutral expression. “Gregory, what is the passcode override to the personal slaves’ wing?”
Lestrade closed his mouth on his first response, which was that Mycroft must already know it, and answered, “One four six one, then twenty-four fourteen.”
“And the code to your own room?”
Lestrade swallowed hard as his mind raced around the questions, trying to see their meaning. He ventured a weak smile. “Are you planning to come for a visit?”
“No,” Mycroft said softly. “Tell me the code.”
“One two three four.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“It didn’t seem important to change it from the default.”
“Re-set the code. I want you to change it to the following: one eight nine five. Yes?”
“One eight nine five,” Lestrade repeated.
“Good, Gregory.” Mycroft turned aside, showing Lestrade his back. “You may go. Send Clarke in. And I’ll be in private meetings all morning, so there’s no need to attend after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade grabbed his tablet and headed for the door.
“Gregory.”
“Yes, sir?” Lestrade stopped where he was, and cursed the jab of fear that struck him. Mycroft wouldn’t hurt him. Mycroft hadn’t ever hurt him. He turned around to look.
Mycroft held up the top document from the pile on his desk. “The Chinese Ambassador asked to bring in some personal slaves to help serve at the banquet. I trust I can count on you to help prepare them for the event.”
Of course. A simple explanation. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Only when Lestrade stood at the entrance to the personal slaves’ wing, pressing his thumb against the scanner, did he notice the numeric pad for the override code and realize that he had no hope of remembering the numbers he’d seen on the bill of sale.
--
John entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the worktop, wrapping up a sandwich. Sherlock stood watching her, wearing a coat: not his normal long, black affair, but a finely tailored tweed jacket, paired with boots.
“It’s only my opinion, of course,” Mrs Hudson was saying. “But I do have a sense about these things.”
“Ah, John. At last.” Sherlock extricated himself from his sprawling lean against the cabinets.
“Would you like a cup of tea, John?” Mrs. Hudson turned a warm smile on him.
“He doesn’t have time.” Sherlock set his own empty teacup on the worktop. “We have a schedule to keep.” He swept out of the kitchen.
“He seems to be in one of his moods this morning.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Came down at half eight asking me to pack a lunch, as if I didn’t have enough to do keeping all the house slaves jumping on a day where we have so many guests. Suppose he hasn’t much choice, though. Cook won’t speak to him. Hasn’t for years.”
“Yes.” John only felt grateful that Sherlock had showed no inclination to discuss this morning’s lapse. He leaned on the worktop and observed the extensive spread of lunch materials. “I can finish this, if you’ve got things to be doing.”
“You’re a sweetheart.” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. “I do hope he keeps you.”
“John!” Sherlock’s voice carried easily from the hallway. “Come along!”
“Never you mind, dear.” Mrs. Hudson finished wrapping up the sandwich and placed it in a neat row next to the bag of crisps and a foil packet that looked enticingly like a stack of biscuits. “Just see he remembers to take this lunch with him when he goes out, whenever that is.”
“Will do,” John promised.
“John!”
John followed the sound of Sherlock’s command, though he made no attempt to speed his pace. He found Sherlock in the narrow corridor, arms crossed over his chest. “You called, sir?”
“I’ve told you we’ve places to be this morning. You know I loathe repeating myself.” Sherlock charged off down the hallway, but stopped after five paces to wait for John to catch up.
“Where are these places, sir?”
“Outside,” Sherlock said, racing ahead once more.
“Right.” John eyed Sherlock’s unusual attire, and looked down at his own clothes: a shirt along with one of the jumpers Sherlock had provided, and a pair of jeans. He hoped he’d at least be allowed to fetch his coat. “When you said dress warmly, I thought-”
“No more thinking. It doesn’t suit you.”
John clenched his teeth and stopped walking. He couldn’t walk, count to ten, and hold his temper all at the same time; he needed to prioritize.
Sherlock stopped as well, turned back, and pointed an imperious finger at John. “Don’t. Stop being angry. Stop it.”
“I can’t just turn off my emotions like that, your Lordship,” John gritted out. “And even if I could, there’s no reason I should. What goes on in the privacy of my own head is my own to control.”
“Privacy is a luxury that’s not yours to enjoy.” Sherlock turned to stride away, then stopped, threw his head back, and dragged his hands through his tangled hair. “Fine,” he said, without looking at John. “Feel whatever you like. Just do as I say in front of our guests. Yes?”
“Fine,” John said slowly. Sherlock took off again immediately, and John picked up his pace. He followed Sherlock around the corner to emerge in the front entrance hall.
Two men John didn’t recognize stood talking near the doorway. John couldn’t guess their rank except from their fine clothes and lack of collars, so he quickly lowered his eyes and dropped back to follow the proper two steps behind Sherlock.
“Holmes, you old nutter!” One of the men moved forward to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. A quick glance gave John the impression of slicked back dark hair and a sneering face reminiscent of a weasel. “You got my note, I see.”
“Yes, of course, Wilkes.” Sherlock offered his hand, surprisingly politely.
“Holmes, this is Lord Colonel Moran.” Wilkes gestured to his companion. “Moran, Sherlock’s an old school chum of mine.”
John risked a glance up to see a solidly built man with close-cut brown hair and a proud bearing.
“Pleased to meet you,” Moran said. “Will you be walking out with us, Lord Holmes?”
“I look forward to it,” Sherlock said smoothly. “Did you not bring a slave down?”
“Your brother said he’d be happy to provide,” Wilkes said, “so I didn’t bother to bring one from the club.”
“Your favourite was already engaged, and you didn’t want to spend the time breaking in another on the road.”
“See, Moran? I told you, he had this trick he used to do at uni.” Wilkes’ smile was not quite pleasant. “Put the wind up everyone. We hated him. He could look at you and tell you your life story.”
“Oh come off it, Seb.” Moran gave a good-natured chuckle. “No one can do that.”
“He can. You’d come to breakfast in the formal hall and this chap - he would know who you’d been shagging the previous night. Got old George Hanover’s personal slave sold like a shot after you’d told us all she’d been-“
“Yes, alright,” Sherlock broke in.
“Go on, tell us how you knew how my usual slave was otherwise engaged.” Wilkes crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock.
The moment of expectant silence stretched until John glanced up at Sherlock face, which bore a worryingly neutral expression. His eyes darted to John for an instant, and then he said, “I was chatting to the housekeeper. Heard it from her.” He turned to the other man. “What about you, Colonel Moran?”
“I’m between slaves at the moment.”
“Well, I’m sure my slave could perform double duty today,” Sherlock said. He put his hand on John’s bowed head, and John had to fight the instinct to shake him off. What seemed acceptable between them when they were alone felt wrong somehow in front of strangers. “This one is late of the Imperial Army.”
“Is that so?” Moran asked. “Where did he serve?”
“Afghanistan, apparently.”
John curled his toes to avoid balling his hands into fists. He had no wish to discuss his military service, but even less did he wish to be talked about as if he were an inanimate object. Sherlock might be able to deduce his history, but he didn’t own it.
“Amazing what they let slaves get up to nowadays, isn’t it?” Wilkes offered.
A guardswoman garbed in blue rushed in from the hallway with an eye on her watch. John could see, from the corner of his eye, that she was the same woman who’d delivered a note to Sherlock yesterday. “Excuse me, Lord Sherlock.” She held out the sealed note he’d given her.
“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock tore open the letter, scanned it, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, tell my brother I’ll be there at once.”
The woman, looking slightly bemused, nodded and departed. Sherlock turned to Wilkes and Moran and shook his head sadly. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you after all.”
“Pity.” Wilkes didn’t quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“Yes, perhaps next time,” said Moran. “Say, Lord Holmes, why don’t you leave your man with us? A little workout will do him good. A former military man must be positively stifling in all this luxury.”
John threw an incredulous glance at Sherlock, only to be greeted with an impatient gesture. “Fine, fine. I won’t need his services for the rest of the day, so you’re welcome to him.”
“You’re too kind,” said Moran.
“Behave yourself, John.” With that, Sherlock swept off, leaving John alone with strangers.
--
Lestrade took advantage of the bustle in the staff kitchen to grab himself a cup of tea unobserved. He stood in the biting chill of the kitchen garden, letting the cup warm his hands. He only wanted to clear his head of the unease that had crept up on him like London fog. He breathed in the cold air and wished fervently for a cigarette. When he’d been a DI, he’d sorted out many an important clue on his smoke breaks. He stood until his cup grew cold as his hands, but no revelation presented itself.
Fortified with tea, Lestrade felt ready to face his master again. He headed to the library-up the back stairs and down the main corridor-and spotted Anthea trotting towards him. She held her phone in one hand, an extension of her fingers, and over her arm hung a pristine red silk robe.
“Anthea.”
“Good morning, gorgeous.” A quick glance up at him provoked a second, longer look. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”
“Do I look awful?” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been neglecting himself these last busy weeks. He frowned, then made himself stop as he recalled how the expression made his wrinkles deepen. Such cosmetic imperfections would lessen his value to Mycroft more quickly.
“Relax,” Anthea said. “You look fine. His Lordship seemed... distracted today. Thought you might have been keeping him up.”
“No.” Lestrade didn’t volunteer any more information. He’d long ago resolved not to burden others with his failure. “Listen, do you know when those new slaves are coming in?”
Her fingers froze over her phone, and she frowned at the screen. “What new slaves?”
“The ones the Chinese Ambassador is bringing in for the banquet. If I need to arrange lodging for them and set up an orientation, I... “ He noticed Anthea press her lips together to smooth out a frown. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.”
Anthea’s phone chimed, and she scrolled through a message. “Oh, those slaves. Lord Mycroft assigned an escort to bring them from the station. They’ll be here early afternoon.”
“Right, thanks.” He watched her step past him, then called out, “Anthea...”
She stopped, and threw back an inquisitive, “Hm?”
“He wouldn’t sell one of our contracts, would he?”
Anthea attention jumped from her mobile screen to his face. “He’s not selling you.”
“What about another of the household staff? One of my people?”
“Your people? They’re not your people. They’re Lord Mycroft’s.” She shifted her phone to her other hand so she could wrap her hand around Lestrade’s fingers. “We are, too.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked at her collar, at Mycroft’s initials proclaiming ownership, and felt the weight of his own collar, so dearly earned, heavy against his neck.
“Greg, you can’t worry about everyone. Don’t you have enough on your plate?” She nodded toward the foyer, where Sherlock was sweeping towards them up the grand staircase. “Bye.” She snatched her hand back and beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.
“Lestrade!” Sherlock bounded towards him.
“Yes, sir?” Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his gaze. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of movement in the foyer below: John Watson was headed outside with two men whose faces Lestrade dimly recalled from studying dossiers of the banquet guests.
“I need information,” Sherlock announced.
“Sir, excuse me, I’m sorry,” he said, fumbling his way through a breach of etiquette, “but are you sending John with those men?”
“I don’t need him right now.”
Lestrade couldn’t ask any of the half-dozen questions that sprang to mind, and he found himself saying instead, “They’re going shooting.”
“Of course they’re going shooting. Really, Lestrade, are your detective skills so dull you can’t deduce that two men in shooting jackets are going shooting?”
“I suppose that must be it, sir,” Lestrade said absently. He leaned forward to follow their progress, but the small party had already disappeared from view.
“Now, if you’re quite finished. Information. The new slaves are arriving today.”
Lestrade turned quickly back to Sherlock, but managed to keep his eyes properly averted. “You’ve already got a personal slave, sir.” He bit back any further defence of John, since venturing any opinion on the subject would overstep the bounds of his position.
“Mycroft keeps a whole stable of them,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Yes, but he only has one-“ One of me. Which was nothing special, in the grand scheme of the Empire. Lestrade forced his attention back to the question at hand. “Why do you want other slaves, sir?”
“I don’t,” Sherlock said. “I merely want to see the slaves the Ambassador is bringing in. Bit odd, isn’t it, bringing in a group of their own slaves?”
“We do have an important formal dinner tomorrow, if you’ll recall, sir.”
“Yes, but surely there are some British slaves available.” Sherlock waved a hand to indicate the whole of the estate. “We hardly need to import.”
“Slave protocol in the Chinese Empire is different to ours. Our lot can serve well enough for day-to-day use, but for anything sensitive or formal, they’re better served by some of their own.”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “It’s not like Mycroft to be so thoughtful about his fellow diplomats’ comforts.”
“It’s safer this way, sir,” Lestrade said tightly. “It matters to Lord Mycroft that his slaves be treated well. No slave wants to be blamed for inadvertently causing offense to a foreign diplomat. When the Ambassador suggested it, Lord Mycroft was happy to agree. He wouldn’t- Hang on.” Something about Sherlock too-attentive expression stopped Lestrade. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you? Contradicting me, winding me up so I’ll give you answers.”
“Yes, very good. You’ve caught me,” Sherlock said impatiently. He grabbed Lestrade’s shoulders. “Now this is important, Lestrade. When did the Ambassador make his request?”
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[Done here? Proceed to Part Two or visit the 'verse master post.]