Sherlock Fic: You Know Him and Have Seen Him (Chapter 1/4)
Happy new year, friends! I haven't seen the new episode yet, but I hope to do so this weekend, and join in the general squee.
In the meantime, one of my big fic goals during my semester break was to finish this next installment of my Sherlock slave AU, so here I am! The rest of the chapters will be posted soon, most likely one per day over the next four. Thanks for being so patient with me after my evil cliffhanger.
Title: You Know Him and Have Seen Him
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade, implied Moriarty/Moran
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22,400 total (~7000 this chapter)
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, threat of violence (including sexual violence), show-level violence and crime, minor character death(s), suicide
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: Thanks to eldritchhobbit, jaune_chat, blue_eyed_1987, and izzie7 for their editing/cheerleading/Brit-picking. Remaining cock-ups are all mine. I also owe a debt to arianedevere, whose wonderful transcript of The Great Game is here.
Summary: After John's disappearance, Sherlock races to solve a mystery, while Lestrade balances his responsibilities and his conscience.
Previously, on In My Master’s House
Sherlock and John discovered that someone planned to assassinate the Chinese ambassador at the grand banquet Lord Mycroft was hosting. Sherlock neutralized one assassin, but while he was ensuring the ambassador’s safety, John spotted a sniper stalking Sherlock, and shot him in defence of his master. John was hauled off to a discipline cell for shooting a free man, who turned out to be Colonel Moran. Meanwhile, Lestrade foiled a cat burglar’s attempt to steal information from Lord Mycroft’s rooms. After refereeing an argument between the Holmes brothers, Lestrade went to check on John, only to find the guards dead and John’s cell empty.
--
The sun flashed in John’s eyes, too bright off the pale sand. He raised a hand to shade his face. Across the scrubby ground, he made out the unmistakable silhouette of his master, standing too tall at the top of a rise. “Sherlock, get down!” he shouted. He tried to run, but his boots sank into the sand; he’d never seen sand so deep, not here. Still, if Sherlock had come this way, John could, too. “Get under cover!”
Sherlock turned to him, elegant in his evening formal wear, brow furrowed in irritation.
“Down!”
A shot echoed across the empty desert. Sherlock looked down as a red patch bloomed against the right shoulder of his bright white shirt. He touched a finger to the growing stain, then stared at it as if examining the evidence.
“Get down!”
Another shot pierced the bright afternoon. Sherlock’s leg buckled under him, and he fell to his knees.
John struggled through sand that pulled at his feet, until he reached the place where Sherlock lay. Blood soaked his shirt and trousers.
“Sherlock. Hang on.” John dropped to his knees and pressed the heel of his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder to stem the flow of blood. “Just hang on.”
Sherlock stared up at him with wide, pale eyes. “You couldn’t protect me.”
“I’m sorry. Please, just stay with me.” John looked up to scan the horizon: no movement, no hope of rescue.
Sherlock reached up to clutch feebly at John’s hand. “You couldn’t even protect yourself.”
John looked down to see blood seeping through his Army uniform: right shoulder, left thigh.
“It hurts.” Sherlock’s hand clamped down on John’s.
A stabbing pain robbed John of his breath. His eyes snapped open.
Agony lanced through his back-not his shoulder or his leg-and he closed his eyes against the pain. The desert was a dream-just another dream. He’d wake up at home, in his quarters in the slave wing, and he’d be fine. He forced his eyes open again and squinted at the unfamiliar angle: he lay on his belly in a large bed, with a view of dark walls, a curtained window, and a framed periodic table of elements.
A warm hand dropped onto his shoulder, just above the scar. A man’s soft voice floated through his groggy haze. “There, now. Stop fussing, or you’ll aggravate the incision site.”
As if on cue, pain flared low on John’s back, near the base of his spine.
John craned his neck to see the speaker, but only caught sight of a grey suit. He tried to turn over, but stopped when the pain flared again. At least he’d been dressed: he could feel trousers against his bare skin. But as he turned his head to take stock of the room, he realized he missed the feel of smooth leather against his throat. His neck was bare, his collar gone.
The hand slid further down his back, skating back and forth across his spine. “You’re lucky I went to the trouble of getting a proper surgeon to take the chip out.” The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar: gentle, with a soft Irish lilt. “I could have done it myself with a kitchen knife, but I’m certain you wouldn’t have been able to walk afterwards.”
John tried to speak, but found his throat too dry. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Where’s my collar?”
“That’s your question? Oh, pet. You a really are a treasure.” The man moved to the head of the bed, into John’s line of sight. “Hi,” Jim said. “We need to talk.”
--
Lestrade stumbled back against the cold stone wall. He kept his hands up and his eyes down, hoping to show himself to be no threat. He could see the gun still pointed at him, inches from his face, as more guards poured into the small space.
“Move.” Lord Sherlock’s voice came from the end of the corridor, and a knot of Imperial guards scattered out of his path. The man holding his gun on Lestrade didn’t waver.
Lord Sherlock strode into the packed confines of the dungeon-cum-crime scene, with Mycroft hard on his heels. Mycroft’s eyes went first to where Lestrade stood backed against a wall, doubtless taking in every detail of the scene: Lestrade’s split lip, the bruise on his cheek, the reddened knuckles of the guard who held the gun, and of course, the two dead soldiers on the floor.
“Lower your weapon, Lieutenant,” Mycroft said.
“Sir, the prisoner’s escaped.” The soldier kept his eyes on Lestrade as he answered. “And this one helped him do it. They killed two of my men.”
“Your weapon,” Mycroft repeated in the same unruffled, inexorable tone.
The soldier slowly lowered his sidearm, but Lestrade noted he kept his finger on the trigger.
“Get out,” Lord Sherlock snapped at the soldiers who stood watching. “I need to examine the scene.”
The lieutenant turned to Mycroft and swept a hand towards the bodies and Lestrade. “My lord, I can’t-“
“Do as he says.” Mycroft stepped forward to address the gathered soldiers. “No one is to disturb us. Lieutenant, you may assist my security staff in sealing the perimeter of the estate.”
“But sir-“
Mycroft merely inclined his head, and the soldier subsided.
“Yes, sir.” The line of red-coated Imperial soldiers filed out, and the lieutenant gave Lestrade one last look before closing the door behind him.
Mycroft materialized at Lestrade’s side. “Are you alright?” He reached out to ghost his fingers down Lestrade’s temple.
“I’m fine, sir.” Lestrade ducked his head to remove the distraction of his injuries. The guard had stopped hitting him when he’d realized Lestrade hadn’t been resisting; the hurts were superficial. “It’s not important.”
“Where’s John?” Lord Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “You ask as if you think I’d know.”
“This is your little circus, Mycroft. There’s very little you don’t know about what goes on under this roof. Stop prevaricating and tell me what you’ve done with him.”
“I’ve done nothing to John.”
Lestrade stepped over stray drops of blood to examine the door to John’s cell. “John wouldn’t have killed these men,” he said. “I don’t think he broke out on his own.”
“Of course he didn’t. It’s obvious. Though not to your Imperial peons, apparently.” Lord Sherlock crouched by one of the bodies and leaned in to examine the gunshot wound. “It was meant to look like he killed these guards and escaped.”
“Why go to that trouble? He’s accused of shooting a lord,” Lestrade said. He traced the walls of the cell with his eyes, imagining the terror of any condemned slave trapped inside. “He was probably going to be executed anyway.”
“No one is executing John,” Lord Sherlock snapped. “No, if he’s gone, it’s much more difficult to prove his innocence. Therefore, the kidnapper is someone who wanted John to be assumed guilty.” He sprang to his feet, darted to the guard station’s small desk, and began rifling through the papers there.
“Who would benefit from framing John?” Lestrade asked.
Lord Sherlock whirled to face Mycroft. “Who is Moriarty?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know what he’s capable of, yes.” Lord Sherlock abandoned his search of the desk to stand nose-to-nose with his brother. “How long have you known the Chinese ambassador was reporting to him?”
Mycroft let loose a small sigh, but he didn’t argue with Lord Sherlock’s deduction. “Six months. We notified the Chinese Emperor last month.”
Lord Sherlock nodded. “So the plan was a joint one.”
“Of course. I’d hardly be so foolish as to endorse the alternative.”
“I’ve yet to find a limit to your foolishness, brother dear.”
“What plan?” Lestrade broke in, before the discussion could deteriorate into name-calling.
“Assassinate the Chinese ambassador, obviously.” Lord Sherlock turned to gesture in Lestrade’s direction. “That’s what last night’s soiree was meant to accomplish. You loosen Moriarty’s hold and do the Chinese Empire a favour. Of course, it couldn’t be revealed that a top diplomat had been compromised, so they couldn’t be seen to bear any responsibility for the death.”
Mycroft inclined his head fractionally, which, coming from him, may as well have been a full confession.
“And when he started to show signs of disloyalty-signs that he might be willing to betray Moriarty, it was too late to negotiate. If you allowed him to defect, you might have gained important knowledge about Moriarty, but the Empire would have breached the trust of the Chinese intelligence community.”
“It’s a delicate relationship.”
Lestrade’s mind raced to keep up with the brothers’ exchange of information. “You arranged for a man-a man who was trying to leave Moriarty’s employ-to be killed.” Lestrade could see it now: the ambassador’s increasing desperation, the unusual extension of his stay, the erratic behaviour of his slaves. “Under your own roof.”
“I’ve ordered the deaths of many men,” Mycroft said softly. “My duties as a commander require-“
“This is different.” Lestrade remembered those commands, remembered Mycroft’s restless nights after. “You know it’s different.”
“The assassination of a high-profile diplomat like this wouldn’t have gone unanswered.” Lord Sherlock ignored Lestrade and forged on: pacing, with his hands steepled under his chin, firing off deductions as he made them. “No, someone suitably ranked would have to take the blame. You would have been the lord who allowed an ambassador to be murdered in his home.”
“But the Empire would have struck a crippling blow against the spies and traitors who plague us.”
“As the ostensibly responsible party, you would have to be punished, of course,” Lord Sherlock said.
“Naturally.”
Lord Sherlock stopped his pacing to lean towards Mycroft and narrow his eyes, as if he could gut Mycroft’s words naked and pull out their insides to find what they attempted to conceal. “You can’t be stripped of your hereditary title, and the Empress wouldn’t imprison her favourite lapdog. But your other titles-your responsibility to govern, you’d be willing to give up.”
“Yes.”
“Neat little plan. Free yourself of the scrutiny of the public eye without giving up any real power. You’d have gone on spinning your web behind the scenes, just as you’ve wanted for years. Your scheme realized for the negligible price of a few lives.”
“It was for the good of the Empire.” Mycroft stood tall, shoulders soldier-straight. “The Empresses’ will must be done.”
“Long may it be so,” Lord Sherlock sneered.
“You arrogant, entitled--” Lestrade bit off any name he might have called his master. “You can’t sell your responsibility. You’ve got the life you’ve got. Do you think whoever the Empress replaced you with would govern half as well? Would they see war coming five years away? Would they keep peace between the warring nobility in Westminster? Would they treat their slaves as you do?”
“I’ve toiled for the Empire for thirty years. It’s my right-“
“Some of us can’t lay down our burden.” Lestrade reached out to touch Mycroft’s arm, but thought better of such an impertinent gesture, and clenched his fist at his side instead. “I didn’t ask for my position any more than you did yours, but I will do what I’m bid with honour until the Empire releases me. I won’t run from my duty.”
Mycroft lifted his chin. “It sounds like you’re lecturing me on my responsibilities-“
“Well someone must!”
“Oh.” Lord Sherlock lowered himself to a crouch inside John’s empty cell and pressed his fingers against the wall. “You suspected Moriarty was on to you, that he’d try to stop you. Bad for Sino-British relations, but personally inconvenient as well. When you called me to investigate, you knew Moriarty’s people had infiltrated the house, that the ambassador was trying to send messages. That’s what you wanted me to work out.”
“Moriarty had agents in the house?” Lestrade asked.
“Of course he did. He wanted to protect his investment.” Lord Sherlock pushed to his feet and addressed Mycroft. “Do you know who it was? There could have been more than one agent.”
“Moriarty likes games, Sherlock. The only way to draw him out is to play with him.”
“So my investigation was merely a distraction: a chess match to keep Moriarty from foiling your plans. You egged him on, hounding the ambassador so he’d have to contact his employer. The death of the ambassador’s son. The gunmen in the woods. The code.”
“John’s assailant.” The facts slotted themselves into place in Lestrade’s head, leaving conveniently-shaped gaps that matched some suspicions he’d been holding onto.
“What?” Lord Sherlock’s eyes snapped to Lestrade.
“John was attacked last night, before you came to free him. He said someone threatened him. Tried to strangle him.” John had related the event with such stoicism that Lestrade hadn’t appreciated the extent of the danger. He should have given the matter more attention.
“You knew about this?” Lord Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded.
Another suspicion found a matching gap in Lestrade’s arrangement of clues. “It’s not just an agent, is it? Moriarty was here. Might still be here.”
“I knew if we played his game-“
“If I played his game,” Lord Sherlock corrected.
“Yes.” Mycroft offered a shallow nod. “I knew he’d come.”
“You didn’t think that might be relevant information to share?” Sherlock snapped.
“I trusted you could deduce all the relevant data.”
“You’re saying Moriarty himself was here, but you don’t know who he is?” Lestrade asked.
“Not precisely.” Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes.
“And you let him run free, knowing what could happen?” Lestrade remembered all the new faces around the estate in the past weeks, with access to everything he cared about. Despite what Mycroft believed, Moriarty could have reached anyone in the house, hurt anyone, if it would have aided his game against Sherlock. He still might do.
“I had everything under control.”
“Is this control?” Lestrade swept a hand towards the bodies on the floor, in their cooling puddles of blood. Mycroft had weighed all those risks Lestrade had just been imagining and judged them to be within acceptable parameters. He’d always built all possible outcomes into these scenarios. “What about these soldiers? Or Soo Lin? What about John?”
“I knew there were risks.”
“You don’t know. You don’t understand-you can’t.” Lestrade’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, but as he breathed in, something gave way inside of him, and all the tension drained from his body. “But that’s your decision to make, isn’t it?” His master had the right to make any choice he wished, but Lestrade had accepted that, because he’d come to believe that Mycroft was ultimately an honourable man. No one tread the line between secrecy and necessity like him. His faith in Mycroft’s abilities had blinded him: always, before, Mycroft had seen the way clear long before Lestrade had grasped all the pieces of the puzzle. He had trusted that, no matter how suspect Mycroft’s actions seemed, a fully justified reason for them had to exist. But Lestrade had judged wrongly; his illusion that he still worked, in some small way, for justice and the law couldn’t be made to fit with this arrangement of facts. His service to Mycroft was just service, no more or less honourable than the use of any object doing its part in utter ignorance of its master’s purpose.
Without knowing how it got there, Lestrade became aware of his hand resting on his collar. Mycroft watched him silently. Lestrade reached to the buckle in the back. “I promised you once-“
“I remember,” Mycroft said, standing very still.
Lestrade released the clasp. The metal click sounded too loud in the dead silence of the stone room. The soft leather and warm silver slid away, leaving Lestrade’s neck bare.
Lestrade extended the collar. Lord Mycroft accepted it wordlessly.
“Lestrade, come with me,” Lord Sherlock called from the doorway. “There’s work to be done.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade followed, but spared a look back to his abandoned collar, which still held Lord Mycroft’s gaze.
--
Lord Sherlock was already bounding up the narrow staircase when Lestrade caught him up. Two Imperial soldiers tried to stop him in the kitchen, but Lord Sherlock brushed them off with a crisp, “Not now.”
Lestrade followed him outside into the pale dawn light of the courtyard. Three of Mycroft’s blue-uniformed guards huddled on the opposite side, talking in low voices. They snapped to attention when they saw Lord Sherlock approach.
“You.” Lord Sherlock pointed at the nearest guard, a short woman with gunmetal grey hair done up in a neat bun. “How many vehicles have left the grounds since the entertainment started?”
Wisely, she did not question Lord Sherlock’s reason for asking. Anyone who spent a significant amount of time in Lord Mycroft’s service learned to be both competent at her work and unfazed by unusual requests. “Twenty at least, most in the past half hour, plus emergency services.”
“I’ll need a list: vehicle make and model, the owner, how many passengers-be sure to include slaves in that count, and any unusual details.”
One of the other guards-Patel, Lestrade remembered, who’d been on duty only a month-gaped at Lord Sherlock. “Sir, we can’t possibly-“
“Come on, missie.” The first guard grabbed Patel by the arm and pulled her away. “We’ll start with the chauffeurs.”
“You.” Lord Sherlock pointed at the last guard as she followed her comrades. She froze. “Cigarettes, now.”
Wide-eyed, she handed over a half-full pack and a lighter before scuttling off.
Lord Sherlock ripped a fag from the pack. He flicked the lighter three times with no result before Lestrade snatched it out of his shaking hands. The flame made Lord Sherlock’s pale skin glow orange as he leaned in with his cigarette. He slumped back against the wall and exhaled smoke. His eyes drifted closed, and he took another long drag before holding the pack out to Lestrade.
Lestrade accepted a cigarette, lit up, and enjoyed a harsh lungful of smoke, his first in years. It made his eyes water.
Lord Sherlock stared at the lit end of his cigarette. “Right under my nose all this time, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it.”
“That was Moriarty’s plan.” Lestrade didn’t mention that he hadn’t realized it either, despite the clues of his master’s strange behaviour. Lord Sherlock would take no comfort in the failures of idiots.
“I should have been better. Shouldn’t have let him get away.”
“Moriarty could still be here,” Lestrade pointed out. If he’d been creeping around for weeks, he wouldn’t let a botched assassination stop him. “I doubt he’ll give up now.”
“Of course not. But he’s unlikely to remain here. He didn’t get the evidence of Mycroft’s involvement, and in any case, the Chinese ambassador is still inconveniently alive. Having been thwarted here, he’ll move on to a new tactic. He’s certain to have contingency plans.”
“Did the Chinese ambassador have anything to say about Moriarty’s identity?”
“Mycroft’s people are working on him now.” Lord Sherlock exhaled a lungful of smoke. “They’re experts.”
“Right.” Lestrade tried not to dwell on what expert techniques Lord Mycroft’s people might be using. The tobacco had already started to make him queasy. “And the rest of the circus troupe?”
“Under guard.”
“One of them might know who Moriarty really is.” Lestrade understood firsthand how often free people underestimated the slaves around them.
“So far down the chain of command, he’d hardly take that risk.”
“But it’s possible that-“
“It doesn’t matter!” Lord Sherlock shoved off the wall and whirled to face Lestrade. “He has John! He took him, and now he has him. I need him back. He can’t...” Lord Sherlock slowed his breath. “No, you’re right. If we can discover Moriarty’s identity, we may find a clue as to his whereabouts. Find Moriarty, find John.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the stone with his heel. “The first twenty-four hours of a missing persons case are crucial. We’ll need a list of everyone who’s departed since the banquet. Concentrate on those who’ve been in the house for more than three days.” He strode off across the courtyard towards the gardens.
Lestrade hurried after him. “Where are you going?”
“To work, Lestrade.” Lord Sherlock waved him away. “Go.”
--
“Here.” A plain black collar appeared on top of a pile of papers. “You’ll need this.”
Lestrade looked up from his desk to find Anthea slotted into the narrow open space inside the door of his cramped office. Her hands flew over the keys of her Blackberry.
“Thank you.” Lestrade watched her ignore him for a moment before he had to ask, “Did you know?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.” Anthea continued typing.
“He didn’t tell me.” Lestrade rubbed a hand over his bare neck. “Not a word.”
“I’ve been in his service longer than you have.”
Lestrade nodded. He remembered, when he’d first met Anthea, how sure she’d seemed of herself and of Lord Mycroft. She’d convinced him to take the leap, too. “He trusts you.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Greg.” Anthea momentarily wrested her eyes from her phone to deliver a withering glare. “You know he trusts you, too. This plan means more to him than any other project I’ve ever been privy to.”
“Does that make it alright to do anything he likes?” Lestrade tugged a hand through his hair, remembering the bodies in the basement. “He was willing to sacrifice John.”
“Of course he was. He’d have sacrificed everyone under his command to get what he wanted.”
“Freedom from his responsibilities.” Lestrade clenched his jaw hard to hold back the flood of censure he had no right to offer.
“Uh, no, Greg.” Anthea stopped typing. She waited while Lestrade stared at her. At last she rolled her eyes. “You are... impossible.”
Lestrade let out a deep breath and reminded himself not to take out his anger on the messenger. “Listen, Anthea-“
Lestrade’s attempt at diplomacy was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Sherlock, who managed to sweep dramatically into a space no larger than a cupboard. “Have you got that inventory? I need it.”
“Still working on the rest of the house, but personal slaves are all accounted for except one.” Lestrade handed Lord Sherlock the hand-written inventory. “Jim’s missing.”
“He’s probably not actually missing,” Anthea volunteered from her besieged position in the corner. “I suspect he went with Colonel Moran.”
“Why would he do that?” Lestrade asked.
“Mycroft sold him.” Lord Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the matter. “What else have you found?”
“Sold him,” Lestrade echoed. “Jim’s meant to be under my supervision. Why wasn’t I notified?”
“He’s been selling off properly discretely for months.” Lord Sherlock produced a list of his own, neatly typed on family letterhead, most likely a document of Lord Mycroft’s. “Human property, mostly. Some of his other livestock as well. Did you know he owned three racing horses?”
“Why?” Lestrade thought back to the contracts he’d seen on Lord Mycroft’s desk. There could have been a good reason his master didn’t want him examining them too closely.
“Presumably to have something to discuss with the princess,” Lord Sherlock said. “I can’t imagine he’d waddle over to Ascot for-- ”
“No,” Lestrade broke in. “Why sell off slaves?”
“Not debt. Could be unexpected expense, but he has more than enough cash on hand to deal with surprises before liquidating assets. And in any case, slaves are among the least valuable commodities at his disposal. So why-“ Lord Sherlock clasped his hands together. “Oh, sentiment.”
“He’s a good man,” Anthea snapped.
“Is he?” Lord Sherlock whirled towards her. “Go on, Lestrade hasn’t worked it out.”
Anthea glared at Lord Sherlock before addressing Lestrade. “If the Empress strips him of titles, some of his property might be redistributed or sold at auction.”
“I see.” Lestrade nodded slowly. “He had more control over where they were sent.”
“He’ll get a better price if he sells now,” Lord Sherlock said with a disdainful sniff.
“It’s not just that,” Anthea argued.
“No.” Lestrade had heard stories of slaves sold cheaply at auction: few ended happily. “The more they’re sold for, the better they’ll be treated.”
“Was that your experience with Milverston?” Lord Sherlock asked.
“That’s a mistake Lord Mycroft won’t make again,” Anthea said quietly.
“No,” Lestrade agreed. “Lord Mycroft only makes a mistake once.” He couldn’t say as much for himself.
“Whatever his reasons, he’s been selling slaves.” Lord Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. “Who else, aside from Jim?” He addressed his question to Anthea.
“That’s all for personal slaves now, though he’s made inquiries about others. A dozen from the estate, all sold this month, contracts ready to go on a dozen more.”
“I’ll need a list.”
--
John pressed his ear to the door. His back twinged, reminding him of the healing stitches, but he held still, listening. He could hear low voices-more than one, but couldn’t make out the words. No way to know what awaited him beyond the room, but judging from the reception he’d got from Jim Moriarty, it wasn’t likely to be friendly.
At least his captors seemed neglectful, aside from Moriarty himself, who had treated John to a lengthy discussion. If given the choice, John would prefer to avoid another of those.
At least neglect would allow John to explore his prison. He could be anywhere in the world; he couldn’t know how long they’d kept him unconscious, but by his stubble he’d guess 24 hours. He stepped away from the door and turned his attention to his civilized prison.
“Fine,” John muttered to the empty room. “What would Sherlock do, if he were here? Probably walk out there and demand to be released. Right, no. What would he suggest?”
He could hear Sherlock’s posh tones, perfectly. ”You’ve seen me apply my method often enough, John. Start with the facts.”
“Of course.” If he knew where Moriarty had taken him, he’d be better able to plan a method of escape.
A flat or a house, by the layout, but where? Whose? The fair-sized room was in good repair. The eccentric decorating suggested a private residence rather than a hotel, though John had certainly seen B&B’s with more unusual furnishings.
“Stick to the facts, not inane associations, John,” admonished his memory of Sherlock. “Observe.”
The room’s window had been covered with cardboard and tape, which John left untouched for now. The musty smell of a long-closed-up room pervaded the atmosphere, but what air filtered in from the window seemed to be more smoggy than country-pure or sea-salty. Sound drifted up from not too far below: cars, muffled voices, and there, distantly-the sound of an emergency siren. Still in the Empire, then. Maybe even in London.
“Why London?” John mused. If he wanted to escape Sherlock, he’d certainly have gone farther than that. Perhaps this place had some significance, then.
John decided the room must represent its occupant’s very specific tastes, because no one would have put together this decor thinking it pleasantly neutral. The patterned green wallpaper was nice enough, but John couldn’t make sense of the decorations. Besides the poster of the periodic table, the walls held a large scroll of what John guessed was Chinese, and a sizeable, old-fashioned, black-and-white photo of a severe, wild-haired man John didn’t recognize.
John could almost hear Sherlock’s exasperated admonishment. ”This is why research is important, John. You’ll never make use of your observations if you can’t identify what you’re seeing.”
John turned his attention to the furnishings: double bed, under which lived an extensive colony of dust bunnies; bureau empty of everything save eight pairs of socks, neatly arranged by shade; wardrobe containing a few lonely hangers, also empty. The bookshelf provided the most interesting clues, stuffed, as it was, full of a bewildering assortment of volumes: biographies of serial killers, a set of volumes on organic chemistry, and the Handbook of Poisonous and Injurious Plants. An illustrated guide to practical butchering, a well-worn London A-Z, a slim paperback called The Sweet Science that turned out to be about boxing. A hardback book on beekeeping with “property of the London Imperial Library” stamped on the inside cover.
“Who’d have all this lot?” John mused.
“A disused city flat, eccentrically decorated, stocked with knowledge of a century’s worth of crime,” said his inner Sherlock. “Who do you suppose?”
John pulled a book from the shelf and turned to a random page. A diagram of the human circulatory system had the throat circled, and a note scrawled in the margin: severed carotid artery may bleed out in two minutes.
He could hear the rain again in the garden of the Holmes estate, Lord Mycroft pronouncing “exsanguinated” in crisp tones, and Soo Lin’s lengthy, desperate speech before Jim led her away. He slammed the book shut. “Bloody Moriarty. This is his place. His damn fortress of solitude.” He tossed the book on his shelf and wiped his hands on his trousers.
His inner Sherlock said nothing, which John took to mean acceptance of his opinion, for once.
--
Lestrade stopped for a quick scrub down and a change of clothes. The cuffs of his best formal shirt were stained with drying blood. Rather than toss it in the laundry, Lestrade set it aside. If Lord Mycroft wouldn’t need him at formal events any more, there was no sense in the house slaves going to the trouble of cleaning it. After putting on clean clothes, he picked up the collar Anthea had delivered and buckled the clasp without allowing himself to wax maudlin on what it represented.
Feeling marginally more presentable, Lestrade headed back to the personal slave’s assembly room, where he found Sally gathering last evening’s reports.
“Find anything unusual?” He settled into a soft chair across from her, ignoring his aching joints, which were registering complaints at so many hours of formal attendance followed by what seemed to be a distinct lack of sleep.
“No.” She sorted a few more files on her tablet before giving him her attention. “Nothing I wouldn’t expect after last night, anyway.”
“Thanks for keeping up with all this for me.” He leaned over to take the tablet from her and pen his initials on the summary she’d put together. “I imagine you may need to take on a few more duties in the coming days.”
“Why’s that?”
Lestrade resisted the urge to fidget with his ill-fitting collar. He’d rather not lie to Sally, but without knowing for sure what duties Lord Mycroft would want him to carry out, he shouldn’t start tongues wagging. “I’m helping Lord Sherlock track down John.”
“Isn’t that a matter for the police?” Sally settled back in her chair. “He did shoot a lord, not to mention killing those guards.”
“Is that the word around the house?”
Sally shrugged.
“It’s not true. John didn’t kill those men, alright? You can say I said so to anyone who will listen.” Lestrade shook his head. He doubted his word would carry much weight after the household learned he was no longer Lord Mycroft’s chosen bed warmer, but he had to try while he had the chance. “In any case, John is missing, and I’m doing what I can to get him back.”
“Have you considered that he might actually have run away?” Sally asked. “He never was a model of proper behaviour. And if my master was the freak, I’d be tempted.”
“I won’t believe that of him.”
“In the end, it doesn’t matter what we believe, does it?” Sally stood up and took the tablet back from Lestrade. “The inquisitors will look at the evidence, and that will be that.”
“Evidence. Right.” He couldn’t approach this as a slave, passively following a master’s orders. That’s what had got him into this situation. He’d have to be a detective again: look for clues, questions witnesses, and follow his gut. A man’s life was at stake-as good a man as had ever served with Lestrade. He would pull out all the stops to find a missing comrade, and he’d do no less for John. “Thanks, Sally.”
“Gregory?” She clutched the tablet in both hands. “Don’t be foolish. Whatever John’s got you mixed up in, it’s not worth giving up as good a thing as you’ve got.” She looked pointedly at his plain collar.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Sally nodded and disappeared into the office.
Lestrade looked after her for a moment, wondering how long he’d have her friendship. If Lord Mycroft decided to send him away sooner rather than later, he might not see her again. He stood up, but turned his feet towards the hallway instead. He had work to do, and no time for regrets.
The narrow slave corridors lead him to John’s door in minutes. To his mild surprise, his thumb on the control panel disengaged the lock. Lord Mycroft must not have got around to revoking his security clearance.
In the cold morning light, the tiny room looked like a crime scene. Clothes lay strewn about on every surface. The wall sported a haphazard arrangement of paper scraps, photos, and other mementos. In a clear patch of floor at the centre of the room sat a pair of white trainers, a bit scuffed, with the laces neatly tucked inside. For a moment, Lestrade thought the Imperial soldiers might have ransacked the room already, but then he remembered that Lord Sherlock had been staying here.
Lestrade took a step inside, careful to disturb nothing. He had no forensics team to analyze the evidence, so he’d need to make do with old-fashioned detective work. Though with this much debris on the floor, he’d be hard-pressed to say what constituted “out of place.” He’d need to speak to someone who knew the victim’s living habits.
“Those aren’t John’s,” Lord Sherlock said as soon as Lestrade got him through the door. He flung himself to the floor, crouched by the shoes, and leaned in to sniff them.
“Thought that might be the case. They were sitting by themselves in the middle of the rest of this mess.”
“They’ve been put here since the shooting. They weren’t here when I came to get the gun, during the entertainment last night.”
“Gun?”
“It’s not important.” Lord Sherlock pulled out his mobile and snapped a photo of the shoes. “These may be.”
Lestrade squeezed his eyes closed and tried to forget that he’d heard mention of a weapon in a slave’s quarters, then turned his attention to the trainers. “They look like uniform shoes, the kind outdoor slaves might wear, but a retro style,” he offered.
“No.” Lord Sherlock thumbed through a search on his phone. “Not retro. Original.” He showed Lestrade a photo on his screen: the trainers featured in an ad from the late 80’s. “I need to run some tests.” He snatched the shoes in one hand and swept out of the room.
--
With Lord Sherlock haring off after his own leads, just like old times, Lestrade set out to do the boring bits, as “Charles Butler” had always called them. He couldn’t deduce other slaves’ life stories from their clothing, but he could ask his contacts for information about possible suspects.
“I know all the housekeepers, every last one,” Mrs. Hudson reported. “We get a bit of turnover: girl doesn’t work out, a new one comes in to train, or the like.”
“Any of the new ones seem unusual?” Lestrade asked.
“Well, one girl’s a vegetarian, but other than that they’re all right as rain.”
The story was the same in the kitchen.
“We had half a dozen slaves in for temporary kitchen help,” Mrs. Turner told him. “All gone now.”
“Did any of them wander off during the evening?”
“Couldn’t have done. They were chained to the stove.” At Lestrade’s dark look, Mrs. Turner chuckled. “Figuratively, love.”
Despite the chilly drizzle, Lestrade tramped to the outbuildings to question his old football chums.
“No, we’re a regular gang,” Liam said. “No one new in the past year.” He rubbed a rag against the bonnet of a black Mercedes much harder than necessary. “Though we just got news Rohan and Colin are gettin’ sold. It isn’t right, if you ask me.”
“No, it’s isn’t.” Lestrade looked out from the garage across the gardens to where the house’s stark outline stood against the darkening sky. He remembered thinking, when he’d first seen the manor’s imposing facade, that he could never be at ease in a place like this. His footballer friends had seemed so comfortable here, and it wouldn’t be the same without them. Lestrade found it difficult to imagine that soon the place he’d come to love would no longer be his home.
When Lestrade sought out Lord Sherlock to report his meagre findings, the under-butler pointed him in the direction of the drawing room. He found Lord Sherlock staring out the window while Lord Wilkes sipped red wine and carried on a monologue at top volume. A polite clearing of Lestrade’s throat went unnoticed.
“You never did have much feeling, you did you?” Wilkes asked with a sweep of his arm. “Well, I went to see him in hospital this morning. He seems to be recovering well, thanks for your concern. He’s got that boy your brother sold him to keep him company while he mends. More than you’ve got, eh?”
Wilkes staggered upright and went to sling an arm around Lord Sherlock, who curled his lip, but didn’t pull away. “At least they’ve got him under guard, in case your missing slave comes back to finish the job.” Wilkes jabbed an elbow at Lord Sherlock. “I knew your pet could shoot, but I didn’t expect him to turn on his masters.”
“He only has one master.” Lord Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes in the reflection in the window, and nodded.
“Technically, I suppose. Listen.” Wilkes patted his shoulder. “If you want him brought in, I know a great firm that does runaway recovery. You can specify if you want him alive, but a violent one like Watson, you may as well not bother.”
“Recovery,” Lord Sherlock said slowly. “They specialize in catching runaways.”
“They even work with the insurance agencies, so ensure you recover the full worth, even if the slave is damaged or destroyed in the process.” Wilkes drifted back to his chair and considered his empty wine glass. “They do a good business.”
“Slave insurance.”
“You do have insurance, don’t you?” Wilkes grinned up at Lord Sherlock. “New owner and all, I’d have thought you’d take care of something like that.”
Lord Sherlock turned on his heel. He swept past Lestrade and out of the room.
“Of all the...” Wilkes muttered, before catching sight of Lestrade. “Hey there! Where’ve you lot been? I’m bloody parched!”
“Pardon me, sir.” Lestrade sketched a bow towards Wilkes before dashing out. He caught sight of Lord Sherlock’s jacket sweeping around the banister in the front hall, and charged up the stairs after him. “Lord Sherlock. Sir!” He spotted his quarry in the second storey hallway, though he had to walk fast to catch up.
“I should have seen it before,” Lord Sherlock said over his shoulder as Lestrade approached, but he didn’t slow his pace. “I should have known.”
“Sir, please tell me you aren’t running off to look into John’s insurance value.”
“I need you to look into an insurance claim. 1989. The slave drowned here, in the lake on the estate, though he wasn’t owned by my family. The boy’s name was Carl Powers.” Lord Sherlock swirled to a stop in front of the door at the end of the hall. “I want all the details from the scene, anything in the record that seems unusual.”
“Right, okay, but what does this have to do with the case?” Lestrade asked.
“The shoes, Lestrade! Now do it.” Lord Sherlock swept into the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving Lestrade to follow orders.
--
[On to Part Two]
In the meantime, one of my big fic goals during my semester break was to finish this next installment of my Sherlock slave AU, so here I am! The rest of the chapters will be posted soon, most likely one per day over the next four. Thanks for being so patient with me after my evil cliffhanger.
Title: You Know Him and Have Seen Him
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade, implied Moriarty/Moran
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22,400 total (~7000 this chapter)
Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, threat of violence (including sexual violence), show-level violence and crime, minor character death(s), suicide
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: Thanks to eldritchhobbit, jaune_chat, blue_eyed_1987, and izzie7 for their editing/cheerleading/Brit-picking. Remaining cock-ups are all mine. I also owe a debt to arianedevere, whose wonderful transcript of The Great Game is here.
Summary: After John's disappearance, Sherlock races to solve a mystery, while Lestrade balances his responsibilities and his conscience.
Previously, on In My Master’s House
Sherlock and John discovered that someone planned to assassinate the Chinese ambassador at the grand banquet Lord Mycroft was hosting. Sherlock neutralized one assassin, but while he was ensuring the ambassador’s safety, John spotted a sniper stalking Sherlock, and shot him in defence of his master. John was hauled off to a discipline cell for shooting a free man, who turned out to be Colonel Moran. Meanwhile, Lestrade foiled a cat burglar’s attempt to steal information from Lord Mycroft’s rooms. After refereeing an argument between the Holmes brothers, Lestrade went to check on John, only to find the guards dead and John’s cell empty.
--
The sun flashed in John’s eyes, too bright off the pale sand. He raised a hand to shade his face. Across the scrubby ground, he made out the unmistakable silhouette of his master, standing too tall at the top of a rise. “Sherlock, get down!” he shouted. He tried to run, but his boots sank into the sand; he’d never seen sand so deep, not here. Still, if Sherlock had come this way, John could, too. “Get under cover!”
Sherlock turned to him, elegant in his evening formal wear, brow furrowed in irritation.
“Down!”
A shot echoed across the empty desert. Sherlock looked down as a red patch bloomed against the right shoulder of his bright white shirt. He touched a finger to the growing stain, then stared at it as if examining the evidence.
“Get down!”
Another shot pierced the bright afternoon. Sherlock’s leg buckled under him, and he fell to his knees.
John struggled through sand that pulled at his feet, until he reached the place where Sherlock lay. Blood soaked his shirt and trousers.
“Sherlock. Hang on.” John dropped to his knees and pressed the heel of his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder to stem the flow of blood. “Just hang on.”
Sherlock stared up at him with wide, pale eyes. “You couldn’t protect me.”
“I’m sorry. Please, just stay with me.” John looked up to scan the horizon: no movement, no hope of rescue.
Sherlock reached up to clutch feebly at John’s hand. “You couldn’t even protect yourself.”
John looked down to see blood seeping through his Army uniform: right shoulder, left thigh.
“It hurts.” Sherlock’s hand clamped down on John’s.
A stabbing pain robbed John of his breath. His eyes snapped open.
Agony lanced through his back-not his shoulder or his leg-and he closed his eyes against the pain. The desert was a dream-just another dream. He’d wake up at home, in his quarters in the slave wing, and he’d be fine. He forced his eyes open again and squinted at the unfamiliar angle: he lay on his belly in a large bed, with a view of dark walls, a curtained window, and a framed periodic table of elements.
A warm hand dropped onto his shoulder, just above the scar. A man’s soft voice floated through his groggy haze. “There, now. Stop fussing, or you’ll aggravate the incision site.”
As if on cue, pain flared low on John’s back, near the base of his spine.
John craned his neck to see the speaker, but only caught sight of a grey suit. He tried to turn over, but stopped when the pain flared again. At least he’d been dressed: he could feel trousers against his bare skin. But as he turned his head to take stock of the room, he realized he missed the feel of smooth leather against his throat. His neck was bare, his collar gone.
The hand slid further down his back, skating back and forth across his spine. “You’re lucky I went to the trouble of getting a proper surgeon to take the chip out.” The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar: gentle, with a soft Irish lilt. “I could have done it myself with a kitchen knife, but I’m certain you wouldn’t have been able to walk afterwards.”
John tried to speak, but found his throat too dry. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Where’s my collar?”
“That’s your question? Oh, pet. You a really are a treasure.” The man moved to the head of the bed, into John’s line of sight. “Hi,” Jim said. “We need to talk.”
--
Lestrade stumbled back against the cold stone wall. He kept his hands up and his eyes down, hoping to show himself to be no threat. He could see the gun still pointed at him, inches from his face, as more guards poured into the small space.
“Move.” Lord Sherlock’s voice came from the end of the corridor, and a knot of Imperial guards scattered out of his path. The man holding his gun on Lestrade didn’t waver.
Lord Sherlock strode into the packed confines of the dungeon-cum-crime scene, with Mycroft hard on his heels. Mycroft’s eyes went first to where Lestrade stood backed against a wall, doubtless taking in every detail of the scene: Lestrade’s split lip, the bruise on his cheek, the reddened knuckles of the guard who held the gun, and of course, the two dead soldiers on the floor.
“Lower your weapon, Lieutenant,” Mycroft said.
“Sir, the prisoner’s escaped.” The soldier kept his eyes on Lestrade as he answered. “And this one helped him do it. They killed two of my men.”
“Your weapon,” Mycroft repeated in the same unruffled, inexorable tone.
The soldier slowly lowered his sidearm, but Lestrade noted he kept his finger on the trigger.
“Get out,” Lord Sherlock snapped at the soldiers who stood watching. “I need to examine the scene.”
The lieutenant turned to Mycroft and swept a hand towards the bodies and Lestrade. “My lord, I can’t-“
“Do as he says.” Mycroft stepped forward to address the gathered soldiers. “No one is to disturb us. Lieutenant, you may assist my security staff in sealing the perimeter of the estate.”
“But sir-“
Mycroft merely inclined his head, and the soldier subsided.
“Yes, sir.” The line of red-coated Imperial soldiers filed out, and the lieutenant gave Lestrade one last look before closing the door behind him.
Mycroft materialized at Lestrade’s side. “Are you alright?” He reached out to ghost his fingers down Lestrade’s temple.
“I’m fine, sir.” Lestrade ducked his head to remove the distraction of his injuries. The guard had stopped hitting him when he’d realized Lestrade hadn’t been resisting; the hurts were superficial. “It’s not important.”
“Where’s John?” Lord Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “You ask as if you think I’d know.”
“This is your little circus, Mycroft. There’s very little you don’t know about what goes on under this roof. Stop prevaricating and tell me what you’ve done with him.”
“I’ve done nothing to John.”
Lestrade stepped over stray drops of blood to examine the door to John’s cell. “John wouldn’t have killed these men,” he said. “I don’t think he broke out on his own.”
“Of course he didn’t. It’s obvious. Though not to your Imperial peons, apparently.” Lord Sherlock crouched by one of the bodies and leaned in to examine the gunshot wound. “It was meant to look like he killed these guards and escaped.”
“Why go to that trouble? He’s accused of shooting a lord,” Lestrade said. He traced the walls of the cell with his eyes, imagining the terror of any condemned slave trapped inside. “He was probably going to be executed anyway.”
“No one is executing John,” Lord Sherlock snapped. “No, if he’s gone, it’s much more difficult to prove his innocence. Therefore, the kidnapper is someone who wanted John to be assumed guilty.” He sprang to his feet, darted to the guard station’s small desk, and began rifling through the papers there.
“Who would benefit from framing John?” Lestrade asked.
Lord Sherlock whirled to face Mycroft. “Who is Moriarty?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know what he’s capable of, yes.” Lord Sherlock abandoned his search of the desk to stand nose-to-nose with his brother. “How long have you known the Chinese ambassador was reporting to him?”
Mycroft let loose a small sigh, but he didn’t argue with Lord Sherlock’s deduction. “Six months. We notified the Chinese Emperor last month.”
Lord Sherlock nodded. “So the plan was a joint one.”
“Of course. I’d hardly be so foolish as to endorse the alternative.”
“I’ve yet to find a limit to your foolishness, brother dear.”
“What plan?” Lestrade broke in, before the discussion could deteriorate into name-calling.
“Assassinate the Chinese ambassador, obviously.” Lord Sherlock turned to gesture in Lestrade’s direction. “That’s what last night’s soiree was meant to accomplish. You loosen Moriarty’s hold and do the Chinese Empire a favour. Of course, it couldn’t be revealed that a top diplomat had been compromised, so they couldn’t be seen to bear any responsibility for the death.”
Mycroft inclined his head fractionally, which, coming from him, may as well have been a full confession.
“And when he started to show signs of disloyalty-signs that he might be willing to betray Moriarty, it was too late to negotiate. If you allowed him to defect, you might have gained important knowledge about Moriarty, but the Empire would have breached the trust of the Chinese intelligence community.”
“It’s a delicate relationship.”
Lestrade’s mind raced to keep up with the brothers’ exchange of information. “You arranged for a man-a man who was trying to leave Moriarty’s employ-to be killed.” Lestrade could see it now: the ambassador’s increasing desperation, the unusual extension of his stay, the erratic behaviour of his slaves. “Under your own roof.”
“I’ve ordered the deaths of many men,” Mycroft said softly. “My duties as a commander require-“
“This is different.” Lestrade remembered those commands, remembered Mycroft’s restless nights after. “You know it’s different.”
“The assassination of a high-profile diplomat like this wouldn’t have gone unanswered.” Lord Sherlock ignored Lestrade and forged on: pacing, with his hands steepled under his chin, firing off deductions as he made them. “No, someone suitably ranked would have to take the blame. You would have been the lord who allowed an ambassador to be murdered in his home.”
“But the Empire would have struck a crippling blow against the spies and traitors who plague us.”
“As the ostensibly responsible party, you would have to be punished, of course,” Lord Sherlock said.
“Naturally.”
Lord Sherlock stopped his pacing to lean towards Mycroft and narrow his eyes, as if he could gut Mycroft’s words naked and pull out their insides to find what they attempted to conceal. “You can’t be stripped of your hereditary title, and the Empress wouldn’t imprison her favourite lapdog. But your other titles-your responsibility to govern, you’d be willing to give up.”
“Yes.”
“Neat little plan. Free yourself of the scrutiny of the public eye without giving up any real power. You’d have gone on spinning your web behind the scenes, just as you’ve wanted for years. Your scheme realized for the negligible price of a few lives.”
“It was for the good of the Empire.” Mycroft stood tall, shoulders soldier-straight. “The Empresses’ will must be done.”
“Long may it be so,” Lord Sherlock sneered.
“You arrogant, entitled--” Lestrade bit off any name he might have called his master. “You can’t sell your responsibility. You’ve got the life you’ve got. Do you think whoever the Empress replaced you with would govern half as well? Would they see war coming five years away? Would they keep peace between the warring nobility in Westminster? Would they treat their slaves as you do?”
“I’ve toiled for the Empire for thirty years. It’s my right-“
“Some of us can’t lay down our burden.” Lestrade reached out to touch Mycroft’s arm, but thought better of such an impertinent gesture, and clenched his fist at his side instead. “I didn’t ask for my position any more than you did yours, but I will do what I’m bid with honour until the Empire releases me. I won’t run from my duty.”
Mycroft lifted his chin. “It sounds like you’re lecturing me on my responsibilities-“
“Well someone must!”
“Oh.” Lord Sherlock lowered himself to a crouch inside John’s empty cell and pressed his fingers against the wall. “You suspected Moriarty was on to you, that he’d try to stop you. Bad for Sino-British relations, but personally inconvenient as well. When you called me to investigate, you knew Moriarty’s people had infiltrated the house, that the ambassador was trying to send messages. That’s what you wanted me to work out.”
“Moriarty had agents in the house?” Lestrade asked.
“Of course he did. He wanted to protect his investment.” Lord Sherlock pushed to his feet and addressed Mycroft. “Do you know who it was? There could have been more than one agent.”
“Moriarty likes games, Sherlock. The only way to draw him out is to play with him.”
“So my investigation was merely a distraction: a chess match to keep Moriarty from foiling your plans. You egged him on, hounding the ambassador so he’d have to contact his employer. The death of the ambassador’s son. The gunmen in the woods. The code.”
“John’s assailant.” The facts slotted themselves into place in Lestrade’s head, leaving conveniently-shaped gaps that matched some suspicions he’d been holding onto.
“What?” Lord Sherlock’s eyes snapped to Lestrade.
“John was attacked last night, before you came to free him. He said someone threatened him. Tried to strangle him.” John had related the event with such stoicism that Lestrade hadn’t appreciated the extent of the danger. He should have given the matter more attention.
“You knew about this?” Lord Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded.
Another suspicion found a matching gap in Lestrade’s arrangement of clues. “It’s not just an agent, is it? Moriarty was here. Might still be here.”
“I knew if we played his game-“
“If I played his game,” Lord Sherlock corrected.
“Yes.” Mycroft offered a shallow nod. “I knew he’d come.”
“You didn’t think that might be relevant information to share?” Sherlock snapped.
“I trusted you could deduce all the relevant data.”
“You’re saying Moriarty himself was here, but you don’t know who he is?” Lestrade asked.
“Not precisely.” Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes.
“And you let him run free, knowing what could happen?” Lestrade remembered all the new faces around the estate in the past weeks, with access to everything he cared about. Despite what Mycroft believed, Moriarty could have reached anyone in the house, hurt anyone, if it would have aided his game against Sherlock. He still might do.
“I had everything under control.”
“Is this control?” Lestrade swept a hand towards the bodies on the floor, in their cooling puddles of blood. Mycroft had weighed all those risks Lestrade had just been imagining and judged them to be within acceptable parameters. He’d always built all possible outcomes into these scenarios. “What about these soldiers? Or Soo Lin? What about John?”
“I knew there were risks.”
“You don’t know. You don’t understand-you can’t.” Lestrade’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, but as he breathed in, something gave way inside of him, and all the tension drained from his body. “But that’s your decision to make, isn’t it?” His master had the right to make any choice he wished, but Lestrade had accepted that, because he’d come to believe that Mycroft was ultimately an honourable man. No one tread the line between secrecy and necessity like him. His faith in Mycroft’s abilities had blinded him: always, before, Mycroft had seen the way clear long before Lestrade had grasped all the pieces of the puzzle. He had trusted that, no matter how suspect Mycroft’s actions seemed, a fully justified reason for them had to exist. But Lestrade had judged wrongly; his illusion that he still worked, in some small way, for justice and the law couldn’t be made to fit with this arrangement of facts. His service to Mycroft was just service, no more or less honourable than the use of any object doing its part in utter ignorance of its master’s purpose.
Without knowing how it got there, Lestrade became aware of his hand resting on his collar. Mycroft watched him silently. Lestrade reached to the buckle in the back. “I promised you once-“
“I remember,” Mycroft said, standing very still.
Lestrade released the clasp. The metal click sounded too loud in the dead silence of the stone room. The soft leather and warm silver slid away, leaving Lestrade’s neck bare.
Lestrade extended the collar. Lord Mycroft accepted it wordlessly.
“Lestrade, come with me,” Lord Sherlock called from the doorway. “There’s work to be done.”
“Yes, sir.” Lestrade followed, but spared a look back to his abandoned collar, which still held Lord Mycroft’s gaze.
--
Lord Sherlock was already bounding up the narrow staircase when Lestrade caught him up. Two Imperial soldiers tried to stop him in the kitchen, but Lord Sherlock brushed them off with a crisp, “Not now.”
Lestrade followed him outside into the pale dawn light of the courtyard. Three of Mycroft’s blue-uniformed guards huddled on the opposite side, talking in low voices. They snapped to attention when they saw Lord Sherlock approach.
“You.” Lord Sherlock pointed at the nearest guard, a short woman with gunmetal grey hair done up in a neat bun. “How many vehicles have left the grounds since the entertainment started?”
Wisely, she did not question Lord Sherlock’s reason for asking. Anyone who spent a significant amount of time in Lord Mycroft’s service learned to be both competent at her work and unfazed by unusual requests. “Twenty at least, most in the past half hour, plus emergency services.”
“I’ll need a list: vehicle make and model, the owner, how many passengers-be sure to include slaves in that count, and any unusual details.”
One of the other guards-Patel, Lestrade remembered, who’d been on duty only a month-gaped at Lord Sherlock. “Sir, we can’t possibly-“
“Come on, missie.” The first guard grabbed Patel by the arm and pulled her away. “We’ll start with the chauffeurs.”
“You.” Lord Sherlock pointed at the last guard as she followed her comrades. She froze. “Cigarettes, now.”
Wide-eyed, she handed over a half-full pack and a lighter before scuttling off.
Lord Sherlock ripped a fag from the pack. He flicked the lighter three times with no result before Lestrade snatched it out of his shaking hands. The flame made Lord Sherlock’s pale skin glow orange as he leaned in with his cigarette. He slumped back against the wall and exhaled smoke. His eyes drifted closed, and he took another long drag before holding the pack out to Lestrade.
Lestrade accepted a cigarette, lit up, and enjoyed a harsh lungful of smoke, his first in years. It made his eyes water.
Lord Sherlock stared at the lit end of his cigarette. “Right under my nose all this time, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it.”
“That was Moriarty’s plan.” Lestrade didn’t mention that he hadn’t realized it either, despite the clues of his master’s strange behaviour. Lord Sherlock would take no comfort in the failures of idiots.
“I should have been better. Shouldn’t have let him get away.”
“Moriarty could still be here,” Lestrade pointed out. If he’d been creeping around for weeks, he wouldn’t let a botched assassination stop him. “I doubt he’ll give up now.”
“Of course not. But he’s unlikely to remain here. He didn’t get the evidence of Mycroft’s involvement, and in any case, the Chinese ambassador is still inconveniently alive. Having been thwarted here, he’ll move on to a new tactic. He’s certain to have contingency plans.”
“Did the Chinese ambassador have anything to say about Moriarty’s identity?”
“Mycroft’s people are working on him now.” Lord Sherlock exhaled a lungful of smoke. “They’re experts.”
“Right.” Lestrade tried not to dwell on what expert techniques Lord Mycroft’s people might be using. The tobacco had already started to make him queasy. “And the rest of the circus troupe?”
“Under guard.”
“One of them might know who Moriarty really is.” Lestrade understood firsthand how often free people underestimated the slaves around them.
“So far down the chain of command, he’d hardly take that risk.”
“But it’s possible that-“
“It doesn’t matter!” Lord Sherlock shoved off the wall and whirled to face Lestrade. “He has John! He took him, and now he has him. I need him back. He can’t...” Lord Sherlock slowed his breath. “No, you’re right. If we can discover Moriarty’s identity, we may find a clue as to his whereabouts. Find Moriarty, find John.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the stone with his heel. “The first twenty-four hours of a missing persons case are crucial. We’ll need a list of everyone who’s departed since the banquet. Concentrate on those who’ve been in the house for more than three days.” He strode off across the courtyard towards the gardens.
Lestrade hurried after him. “Where are you going?”
“To work, Lestrade.” Lord Sherlock waved him away. “Go.”
--
“Here.” A plain black collar appeared on top of a pile of papers. “You’ll need this.”
Lestrade looked up from his desk to find Anthea slotted into the narrow open space inside the door of his cramped office. Her hands flew over the keys of her Blackberry.
“Thank you.” Lestrade watched her ignore him for a moment before he had to ask, “Did you know?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.” Anthea continued typing.
“He didn’t tell me.” Lestrade rubbed a hand over his bare neck. “Not a word.”
“I’ve been in his service longer than you have.”
Lestrade nodded. He remembered, when he’d first met Anthea, how sure she’d seemed of herself and of Lord Mycroft. She’d convinced him to take the leap, too. “He trusts you.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Greg.” Anthea momentarily wrested her eyes from her phone to deliver a withering glare. “You know he trusts you, too. This plan means more to him than any other project I’ve ever been privy to.”
“Does that make it alright to do anything he likes?” Lestrade tugged a hand through his hair, remembering the bodies in the basement. “He was willing to sacrifice John.”
“Of course he was. He’d have sacrificed everyone under his command to get what he wanted.”
“Freedom from his responsibilities.” Lestrade clenched his jaw hard to hold back the flood of censure he had no right to offer.
“Uh, no, Greg.” Anthea stopped typing. She waited while Lestrade stared at her. At last she rolled her eyes. “You are... impossible.”
Lestrade let out a deep breath and reminded himself not to take out his anger on the messenger. “Listen, Anthea-“
Lestrade’s attempt at diplomacy was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Sherlock, who managed to sweep dramatically into a space no larger than a cupboard. “Have you got that inventory? I need it.”
“Still working on the rest of the house, but personal slaves are all accounted for except one.” Lestrade handed Lord Sherlock the hand-written inventory. “Jim’s missing.”
“He’s probably not actually missing,” Anthea volunteered from her besieged position in the corner. “I suspect he went with Colonel Moran.”
“Why would he do that?” Lestrade asked.
“Mycroft sold him.” Lord Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the matter. “What else have you found?”
“Sold him,” Lestrade echoed. “Jim’s meant to be under my supervision. Why wasn’t I notified?”
“He’s been selling off properly discretely for months.” Lord Sherlock produced a list of his own, neatly typed on family letterhead, most likely a document of Lord Mycroft’s. “Human property, mostly. Some of his other livestock as well. Did you know he owned three racing horses?”
“Why?” Lestrade thought back to the contracts he’d seen on Lord Mycroft’s desk. There could have been a good reason his master didn’t want him examining them too closely.
“Presumably to have something to discuss with the princess,” Lord Sherlock said. “I can’t imagine he’d waddle over to Ascot for-- ”
“No,” Lestrade broke in. “Why sell off slaves?”
“Not debt. Could be unexpected expense, but he has more than enough cash on hand to deal with surprises before liquidating assets. And in any case, slaves are among the least valuable commodities at his disposal. So why-“ Lord Sherlock clasped his hands together. “Oh, sentiment.”
“He’s a good man,” Anthea snapped.
“Is he?” Lord Sherlock whirled towards her. “Go on, Lestrade hasn’t worked it out.”
Anthea glared at Lord Sherlock before addressing Lestrade. “If the Empress strips him of titles, some of his property might be redistributed or sold at auction.”
“I see.” Lestrade nodded slowly. “He had more control over where they were sent.”
“He’ll get a better price if he sells now,” Lord Sherlock said with a disdainful sniff.
“It’s not just that,” Anthea argued.
“No.” Lestrade had heard stories of slaves sold cheaply at auction: few ended happily. “The more they’re sold for, the better they’ll be treated.”
“Was that your experience with Milverston?” Lord Sherlock asked.
“That’s a mistake Lord Mycroft won’t make again,” Anthea said quietly.
“No,” Lestrade agreed. “Lord Mycroft only makes a mistake once.” He couldn’t say as much for himself.
“Whatever his reasons, he’s been selling slaves.” Lord Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. “Who else, aside from Jim?” He addressed his question to Anthea.
“That’s all for personal slaves now, though he’s made inquiries about others. A dozen from the estate, all sold this month, contracts ready to go on a dozen more.”
“I’ll need a list.”
--
John pressed his ear to the door. His back twinged, reminding him of the healing stitches, but he held still, listening. He could hear low voices-more than one, but couldn’t make out the words. No way to know what awaited him beyond the room, but judging from the reception he’d got from Jim Moriarty, it wasn’t likely to be friendly.
At least his captors seemed neglectful, aside from Moriarty himself, who had treated John to a lengthy discussion. If given the choice, John would prefer to avoid another of those.
At least neglect would allow John to explore his prison. He could be anywhere in the world; he couldn’t know how long they’d kept him unconscious, but by his stubble he’d guess 24 hours. He stepped away from the door and turned his attention to his civilized prison.
“Fine,” John muttered to the empty room. “What would Sherlock do, if he were here? Probably walk out there and demand to be released. Right, no. What would he suggest?”
He could hear Sherlock’s posh tones, perfectly. ”You’ve seen me apply my method often enough, John. Start with the facts.”
“Of course.” If he knew where Moriarty had taken him, he’d be better able to plan a method of escape.
A flat or a house, by the layout, but where? Whose? The fair-sized room was in good repair. The eccentric decorating suggested a private residence rather than a hotel, though John had certainly seen B&B’s with more unusual furnishings.
“Stick to the facts, not inane associations, John,” admonished his memory of Sherlock. “Observe.”
The room’s window had been covered with cardboard and tape, which John left untouched for now. The musty smell of a long-closed-up room pervaded the atmosphere, but what air filtered in from the window seemed to be more smoggy than country-pure or sea-salty. Sound drifted up from not too far below: cars, muffled voices, and there, distantly-the sound of an emergency siren. Still in the Empire, then. Maybe even in London.
“Why London?” John mused. If he wanted to escape Sherlock, he’d certainly have gone farther than that. Perhaps this place had some significance, then.
John decided the room must represent its occupant’s very specific tastes, because no one would have put together this decor thinking it pleasantly neutral. The patterned green wallpaper was nice enough, but John couldn’t make sense of the decorations. Besides the poster of the periodic table, the walls held a large scroll of what John guessed was Chinese, and a sizeable, old-fashioned, black-and-white photo of a severe, wild-haired man John didn’t recognize.
John could almost hear Sherlock’s exasperated admonishment. ”This is why research is important, John. You’ll never make use of your observations if you can’t identify what you’re seeing.”
John turned his attention to the furnishings: double bed, under which lived an extensive colony of dust bunnies; bureau empty of everything save eight pairs of socks, neatly arranged by shade; wardrobe containing a few lonely hangers, also empty. The bookshelf provided the most interesting clues, stuffed, as it was, full of a bewildering assortment of volumes: biographies of serial killers, a set of volumes on organic chemistry, and the Handbook of Poisonous and Injurious Plants. An illustrated guide to practical butchering, a well-worn London A-Z, a slim paperback called The Sweet Science that turned out to be about boxing. A hardback book on beekeeping with “property of the London Imperial Library” stamped on the inside cover.
“Who’d have all this lot?” John mused.
“A disused city flat, eccentrically decorated, stocked with knowledge of a century’s worth of crime,” said his inner Sherlock. “Who do you suppose?”
John pulled a book from the shelf and turned to a random page. A diagram of the human circulatory system had the throat circled, and a note scrawled in the margin: severed carotid artery may bleed out in two minutes.
He could hear the rain again in the garden of the Holmes estate, Lord Mycroft pronouncing “exsanguinated” in crisp tones, and Soo Lin’s lengthy, desperate speech before Jim led her away. He slammed the book shut. “Bloody Moriarty. This is his place. His damn fortress of solitude.” He tossed the book on his shelf and wiped his hands on his trousers.
His inner Sherlock said nothing, which John took to mean acceptance of his opinion, for once.
--
Lestrade stopped for a quick scrub down and a change of clothes. The cuffs of his best formal shirt were stained with drying blood. Rather than toss it in the laundry, Lestrade set it aside. If Lord Mycroft wouldn’t need him at formal events any more, there was no sense in the house slaves going to the trouble of cleaning it. After putting on clean clothes, he picked up the collar Anthea had delivered and buckled the clasp without allowing himself to wax maudlin on what it represented.
Feeling marginally more presentable, Lestrade headed back to the personal slave’s assembly room, where he found Sally gathering last evening’s reports.
“Find anything unusual?” He settled into a soft chair across from her, ignoring his aching joints, which were registering complaints at so many hours of formal attendance followed by what seemed to be a distinct lack of sleep.
“No.” She sorted a few more files on her tablet before giving him her attention. “Nothing I wouldn’t expect after last night, anyway.”
“Thanks for keeping up with all this for me.” He leaned over to take the tablet from her and pen his initials on the summary she’d put together. “I imagine you may need to take on a few more duties in the coming days.”
“Why’s that?”
Lestrade resisted the urge to fidget with his ill-fitting collar. He’d rather not lie to Sally, but without knowing for sure what duties Lord Mycroft would want him to carry out, he shouldn’t start tongues wagging. “I’m helping Lord Sherlock track down John.”
“Isn’t that a matter for the police?” Sally settled back in her chair. “He did shoot a lord, not to mention killing those guards.”
“Is that the word around the house?”
Sally shrugged.
“It’s not true. John didn’t kill those men, alright? You can say I said so to anyone who will listen.” Lestrade shook his head. He doubted his word would carry much weight after the household learned he was no longer Lord Mycroft’s chosen bed warmer, but he had to try while he had the chance. “In any case, John is missing, and I’m doing what I can to get him back.”
“Have you considered that he might actually have run away?” Sally asked. “He never was a model of proper behaviour. And if my master was the freak, I’d be tempted.”
“I won’t believe that of him.”
“In the end, it doesn’t matter what we believe, does it?” Sally stood up and took the tablet back from Lestrade. “The inquisitors will look at the evidence, and that will be that.”
“Evidence. Right.” He couldn’t approach this as a slave, passively following a master’s orders. That’s what had got him into this situation. He’d have to be a detective again: look for clues, questions witnesses, and follow his gut. A man’s life was at stake-as good a man as had ever served with Lestrade. He would pull out all the stops to find a missing comrade, and he’d do no less for John. “Thanks, Sally.”
“Gregory?” She clutched the tablet in both hands. “Don’t be foolish. Whatever John’s got you mixed up in, it’s not worth giving up as good a thing as you’ve got.” She looked pointedly at his plain collar.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Sally nodded and disappeared into the office.
Lestrade looked after her for a moment, wondering how long he’d have her friendship. If Lord Mycroft decided to send him away sooner rather than later, he might not see her again. He stood up, but turned his feet towards the hallway instead. He had work to do, and no time for regrets.
The narrow slave corridors lead him to John’s door in minutes. To his mild surprise, his thumb on the control panel disengaged the lock. Lord Mycroft must not have got around to revoking his security clearance.
In the cold morning light, the tiny room looked like a crime scene. Clothes lay strewn about on every surface. The wall sported a haphazard arrangement of paper scraps, photos, and other mementos. In a clear patch of floor at the centre of the room sat a pair of white trainers, a bit scuffed, with the laces neatly tucked inside. For a moment, Lestrade thought the Imperial soldiers might have ransacked the room already, but then he remembered that Lord Sherlock had been staying here.
Lestrade took a step inside, careful to disturb nothing. He had no forensics team to analyze the evidence, so he’d need to make do with old-fashioned detective work. Though with this much debris on the floor, he’d be hard-pressed to say what constituted “out of place.” He’d need to speak to someone who knew the victim’s living habits.
“Those aren’t John’s,” Lord Sherlock said as soon as Lestrade got him through the door. He flung himself to the floor, crouched by the shoes, and leaned in to sniff them.
“Thought that might be the case. They were sitting by themselves in the middle of the rest of this mess.”
“They’ve been put here since the shooting. They weren’t here when I came to get the gun, during the entertainment last night.”
“Gun?”
“It’s not important.” Lord Sherlock pulled out his mobile and snapped a photo of the shoes. “These may be.”
Lestrade squeezed his eyes closed and tried to forget that he’d heard mention of a weapon in a slave’s quarters, then turned his attention to the trainers. “They look like uniform shoes, the kind outdoor slaves might wear, but a retro style,” he offered.
“No.” Lord Sherlock thumbed through a search on his phone. “Not retro. Original.” He showed Lestrade a photo on his screen: the trainers featured in an ad from the late 80’s. “I need to run some tests.” He snatched the shoes in one hand and swept out of the room.
--
With Lord Sherlock haring off after his own leads, just like old times, Lestrade set out to do the boring bits, as “Charles Butler” had always called them. He couldn’t deduce other slaves’ life stories from their clothing, but he could ask his contacts for information about possible suspects.
“I know all the housekeepers, every last one,” Mrs. Hudson reported. “We get a bit of turnover: girl doesn’t work out, a new one comes in to train, or the like.”
“Any of the new ones seem unusual?” Lestrade asked.
“Well, one girl’s a vegetarian, but other than that they’re all right as rain.”
The story was the same in the kitchen.
“We had half a dozen slaves in for temporary kitchen help,” Mrs. Turner told him. “All gone now.”
“Did any of them wander off during the evening?”
“Couldn’t have done. They were chained to the stove.” At Lestrade’s dark look, Mrs. Turner chuckled. “Figuratively, love.”
Despite the chilly drizzle, Lestrade tramped to the outbuildings to question his old football chums.
“No, we’re a regular gang,” Liam said. “No one new in the past year.” He rubbed a rag against the bonnet of a black Mercedes much harder than necessary. “Though we just got news Rohan and Colin are gettin’ sold. It isn’t right, if you ask me.”
“No, it’s isn’t.” Lestrade looked out from the garage across the gardens to where the house’s stark outline stood against the darkening sky. He remembered thinking, when he’d first seen the manor’s imposing facade, that he could never be at ease in a place like this. His footballer friends had seemed so comfortable here, and it wouldn’t be the same without them. Lestrade found it difficult to imagine that soon the place he’d come to love would no longer be his home.
When Lestrade sought out Lord Sherlock to report his meagre findings, the under-butler pointed him in the direction of the drawing room. He found Lord Sherlock staring out the window while Lord Wilkes sipped red wine and carried on a monologue at top volume. A polite clearing of Lestrade’s throat went unnoticed.
“You never did have much feeling, you did you?” Wilkes asked with a sweep of his arm. “Well, I went to see him in hospital this morning. He seems to be recovering well, thanks for your concern. He’s got that boy your brother sold him to keep him company while he mends. More than you’ve got, eh?”
Wilkes staggered upright and went to sling an arm around Lord Sherlock, who curled his lip, but didn’t pull away. “At least they’ve got him under guard, in case your missing slave comes back to finish the job.” Wilkes jabbed an elbow at Lord Sherlock. “I knew your pet could shoot, but I didn’t expect him to turn on his masters.”
“He only has one master.” Lord Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes in the reflection in the window, and nodded.
“Technically, I suppose. Listen.” Wilkes patted his shoulder. “If you want him brought in, I know a great firm that does runaway recovery. You can specify if you want him alive, but a violent one like Watson, you may as well not bother.”
“Recovery,” Lord Sherlock said slowly. “They specialize in catching runaways.”
“They even work with the insurance agencies, so ensure you recover the full worth, even if the slave is damaged or destroyed in the process.” Wilkes drifted back to his chair and considered his empty wine glass. “They do a good business.”
“Slave insurance.”
“You do have insurance, don’t you?” Wilkes grinned up at Lord Sherlock. “New owner and all, I’d have thought you’d take care of something like that.”
Lord Sherlock turned on his heel. He swept past Lestrade and out of the room.
“Of all the...” Wilkes muttered, before catching sight of Lestrade. “Hey there! Where’ve you lot been? I’m bloody parched!”
“Pardon me, sir.” Lestrade sketched a bow towards Wilkes before dashing out. He caught sight of Lord Sherlock’s jacket sweeping around the banister in the front hall, and charged up the stairs after him. “Lord Sherlock. Sir!” He spotted his quarry in the second storey hallway, though he had to walk fast to catch up.
“I should have seen it before,” Lord Sherlock said over his shoulder as Lestrade approached, but he didn’t slow his pace. “I should have known.”
“Sir, please tell me you aren’t running off to look into John’s insurance value.”
“I need you to look into an insurance claim. 1989. The slave drowned here, in the lake on the estate, though he wasn’t owned by my family. The boy’s name was Carl Powers.” Lord Sherlock swirled to a stop in front of the door at the end of the hall. “I want all the details from the scene, anything in the record that seems unusual.”
“Right, okay, but what does this have to do with the case?” Lestrade asked.
“The shoes, Lestrade! Now do it.” Lord Sherlock swept into the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving Lestrade to follow orders.
--
[On to Part Two]