Sherlock Fic: Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled (Part 1 of 3)
Phew, okay, at last I have for your the next installment of the In My Master's House Sherlock slave AU. It's in three parts, to be posted over the next three days, concluding on Sunday. Then I'll go back to feverishly working on the next part. Thank you for being so patient with me as this universe has sprawled far beyond my original plans. The Sherlock characters tend to do that, I've learned. Happy reading!
Title: Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 23,500
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, rimming, semi-graphic descriptions of an injury, semi-public sex, dirty talk, threat of torture
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. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
Notes: Be advised that the ending of this installment is more cliff-hanger-y than others have been. Please do not murder me. Thanks to morganstuart, jaune_chat, and izzie7 for their editing/cheerleading/Brit-picking. Remaining cock-ups are all mine.
Summary: A slave has no power to defend himself, other than any protection his master chooses to bestow. John and Lestrade struggle with interpreting their masters' intentions, while Sherlock unravels a mystery not meant for him, and Mycroft’s plans move forward.
Previously, on In My Master’s House
Lord Mycroft has brought his brother to the Holmes estate to investigate a mystery that seemed to converge on the Chinese Ambassador. Sherlock pursues his case while navigating his relationship with his new slave, John Watson. Meanwhile, Lestrade is beginning to uncover facts that point to some impending problem Mycroft hasn’t confided in him. As guests arrive at the Holmes estate for a long-anticipated celebration, the strands of the case converge.
__________________________________________________________
John clawed at the cloth that held him pinned. His breath tore through his throat. Inside his chest, his heart spasmed, sending his pulse into a panicked sprint. Pain, darkness, and silence closed in on him. His eyes snapped open.
Soft lamp light flooded the room, illuminating the wreck of sheets and duvet that spanned the considerable distance to the edge of the bed, where Sherlock perched like a pale gargoyle.
John unclenched his hands from the tangled sheets. He gulped in air and tried to release it steadily-no easy task while still shaking from an unwanted dose of adrenaline.
“John.” Sherlock loomed over the bed. “John?”
“’M fine.” John scrubbed his hand down his face. “I’ll be fine.”
“Quickly, tell me about the dream. Include every detail.” Sherlock arranged himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed.
“’S just a nightmare, Sherlock.” John pushed himself up to lean against the headboard. “Not real. Just the brain sorting through-“
“Quickly, John,” Sherlock broke in. “Memories of these events fade at an alarming speed. Start talking. What did you see?”
“It’s not real. Why do you--?”
“You.” Sherlock’s eyes held a glimmer of the hunger John had seen before, when Sherlock was chasing down a promising clue to their investigation. “Your brain, do you understand? To get a glimpse of how it works, how it processes events and information.”
John folded his arms over his bare chest, where he could still feel an echo of pain from his dream. “Remember I told you that certain things of mine didn’t belong to you? This is one of them.”
“Your dreams may not be mine by rights, but I’d like to share them, if I may.” Sherlock moved, covering the distance between them in a gliding crawl to kneel at John’s side. “I want to get inside you. The chance to grasp something from your mind that you don’t understand yourself is a rare opportunity.” He ran his hands up John’s chest to drape around his shoulders, just under the collar. “Let me in. Let me see.”
“Moran.” John pressed his eyes closed, and the scene appeared before him, fresh as it had been when it drove him from sleep. “In combat dress. He held me on my back. Had a knife. Digging into my shoulder, right into the scar. Only there was no scar, not yet.”
“It hurt.” Sherlock’s thumb traced the edge of the scar.
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The desert, and the mountains. It was night. Stars in the sky.” So many more stars than he ever saw in London, or here on the estate. A riot of stars. “You were calling my name.”
“From where?”
“I couldn’t see you.” John opened his eyes to see Sherlock still looming over him, unreasonably close, undeniably present. “Moran pushed the knife in, and put his finger to his lips. It had blood on it, my blood, I suppose. It smeared on his mouth.”
“Yes, details. Good. Then what?” Sherlock prompted.
“You came for me. You couldn’t see him. He sat me up, held onto me, with his knife inside me. You told me to get up, but he was still holding me.” John could still see the impatient expression on Sherlock’s face in his dream; he’d seen the look in waking life often enough to know it well. “You knelt down and touched my face, but you didn’t see him. You didn’t notice. “
“I always notice.” Sherlock tapped a finger against John’s collar. “I will always notice.”
“Alright.” John curled his hand around his scarred shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the streaks of burning pain that raced through his nerves when he rotated the joint. “It’s just the shoulder. Sore from hanging on it. It’ll pass.”
Sherlock stared at John’s skin, as if he could see through it to the inner workings of his body. “They hurt you.”
“It was just a dream.”
Sherlock dropped his hand on top of John’s and squeezed. John caught a pained hiss behind his teeth. “You’re in pain.”
“It’s the middle of the night.” John swung his legs over the side of the bed and braced himself to get to his feet. “I’ll take a paracetamol. Go back to sleep.”
“You sleep more soundly in your own quarters.” Sherlock sprang out of bed, snatched his dressing gown from the back of a chair, and belted it around his waist. “Fewer nightmares. Greater frequency of REM. I suspect because it’s a closer approximation to your living conditions before you became a slave.”
“Or perhaps it’s because I don’t get woken up by a bloody fiddle,” John said as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Perhaps.” Sherlock flung open the door to the room and reached for John’s hand. “Let’s test your hypothesis.”
--
Lestrade’s eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim greyness of his quarters, but even if the room had been pitch-black, he would likely have been able to determine his master’s expression by the sound of his breathing. He knew Mycroft’s face by heart, and every look that it displayed.
Exhausted as he was, sleep had not come peacefully to Mycroft tonight; Lestrade’s master was of course used to sleeping in unfamiliar environs all over the world, but invariably those accommodations were the epitome of luxury. Lestrade had hoped that his familiar presence would offer enough comfort to negate the thin, lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets, but apparently not. Mycroft frowned and muttered in his sleep.
Lestrade tucked a stray bit of hair out of Mycroft’s face and allowed his fingers to brush over Mycroft’s cheek. He should be getting a good rest before tomorrow’s festivities, not suffering through sub-par sleeping conditions to offer comfort to a slave. Perhaps Lestrade could help him relax.
Lestrade trailed his hand gently down Mycroft’s side, tracing his shape. He curled his hand over the soft curve of Mycroft’s hip, pulled their bodies tight together, and rolled his hips slowly. He buried his face against Mycroft’s neck and breathed him in. There: the smell he’d been missing earlier tonight, a signal that spoke to him of home and safety more than his cold flat in Lambeth had ever done.
“Gregory?”
Lestrade rolled his body up against his master. “Sorry, sir. Did I wake you?”
Mycroft’s silent chuckle reverberated against Lestrade’s chest. “It wasn’t a very nice dream, anyway. This is much more pleasant.”
“I’m sorry it’s not as comfortable as you’re used to.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Let me help you.” Lestrade’s braced his back tight against the cold stone wall and pulled Mycroft towards him; Lestrade meant to give his master all the room he might need to take what he wanted. Mycroft came easily, pressing Lestrade against the wall with a thorough kiss.
Lestrade let go of Mycroft’s hip to insinuate his hand between them and grip Mycroft’s hardening cock through the smooth fabric of his rumpled trousers. Under the covers in such a narrow bed, Lestrade remembered in a rush hurried and hushed encounters in his room at uni: desperately trying to finish before his roommate returned. A low chuckle escaped him, causing Mycroft to go rigid beside him.
“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked.
“Nothing, sir.” Lestrade lowered his voice to a whisper. “Only we might get caught.”
“Then you had better hush.” Mycroft leaned in closer to press kisses against Lestrade’s forehead, his cheek, his neck.
“May I?” Lestrade thumbed open the button on Mycroft’s trousers and slipped his hand inside to rub against the growing bulge in Mycroft’s pants.
“Wait,” Mycroft instructed, and Lestrade froze. “You’re always having to do for me. Let me, this time.”
Mycroft caught hold of Lestrade’s wrists and pushed them against Lestrade’s chest. The pressure itself wasn’t much; he certainly couldn’t have held on if Lestrade had resisted. But deference to Mycroft held Lestrade still as well as handcuffs would have done.
Mycroft kept Lestrade’s wrists pinned with one hand while his other traced its way down Lestrade’s naked chest to the waistline of his pyjama bottoms. Lestrade looked down in time to see Mycroft’s long, graceful fingers delve beneath the fabric to wrap around his cock. Mycroft’s thumb swiped through the dampness at the tip and then dragged down Lestrade’s length.
“Eager, aren’t we?”
Lestrade managed a grunt that that conveyed something surpassing agreement.
With a smile, Mycroft dragged Lestrade’s bottoms down his hips, until Lestrade could kick them off entirely. Then Mycroft pulled away momentarily to unfasten his trousers and push them aside before reaching for the lotion on Lestrade’s table and squeezing a generous amount into his palm. He returned to pin Lestrade’s wrists with one hand and squeeze their erections together with the other hand.
Lestrade pushed back against the wall, fighting to keep from squirming in his master’s grip. He drank in the satisfaction on Mycroft’s face until Mycroft looked up, making Lestrade drop his gaze out of habit.
“Close your eyes,” Mycroft instructed. “Let me look at you.”
Quashing his disappointment, Lestrade squeezed his eyes closed. He struggled to keep them closed as Mycroft pumped his hand up and down their cocks, twisting his grip at the top and squeezing them together at the base. Without his sight, Lestrade could only imagine how Mycroft looked. Mycroft would only need to devote a bare amount of attention to his work to keep Lestrade on edge and panting: the rest he could use to take in his fill of Lestrade’s reactions.
Mycroft’s attention ranged deep and wide; he could read truths in a man’s breathing, the incline of his head, or the flush of his skin, and uncover information his subjects would rather keep hidden. Holding Lestrade at his mercy like this, Mycroft could dig out and uncover his every desire where other men would see only flesh.
Lestrade bucked up into Mycroft’s grip with a strangled grunt, but managed to keep his eyes closed. “Please,” he gasped.
“What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft delivered a smooth, painfully slow stroke.
“I want to see you.”
“Why?” Mycroft sounded genuinely curious.
Lestrade’s mouth gaped open as he gulped in breath and tried to formulate an answer. Why? He wanted this memory; he wanted the image of Mycroft here in his bed, for later, when Mycroft wouldn’t be his to touch or to hold anymore. He wanted to memorize this moment with all his senses. But he couldn’t confess something so selfish. He settled for a more appropriate truth. “I need you. I need to know it’s you.”
“You know me better than anyone,” Mycroft whispered into his ear, barely audible above the slick sound of Mycroft stroking them together. “Do you need to see me to know me?”
“Of course not.” Eyes dutifully closed, Lestrade pushed forward, finding his way by long practice, and kissed Mycroft.
Mycroft released his grip on Lestrade’s wrists so he could grip their cocks with both hands; his furious pace had Lestrade writhing against him.
Freed, Lestrade’s hands gripped Mycroft by the shoulders and pulled him in to deepen the kiss. Mycroft was right; he didn’t need to see to recognize the expert way Mycroft handled his body. Mycroft had devoted the same time and attention to learning Lestrade as he did to analyzing troop movements in the Prussian Empire. No one had ever bothered to learn him so well. No one had ever had such power to undo Lestrade with a touch, but he doubted it had anything to do with the collar he wore. No one had treated Lestrade like this when he’d been free.
“There now,” Mycroft whispered. “This should do it.” A slide of Mycroft’s thumb against his slit, and a firm twist of Mycroft’s fingers, and Lestrade’s climax knocked his breath from his chest. A few more quick strokes, lubricated by Lestrade’s release, and Mycroft spent himself between them.
Lestrade reluctantly broke their kiss to catch his breath. Mycroft slumped against his chest, boneless and heavy, all tension drained. His eyes drifted shut, so Lestrade indulged in a long look at his master: skin damp with sweat, the back of his neck flushed and hot to the touch, hair in comic disarray. His lover. The strange thought came to his mind unbidden, but Lestrade corrected himself at once: his master.
“Here, let me.” Lestrade reached up to snatch a towel from the headboard, and gave their stained clothes a token cleaning, or as near as possible without dislodging his drowsing master. He tossed the towel aside and slumped once more against the headboard.
“You should rest,” Lestrade whispered.
“We’ll have to get up before long,” Mycroft muttered, but he didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“Sleep.” Lestrade settled his hand around Mycroft’s shoulder and held him close. “There’s time enough.”
--
John slammed into full wakefulness. His senses raced through all the available input, categorizing danger: Sherlock’s hand curled around his thigh, sunlight slanting through the high window, arm cramped from lying wedged against the wall.
A soft knock sounded, far too loud in the room’s deep silence. “John?” someone whispered from the other side of the door. That must have been what woke him.
Carefully, slowly, he extricated himself from Sherlock’s tangled limbs, flung on his dressing gown-still the red silk one on loan from Anthea-and cracked the door open.
“John!” Molly had raised her hand to knock again, but drew back right away. She wore white flannel pyjamas that hung loose on her like a big sister’s hand-me-downs. The sleeves were streaked with rusty red. “I’d hoped you were in,” she whispered.
“Molly, is that... blood?” John asked.
She tucked her hands behind her back. “It’s not mine.”
“What’s happened?” John ventured a step out and glanced down the corridor: no one. Molly was alone. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. It’s just...” Her eyes darted down the hall, first one way, then the other.
“What’s wrong?” John caught her by the elbow to examine the red on her sleeve. There was much more than a few drops. “Whose blood is that?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Please, John. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I can help.” John kept a firm grip on her arm and steadied his voice. “If someone’s hurt. You know I can help.”
Molly tucked her arms around her middle, smearing a stain of red across her belly. She nodded once. “Come on, then. Quickly, please.”
John slid back into the room, snatched his medical bag from the shelf and spared a last look for Sherlock, who lay sprawled on the bed with his eyes closed. Asleep, John hoped.
Molly slunk along the corridor, keeping close to the walls like a mouse. She pressed the finger-pad to the security panel to open a door at the far end of the corridor, and hovered nervously in the doorway as she ushered John inside.
The tiny room held the standard small chair, in which sat Jim in a black dressing gown, wringing out a flannel into a bowl in his lap filled with pinkish water. Face down on the narrow bed lay a young woman in a jade collar stripped to the waist, who looked vaguely familiar to John. He didn’t spare much time examining her face, however, because his attention snapped to the livid marks that littered her exposed skin.
“This is Soo Lin.” Molly shut the door firmly behind them. “She belongs to the Chinese Ambassador. I was coming back from my duties this morning, and I found her sitting on the back stairs, crying. I didn’t know what else to do but bring her here!”
“We did the best we could,” Jim said. He looked paler than usual, and John noticed blood under his fingernails. “I’ve dealt with whip marks before, but this is a bit extreme. Thank goodness you’re here.”
“It’s not just the whip. Those marks are a day old at least; they’re healing already.” John dropped his bag on the room’s rickety table and began unpacking what he’d need. “On her thighs, there. And her arms. Looks like knife marks.”
John crouched next to the bed and tried to meet Soo Lin’s eyes. “Hello, I’m John. I’m a doctor.” She stared resolutely past him towards the wall. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“Let me try,” said Jim. He spoke softly in a language John didn’t recognize.
Soo Lin turned her head to look at Jim, and answered back weakly.
“She says she angered her master, and he had to punish her,” Jim reported. At John and Molly’s stares, he shrugged. “One of my first masters wanted us all to learn Cantonese. He did a lot of trading with the Eastern Empires.”
“Well, lucky for us,” John said. “Soo Lin, did your master give you any treatment?”
Jim translated. Soo Lin shook her head and answered softly.
“She says she doesn’t deserve any,” Jim said.
Soo Lin tried to rise, but Jim caught her by the shoulder and spoke quickly to her in a soothing tone. She subsided and buried her face in the pillow. “There now.” Jim turned to John. “She should cooperate.”
“She’s shaking.” Molly knelt on the floor by the bed and held Soo Lin’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. John won’t hurt you. He’s patched me up before.” Molly’s assurances didn’t make Soo Lin any less tense.
“This might sting a bit.” John disinfected the cuts first, but Soo Lin barely flinched. As he wiped away the blood, he could see the wounds were not as deep as he’d feared; the knife had barely split the skin. “There’s a pattern here. Almost looks like characters.”
“They’re numbers.” Jim leaned in close beside John. “That’s a fourteen, that’s a two...”
“Oh.” John stared down at the thin red lines that marred Soo Lin’s skin, and recalled the photographs in his room: the spray paint on the rock in the woods, the graffiti on the kennel wall. “I... Do you mind if I take a photo? I want to document this, just in case.”
Jim related the question to Soo Lin, and translated her brief reply as “no objections.”
John dug Sherlock’s phone out of the dressing gown pocket-there were advantages of having a master who left his things everywhere-and began to snap pictures.
“Where did you get a camera phone?” Jim asked.
“It’s Sherlock’s. Lord Sherlock’s,” John said, and left it at that. He didn’t know how to explain his relationship with his master to his fellow slaves. It would probably be better not to try. He photographed the characters carved into Soo Lin’s arms and down her calves. As an afterthought, he also took a shot of the small, circular tattoo on the sole of her right foot.
Molly helped John bind the wounds-she had a deft hand for first aid, it seemed-while Jim kept speaking quietly to Soo Lin. By the time they finished, bright sunshine was pouring in from the narrow window. The house would be waking soon.
“I have to go,” John said. “Lord Sherlock will be wondering where I’ve got to.” He plucked a bottle of paracetemal from his bag, shook two tablets into his hand and offered them to Soo Lin. “Take two of these with water for the pain. Two more every six hours or so, and come see me tonight to get those bandages changed.”
Soo Lin sat up stiffly and gathered her intricately embroidered dressing robe around her shoulders. She looked at John right in the eye and spoke several sentences, none of which he understood.
“She says ‘thank you,’” Jim said.
As John stood there frowning in apology, Soo Lin took the tablets from his hand and shook her head.
“You’d better get back before someone comes looking for you. We’re really not all allowed to be here,” Molly said.
“Will you be alright?” John asked Soo Lin.
“I’ll see her back to her room.” Jim offered a hand to help her up.
As Jim led her out of the room, Soo Lin looked back at her shoulder to hold John’s eyes until the door closed between them.
--[
Lestrade had prepared himself for the worst when frenzied knocking had pulled him from his bed, but he hadn’t expected John Watson at the door with a tale of attempted murder and the possibility of an international incident. He clutched the edge of the doorframe and concentrated on keeping his voice down. “Forget Soo Lin for a moment. John, someone tried to kill you, and you’re just telling me about this now?” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Did you tell Lord Sherlock, at least?”
“Not yet.” John had the grace to look sheepish, at least. He nodded toward the room. “Can I?”
“Actually, no.” Lestrade offered an apologetic smile, but pulled the door more tightly against his side. “Fraternization rules.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
Lestrade widened his smile to cover up his untruth. “Was it a slave or a free man?”
“I was blindfolded, and I didn’t exactly get to ask questions.”
“Right.” Lestrade shook his head. He’d been the one to bind John; he knew how totally defenceless he’d left him. “Do you remember anything else?”
“His voice was soft. Almost gentle. I remember thinking that was bizarre, considering all his threats.” John frowned. “He said I wasn’t worthy to serve Lord Sherlock. Said I was too... boring.”
“Someone who’s familiar enough with Lord Sherlock to know he’s easily bored, but not familiar enough to see he’s never been bored with you...” Lestrade tentatively crossed off Mycroft’s staff of personal slaves from his list of suspects; they’d all seen enough of Sherlock and John’s interactions to be convinced of the strength of their bond. “What else?”
“When he was choking me, he said Lord Sherlock would be glad of the mystery, glad of a new case.”
“Wonderful. We’re dealing with a psychopath who wants to send Lord Sherlock a message.” Lestrade shook his head. “My money’s on a free man. A slave wouldn’t have had the temerity to stand there and gloat.”
“It wasn’t Moran, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d know his voice.”
“And he was at table the whole evening, at least until Lord Sherlock’s little tantrum.” Lestrade tried to remember if any of the lords or Ladies had excused themselves from the meal. He knew that some visitors had arrived too late for supper, and so hadn’t attended. Any one of them would have had free access to the entryway by the main dining room. “That still leaves a number of suspects.”
“I get the impression there’s a long list of people who’d like to hurt Sherlock.”
“That’s the truth.” Lestrade dragged a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was a loose end tripping up his people during tonight’s events. “If he knew you’d been threatened... Can you put off telling him? At least until after the banquet?”
“Why until then?” John frowned. “If I’m going to tell him at all, I’d rather do it right away. He doesn’t like it when I keep things from him, and even if I tried-“
“I...” Lestrade held up a hand to stop him. “John, if he thinks you’re in danger...”
John narrowed his eyes as he sought to follow Lestrade’s argument. “He might not keep me with him.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re safer at Lord Sherlock’s side. Not much escapes his notice.”
“What make you think he won’t just deduce what happened?” John asked.
“If he hasn’t yet, he might not. Unless he gets suspicious. Keep from mentioning it, if you can.” At John’s sceptical look, Lestrade could only sigh. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s safer. He’s prone both to rushing into things and to grand dramatic gestures. He was always crap at procedures. I don’t want to see him land you in hot water for making unverifiable accusations against a lord. You’ve been punished enough recently.”
“Agreed.”
“Listen, make sure you’re not alone today, understand? Not for a moment. If you can, stay with Sherlock. Otherwise, go where there are other slaves, Lord Mycroft’s slaves, not the guests’-the more the better. If any of the lords tries to get you alone, make an excuse. Say Lord Mycroft needs you, and find me. Will you do that?”
“I can’t promise anything,” John said, “but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask. I’ll find out what I can. Come and find me if you remember anything else.” Lestrade grabbed John’s arm as he turned away. “John. If it seems like Sherlock needs to know-you should tell him.”
John nodded and walked away.
Lestrade closed the door behind his friend and leaned against it. It had been too much to hope that his master had remained asleep. Mycroft sat on the bed, fighting a losing battle to straighten the shirt he’d slept in. “You counselled him not to inform his master.”
Lestrade sank down onto the bed next to Mycroft. “What would you do if you knew I’d been attacked, sir?”
Mycroft traced a hand over Lestrade’s back, across a faded line that served as the only lingering reminder of Lord Gus Milverton’s savage punishment. “You know what I would do.”
Lestrade hesitated a moment before asking his next question. “Do you know who it was?”
“I was in the dining room with you,” Mycroft said evenly.
“Of course.” Lestrade declined to mention that wasn’t an answer. “Someone must have seen something. With all these strangers in the house, it’s hard to keep track of everyone’s loyalties.”
“I’ve arranged adequate security for the banquet, I assure you.”
“Of course you have, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest-- . I’m sure your guests have no reason to worry.” Lestrade made bold to take his master’s hand. “You shouldn’t be bothering with this. It’s not important.”
“The slaves’ welfare is important, Gregory.” Mycroft folded his hands over Lestrade’s. “And I’m confident that John can take care of himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head and bit back a retort. Even a man as strong and resourceful as John Watson could be defeated by the constraints under which they lived; quick thinking and a will to fight were no use against a master’s orders, or a rope around your arms, or a guard’s sidearm. Lestrade pulled away from Mycroft and stood. “We’ve a busy day ahead of us, sir. We should get started.”
“Of course.” Mycroft pushed to his feet, managing to look regal even in his hopelessly rumpled clothes. “I can manage with Clarke’s help, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to your work.”
--
John slid into his own room and eased the door closed behind him, but when he turned, he did not find Sherlock monopolizing his bed. Instead, his master was wrapped in a sheet. He bounced from one foot to the other as he surveyed the open expanse of John’s wall, across which John had affixed clues from their ongoing investigation.
Sherlock’s eyes cut across to John, and he folded his hands under his chin. “Did you do all this?” he demanded, inclining his head towards the wall.
“It’s my room. Don’t get many visitors.” John waited for Sherlock to light into him for moving his things.
“Interesting.” Sherlock pivoted and leaned forward to observe the middle section of the spread of clues. “Is this what it’s like in that funny little head of yours?”
John moved to Sherlock’s side and stood there, admiring his work. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“What do these have to do with one another?” Sherlock pointed to the discarded packet of seeds, tacked just below the train ticket stub for Waterloo.
John licked his lips. “They’re the same shape?”
“Well, that is one way to organize the evidence.” Sherlock sighed with the air of the deeply put upon. “I suppose I could think of stupider ways.”
“Oh, thanks very much.”
“Here. These obviously belong together.” Sherlock tore the scrap from the Guardian from the wall and replaced it next to the photo of the crime scene from the murder of the Ambassador’s son.
“Obviously.” John pulled the mobile from his pocket. “There’s something you should see. Do you remember Soo Lin? The Chinese Ambassador’s personal slave? I think she might have something to do with the graffiti we’ve been seeing.”
“Of course she has. Do keep up, John.” Sherlock snatched another clue from the array-a list of numbers-and put it above the photo of the painted rock from the woods.
“Wait, how--?”
“She’s the one leaving the graffiti. Coded messages.”
“Messages to who?”
“To whom.” Sherlock shot John a disdainful glare. “Honestly, I despair sometimes. It’s not the recipient that interests me.” Sherlock grabbed John’s copy of Freedom Through Obedience off the desk and flipped through it. “It’s the code itself. We need to work out the system.”
“Well, there’s been another message.”
“Excellent.” Sherlock dropped the book and grabbed John by the shoulders. “Where did she leave it? What are the numbers? When did you find it?”
“I don’t think this message is from Soo Lin.”
“Leave the thinking to me, I’m much better suited for it.” Sherlock held out his hand for the phone. “Show me.”
John passed it over without comment; he’d learned that there was no use responding to any of Sherlock’s insults.
“Ah, excellent.” Sherlock held the display close to his face and grinned.
“Those are a girl’s injuries you’re looking at,” John felt compelled to point out.
“Yes, good. A change in the pattern. Something new, ah yes.” Sherlock scrolled to the last photo. His eyes widened. He rounded on John, brandishing the phone. “Where did you get this?”
John frowned at the photo Sherlock was referring to. “It’s a tattoo. It was on her foot.”
“Soo Lin’s foot.”
“Yes.” John snatched the phone out of Sherlock’s hand before he hit something. “The right one, if that’s important.”
“Of course. Of course.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, for all the world like a child on Christmas morning. “Get dressed. Meet me in the library. Move!” Sherlock swept out of the room with John’s bed sheet trailing behind him.
--
Lestrade sneaked a glance at his watch as he bustled through the kitchens. The room hummed with preparations for the banquet. Lestrade spotted Mrs. Hudson across the room, and had to dodge two kitchen slaves carrying a tall pastry confection, and another carrying a precariously high stack of dirty mixing bowls to get to her.
“It’s hot as an Australian work camp in here,” Lestrade said by way of greeting.
“Yes, dear. The ovens have been going full bore since the wee hours. Will Himself want a breakfast tray brought up?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“He’d better have something.” Lestrade thought the morning’s events were a positive sign, but Mycroft had been quite distant yesterday. Even his late-night apology had been troubling. Coupled with his recent strange behaviour, Lestrade recognized the need to keep an especially close eye on his master. That meant, at the very least, making sure he ate and slept.
“Mr. Lestrade...” Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on his arm. “Are things quite alright between the two of you? It’s just, last night it seemed... If there was trouble, you would say something, wouldn’t you? The mood of the master affects the whole house, you know.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade dredged up a reassuring smile. “I’ll just be glad when this banquet is over and done with.”
“I’ll have one of the girls take something up to him. Bedroom?”
“No, the office. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could help me get my hands on a plate of Cook’s scones?”
“Are you sure that’s wise? You ought to be watching your figure.” She poked a wooden spoon at his belly.
Lestrade managed a mechanical laugh at the good-natured jibe, but he felt his face reddening all the same. At the banquet tonight, lined up with the personal slaves of visiting lords and ladies, Lord Mycroft was certain to notice how unfavourably Lestrade compared to the prevailing standard. “They’re not for me.”
Lestrade carried his prize down the steps without feeling the least temptation to sample a scone, and turned right at the end of the corridor. He found his old acquaintance, now assistant head of the estate laundry with her sleeves rolled up, submerged to the elbows in a basin of steaming water.
“Good morning,” Aggie greeted him. “I just finished the shirt you left last night. It’s pressed and hanging up with the rest.”
“You’re an angel.” Lestrade dodged the splashes of soapy water from the basin and planted a kiss on Aggie’s cheek before setting the plate of scones down on the ironing board. “I wanted to bring you and yours a little something. In gratitude. Lord Mycroft is awfully fond of that shirt, and I thought it might have been a lost cause.”
“It’s no trouble. I’m no stranger to lost causes, but you’ve yet to bring me one of those. Go on with you.”
As he started back up the stairs, Lestrade heard a strangled sound. He stopped. It’s none of your business, Greg. Keep walking. He’d never had any particular success at leaving mysteries unexplored, though.
Lestrade walked past the entrance to the offices of the household guard and squeezed through the heavy metal door that stood ajar, separating the disused discipline cells from the rest of the lower level. Perhaps some of the kitchen slaves had sneaked down here for some privacy, or the children of some visiting lord had come exploring.
Harsh fluorescent light illuminated a deserted hallway twenty feet long. A desk sat unoccupied in an alcove close to the door. Much farther down, the corridor widened into a room with six doors, some made of iron bars, some of slate-grey metal with a small window of thick glass inset in the top half. The noise came again-a kind of muffled grunt.
Lestrade crept forward. Inside the first tiny cell, a tall, bald man was doing jumping jacks with his back to the door.
“Hey, boy! What are you doing meddling about down here?”
Lestrade turned. In the doorway behind him stood two soldiers-both in the red uniform of Imperial guards, rather than the blue of Mycroft’s household.
“Is he--are you keeping a prisoner down here?” Lestrade asked.
“Bold cuss, to speak to your betters so when you’ve been caught snooping.” One of the soldiers strode towards Lestrade and grabbed his arm to pull him away from the cell door.
“Hold on, Sam.” The other soldier hurried forward. “This is Lord Mycroft’s man.”
He ran a thumb along the silver crest on Lestrade’s collar. “So he is. Suppose that means I can’t have you whipped for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“You’ll not have any of Lord Mycroft’s slaves whipped, I imagine,” Lestrade said, more calmly then he felt. Down here, few would hear a commotion, and even if Aggie ran to help, there was nothing she could do against Imperial men.
“Mouthy. I hope your master appreciates that mouth.” The man rubbed his thumb across Lestrade’s lips. “You may get him into trouble with it one day.”
“Sam,” the other man said warningly.
“Off with you.” Sam released his grip on Lestrade and shoved him towards the door.
Lestrade spared one more glance for the occupied cell before retreating out of the room as slowly as he dared, as if his heart wasn’t pounding painfully in his chest. He breathed deeply, banishing the stupid, brutish threats of that soldier from his mind as he ascended the stairs, into the warm, familiar safety of the kitchen, and the house where he had, at least for now, a secure place.
--
Next part
Title: Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 23,500
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, rimming, semi-graphic descriptions of an injury, semi-public sex, dirty talk, threat of torture
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. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
Notes: Be advised that the ending of this installment is more cliff-hanger-y than others have been. Please do not murder me. Thanks to morganstuart, jaune_chat, and izzie7 for their editing/cheerleading/Brit-picking. Remaining cock-ups are all mine.
Summary: A slave has no power to defend himself, other than any protection his master chooses to bestow. John and Lestrade struggle with interpreting their masters' intentions, while Sherlock unravels a mystery not meant for him, and Mycroft’s plans move forward.
Previously, on In My Master’s House
Lord Mycroft has brought his brother to the Holmes estate to investigate a mystery that seemed to converge on the Chinese Ambassador. Sherlock pursues his case while navigating his relationship with his new slave, John Watson. Meanwhile, Lestrade is beginning to uncover facts that point to some impending problem Mycroft hasn’t confided in him. As guests arrive at the Holmes estate for a long-anticipated celebration, the strands of the case converge.
__________________________________________________________
John clawed at the cloth that held him pinned. His breath tore through his throat. Inside his chest, his heart spasmed, sending his pulse into a panicked sprint. Pain, darkness, and silence closed in on him. His eyes snapped open.
Soft lamp light flooded the room, illuminating the wreck of sheets and duvet that spanned the considerable distance to the edge of the bed, where Sherlock perched like a pale gargoyle.
John unclenched his hands from the tangled sheets. He gulped in air and tried to release it steadily-no easy task while still shaking from an unwanted dose of adrenaline.
“John.” Sherlock loomed over the bed. “John?”
“’M fine.” John scrubbed his hand down his face. “I’ll be fine.”
“Quickly, tell me about the dream. Include every detail.” Sherlock arranged himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed.
“’S just a nightmare, Sherlock.” John pushed himself up to lean against the headboard. “Not real. Just the brain sorting through-“
“Quickly, John,” Sherlock broke in. “Memories of these events fade at an alarming speed. Start talking. What did you see?”
“It’s not real. Why do you--?”
“You.” Sherlock’s eyes held a glimmer of the hunger John had seen before, when Sherlock was chasing down a promising clue to their investigation. “Your brain, do you understand? To get a glimpse of how it works, how it processes events and information.”
John folded his arms over his bare chest, where he could still feel an echo of pain from his dream. “Remember I told you that certain things of mine didn’t belong to you? This is one of them.”
“Your dreams may not be mine by rights, but I’d like to share them, if I may.” Sherlock moved, covering the distance between them in a gliding crawl to kneel at John’s side. “I want to get inside you. The chance to grasp something from your mind that you don’t understand yourself is a rare opportunity.” He ran his hands up John’s chest to drape around his shoulders, just under the collar. “Let me in. Let me see.”
“Moran.” John pressed his eyes closed, and the scene appeared before him, fresh as it had been when it drove him from sleep. “In combat dress. He held me on my back. Had a knife. Digging into my shoulder, right into the scar. Only there was no scar, not yet.”
“It hurt.” Sherlock’s thumb traced the edge of the scar.
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The desert, and the mountains. It was night. Stars in the sky.” So many more stars than he ever saw in London, or here on the estate. A riot of stars. “You were calling my name.”
“From where?”
“I couldn’t see you.” John opened his eyes to see Sherlock still looming over him, unreasonably close, undeniably present. “Moran pushed the knife in, and put his finger to his lips. It had blood on it, my blood, I suppose. It smeared on his mouth.”
“Yes, details. Good. Then what?” Sherlock prompted.
“You came for me. You couldn’t see him. He sat me up, held onto me, with his knife inside me. You told me to get up, but he was still holding me.” John could still see the impatient expression on Sherlock’s face in his dream; he’d seen the look in waking life often enough to know it well. “You knelt down and touched my face, but you didn’t see him. You didn’t notice. “
“I always notice.” Sherlock tapped a finger against John’s collar. “I will always notice.”
“Alright.” John curled his hand around his scarred shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the streaks of burning pain that raced through his nerves when he rotated the joint. “It’s just the shoulder. Sore from hanging on it. It’ll pass.”
Sherlock stared at John’s skin, as if he could see through it to the inner workings of his body. “They hurt you.”
“It was just a dream.”
Sherlock dropped his hand on top of John’s and squeezed. John caught a pained hiss behind his teeth. “You’re in pain.”
“It’s the middle of the night.” John swung his legs over the side of the bed and braced himself to get to his feet. “I’ll take a paracetamol. Go back to sleep.”
“You sleep more soundly in your own quarters.” Sherlock sprang out of bed, snatched his dressing gown from the back of a chair, and belted it around his waist. “Fewer nightmares. Greater frequency of REM. I suspect because it’s a closer approximation to your living conditions before you became a slave.”
“Or perhaps it’s because I don’t get woken up by a bloody fiddle,” John said as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Perhaps.” Sherlock flung open the door to the room and reached for John’s hand. “Let’s test your hypothesis.”
--
Lestrade’s eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim greyness of his quarters, but even if the room had been pitch-black, he would likely have been able to determine his master’s expression by the sound of his breathing. He knew Mycroft’s face by heart, and every look that it displayed.
Exhausted as he was, sleep had not come peacefully to Mycroft tonight; Lestrade’s master was of course used to sleeping in unfamiliar environs all over the world, but invariably those accommodations were the epitome of luxury. Lestrade had hoped that his familiar presence would offer enough comfort to negate the thin, lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets, but apparently not. Mycroft frowned and muttered in his sleep.
Lestrade tucked a stray bit of hair out of Mycroft’s face and allowed his fingers to brush over Mycroft’s cheek. He should be getting a good rest before tomorrow’s festivities, not suffering through sub-par sleeping conditions to offer comfort to a slave. Perhaps Lestrade could help him relax.
Lestrade trailed his hand gently down Mycroft’s side, tracing his shape. He curled his hand over the soft curve of Mycroft’s hip, pulled their bodies tight together, and rolled his hips slowly. He buried his face against Mycroft’s neck and breathed him in. There: the smell he’d been missing earlier tonight, a signal that spoke to him of home and safety more than his cold flat in Lambeth had ever done.
“Gregory?”
Lestrade rolled his body up against his master. “Sorry, sir. Did I wake you?”
Mycroft’s silent chuckle reverberated against Lestrade’s chest. “It wasn’t a very nice dream, anyway. This is much more pleasant.”
“I’m sorry it’s not as comfortable as you’re used to.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Let me help you.” Lestrade’s braced his back tight against the cold stone wall and pulled Mycroft towards him; Lestrade meant to give his master all the room he might need to take what he wanted. Mycroft came easily, pressing Lestrade against the wall with a thorough kiss.
Lestrade let go of Mycroft’s hip to insinuate his hand between them and grip Mycroft’s hardening cock through the smooth fabric of his rumpled trousers. Under the covers in such a narrow bed, Lestrade remembered in a rush hurried and hushed encounters in his room at uni: desperately trying to finish before his roommate returned. A low chuckle escaped him, causing Mycroft to go rigid beside him.
“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked.
“Nothing, sir.” Lestrade lowered his voice to a whisper. “Only we might get caught.”
“Then you had better hush.” Mycroft leaned in closer to press kisses against Lestrade’s forehead, his cheek, his neck.
“May I?” Lestrade thumbed open the button on Mycroft’s trousers and slipped his hand inside to rub against the growing bulge in Mycroft’s pants.
“Wait,” Mycroft instructed, and Lestrade froze. “You’re always having to do for me. Let me, this time.”
Mycroft caught hold of Lestrade’s wrists and pushed them against Lestrade’s chest. The pressure itself wasn’t much; he certainly couldn’t have held on if Lestrade had resisted. But deference to Mycroft held Lestrade still as well as handcuffs would have done.
Mycroft kept Lestrade’s wrists pinned with one hand while his other traced its way down Lestrade’s naked chest to the waistline of his pyjama bottoms. Lestrade looked down in time to see Mycroft’s long, graceful fingers delve beneath the fabric to wrap around his cock. Mycroft’s thumb swiped through the dampness at the tip and then dragged down Lestrade’s length.
“Eager, aren’t we?”
Lestrade managed a grunt that that conveyed something surpassing agreement.
With a smile, Mycroft dragged Lestrade’s bottoms down his hips, until Lestrade could kick them off entirely. Then Mycroft pulled away momentarily to unfasten his trousers and push them aside before reaching for the lotion on Lestrade’s table and squeezing a generous amount into his palm. He returned to pin Lestrade’s wrists with one hand and squeeze their erections together with the other hand.
Lestrade pushed back against the wall, fighting to keep from squirming in his master’s grip. He drank in the satisfaction on Mycroft’s face until Mycroft looked up, making Lestrade drop his gaze out of habit.
“Close your eyes,” Mycroft instructed. “Let me look at you.”
Quashing his disappointment, Lestrade squeezed his eyes closed. He struggled to keep them closed as Mycroft pumped his hand up and down their cocks, twisting his grip at the top and squeezing them together at the base. Without his sight, Lestrade could only imagine how Mycroft looked. Mycroft would only need to devote a bare amount of attention to his work to keep Lestrade on edge and panting: the rest he could use to take in his fill of Lestrade’s reactions.
Mycroft’s attention ranged deep and wide; he could read truths in a man’s breathing, the incline of his head, or the flush of his skin, and uncover information his subjects would rather keep hidden. Holding Lestrade at his mercy like this, Mycroft could dig out and uncover his every desire where other men would see only flesh.
Lestrade bucked up into Mycroft’s grip with a strangled grunt, but managed to keep his eyes closed. “Please,” he gasped.
“What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft delivered a smooth, painfully slow stroke.
“I want to see you.”
“Why?” Mycroft sounded genuinely curious.
Lestrade’s mouth gaped open as he gulped in breath and tried to formulate an answer. Why? He wanted this memory; he wanted the image of Mycroft here in his bed, for later, when Mycroft wouldn’t be his to touch or to hold anymore. He wanted to memorize this moment with all his senses. But he couldn’t confess something so selfish. He settled for a more appropriate truth. “I need you. I need to know it’s you.”
“You know me better than anyone,” Mycroft whispered into his ear, barely audible above the slick sound of Mycroft stroking them together. “Do you need to see me to know me?”
“Of course not.” Eyes dutifully closed, Lestrade pushed forward, finding his way by long practice, and kissed Mycroft.
Mycroft released his grip on Lestrade’s wrists so he could grip their cocks with both hands; his furious pace had Lestrade writhing against him.
Freed, Lestrade’s hands gripped Mycroft by the shoulders and pulled him in to deepen the kiss. Mycroft was right; he didn’t need to see to recognize the expert way Mycroft handled his body. Mycroft had devoted the same time and attention to learning Lestrade as he did to analyzing troop movements in the Prussian Empire. No one had ever bothered to learn him so well. No one had ever had such power to undo Lestrade with a touch, but he doubted it had anything to do with the collar he wore. No one had treated Lestrade like this when he’d been free.
“There now,” Mycroft whispered. “This should do it.” A slide of Mycroft’s thumb against his slit, and a firm twist of Mycroft’s fingers, and Lestrade’s climax knocked his breath from his chest. A few more quick strokes, lubricated by Lestrade’s release, and Mycroft spent himself between them.
Lestrade reluctantly broke their kiss to catch his breath. Mycroft slumped against his chest, boneless and heavy, all tension drained. His eyes drifted shut, so Lestrade indulged in a long look at his master: skin damp with sweat, the back of his neck flushed and hot to the touch, hair in comic disarray. His lover. The strange thought came to his mind unbidden, but Lestrade corrected himself at once: his master.
“Here, let me.” Lestrade reached up to snatch a towel from the headboard, and gave their stained clothes a token cleaning, or as near as possible without dislodging his drowsing master. He tossed the towel aside and slumped once more against the headboard.
“You should rest,” Lestrade whispered.
“We’ll have to get up before long,” Mycroft muttered, but he didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“Sleep.” Lestrade settled his hand around Mycroft’s shoulder and held him close. “There’s time enough.”
--
John slammed into full wakefulness. His senses raced through all the available input, categorizing danger: Sherlock’s hand curled around his thigh, sunlight slanting through the high window, arm cramped from lying wedged against the wall.
A soft knock sounded, far too loud in the room’s deep silence. “John?” someone whispered from the other side of the door. That must have been what woke him.
Carefully, slowly, he extricated himself from Sherlock’s tangled limbs, flung on his dressing gown-still the red silk one on loan from Anthea-and cracked the door open.
“John!” Molly had raised her hand to knock again, but drew back right away. She wore white flannel pyjamas that hung loose on her like a big sister’s hand-me-downs. The sleeves were streaked with rusty red. “I’d hoped you were in,” she whispered.
“Molly, is that... blood?” John asked.
She tucked her hands behind her back. “It’s not mine.”
“What’s happened?” John ventured a step out and glanced down the corridor: no one. Molly was alone. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. It’s just...” Her eyes darted down the hall, first one way, then the other.
“What’s wrong?” John caught her by the elbow to examine the red on her sleeve. There was much more than a few drops. “Whose blood is that?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Please, John. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I can help.” John kept a firm grip on her arm and steadied his voice. “If someone’s hurt. You know I can help.”
Molly tucked her arms around her middle, smearing a stain of red across her belly. She nodded once. “Come on, then. Quickly, please.”
John slid back into the room, snatched his medical bag from the shelf and spared a last look for Sherlock, who lay sprawled on the bed with his eyes closed. Asleep, John hoped.
Molly slunk along the corridor, keeping close to the walls like a mouse. She pressed the finger-pad to the security panel to open a door at the far end of the corridor, and hovered nervously in the doorway as she ushered John inside.
The tiny room held the standard small chair, in which sat Jim in a black dressing gown, wringing out a flannel into a bowl in his lap filled with pinkish water. Face down on the narrow bed lay a young woman in a jade collar stripped to the waist, who looked vaguely familiar to John. He didn’t spare much time examining her face, however, because his attention snapped to the livid marks that littered her exposed skin.
“This is Soo Lin.” Molly shut the door firmly behind them. “She belongs to the Chinese Ambassador. I was coming back from my duties this morning, and I found her sitting on the back stairs, crying. I didn’t know what else to do but bring her here!”
“We did the best we could,” Jim said. He looked paler than usual, and John noticed blood under his fingernails. “I’ve dealt with whip marks before, but this is a bit extreme. Thank goodness you’re here.”
“It’s not just the whip. Those marks are a day old at least; they’re healing already.” John dropped his bag on the room’s rickety table and began unpacking what he’d need. “On her thighs, there. And her arms. Looks like knife marks.”
John crouched next to the bed and tried to meet Soo Lin’s eyes. “Hello, I’m John. I’m a doctor.” She stared resolutely past him towards the wall. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“Let me try,” said Jim. He spoke softly in a language John didn’t recognize.
Soo Lin turned her head to look at Jim, and answered back weakly.
“She says she angered her master, and he had to punish her,” Jim reported. At John and Molly’s stares, he shrugged. “One of my first masters wanted us all to learn Cantonese. He did a lot of trading with the Eastern Empires.”
“Well, lucky for us,” John said. “Soo Lin, did your master give you any treatment?”
Jim translated. Soo Lin shook her head and answered softly.
“She says she doesn’t deserve any,” Jim said.
Soo Lin tried to rise, but Jim caught her by the shoulder and spoke quickly to her in a soothing tone. She subsided and buried her face in the pillow. “There now.” Jim turned to John. “She should cooperate.”
“She’s shaking.” Molly knelt on the floor by the bed and held Soo Lin’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. John won’t hurt you. He’s patched me up before.” Molly’s assurances didn’t make Soo Lin any less tense.
“This might sting a bit.” John disinfected the cuts first, but Soo Lin barely flinched. As he wiped away the blood, he could see the wounds were not as deep as he’d feared; the knife had barely split the skin. “There’s a pattern here. Almost looks like characters.”
“They’re numbers.” Jim leaned in close beside John. “That’s a fourteen, that’s a two...”
“Oh.” John stared down at the thin red lines that marred Soo Lin’s skin, and recalled the photographs in his room: the spray paint on the rock in the woods, the graffiti on the kennel wall. “I... Do you mind if I take a photo? I want to document this, just in case.”
Jim related the question to Soo Lin, and translated her brief reply as “no objections.”
John dug Sherlock’s phone out of the dressing gown pocket-there were advantages of having a master who left his things everywhere-and began to snap pictures.
“Where did you get a camera phone?” Jim asked.
“It’s Sherlock’s. Lord Sherlock’s,” John said, and left it at that. He didn’t know how to explain his relationship with his master to his fellow slaves. It would probably be better not to try. He photographed the characters carved into Soo Lin’s arms and down her calves. As an afterthought, he also took a shot of the small, circular tattoo on the sole of her right foot.
Molly helped John bind the wounds-she had a deft hand for first aid, it seemed-while Jim kept speaking quietly to Soo Lin. By the time they finished, bright sunshine was pouring in from the narrow window. The house would be waking soon.
“I have to go,” John said. “Lord Sherlock will be wondering where I’ve got to.” He plucked a bottle of paracetemal from his bag, shook two tablets into his hand and offered them to Soo Lin. “Take two of these with water for the pain. Two more every six hours or so, and come see me tonight to get those bandages changed.”
Soo Lin sat up stiffly and gathered her intricately embroidered dressing robe around her shoulders. She looked at John right in the eye and spoke several sentences, none of which he understood.
“She says ‘thank you,’” Jim said.
As John stood there frowning in apology, Soo Lin took the tablets from his hand and shook her head.
“You’d better get back before someone comes looking for you. We’re really not all allowed to be here,” Molly said.
“Will you be alright?” John asked Soo Lin.
“I’ll see her back to her room.” Jim offered a hand to help her up.
As Jim led her out of the room, Soo Lin looked back at her shoulder to hold John’s eyes until the door closed between them.
--[
Lestrade had prepared himself for the worst when frenzied knocking had pulled him from his bed, but he hadn’t expected John Watson at the door with a tale of attempted murder and the possibility of an international incident. He clutched the edge of the doorframe and concentrated on keeping his voice down. “Forget Soo Lin for a moment. John, someone tried to kill you, and you’re just telling me about this now?” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Did you tell Lord Sherlock, at least?”
“Not yet.” John had the grace to look sheepish, at least. He nodded toward the room. “Can I?”
“Actually, no.” Lestrade offered an apologetic smile, but pulled the door more tightly against his side. “Fraternization rules.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
Lestrade widened his smile to cover up his untruth. “Was it a slave or a free man?”
“I was blindfolded, and I didn’t exactly get to ask questions.”
“Right.” Lestrade shook his head. He’d been the one to bind John; he knew how totally defenceless he’d left him. “Do you remember anything else?”
“His voice was soft. Almost gentle. I remember thinking that was bizarre, considering all his threats.” John frowned. “He said I wasn’t worthy to serve Lord Sherlock. Said I was too... boring.”
“Someone who’s familiar enough with Lord Sherlock to know he’s easily bored, but not familiar enough to see he’s never been bored with you...” Lestrade tentatively crossed off Mycroft’s staff of personal slaves from his list of suspects; they’d all seen enough of Sherlock and John’s interactions to be convinced of the strength of their bond. “What else?”
“When he was choking me, he said Lord Sherlock would be glad of the mystery, glad of a new case.”
“Wonderful. We’re dealing with a psychopath who wants to send Lord Sherlock a message.” Lestrade shook his head. “My money’s on a free man. A slave wouldn’t have had the temerity to stand there and gloat.”
“It wasn’t Moran, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d know his voice.”
“And he was at table the whole evening, at least until Lord Sherlock’s little tantrum.” Lestrade tried to remember if any of the lords or Ladies had excused themselves from the meal. He knew that some visitors had arrived too late for supper, and so hadn’t attended. Any one of them would have had free access to the entryway by the main dining room. “That still leaves a number of suspects.”
“I get the impression there’s a long list of people who’d like to hurt Sherlock.”
“That’s the truth.” Lestrade dragged a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was a loose end tripping up his people during tonight’s events. “If he knew you’d been threatened... Can you put off telling him? At least until after the banquet?”
“Why until then?” John frowned. “If I’m going to tell him at all, I’d rather do it right away. He doesn’t like it when I keep things from him, and even if I tried-“
“I...” Lestrade held up a hand to stop him. “John, if he thinks you’re in danger...”
John narrowed his eyes as he sought to follow Lestrade’s argument. “He might not keep me with him.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re safer at Lord Sherlock’s side. Not much escapes his notice.”
“What make you think he won’t just deduce what happened?” John asked.
“If he hasn’t yet, he might not. Unless he gets suspicious. Keep from mentioning it, if you can.” At John’s sceptical look, Lestrade could only sigh. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s safer. He’s prone both to rushing into things and to grand dramatic gestures. He was always crap at procedures. I don’t want to see him land you in hot water for making unverifiable accusations against a lord. You’ve been punished enough recently.”
“Agreed.”
“Listen, make sure you’re not alone today, understand? Not for a moment. If you can, stay with Sherlock. Otherwise, go where there are other slaves, Lord Mycroft’s slaves, not the guests’-the more the better. If any of the lords tries to get you alone, make an excuse. Say Lord Mycroft needs you, and find me. Will you do that?”
“I can’t promise anything,” John said, “but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask. I’ll find out what I can. Come and find me if you remember anything else.” Lestrade grabbed John’s arm as he turned away. “John. If it seems like Sherlock needs to know-you should tell him.”
John nodded and walked away.
Lestrade closed the door behind his friend and leaned against it. It had been too much to hope that his master had remained asleep. Mycroft sat on the bed, fighting a losing battle to straighten the shirt he’d slept in. “You counselled him not to inform his master.”
Lestrade sank down onto the bed next to Mycroft. “What would you do if you knew I’d been attacked, sir?”
Mycroft traced a hand over Lestrade’s back, across a faded line that served as the only lingering reminder of Lord Gus Milverton’s savage punishment. “You know what I would do.”
Lestrade hesitated a moment before asking his next question. “Do you know who it was?”
“I was in the dining room with you,” Mycroft said evenly.
“Of course.” Lestrade declined to mention that wasn’t an answer. “Someone must have seen something. With all these strangers in the house, it’s hard to keep track of everyone’s loyalties.”
“I’ve arranged adequate security for the banquet, I assure you.”
“Of course you have, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest-- . I’m sure your guests have no reason to worry.” Lestrade made bold to take his master’s hand. “You shouldn’t be bothering with this. It’s not important.”
“The slaves’ welfare is important, Gregory.” Mycroft folded his hands over Lestrade’s. “And I’m confident that John can take care of himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head and bit back a retort. Even a man as strong and resourceful as John Watson could be defeated by the constraints under which they lived; quick thinking and a will to fight were no use against a master’s orders, or a rope around your arms, or a guard’s sidearm. Lestrade pulled away from Mycroft and stood. “We’ve a busy day ahead of us, sir. We should get started.”
“Of course.” Mycroft pushed to his feet, managing to look regal even in his hopelessly rumpled clothes. “I can manage with Clarke’s help, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to your work.”
--
John slid into his own room and eased the door closed behind him, but when he turned, he did not find Sherlock monopolizing his bed. Instead, his master was wrapped in a sheet. He bounced from one foot to the other as he surveyed the open expanse of John’s wall, across which John had affixed clues from their ongoing investigation.
Sherlock’s eyes cut across to John, and he folded his hands under his chin. “Did you do all this?” he demanded, inclining his head towards the wall.
“It’s my room. Don’t get many visitors.” John waited for Sherlock to light into him for moving his things.
“Interesting.” Sherlock pivoted and leaned forward to observe the middle section of the spread of clues. “Is this what it’s like in that funny little head of yours?”
John moved to Sherlock’s side and stood there, admiring his work. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“What do these have to do with one another?” Sherlock pointed to the discarded packet of seeds, tacked just below the train ticket stub for Waterloo.
John licked his lips. “They’re the same shape?”
“Well, that is one way to organize the evidence.” Sherlock sighed with the air of the deeply put upon. “I suppose I could think of stupider ways.”
“Oh, thanks very much.”
“Here. These obviously belong together.” Sherlock tore the scrap from the Guardian from the wall and replaced it next to the photo of the crime scene from the murder of the Ambassador’s son.
“Obviously.” John pulled the mobile from his pocket. “There’s something you should see. Do you remember Soo Lin? The Chinese Ambassador’s personal slave? I think she might have something to do with the graffiti we’ve been seeing.”
“Of course she has. Do keep up, John.” Sherlock snatched another clue from the array-a list of numbers-and put it above the photo of the painted rock from the woods.
“Wait, how--?”
“She’s the one leaving the graffiti. Coded messages.”
“Messages to who?”
“To whom.” Sherlock shot John a disdainful glare. “Honestly, I despair sometimes. It’s not the recipient that interests me.” Sherlock grabbed John’s copy of Freedom Through Obedience off the desk and flipped through it. “It’s the code itself. We need to work out the system.”
“Well, there’s been another message.”
“Excellent.” Sherlock dropped the book and grabbed John by the shoulders. “Where did she leave it? What are the numbers? When did you find it?”
“I don’t think this message is from Soo Lin.”
“Leave the thinking to me, I’m much better suited for it.” Sherlock held out his hand for the phone. “Show me.”
John passed it over without comment; he’d learned that there was no use responding to any of Sherlock’s insults.
“Ah, excellent.” Sherlock held the display close to his face and grinned.
“Those are a girl’s injuries you’re looking at,” John felt compelled to point out.
“Yes, good. A change in the pattern. Something new, ah yes.” Sherlock scrolled to the last photo. His eyes widened. He rounded on John, brandishing the phone. “Where did you get this?”
John frowned at the photo Sherlock was referring to. “It’s a tattoo. It was on her foot.”
“Soo Lin’s foot.”
“Yes.” John snatched the phone out of Sherlock’s hand before he hit something. “The right one, if that’s important.”
“Of course. Of course.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, for all the world like a child on Christmas morning. “Get dressed. Meet me in the library. Move!” Sherlock swept out of the room with John’s bed sheet trailing behind him.
--
Lestrade sneaked a glance at his watch as he bustled through the kitchens. The room hummed with preparations for the banquet. Lestrade spotted Mrs. Hudson across the room, and had to dodge two kitchen slaves carrying a tall pastry confection, and another carrying a precariously high stack of dirty mixing bowls to get to her.
“It’s hot as an Australian work camp in here,” Lestrade said by way of greeting.
“Yes, dear. The ovens have been going full bore since the wee hours. Will Himself want a breakfast tray brought up?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“He’d better have something.” Lestrade thought the morning’s events were a positive sign, but Mycroft had been quite distant yesterday. Even his late-night apology had been troubling. Coupled with his recent strange behaviour, Lestrade recognized the need to keep an especially close eye on his master. That meant, at the very least, making sure he ate and slept.
“Mr. Lestrade...” Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on his arm. “Are things quite alright between the two of you? It’s just, last night it seemed... If there was trouble, you would say something, wouldn’t you? The mood of the master affects the whole house, you know.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade dredged up a reassuring smile. “I’ll just be glad when this banquet is over and done with.”
“I’ll have one of the girls take something up to him. Bedroom?”
“No, the office. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could help me get my hands on a plate of Cook’s scones?”
“Are you sure that’s wise? You ought to be watching your figure.” She poked a wooden spoon at his belly.
Lestrade managed a mechanical laugh at the good-natured jibe, but he felt his face reddening all the same. At the banquet tonight, lined up with the personal slaves of visiting lords and ladies, Lord Mycroft was certain to notice how unfavourably Lestrade compared to the prevailing standard. “They’re not for me.”
Lestrade carried his prize down the steps without feeling the least temptation to sample a scone, and turned right at the end of the corridor. He found his old acquaintance, now assistant head of the estate laundry with her sleeves rolled up, submerged to the elbows in a basin of steaming water.
“Good morning,” Aggie greeted him. “I just finished the shirt you left last night. It’s pressed and hanging up with the rest.”
“You’re an angel.” Lestrade dodged the splashes of soapy water from the basin and planted a kiss on Aggie’s cheek before setting the plate of scones down on the ironing board. “I wanted to bring you and yours a little something. In gratitude. Lord Mycroft is awfully fond of that shirt, and I thought it might have been a lost cause.”
“It’s no trouble. I’m no stranger to lost causes, but you’ve yet to bring me one of those. Go on with you.”
As he started back up the stairs, Lestrade heard a strangled sound. He stopped. It’s none of your business, Greg. Keep walking. He’d never had any particular success at leaving mysteries unexplored, though.
Lestrade walked past the entrance to the offices of the household guard and squeezed through the heavy metal door that stood ajar, separating the disused discipline cells from the rest of the lower level. Perhaps some of the kitchen slaves had sneaked down here for some privacy, or the children of some visiting lord had come exploring.
Harsh fluorescent light illuminated a deserted hallway twenty feet long. A desk sat unoccupied in an alcove close to the door. Much farther down, the corridor widened into a room with six doors, some made of iron bars, some of slate-grey metal with a small window of thick glass inset in the top half. The noise came again-a kind of muffled grunt.
Lestrade crept forward. Inside the first tiny cell, a tall, bald man was doing jumping jacks with his back to the door.
“Hey, boy! What are you doing meddling about down here?”
Lestrade turned. In the doorway behind him stood two soldiers-both in the red uniform of Imperial guards, rather than the blue of Mycroft’s household.
“Is he--are you keeping a prisoner down here?” Lestrade asked.
“Bold cuss, to speak to your betters so when you’ve been caught snooping.” One of the soldiers strode towards Lestrade and grabbed his arm to pull him away from the cell door.
“Hold on, Sam.” The other soldier hurried forward. “This is Lord Mycroft’s man.”
He ran a thumb along the silver crest on Lestrade’s collar. “So he is. Suppose that means I can’t have you whipped for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“You’ll not have any of Lord Mycroft’s slaves whipped, I imagine,” Lestrade said, more calmly then he felt. Down here, few would hear a commotion, and even if Aggie ran to help, there was nothing she could do against Imperial men.
“Mouthy. I hope your master appreciates that mouth.” The man rubbed his thumb across Lestrade’s lips. “You may get him into trouble with it one day.”
“Sam,” the other man said warningly.
“Off with you.” Sam released his grip on Lestrade and shoved him towards the door.
Lestrade spared one more glance for the occupied cell before retreating out of the room as slowly as he dared, as if his heart wasn’t pounding painfully in his chest. He breathed deeply, banishing the stupid, brutish threats of that soldier from his mind as he ascended the stairs, into the warm, familiar safety of the kitchen, and the house where he had, at least for now, a secure place.
--
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