Sherlock Fic: Believe Also In Me (Part 1 of 4)
Oh, how I've missed the slave AU! This is months later than I said it would be, but then again, it's also a mini-novel. Sorry! And yes, the next bit, in which Sherlock and John explore their new understanding and more of Moriarty's plans fall into place, is already underway.
This installment is complete; I'll post one section each day, for a total of four. So if you'd rather read it all on one go, you need only wait until Sunday. Thanks for bearing with me-- these characters are always a joy to write, but with so much tumult going on in my life, I had to fight to make time for writing. But, of course, I always will. Enjoy!
Title: Believe Also in Me
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock, Ensemble, references to Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~40,000 total (6.4k this section)
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, dub-con, violence (including canon character death), and BDSM (including humiliation, spanking, and caning)
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; events described in Place Where I Am Going are particularly relevant), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning of the story.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart for keeping a firm hand on the tiller of character development, jaune_chat for her constant cheerleading, and blue-eyed-1987 for, among other things, weeding out my ridiculous American notions about hot beverages.
Summary: While battling insomnia, Lestrade remembers the uneasy early days of his life as a slave in Lord Mycroft’s house.
Previously, on In My Master’s House:
Two years ago, DI Gregory Lestrade worked a case with Lord Sherlock Holmes that went very wrong. Lestrade faced the hard reality of the Empire’s justice, and was saved from a sentence of hard labour only by being purchased as a slave by Lord Mycroft. In the intervening years, Lestrade has come to find satisfaction and pride in his role as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave, but recent events have begun to challenge Lestrade’s confidence in his master. After an incident last night in which Lord Mycroft allowed Lord Sherlock’s slave John Watson to be publically punished, Lestrade was banished from his master’s presence, and faces a night alone with his doubts.
----------------
The Holmes estate was never really silent. The footmen had the dining room to clear after dinner. Valets and ladies’ maids would attend to their masters’ needs when they retired. Personal slaves remained available into the wee hours, in case one of the guests acquired an urge. By then, the bakers began arriving in the kitchen to prepare for breakfast.
It was at that point in the house’s continuous activities that Lestrade found himself wandering the halls. He’d already completed every minor task that could conceivably count as his duty. Last, he’d checked in on his office and received an update from Sally on the evening’s developments (“All gossip about Lord Sherlock’s antics. If he wasn’t a Lord, I’d say the man was a real freak.”) and the next morning’s schedule (“Everything’s sorted with the erotic contortionist set.”). He hadn’t lingered, as he didn’t fancy questions and speculations about why he wasn’t spending the night in the usual way. That left him nowhere to go but back to the slave quarters.
Lestrade’s room seemed small and cold after so many nights in Mycroft’s quarters. He stripped off his clothing, but couldn’t be bothered to drag out the flannel pyjamas he hadn’t used in ages. Flopping face-first onto the hard mattress, he ordered his body to relax. It ignored him.
Lestrade breathed in the clean sheets, which smelled of nothing more than detergent. The last time he’d slept here had been-when? When Lord Mycroft had flown to Malta, where slaves weren’t welcome, back in July? No, that week Lestrade had crept into Mycroft’s room and spread out onto his side of the bed.
Pathetic, that he couldn’t sleep without his master’s company. Though perhaps, in this case, the fact of Mycroft’s absence bothered him less than the reason for it.
He tugged the duvet up over his head, as if that would shield him from his circling doubts. He hadn’t felt this unsure of his place since the early days of his slavery. Mycroft had never banished Lestrade before. Not this way, at least. Even at his most busy, Mycroft still wanted Lestrade near. Lestrade had learned how his master worked through a painstaking process of observation, evidence gathering, and trial and error. His knowledge of Lord Mycroft’s habits was surpassed only by Anthea. So why, now, would everything Lestrade worked out in the past suddenly cease to apply?
Lestrade shuffled around possible clues in his head, but came up with no coherent picture. It was a pity that the man he knew who was most adept at sussing out hidden motivations wasn’t available to ask. He’d told Lord Mycroft that he trusted him, and he resolved to continue to do so, until he had a damn good reason not to. He’d been too long with Mycroft to let uncertainty drive him mad now.
Still, he wished for a glance of Mycroft’s playfully coy expression, the subtle smile he wore when he said something like, “These things work themselves out,” or, “I shouldn’t be surprised to see this sorted by week’s end,” as if he hadn’t been manipulating events to his design all along.
Lestrade needed that assurance now-that Mycroft had, as ever, considered all the variables, planned for every possible outcome, and taken firm control of the situation. He needed something fixed and true.
Lestrade pushed to his knees, leaving his face pressed into the pillow. Mycroft liked him like that, sometimes-when he was flush with victory after a successful negotiation, as close to giddy as he was capable of being. Though he usually preferred to let Lestrade do most of the work, in these moods Mycroft revelled in the chance to manhandle Lestrade, dragging him to this or that position, directing him with possessive touches.
Lestrade reached between his legs to brush the back of his knuckles down the length of his cock, which swung heavy between his legs. He imagined he could feel Mycroft’s warm hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him. The firm touches were always reassurances: I’m in charge. I’ll take care of everything.
Mycroft liked to prepare Lestrade thoroughly, sometimes until Lestrade lost patience and scraped together enough lucidity to issue semi-coherent pleas for more. Only when he had Lestrade hard and wanton would Mycroft finally take him, squeezing his hands around Lestrade’s hips and dragging him back. From his superior position, Mycroft could control the angle and force of the penetration with devastating accuracy.
Lestrade’s hips shoved back reflexively at the memory, searching for stimulation. He wrapped his fingers around his cock and gave it a comforting tug. Mycroft might have denied him that indulgence just yet, preferring to help Lestrade hold out for a slower, more satisfying end to his pleasure. Once, he’d dragged Lestrade’s arms up behind his back and held them together, leaning in for leverage as his cock worked against the spot that made Lestrade gasp and shiver and rendering Lestrade helpless against his attentions.
Now, without Mycroft to restrain him, Lestrade gave in to the urge to thrust through the tight circle of his hand. Pressing his face into the pillow muffled the harsh breath that sounded too loud in the empty room; he was used to holding back his own noises, the better to monitor those of his master. He could always tell when Mycroft was nearing climax by the gradual disruption of his technique: a groan that disturbed his measured breathing, a falter in the even rhythm of his thrusts, a desperate clutch marring his firm grip. Too proper to shout expletives or scream his release to the skies, Mycroft would instead bury himself fully inside Lestrade, grabbing at his shoulders or his hips to hold on like a drowning man while he reached completion in silence. When he could breathe again, he’d topple Lestrade onto his back and loom over him, scrutinizing Lestrade’s reactions as he worked him with both hands.
Lestrade rolled over with a groan, letting his legs fall open wide as he stroked himself faster. If Lestrade closed his eyes, he could nearly hear Mycroft’s voice in his ear, whispering, “Yes.” Mycroft understood Lestrade’s body as well as he understood foreign economic policy or politics in the House of Lords, and could manipulate it as easily.
Lestrade’s hand was a poor substitute for Mycroft’s expert ministrations, but his hips thrust up, his fingers squeezed, and he came picturing the gratified smile Mycroft always displayed when he brought Lestrade off.
Lestrade wiped his hand on the sheets and rolled over, only to bump against the cold wall that abutted his narrow bed. “Fuck,” he muttered to the stones.
Boneless and wrung-out as he felt, the relentless worries crowded in even before the pleasurable shaking had subsided. He tried pressing his palms against his eyes, but exhaustion refused to take him. The questions and doubts circling his thoughts chased sleep far away.
Lestrade resisted the urge to indulge in a self-pitying sigh. Instead, he rolled out of bed and began to strip the sheets. Surely he could find something to occupy his time. That something would absolutely not be imagining what Mycroft was planning, because in that task, Lestrade had absolutely no hope of succeeding. He never had.
--
--
Lestrade stared at his hands as the evening meeting--muster, they called it, as if the cadre of personal slaves Mycroft kept was a fighting force--droned on around him. To his left and right, slaves younger and prettier than he were perched on chairs and chaises, all posed as if they'd had lessons in artfully draping themselves over the furniture. Jasper, the head personal slave, handed out assignments to his mostly-silent charges.
A whipcord-thin man with close-cropped white hair and an elegant bearing, Jasper delivered his instructions as if they were battle plans. "Those of you without assignments will remain here after muster, as some of the North Austrian delegation prefer to make their own selection. Reports are expected before thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. That is all."
Around the room, the handful of slaves who'd been given assignments for the evening rose to make whatever preparations one made for entertaining visiting dignitaries or high-ranking members of the household. From his brief training period, Lestrade could imagine what expectations the masters had for these liaisons. He knitted his fingers together and squeezed, cursing the part of him that felt a rush of selfish relief at not being required to do the work these men and women did without complaint.
"It's Gregory, isn't it?"
Lestrade looked up to see a sharp-faced beauty of a woman on the pure white chair beside his sofa watching him expectantly.
"Lestrade," he said. "That's what they used to call me."
"It's first names for slaves around here, mostly.” The woman tilted her head to the side, examining him closely. “But do as you like. I'm Sally."
"Hello."
"Listen.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you know what you're doing?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your duties? You come in here for muster, but you wander in and wander out, like it's your first AA meeting and you're not sure you have a problem."
"I suppose not, then." Lestrade frowned at her expectant expression. "Am I doing something wrong?"
"Not as such,” she said slowly. “It's not for me to say."
"Sally." Jasper appeared at the arm of the sofa. A slight frown marred his usual calm neutrality. "You'll need to get dressed for the selection."
"Of course." Her outfit looked perfectly presentable to Lestrade: a stripy dress variation of the black-and-white theme Lord Mycroft favoured for his personal slaves. Nevertheless, Sally unfolded herself from her chair and drifted out of the room with a long backwards glance.
"It's my fault for keeping her," Lestrade said.
"Yes it is.” Jasper threw a quick glance around the room before perching on the edge of the sofa next to Lestrade. “But you should listen to her. You know you're meant to be serving your master, yes? You come here because it's on the schedule you're given, but you can't check your obligation to him off a list. Duty isn’t a series of tasks."
"Lord Mycroft hasn't asked for me," Lestrade pointed out.
"Oh, and Lord Mycroft should be the one to work out how you can be of service?"
"Pardon me if I can't read the man's mind.” Lestrade drew in a deep breath. “Listen, I'm not trying to be... ungrateful. If he orders me to... I can follow orders, alright? If he wants me, he can ask for me."
Jasper stood in one sharp motion. His eyes fixed on the door for a moment before landing back on Lestrade. His expression had returned to careful blankness. "Do not come here any more. I won't have you poisoning their minds with this talk. You're excused from muster until further notice."
"What?” Lestrade rose to his feet. “What am I meant to--?"
"Lord Mycroft frowns on stupidity and helplessness,” Jasper said crisply. “I trust he wouldn't have taken you on if those were your dominant traits.” He stalked to the door and held it open.
Lestrade, conscious of the eyes of a few remaining slaves, held his head high as he passed the doorway.
“Goodnight, Gregory,” Jasper said, and shut the door behind him.
--
Lestrade woke early, a habit carried over from years of going in at an indecent hour to tackle paperwork before the Yard grew too chaotic. The lingering questions he’d been turning over in his mind all night had worn down to sharp nubs, like pencils he used to chew at his desk. He needed information. And just like any investigation, the best place to start was with those who’d been around the neighbourhood a long while.
None of the other personal slaves were stirring at this hour, so Lestrade headed down the narrow back stairway to the ground floor, and across to the service wing. The pleasantly warm kitchen bustled with slaves and servants beginning the day’s tasks. Lestrade spotted an older woman with a thin, polished wood collar decorated with a flower pattern, who hummed tunelessly under her breath.
“Excuse me.” Lestrade propped himself against the worktop a few feet down from where the woman was making entries in some sort of ledger. “Is there any chance of a cup of coffee?”
“You’ll have to wait until breakfast is served, or shift for yourself. I’ve enough to do without taking on duties as assistant junior undercook.” She glanced up to fix him with a hard look.
“Right.” Lestrade ducked his head. Considering how little autonomy slaves had, he should have realized that a simple favour held much more significance than he was used to. “Sorry.” He turned away, ready to hunt for coffee on his own, but her voice stopped him.
“Wait! You’re him, aren’t you?”
He turned back to see a wide-eyed expression on the woman’s face, and said slowly, “I’m Greg Lestrade.”
She stepped toward him to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “You helped our Lord Sherlock.”
“I... Not really,” he said faintly. He certainly wouldn’t have characterised events that way. In any case, he wanted to know how this woman had found out about his past. Did the whole household know? Was his disgrace a matter of public record?
“Come, sit down. I’ll start on that coffee.” She tugged him farther into the kitchen and installed him at a table by the window overlooking the courtyard.
“Ma’am- ”
“Mrs. Hudson,” she corrected as she switched on the coffee maker.
“Mrs. Hudson. How did you hear about... what happened?”
“Oh, I don’t really know the specifics. Lord Sherlock dropped a few hints.” She continued to bustle about the kitchen as she spoke, depositing sugar, milk, and a mug before Lestrade. “He was only here briefly, a few weeks back. Came to see his brother-I remember because that’s hardly something you see every day is it? Toast?”
“Love some.”
“He was in a bad way.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know how he gets, worked up over his little projects-but he stopped by to see me. Said to keep an eye out for you, and here you are!”
“Do you work for him, then? Lord Sherlock?”
“Oh, I’ve been with the Holmes family for ages.” She poured a generous mug of coffee from the heavenly-smelling pot. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine.”
“Lord Sherlock’s always been a handful, but terribly clever. He helped me with a problem I had with my husband.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Lestrade wrapped his hands around the mug, letting it warm his suddenly-cold hands. He felt a peculiar discomfort when he imagined Lord Sherlock running about solving mysteries without anyone to keep his reckless impulses in check. Not that Lestrade had been particularly effective at that. “Does your husband work here, then?”
“Oh no, dear. He’s dead.” She set a jar of greengage jam on the table and gave Lestrade a cheerful smile.
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Don’t be. I’m certainly not. Here’s the toast.” She brought over a plate and a rack of slightly burnt white toast, and settled into the seat across from him. “Lord Sherlock didn’t have to help me. Goodness knows I couldn’t give him much in return. He’s a lovely boy. Busy brain gets him into trouble, but he does like to help.”
“Nothing better than a puzzle for him.” Lestrade thought of the amazing things Sherlock had done in the length of their acquaintance. He couldn’t imagine having seen Sherlock grow up from childhood, working intellectual miracles in the nursery. “He’s a great man, isn’t he?”
“I’ve always thought so.” Her smile warmed. “They’re very different, Lord Mycroft and Lord Sherlock. I imagine you’re getting to know Lord Mycroft much better.”
“Not really.” Lestrade selected the least-burnt piece of toast, and began scraping some jam across it, to keep his hands busy. “I haven’t been given anything to do.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson leaned back in her chair, frowning slightly. “Well have you asked, dear?”
“I’m not going to beg him for purpose.” The words came out more sharply than he’d intended. He set down his knife. He was meant to be looking for information, not venting his frustrations. “I mean, if he wants me to do something, he only has to say so.”
“Dear.” She patted his hand. “I’ve known Lord Mycroft since he was in nappies. I wouldn’t call him a paragon of patience.”
Lestrade took her hand in both of his and smiled. “Then it’s a good job I’ve got enough for two.”
--
Among her many positive qualities, Mrs. Hudson counted an exhaustive knowledge of where to acquire anything one might want on the estate. Her assistance saw Lestrade out in the courtyard behind the kitchens, lighting his first cigarette in weeks.
Smoking gave Lestrade a reasonable excuse to hang about the grounds, learning the daily business of the estate. In a few days he’d begun to learn the rhythms of the household beyond the claustrophobic confines of the slave quarters. The groundskeepers maintained extensive gardens, chauffeurs polished the fleet of sleek black cars, labourers unloaded deliveries to the kitchens or the housekeeping office, and blue-uniformed house security guards watched over the whole operation.
On a cloudy Tuesday morning, Lestrade thought briefly, idly, of how he might escape-ride out in a laundry van or some such nonsense. He rolled his shoulders back and imagined he could feel the scar at the base of his spine where the chip with the GPS tracker had been implanted. Even if he hadn’t been tagged like a pet, he had no destination in mind should he make it out. His old life-all the work he’d done, and the position he’d earned by late-night stake-outs, early mornings poring over evidence, and exhausting afternoons canvassing around crime scenes-- had been irrevocably destroyed. Without his work, Lestrade had nothing worth escaping for. He watched a laundry delivery van rattle toward the gate, then ground his cigarette butt into the flagstones with his heel.
With no appointments to keep, Lestrade could wander the grounds at will. He’d found that if he didn’t draw attention to himself, his collar rendered him all but invisible to guards and free men.
On this particular morning, Lestrade set off through the kitchen garden. He had a mind to see how far the planned gardens extended before giving way to heath or woodland. It would be nice to find a place to go for a long, calming run where the eyes of the household wouldn’t be on him.
He came through a gate in the hedge at the end of a bed of cabbages to find himself facing an open expanse of grass. A small group of slaves-some in household uniforms, some stripped down to the waist, all wearing collars--were running and shouting. Lestrade spotted a flash of black and white streaking across the grass between two of them: a football.
A stray kick sent the ball skidding in Lestrade’s direction. He jogged the short distance to intercept, and stopped the ball with his foot.
The players who’d been running after the ball slowed, and then stopped. The others drew closer. All of them stared at Lestrade. He tried not to think about how out-of-place he looked: heavy leather collar, tailored black pants and shirt, dress shoes.
“Need an extra player?” he asked.
“Is he serious?” One of them-a dark-haired boy with ears that stuck out from his head-asked with a glance down the line at his friends.
“It’s the new bed slave,” said another, older bloke, skinny, with a trimmed beard.
“How do you know?”
“Look how he’s dressed!”
A third one, with an unruly tussle of blond curls, stepped toward Lestrade. “Are you being serious?”
“I’d like to play, if you want another player,” Lestrade said.
Another man, this one with thick muscles and a deep frown, stepped forward. “Don’t you have someone’s cock to be sucking?”
Everyone’s attention sharpened. Lestrade felt the group tense-wondering how he’d react. He’d dealt with toughs, with gangs, and with scared, posturing bullies as a DI; with a warm bloom of pleasure, he realized this was something he could easily handle. He offered the bloke an understanding smirk and said, “I got off early.”
Everyone laughed. “I like him,” said the blond.
The others started to come closer. “You’re really Lord Mycroft’s?” one of them asked. “His alone?”
“I suppose, yeah,” Lestrade said, though he felt like a bit of a fraud claiming to serve a man he hadn’t seen in days.
“He talks to you?” asked one of the youngest in the group, a ginger boy with abundant freckles. “Touches you? Jaysus, I can’t imagine him looking down his long nose far enough to get a leg over.”
“Shut it, you.” The curly-headed man gave the ginger’s shoulder a punch. “No talk against the master.”
“Not in front of him, anyway,” said the frowning one.
“Are we playing, then?” Lestrade asked.
“C’mon, Colin,” said the boy with the stick-out ears. “It’s better four on four.”
“He’s not one of us,” said the frowner--Colin, apparently.
“He’s got a collar on him, don’t he?”
“You can put a collar on a dog. Doesn’t make him one of us.”
“Piss off.” The curly-headed blond shot Colin a two-fingered salute before throwing his arm around Lestrade’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. What’s your name?”
“Lestrade.”
“I’m Liam.” He gestured to the rest of the group. “These are the boys. You any good as a forward?”
--
The following Tuesday, Lestrade crawled out of bed feeling every day his age. He stretched in the confines of his tiny room. He hadn’t done much actual chasing after criminals after he’d been promoted to DI, but he could almost imagine the burn in his legs had been earned by a chase through the London streets rather than a handful of afternoons kicking a ball around with fellow slaves who barely tolerated him.
In the kitchen, he accepted a cup of coffee from Mrs. Hudson and took it to what was rapidly becoming his usual spot at the table by the window. Mrs. Hudson would often sit down and chat in between the rhythmic flurry of her morning duties. They’d have toast, and Mrs. Hudson would share gossip about the kitchen slaves until she had to get back to her work.
Lestrade’s mornings had become routine in a way that would have been comforting if it hadn’t highlighted the complete lack of purpose he served in the house. As he sipped his coffee, he thought of the murder of Brenda Tregennis, one of the cases turned over to DI Dimmock after his arrest. He wondered, in the press of so many other responsibilities, if Dimmock had even had the time to look at the file. Dimmock might be sitting in his office right now with a cup of coffee, wishing he only had a spare hour to re-question the vicar, as Lestrade had made a note about doing.
“You’re up early.” Sally slid into the chair across the table and set down her coffee mug. Her eyes were puffy and slightly bloodshot, and she wore a loose-fitting white jumper over dark jeans.
“I’m always up around this time. Have you been to sleep yet?”
Sally shook her head as she stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “Just dismissed. I prefer to write the report immediately. That way I don’t have to bother with it later. I’ll sleep before muster.”
“Are you alright?” Lestrade looked at her hands wrapped around the coffee mug, perfectly relaxed. His eyes tracked up to her closed-off expression, and he frowned. “I just, sorry. Only meant... Did you have a good night? Shit, that doesn’t sound right, either.”
“It’s fine. Jasper always says, ‘Anything worth telling?’ He has a queer sense of humour.” She took a sip of her coffee and watched Lestrade over the rim of her mug. “But yes. Lord Pennington is a regular guest at the estate. He’s instrumental to upholding the economic sanctions against the Roman Republic. Brilliant man. Speaks four languages.”
“Bully for him.” Lestrade sipped his own coffee and tamped down the shame that welled up at the reminder of his uselessness. He couldn’t have claimed accomplishments like that even when he’d been free, but at least he’d been doing some small good, in his way. Now, he couldn’t even claim that. “So you like him well enough, sounds like.”
“He’s not particularly difficult, only he keeps odd hours. Like Lord Mycroft.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Lestrade hadn’t even caught a glimpse of his master in more than a week.
“What do you do with your time, then?” She glanced around the kitchen, as if she might find some evidence of how Lestrade spent his idle hours. “I mean, what can you possibly do all day around here?”
“I...” Lestrade pressed his lips together. He couldn’t even claim to be providing entertainment for great men like Lord Pennington, who were doing the real work of the Empire. He had nothing to say for himself.
“Right. Sounds very fulfilling.”
Lestrade squeezed his fingers around his mug. Words echoed in his memory, so derisively spoken only a few weeks ago, during his first interview with Mycroft: “Are there people who find slavery fulfilling, sir?” He’d been so sure, then, that any chance to do something worthwhile in his life had been over, and so far, he’d made that belief a reality.
“Not particularly,” he muttered. When Sally’s expression threatened to become sympathetic, he quickly threw on a strained smile. “Well, there’s always the football. Some of the boys from the gardens and stables have a regular game. Passes the time.”
“Oh.” She squinted at him, as if trying to work out if there was meant to be a punch line.
“Right.” Lestrade drained the rest of his coffee in one long gulp; it tasted more bitter than usual. “I’m going for a smoke. Do you want one?”
“No, thank you.” Her eyes trailed Lestrade all the way to the door.
--
“Lestrade,” Oliver said. Heedless of the persistent misty rain, he kicked the ball to another of the half-dozen slaves already assembled. “Why is it you’re allowed to be around so much? Don’t you ever have, y’know, duties?”
Rory slapped Oliver in the back of the head. “No, tosser, he works the night shift.”
Liam toed the ball up to bounce against his knee, then kicked it over to Lestrade. “Yeah, and spends it all lying on his back, lazy arse.”
“Leaves me the energy to run you and up and down the field.” Lestrade said, and kicked the ball past Oliver, sending him running.
“I heard he doesn’t even use you.” Colin walked up the path to join the group, and stood with his arms crossed.
“What?” Lestrade felt heat creeping up his neck as the others stopped to watch the exchange.
“My sister’s in the household guard. She says he never has a slave in at night.” Colin looked Lestrade up and down. “You must be a pretty big disappointment, if he didn’t even want to try you.”
“Hey!” Liam called. “We going to play, or you going to talk shite all day?”
Colin shrugged. “Let’s play, then.”
Oliver threw the ball in, and everyone turned their attention to the game. The flush receded from Lestrade’s face once the attention of the other slaves was elsewhere, but as he ran, he felt off-balance, as if the pitch had begun to roll beneath his feet.
The grass was damp from the continuous mist drifting down from the wispy clouds, so the ball skidded faster than usual. Colin kicked past Rory’s block for an early goal, and after that Lestrade lost himself in running and passing, keeping his eyes on the ball and on his teammates.
After a quick turnaround, Lestrade found himself between Colin and the goalkeeper. Colin drove the ball hard down the pitch, but Lestrade kept in front of him, running flat out. If he could just get the right angle, he might be able to-
“Gregory!”
Lestrade’s head snapped up, and his feet faltered. Colin’s shoulder slammed into his, sending Lestrade spinning, then tumbling face-first into the muddy grass.
When he righted himself, he saw his fellow players standing still, staring towards the far edge of the pitch by the neatly-trimmed hedgerow where there stood two figures, surreally formal in pristine black and white: Sally and Jasper.
Lestrade wiped the dirt and damp out of his eyes as he stood. The other players stared at the ground as they moved slowly away. Liam, ball tucked under his arm, gave Lestrade a sympathetic glance as he passed.
Lestrade trudged down the length of the field, increasingly aware of his unpresentable state: sweat-stained shirt clinging to his back, muddy flecks spattering his trousers to the knee, and hair standing up at all angles.
Jasper held his hands clasped behind his back, like a prisoner facing a firing squad. He didn’t take his eyes off Lestrade. Sally, hands shoved in her pockets, stared at the ground.
Lestrade felt as if he should bow, or possibly salute, but instead he came to a stop a few feet away, and said, “You called?”
Jasper focused his gaze somewhere to the left of Lestrade’s ear, as if he couldn’t be lowered to address him directly. “Are you deliberately trying to bring disgrace on your position, or does your wilful ignorance simply stretch credulity?”
Lestrade gritted his teeth before answering. With the same studied patience he’d used with his first DCI-the one who’d never trusted him to do his job-he asked, “Have I done something wrong?”
“Wilful ignorance, then. I believe that may actually be worse. Excuse me.” Jasper turned sharply on his heel and stalked off down the path.
Sally’s eyes followed his retreat, then returned to scrutinizing Lestrade. “You should apologize to him.”
“If I knew what I was apologizing for, I’d consider it.” The unpleasant feeling of vertigo had returned, but Lestrade refused to let it deter him. He’d nothing to be ashamed of-any logical person would swear to it.
“Are you really so thick?” Sally asked. “Why did all your little friends slink off when they saw us? They knew you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s not as if I’ve got a jam-packed schedule.”
“You’re the highest ranking personal slave in the house.” Sally’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You’re supposed to be... It’s not something you... You should know why!”
“They must have forgotten to install my mind-reading chip with my tracker.” Lestrade spread his arms. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That is obvious, thanks. What if you’d got hurt? Turned an ankle? Taken an elbow to the face. You can’t have a cut showing, or a bloody lip. The Lord of Westminster can’t be seen next to a slave with a sodding black eye!”
“I’m not seen with him at all,” Lestrade snapped.
“But you should be! Do you have any idea how many slaves would kill to have the job you think you’re too good for? You’re supposed to be representing us-the epitome of personal service in the household, our voice in the Lord’s ear, but you’re...” She waved at the muddy pitch, now deserted. “You’re here instead.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead.
Lestrade saw the tiredness settle onto her like a tangible weight, and remembered that she’d been up all night, going about her duties. She’d contributed to the working of the household-the Empire-- while he’d been running from his obligations. “Sally.” Lestrade took a slow step forward.
“I have to go to muster.” She sped off down the path to the house.
Lestrade stood watching her go for a full minute before turning around to scan the field. The other slaves were nowhere to be found. He trudged back to the house in the steadily increasing rain. He stopped by his room only long enough to grab a towel.
With the rest of the personal slave contingent at muster, Lestrade had the communal shower to himself. He turned the control as hot as he could bear, and stood under the spray with his hands against the wall. The water washed away the dirt and sweat of the day’s exertions, but not the festering shame that crept along his skin, a persistent residue of his humiliation.
The door to the room opened and closed, letting in a rush of cold air. Lestrade wiped the water away from his eyes in time to see Anthea appear in the shower doorway, a prudent distance from the spray. She held her Blackberry in both hands, and her eyes never strayed from the screen. “Hey,” she said.
“Hello,” Lestrade ventured. Anthea didn’t reply, so Lestrade ducked his head under the water again. If she expected him to cower naked, waiting for their master’s orders, she would have to be disappointed.
He washed his hair, rinsed it, and still she stood there. She looked as if she’d be content to wait all night, if necessary, for Lestrade to provide her due attention. The itch under his skin intensified. A childish urge struck him: to refuse whatever orders Anthea had come to deliver. Then the impulse bled out of him and left him empty. Or perhaps he’d been empty before, and hadn’t let himself feel it.
He twisted the knob to turn off the water, and braced his hands against the wall again. “If you’ve come to give me a lecture, I’ve got to tell you I’m full up. Probably couldn’t stand even a short lecture at this point. I’ve had a very busy day of being told how deeply inadequate I am in the eyes of everyone within ten miles of here. So if you could save whatever you have to say for another time, I’d be much obliged.”
“Been working up to that, have you?” She glanced up from the screen and quirked an eyebrow at Lestrade in a way that reminded him of Lord Mycroft.
“A bit, yeah.” The beginnings of a rueful smile threatened Lestrade’s foul mood.
Anthea looked back at her Blackberry and held out his towel. Lestrade took it.
After a perfunctory dry-off, he wrapped the towel around his waist, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re not here to lecture, then?”
“I’m sure you’ve enough going on up there. Or, enough for anyone who isn’t a Holmes.”
“Right.” Because of course the Holmes Lords could keep a dozen threads of thought woven together in an elegant web, and use just one of them to keep a lowly Detective Inspector from disaster. Lestrade had held onto a stubborn speck of pride that said he was more than this-that he had a calling he’d trained for, that he was somehow wasting his time here. But no. He’d thrown that life away, and only Lord Mycroft’s intervention had saved him from a slow end working himself to death in the blazing Australian sun. That speck of pride had to be shaped to a new purpose: serving the Empire in the only role left to him. His pride now depended on his ability to please his master. “Anthea,” he began, “could I--?”
“I keep Lord Mycroft’s diary, you know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I know where he is and what he’s doing every hour of the day.”
Lestrade ran both hands through his damp hair. A few stray drops of water landed on his shoulders and rolled down his back, sending a shiver down his spine as he thought of what Lord Mycroft might be up to right now. He didn’t know the first thing about the man, and yet, he could picture him quite clearly: his ruler-straight posture, the small wrinkle that formed momentarily between his eyebrows when he heard an answer he didn’t anticipate, the way his eyes tracked motion like a bird of prey.
“You know,” Lestrade said, “I feel as if I’m playing a game where everyone except me knows the rules.”
“Welcome to life with Lord Mycroft. You get used to it after a while. Or you go mad.” Anthea scrolled through a document on her phone. “Listen, he has audiences tomorrow morning. All well-established contacts, all mid-level security clearance. Are you busy between nine-thirty and eleven?”
“Not really, no.”
“Good.” Her fingers danced on the tiny keyboard. “I’ll send the details to your tablet.”
“Anthea.” He pushed off the wall and stood holding his towel, only a token comfort in a place where he owned not even himself. “I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
Anthea gripped her Blackberry tightly and fixed her eyes on Lestrade. “Do you want to?”
Lestrade swallowed hard against the weight of his collar. The last heat of his frustration melted to form a tangled knot of some new emotion, lodged tightly below his sternum. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“That’s a start.”
--
Next section
This installment is complete; I'll post one section each day, for a total of four. So if you'd rather read it all on one go, you need only wait until Sunday. Thanks for bearing with me-- these characters are always a joy to write, but with so much tumult going on in my life, I had to fight to make time for writing. But, of course, I always will. Enjoy!
Title: Believe Also in Me
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock, Ensemble, references to Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~40,000 total (6.4k this section)
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, dub-con, violence (including canon character death), and BDSM (including humiliation, spanking, and caning)
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; events described in Place Where I Am Going are particularly relevant), but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning of the story.
Notes: Thanks to morganstuart for keeping a firm hand on the tiller of character development, jaune_chat for her constant cheerleading, and blue-eyed-1987 for, among other things, weeding out my ridiculous American notions about hot beverages.
Summary: While battling insomnia, Lestrade remembers the uneasy early days of his life as a slave in Lord Mycroft’s house.
Previously, on In My Master’s House:
Two years ago, DI Gregory Lestrade worked a case with Lord Sherlock Holmes that went very wrong. Lestrade faced the hard reality of the Empire’s justice, and was saved from a sentence of hard labour only by being purchased as a slave by Lord Mycroft. In the intervening years, Lestrade has come to find satisfaction and pride in his role as Lord Mycroft’s personal slave, but recent events have begun to challenge Lestrade’s confidence in his master. After an incident last night in which Lord Mycroft allowed Lord Sherlock’s slave John Watson to be publically punished, Lestrade was banished from his master’s presence, and faces a night alone with his doubts.
----------------
The Holmes estate was never really silent. The footmen had the dining room to clear after dinner. Valets and ladies’ maids would attend to their masters’ needs when they retired. Personal slaves remained available into the wee hours, in case one of the guests acquired an urge. By then, the bakers began arriving in the kitchen to prepare for breakfast.
It was at that point in the house’s continuous activities that Lestrade found himself wandering the halls. He’d already completed every minor task that could conceivably count as his duty. Last, he’d checked in on his office and received an update from Sally on the evening’s developments (“All gossip about Lord Sherlock’s antics. If he wasn’t a Lord, I’d say the man was a real freak.”) and the next morning’s schedule (“Everything’s sorted with the erotic contortionist set.”). He hadn’t lingered, as he didn’t fancy questions and speculations about why he wasn’t spending the night in the usual way. That left him nowhere to go but back to the slave quarters.
Lestrade’s room seemed small and cold after so many nights in Mycroft’s quarters. He stripped off his clothing, but couldn’t be bothered to drag out the flannel pyjamas he hadn’t used in ages. Flopping face-first onto the hard mattress, he ordered his body to relax. It ignored him.
Lestrade breathed in the clean sheets, which smelled of nothing more than detergent. The last time he’d slept here had been-when? When Lord Mycroft had flown to Malta, where slaves weren’t welcome, back in July? No, that week Lestrade had crept into Mycroft’s room and spread out onto his side of the bed.
Pathetic, that he couldn’t sleep without his master’s company. Though perhaps, in this case, the fact of Mycroft’s absence bothered him less than the reason for it.
He tugged the duvet up over his head, as if that would shield him from his circling doubts. He hadn’t felt this unsure of his place since the early days of his slavery. Mycroft had never banished Lestrade before. Not this way, at least. Even at his most busy, Mycroft still wanted Lestrade near. Lestrade had learned how his master worked through a painstaking process of observation, evidence gathering, and trial and error. His knowledge of Lord Mycroft’s habits was surpassed only by Anthea. So why, now, would everything Lestrade worked out in the past suddenly cease to apply?
Lestrade shuffled around possible clues in his head, but came up with no coherent picture. It was a pity that the man he knew who was most adept at sussing out hidden motivations wasn’t available to ask. He’d told Lord Mycroft that he trusted him, and he resolved to continue to do so, until he had a damn good reason not to. He’d been too long with Mycroft to let uncertainty drive him mad now.
Still, he wished for a glance of Mycroft’s playfully coy expression, the subtle smile he wore when he said something like, “These things work themselves out,” or, “I shouldn’t be surprised to see this sorted by week’s end,” as if he hadn’t been manipulating events to his design all along.
Lestrade needed that assurance now-that Mycroft had, as ever, considered all the variables, planned for every possible outcome, and taken firm control of the situation. He needed something fixed and true.
Lestrade pushed to his knees, leaving his face pressed into the pillow. Mycroft liked him like that, sometimes-when he was flush with victory after a successful negotiation, as close to giddy as he was capable of being. Though he usually preferred to let Lestrade do most of the work, in these moods Mycroft revelled in the chance to manhandle Lestrade, dragging him to this or that position, directing him with possessive touches.
Lestrade reached between his legs to brush the back of his knuckles down the length of his cock, which swung heavy between his legs. He imagined he could feel Mycroft’s warm hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him. The firm touches were always reassurances: I’m in charge. I’ll take care of everything.
Mycroft liked to prepare Lestrade thoroughly, sometimes until Lestrade lost patience and scraped together enough lucidity to issue semi-coherent pleas for more. Only when he had Lestrade hard and wanton would Mycroft finally take him, squeezing his hands around Lestrade’s hips and dragging him back. From his superior position, Mycroft could control the angle and force of the penetration with devastating accuracy.
Lestrade’s hips shoved back reflexively at the memory, searching for stimulation. He wrapped his fingers around his cock and gave it a comforting tug. Mycroft might have denied him that indulgence just yet, preferring to help Lestrade hold out for a slower, more satisfying end to his pleasure. Once, he’d dragged Lestrade’s arms up behind his back and held them together, leaning in for leverage as his cock worked against the spot that made Lestrade gasp and shiver and rendering Lestrade helpless against his attentions.
Now, without Mycroft to restrain him, Lestrade gave in to the urge to thrust through the tight circle of his hand. Pressing his face into the pillow muffled the harsh breath that sounded too loud in the empty room; he was used to holding back his own noises, the better to monitor those of his master. He could always tell when Mycroft was nearing climax by the gradual disruption of his technique: a groan that disturbed his measured breathing, a falter in the even rhythm of his thrusts, a desperate clutch marring his firm grip. Too proper to shout expletives or scream his release to the skies, Mycroft would instead bury himself fully inside Lestrade, grabbing at his shoulders or his hips to hold on like a drowning man while he reached completion in silence. When he could breathe again, he’d topple Lestrade onto his back and loom over him, scrutinizing Lestrade’s reactions as he worked him with both hands.
Lestrade rolled over with a groan, letting his legs fall open wide as he stroked himself faster. If Lestrade closed his eyes, he could nearly hear Mycroft’s voice in his ear, whispering, “Yes.” Mycroft understood Lestrade’s body as well as he understood foreign economic policy or politics in the House of Lords, and could manipulate it as easily.
Lestrade’s hand was a poor substitute for Mycroft’s expert ministrations, but his hips thrust up, his fingers squeezed, and he came picturing the gratified smile Mycroft always displayed when he brought Lestrade off.
Lestrade wiped his hand on the sheets and rolled over, only to bump against the cold wall that abutted his narrow bed. “Fuck,” he muttered to the stones.
Boneless and wrung-out as he felt, the relentless worries crowded in even before the pleasurable shaking had subsided. He tried pressing his palms against his eyes, but exhaustion refused to take him. The questions and doubts circling his thoughts chased sleep far away.
Lestrade resisted the urge to indulge in a self-pitying sigh. Instead, he rolled out of bed and began to strip the sheets. Surely he could find something to occupy his time. That something would absolutely not be imagining what Mycroft was planning, because in that task, Lestrade had absolutely no hope of succeeding. He never had.
--
--
Lestrade stared at his hands as the evening meeting--muster, they called it, as if the cadre of personal slaves Mycroft kept was a fighting force--droned on around him. To his left and right, slaves younger and prettier than he were perched on chairs and chaises, all posed as if they'd had lessons in artfully draping themselves over the furniture. Jasper, the head personal slave, handed out assignments to his mostly-silent charges.
A whipcord-thin man with close-cropped white hair and an elegant bearing, Jasper delivered his instructions as if they were battle plans. "Those of you without assignments will remain here after muster, as some of the North Austrian delegation prefer to make their own selection. Reports are expected before thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. That is all."
Around the room, the handful of slaves who'd been given assignments for the evening rose to make whatever preparations one made for entertaining visiting dignitaries or high-ranking members of the household. From his brief training period, Lestrade could imagine what expectations the masters had for these liaisons. He knitted his fingers together and squeezed, cursing the part of him that felt a rush of selfish relief at not being required to do the work these men and women did without complaint.
"It's Gregory, isn't it?"
Lestrade looked up to see a sharp-faced beauty of a woman on the pure white chair beside his sofa watching him expectantly.
"Lestrade," he said. "That's what they used to call me."
"It's first names for slaves around here, mostly.” The woman tilted her head to the side, examining him closely. “But do as you like. I'm Sally."
"Hello."
"Listen.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you know what you're doing?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your duties? You come in here for muster, but you wander in and wander out, like it's your first AA meeting and you're not sure you have a problem."
"I suppose not, then." Lestrade frowned at her expectant expression. "Am I doing something wrong?"
"Not as such,” she said slowly. “It's not for me to say."
"Sally." Jasper appeared at the arm of the sofa. A slight frown marred his usual calm neutrality. "You'll need to get dressed for the selection."
"Of course." Her outfit looked perfectly presentable to Lestrade: a stripy dress variation of the black-and-white theme Lord Mycroft favoured for his personal slaves. Nevertheless, Sally unfolded herself from her chair and drifted out of the room with a long backwards glance.
"It's my fault for keeping her," Lestrade said.
"Yes it is.” Jasper threw a quick glance around the room before perching on the edge of the sofa next to Lestrade. “But you should listen to her. You know you're meant to be serving your master, yes? You come here because it's on the schedule you're given, but you can't check your obligation to him off a list. Duty isn’t a series of tasks."
"Lord Mycroft hasn't asked for me," Lestrade pointed out.
"Oh, and Lord Mycroft should be the one to work out how you can be of service?"
"Pardon me if I can't read the man's mind.” Lestrade drew in a deep breath. “Listen, I'm not trying to be... ungrateful. If he orders me to... I can follow orders, alright? If he wants me, he can ask for me."
Jasper stood in one sharp motion. His eyes fixed on the door for a moment before landing back on Lestrade. His expression had returned to careful blankness. "Do not come here any more. I won't have you poisoning their minds with this talk. You're excused from muster until further notice."
"What?” Lestrade rose to his feet. “What am I meant to--?"
"Lord Mycroft frowns on stupidity and helplessness,” Jasper said crisply. “I trust he wouldn't have taken you on if those were your dominant traits.” He stalked to the door and held it open.
Lestrade, conscious of the eyes of a few remaining slaves, held his head high as he passed the doorway.
“Goodnight, Gregory,” Jasper said, and shut the door behind him.
--
Lestrade woke early, a habit carried over from years of going in at an indecent hour to tackle paperwork before the Yard grew too chaotic. The lingering questions he’d been turning over in his mind all night had worn down to sharp nubs, like pencils he used to chew at his desk. He needed information. And just like any investigation, the best place to start was with those who’d been around the neighbourhood a long while.
None of the other personal slaves were stirring at this hour, so Lestrade headed down the narrow back stairway to the ground floor, and across to the service wing. The pleasantly warm kitchen bustled with slaves and servants beginning the day’s tasks. Lestrade spotted an older woman with a thin, polished wood collar decorated with a flower pattern, who hummed tunelessly under her breath.
“Excuse me.” Lestrade propped himself against the worktop a few feet down from where the woman was making entries in some sort of ledger. “Is there any chance of a cup of coffee?”
“You’ll have to wait until breakfast is served, or shift for yourself. I’ve enough to do without taking on duties as assistant junior undercook.” She glanced up to fix him with a hard look.
“Right.” Lestrade ducked his head. Considering how little autonomy slaves had, he should have realized that a simple favour held much more significance than he was used to. “Sorry.” He turned away, ready to hunt for coffee on his own, but her voice stopped him.
“Wait! You’re him, aren’t you?”
He turned back to see a wide-eyed expression on the woman’s face, and said slowly, “I’m Greg Lestrade.”
She stepped toward him to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “You helped our Lord Sherlock.”
“I... Not really,” he said faintly. He certainly wouldn’t have characterised events that way. In any case, he wanted to know how this woman had found out about his past. Did the whole household know? Was his disgrace a matter of public record?
“Come, sit down. I’ll start on that coffee.” She tugged him farther into the kitchen and installed him at a table by the window overlooking the courtyard.
“Ma’am- ”
“Mrs. Hudson,” she corrected as she switched on the coffee maker.
“Mrs. Hudson. How did you hear about... what happened?”
“Oh, I don’t really know the specifics. Lord Sherlock dropped a few hints.” She continued to bustle about the kitchen as she spoke, depositing sugar, milk, and a mug before Lestrade. “He was only here briefly, a few weeks back. Came to see his brother-I remember because that’s hardly something you see every day is it? Toast?”
“Love some.”
“He was in a bad way.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know how he gets, worked up over his little projects-but he stopped by to see me. Said to keep an eye out for you, and here you are!”
“Do you work for him, then? Lord Sherlock?”
“Oh, I’ve been with the Holmes family for ages.” She poured a generous mug of coffee from the heavenly-smelling pot. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine.”
“Lord Sherlock’s always been a handful, but terribly clever. He helped me with a problem I had with my husband.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Lestrade wrapped his hands around the mug, letting it warm his suddenly-cold hands. He felt a peculiar discomfort when he imagined Lord Sherlock running about solving mysteries without anyone to keep his reckless impulses in check. Not that Lestrade had been particularly effective at that. “Does your husband work here, then?”
“Oh no, dear. He’s dead.” She set a jar of greengage jam on the table and gave Lestrade a cheerful smile.
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Don’t be. I’m certainly not. Here’s the toast.” She brought over a plate and a rack of slightly burnt white toast, and settled into the seat across from him. “Lord Sherlock didn’t have to help me. Goodness knows I couldn’t give him much in return. He’s a lovely boy. Busy brain gets him into trouble, but he does like to help.”
“Nothing better than a puzzle for him.” Lestrade thought of the amazing things Sherlock had done in the length of their acquaintance. He couldn’t imagine having seen Sherlock grow up from childhood, working intellectual miracles in the nursery. “He’s a great man, isn’t he?”
“I’ve always thought so.” Her smile warmed. “They’re very different, Lord Mycroft and Lord Sherlock. I imagine you’re getting to know Lord Mycroft much better.”
“Not really.” Lestrade selected the least-burnt piece of toast, and began scraping some jam across it, to keep his hands busy. “I haven’t been given anything to do.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson leaned back in her chair, frowning slightly. “Well have you asked, dear?”
“I’m not going to beg him for purpose.” The words came out more sharply than he’d intended. He set down his knife. He was meant to be looking for information, not venting his frustrations. “I mean, if he wants me to do something, he only has to say so.”
“Dear.” She patted his hand. “I’ve known Lord Mycroft since he was in nappies. I wouldn’t call him a paragon of patience.”
Lestrade took her hand in both of his and smiled. “Then it’s a good job I’ve got enough for two.”
--
Among her many positive qualities, Mrs. Hudson counted an exhaustive knowledge of where to acquire anything one might want on the estate. Her assistance saw Lestrade out in the courtyard behind the kitchens, lighting his first cigarette in weeks.
Smoking gave Lestrade a reasonable excuse to hang about the grounds, learning the daily business of the estate. In a few days he’d begun to learn the rhythms of the household beyond the claustrophobic confines of the slave quarters. The groundskeepers maintained extensive gardens, chauffeurs polished the fleet of sleek black cars, labourers unloaded deliveries to the kitchens or the housekeeping office, and blue-uniformed house security guards watched over the whole operation.
On a cloudy Tuesday morning, Lestrade thought briefly, idly, of how he might escape-ride out in a laundry van or some such nonsense. He rolled his shoulders back and imagined he could feel the scar at the base of his spine where the chip with the GPS tracker had been implanted. Even if he hadn’t been tagged like a pet, he had no destination in mind should he make it out. His old life-all the work he’d done, and the position he’d earned by late-night stake-outs, early mornings poring over evidence, and exhausting afternoons canvassing around crime scenes-- had been irrevocably destroyed. Without his work, Lestrade had nothing worth escaping for. He watched a laundry delivery van rattle toward the gate, then ground his cigarette butt into the flagstones with his heel.
With no appointments to keep, Lestrade could wander the grounds at will. He’d found that if he didn’t draw attention to himself, his collar rendered him all but invisible to guards and free men.
On this particular morning, Lestrade set off through the kitchen garden. He had a mind to see how far the planned gardens extended before giving way to heath or woodland. It would be nice to find a place to go for a long, calming run where the eyes of the household wouldn’t be on him.
He came through a gate in the hedge at the end of a bed of cabbages to find himself facing an open expanse of grass. A small group of slaves-some in household uniforms, some stripped down to the waist, all wearing collars--were running and shouting. Lestrade spotted a flash of black and white streaking across the grass between two of them: a football.
A stray kick sent the ball skidding in Lestrade’s direction. He jogged the short distance to intercept, and stopped the ball with his foot.
The players who’d been running after the ball slowed, and then stopped. The others drew closer. All of them stared at Lestrade. He tried not to think about how out-of-place he looked: heavy leather collar, tailored black pants and shirt, dress shoes.
“Need an extra player?” he asked.
“Is he serious?” One of them-a dark-haired boy with ears that stuck out from his head-asked with a glance down the line at his friends.
“It’s the new bed slave,” said another, older bloke, skinny, with a trimmed beard.
“How do you know?”
“Look how he’s dressed!”
A third one, with an unruly tussle of blond curls, stepped toward Lestrade. “Are you being serious?”
“I’d like to play, if you want another player,” Lestrade said.
Another man, this one with thick muscles and a deep frown, stepped forward. “Don’t you have someone’s cock to be sucking?”
Everyone’s attention sharpened. Lestrade felt the group tense-wondering how he’d react. He’d dealt with toughs, with gangs, and with scared, posturing bullies as a DI; with a warm bloom of pleasure, he realized this was something he could easily handle. He offered the bloke an understanding smirk and said, “I got off early.”
Everyone laughed. “I like him,” said the blond.
The others started to come closer. “You’re really Lord Mycroft’s?” one of them asked. “His alone?”
“I suppose, yeah,” Lestrade said, though he felt like a bit of a fraud claiming to serve a man he hadn’t seen in days.
“He talks to you?” asked one of the youngest in the group, a ginger boy with abundant freckles. “Touches you? Jaysus, I can’t imagine him looking down his long nose far enough to get a leg over.”
“Shut it, you.” The curly-headed man gave the ginger’s shoulder a punch. “No talk against the master.”
“Not in front of him, anyway,” said the frowning one.
“Are we playing, then?” Lestrade asked.
“C’mon, Colin,” said the boy with the stick-out ears. “It’s better four on four.”
“He’s not one of us,” said the frowner--Colin, apparently.
“He’s got a collar on him, don’t he?”
“You can put a collar on a dog. Doesn’t make him one of us.”
“Piss off.” The curly-headed blond shot Colin a two-fingered salute before throwing his arm around Lestrade’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. What’s your name?”
“Lestrade.”
“I’m Liam.” He gestured to the rest of the group. “These are the boys. You any good as a forward?”
--
The following Tuesday, Lestrade crawled out of bed feeling every day his age. He stretched in the confines of his tiny room. He hadn’t done much actual chasing after criminals after he’d been promoted to DI, but he could almost imagine the burn in his legs had been earned by a chase through the London streets rather than a handful of afternoons kicking a ball around with fellow slaves who barely tolerated him.
In the kitchen, he accepted a cup of coffee from Mrs. Hudson and took it to what was rapidly becoming his usual spot at the table by the window. Mrs. Hudson would often sit down and chat in between the rhythmic flurry of her morning duties. They’d have toast, and Mrs. Hudson would share gossip about the kitchen slaves until she had to get back to her work.
Lestrade’s mornings had become routine in a way that would have been comforting if it hadn’t highlighted the complete lack of purpose he served in the house. As he sipped his coffee, he thought of the murder of Brenda Tregennis, one of the cases turned over to DI Dimmock after his arrest. He wondered, in the press of so many other responsibilities, if Dimmock had even had the time to look at the file. Dimmock might be sitting in his office right now with a cup of coffee, wishing he only had a spare hour to re-question the vicar, as Lestrade had made a note about doing.
“You’re up early.” Sally slid into the chair across the table and set down her coffee mug. Her eyes were puffy and slightly bloodshot, and she wore a loose-fitting white jumper over dark jeans.
“I’m always up around this time. Have you been to sleep yet?”
Sally shook her head as she stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “Just dismissed. I prefer to write the report immediately. That way I don’t have to bother with it later. I’ll sleep before muster.”
“Are you alright?” Lestrade looked at her hands wrapped around the coffee mug, perfectly relaxed. His eyes tracked up to her closed-off expression, and he frowned. “I just, sorry. Only meant... Did you have a good night? Shit, that doesn’t sound right, either.”
“It’s fine. Jasper always says, ‘Anything worth telling?’ He has a queer sense of humour.” She took a sip of her coffee and watched Lestrade over the rim of her mug. “But yes. Lord Pennington is a regular guest at the estate. He’s instrumental to upholding the economic sanctions against the Roman Republic. Brilliant man. Speaks four languages.”
“Bully for him.” Lestrade sipped his own coffee and tamped down the shame that welled up at the reminder of his uselessness. He couldn’t have claimed accomplishments like that even when he’d been free, but at least he’d been doing some small good, in his way. Now, he couldn’t even claim that. “So you like him well enough, sounds like.”
“He’s not particularly difficult, only he keeps odd hours. Like Lord Mycroft.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Lestrade hadn’t even caught a glimpse of his master in more than a week.
“What do you do with your time, then?” She glanced around the kitchen, as if she might find some evidence of how Lestrade spent his idle hours. “I mean, what can you possibly do all day around here?”
“I...” Lestrade pressed his lips together. He couldn’t even claim to be providing entertainment for great men like Lord Pennington, who were doing the real work of the Empire. He had nothing to say for himself.
“Right. Sounds very fulfilling.”
Lestrade squeezed his fingers around his mug. Words echoed in his memory, so derisively spoken only a few weeks ago, during his first interview with Mycroft: “Are there people who find slavery fulfilling, sir?” He’d been so sure, then, that any chance to do something worthwhile in his life had been over, and so far, he’d made that belief a reality.
“Not particularly,” he muttered. When Sally’s expression threatened to become sympathetic, he quickly threw on a strained smile. “Well, there’s always the football. Some of the boys from the gardens and stables have a regular game. Passes the time.”
“Oh.” She squinted at him, as if trying to work out if there was meant to be a punch line.
“Right.” Lestrade drained the rest of his coffee in one long gulp; it tasted more bitter than usual. “I’m going for a smoke. Do you want one?”
“No, thank you.” Her eyes trailed Lestrade all the way to the door.
--
“Lestrade,” Oliver said. Heedless of the persistent misty rain, he kicked the ball to another of the half-dozen slaves already assembled. “Why is it you’re allowed to be around so much? Don’t you ever have, y’know, duties?”
Rory slapped Oliver in the back of the head. “No, tosser, he works the night shift.”
Liam toed the ball up to bounce against his knee, then kicked it over to Lestrade. “Yeah, and spends it all lying on his back, lazy arse.”
“Leaves me the energy to run you and up and down the field.” Lestrade said, and kicked the ball past Oliver, sending him running.
“I heard he doesn’t even use you.” Colin walked up the path to join the group, and stood with his arms crossed.
“What?” Lestrade felt heat creeping up his neck as the others stopped to watch the exchange.
“My sister’s in the household guard. She says he never has a slave in at night.” Colin looked Lestrade up and down. “You must be a pretty big disappointment, if he didn’t even want to try you.”
“Hey!” Liam called. “We going to play, or you going to talk shite all day?”
Colin shrugged. “Let’s play, then.”
Oliver threw the ball in, and everyone turned their attention to the game. The flush receded from Lestrade’s face once the attention of the other slaves was elsewhere, but as he ran, he felt off-balance, as if the pitch had begun to roll beneath his feet.
The grass was damp from the continuous mist drifting down from the wispy clouds, so the ball skidded faster than usual. Colin kicked past Rory’s block for an early goal, and after that Lestrade lost himself in running and passing, keeping his eyes on the ball and on his teammates.
After a quick turnaround, Lestrade found himself between Colin and the goalkeeper. Colin drove the ball hard down the pitch, but Lestrade kept in front of him, running flat out. If he could just get the right angle, he might be able to-
“Gregory!”
Lestrade’s head snapped up, and his feet faltered. Colin’s shoulder slammed into his, sending Lestrade spinning, then tumbling face-first into the muddy grass.
When he righted himself, he saw his fellow players standing still, staring towards the far edge of the pitch by the neatly-trimmed hedgerow where there stood two figures, surreally formal in pristine black and white: Sally and Jasper.
Lestrade wiped the dirt and damp out of his eyes as he stood. The other players stared at the ground as they moved slowly away. Liam, ball tucked under his arm, gave Lestrade a sympathetic glance as he passed.
Lestrade trudged down the length of the field, increasingly aware of his unpresentable state: sweat-stained shirt clinging to his back, muddy flecks spattering his trousers to the knee, and hair standing up at all angles.
Jasper held his hands clasped behind his back, like a prisoner facing a firing squad. He didn’t take his eyes off Lestrade. Sally, hands shoved in her pockets, stared at the ground.
Lestrade felt as if he should bow, or possibly salute, but instead he came to a stop a few feet away, and said, “You called?”
Jasper focused his gaze somewhere to the left of Lestrade’s ear, as if he couldn’t be lowered to address him directly. “Are you deliberately trying to bring disgrace on your position, or does your wilful ignorance simply stretch credulity?”
Lestrade gritted his teeth before answering. With the same studied patience he’d used with his first DCI-the one who’d never trusted him to do his job-he asked, “Have I done something wrong?”
“Wilful ignorance, then. I believe that may actually be worse. Excuse me.” Jasper turned sharply on his heel and stalked off down the path.
Sally’s eyes followed his retreat, then returned to scrutinizing Lestrade. “You should apologize to him.”
“If I knew what I was apologizing for, I’d consider it.” The unpleasant feeling of vertigo had returned, but Lestrade refused to let it deter him. He’d nothing to be ashamed of-any logical person would swear to it.
“Are you really so thick?” Sally asked. “Why did all your little friends slink off when they saw us? They knew you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s not as if I’ve got a jam-packed schedule.”
“You’re the highest ranking personal slave in the house.” Sally’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You’re supposed to be... It’s not something you... You should know why!”
“They must have forgotten to install my mind-reading chip with my tracker.” Lestrade spread his arms. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That is obvious, thanks. What if you’d got hurt? Turned an ankle? Taken an elbow to the face. You can’t have a cut showing, or a bloody lip. The Lord of Westminster can’t be seen next to a slave with a sodding black eye!”
“I’m not seen with him at all,” Lestrade snapped.
“But you should be! Do you have any idea how many slaves would kill to have the job you think you’re too good for? You’re supposed to be representing us-the epitome of personal service in the household, our voice in the Lord’s ear, but you’re...” She waved at the muddy pitch, now deserted. “You’re here instead.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead.
Lestrade saw the tiredness settle onto her like a tangible weight, and remembered that she’d been up all night, going about her duties. She’d contributed to the working of the household-the Empire-- while he’d been running from his obligations. “Sally.” Lestrade took a slow step forward.
“I have to go to muster.” She sped off down the path to the house.
Lestrade stood watching her go for a full minute before turning around to scan the field. The other slaves were nowhere to be found. He trudged back to the house in the steadily increasing rain. He stopped by his room only long enough to grab a towel.
With the rest of the personal slave contingent at muster, Lestrade had the communal shower to himself. He turned the control as hot as he could bear, and stood under the spray with his hands against the wall. The water washed away the dirt and sweat of the day’s exertions, but not the festering shame that crept along his skin, a persistent residue of his humiliation.
The door to the room opened and closed, letting in a rush of cold air. Lestrade wiped the water away from his eyes in time to see Anthea appear in the shower doorway, a prudent distance from the spray. She held her Blackberry in both hands, and her eyes never strayed from the screen. “Hey,” she said.
“Hello,” Lestrade ventured. Anthea didn’t reply, so Lestrade ducked his head under the water again. If she expected him to cower naked, waiting for their master’s orders, she would have to be disappointed.
He washed his hair, rinsed it, and still she stood there. She looked as if she’d be content to wait all night, if necessary, for Lestrade to provide her due attention. The itch under his skin intensified. A childish urge struck him: to refuse whatever orders Anthea had come to deliver. Then the impulse bled out of him and left him empty. Or perhaps he’d been empty before, and hadn’t let himself feel it.
He twisted the knob to turn off the water, and braced his hands against the wall again. “If you’ve come to give me a lecture, I’ve got to tell you I’m full up. Probably couldn’t stand even a short lecture at this point. I’ve had a very busy day of being told how deeply inadequate I am in the eyes of everyone within ten miles of here. So if you could save whatever you have to say for another time, I’d be much obliged.”
“Been working up to that, have you?” She glanced up from the screen and quirked an eyebrow at Lestrade in a way that reminded him of Lord Mycroft.
“A bit, yeah.” The beginnings of a rueful smile threatened Lestrade’s foul mood.
Anthea looked back at her Blackberry and held out his towel. Lestrade took it.
After a perfunctory dry-off, he wrapped the towel around his waist, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re not here to lecture, then?”
“I’m sure you’ve enough going on up there. Or, enough for anyone who isn’t a Holmes.”
“Right.” Because of course the Holmes Lords could keep a dozen threads of thought woven together in an elegant web, and use just one of them to keep a lowly Detective Inspector from disaster. Lestrade had held onto a stubborn speck of pride that said he was more than this-that he had a calling he’d trained for, that he was somehow wasting his time here. But no. He’d thrown that life away, and only Lord Mycroft’s intervention had saved him from a slow end working himself to death in the blazing Australian sun. That speck of pride had to be shaped to a new purpose: serving the Empire in the only role left to him. His pride now depended on his ability to please his master. “Anthea,” he began, “could I--?”
“I keep Lord Mycroft’s diary, you know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I know where he is and what he’s doing every hour of the day.”
Lestrade ran both hands through his damp hair. A few stray drops of water landed on his shoulders and rolled down his back, sending a shiver down his spine as he thought of what Lord Mycroft might be up to right now. He didn’t know the first thing about the man, and yet, he could picture him quite clearly: his ruler-straight posture, the small wrinkle that formed momentarily between his eyebrows when he heard an answer he didn’t anticipate, the way his eyes tracked motion like a bird of prey.
“You know,” Lestrade said, “I feel as if I’m playing a game where everyone except me knows the rules.”
“Welcome to life with Lord Mycroft. You get used to it after a while. Or you go mad.” Anthea scrolled through a document on her phone. “Listen, he has audiences tomorrow morning. All well-established contacts, all mid-level security clearance. Are you busy between nine-thirty and eleven?”
“Not really, no.”
“Good.” Her fingers danced on the tiny keyboard. “I’ll send the details to your tablet.”
“Anthea.” He pushed off the wall and stood holding his towel, only a token comfort in a place where he owned not even himself. “I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
Anthea gripped her Blackberry tightly and fixed her eyes on Lestrade. “Do you want to?”
Lestrade swallowed hard against the weight of his collar. The last heat of his frustration melted to form a tangled knot of some new emotion, lodged tightly below his sternum. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“That’s a start.”
--
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