Sherlock Fic: The Word That You Hear Is Not Mine (5/5+Epilogue)
The Word That You Hear is not Mine, Part 5 (Sherlock BBC; Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Lestrade)
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Part Five
Lestrade watched John pick up his pint, raise it halfway, and set it back down for the third time in a row. He hid a smile behind his lager and waited. John would make his point in his own time.
At last, John shook his head, took a healthy swallow of his beer, and looked at Lestrade. “I guess that’s all there is to tell. Does this make me a complete idiot?”
“Well…” Lestrade considered what he knew of both men in light of John’s recounting of recent events. “Lord Sherlock thinks everyone’s an idiot, so I don’t see how you could be an exception.”
“That makes me feel ever so much better, thanks.”
“I’ve known Lord Sherlock a long time. Before I even know he was nobility, in fact.” Lestrade compared the manic young man he’d once met to the lord who’d broken into his room last week and chalked up a surprising number of differences. “He acts differently around you. He tries. I’ve never seen him go to that trouble for anyone.”
“Do you think he really gets that I’m not…“ John gestured vaguely to his person, or maybe to his neck. “Not his property anymore?”
Lestrade settled back in his seat and considered the man before him. He couldn’t really know what Lord Sherlock was thinking-no one could-but Lestrade would have been shocked if he had any tricks John Watson couldn’t handle. “If anyone’s capable of reminding him, it’s you.”
“So you’re not going to try to talk me out of this.”
“Strangely, no. I’m not.” Lestrade raised his class and clinked it against John’s. “You have my blessing.”
“Well, that’s me sorted.” John laughed and took another swig. “Are we going to move on to your love life, then?”
“Lord.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m going to need at least one more before I’m prepared for that conversation.”
John’s laughter died away. “Bad, is it?”
It was Lestrade’s turn to pick up his pint and set it down again, un-tasted. “John, a slave doesn’t have a love life. He has a duty. And I’ve done that. Haven’t I?”
“Listen-“ John’s eyes flicked past Lestrade to catch on something in the pub. Instantly his back straightened and he braced himself against the table. “Incoming, watch out.”
Lestrade turned, expecting, perhaps, some rowdy patrons who took exception to a slave sitting at a table with a free citizen, and instead saw Lord Sherlock barrelling towards them.
“You’re early,” John greeted him. “How did you know where-“
“Jasper mentioned it. And that’s not cheating, that’s listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people.” He rounded on Lestrade. “Are you trying to talk John out of engaging in a relationship with me?”
“Sherlock, let him be,” John said warningly.
“If he is, John, he’s hardly one to be giving romantic advice.” Lord Sherlock said over his shoulder, before returning his glare to Lestrade. “Look at the state of your relationship.”
“Oi, Sherlock.” John hooked his hand around Lord Sherlock’s elbow, but was immediately shrugged off.
“Misery loves company, is that it? You’re hoping John will end up as miserable and pathetic as you.”
“Sherlock!” The pointed command in John’s voice made Lord Sherlock turn. John’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a thin, flat line.
Lord Sherlock’s eyes slid away: to the floor, the far wall, and briefly to Lestrade before returning to John. “Not good?”
“Bit not good, yeah.” John looked pointedly from Lord Sherlock to Lestrade.
Lord Sherlock sighed. He crowded John over one place and commandeered his chair. With a quick glance at John, Lord Sherlock propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “Lestrade. As you may know, my brother is an idiot.”
“Funny,” Lestrade snorted. “I’ve heard him say the same about you.”
“Listen!” Lord Sherlock slapped his palm against the table, jarring the drinks and earning annoyed looks from the other punters. “You’re a detective, of a sort. For God’s sake, will you see what’s right in front of you? Mycroft has not acquired a personal slave to take up your duties. This fact has not gone unremarked upon in the social circles in which my brother runs. Anthea has been filling in at functions for which an attendant is required. She complains about it endlessly via text.”
“She texts you?” Lestrade asked. He’d long suspected that not all of those constant messages could be to Lord Mycroft.
“We correspond. Have since the Milverton case. Mycroft has made every accommodation he can think of to win back your affection, and if you so much as hinted at any other condition, he’d send his minions to take care of it before you were done speaking. It’s clear my brother has no intention of replacing you. If you don’t put him out of his misery, he’ll go on stoically subsisting until he eats himself to death or has a mental breakdown. My money’s on the former. If there’s anything he could do to win you back, I suggest you name it. If there’s nothing, say so, and we can all move on with our lives. Now, if that’s worked out your issues, I presume you have no objections to my taking charge of John.” He stood and flung his scarf over his shoulder. “Good evening.”
John settled back in his seat and looked up at Lord Sherlock. “Have you asked if John has any objections to your taking charge of John?”
Lord Sherlock set his jaw mulishly and pushed his words out through gritted teeth. “May we go to dinner now, please?”
“Yes, alright. Bye, Greg.” John managed, mostly, to hide the smile in his words. Sherlock swept out of the pub as John began pulling on his jacket. When John stood, he clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Think about what he said, yeah? He’s a tosser, but he may be right.” John followed after Lord Sherlock.
Lestrade nursed his pint for another half hour before making his way home through the chilly streets. He found Jasper in the library with a book and a brandy.
“Did you enjoy your outing?” Jasper asked without looking up.
“I think I’ll go out tomorrow.” Lestrade leaned against the doorframe, aiming for casual. “Run some of those errands on the house list.”
“Oh?” Jasper peered over the top of his spectacles.
“Leave early. Probably come back after tea.”
“I see.” Jasper wore a smile as he turned the page of his book. “Goodnight, Gregory.”
--
JOHN
John stopped at the corner and folded his arms. “You already deduced the best Chinese restaurant in the neighbourhood, and my favourite dish, and what my fortune cookie said, though I still say that was a lucky guess. You don’t need to deduce where I live.”
“It’s simple. The work’s half done already.” Sherlock tried to bound ahead again, but John caught his arm.
“Sherlock, I know you’re brilliant. There’s no need to keep showing off.”
“Fine.” Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and raised his chin. “Then lead on.” He sulked during the short walk to the building, the journey up the lift, and the trudge down the corridor to John’s door.
John’s fumbling with his keys pulled an aggrieved sigh out of Sherlock. John turned to find him staring off down the corridor, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t mean showing off.”
“Yes, you did.” Sherlock snatched the keys out of John’s hand. “It’s this one.”
“Thanks.” John took his key back, opened the door, and motioned Sherlock inside. “I just meant you don’t have to try so hard.”
Sherlock remained stubbornly planted in the corridor. “And yet, I must somehow make myself sufficiently appealing to compel you to want to be with me, and if I fall short of that standard you’ll choose someone else.”
“That’s not exactly…” When John reviewed their conversations in his head, he had to concede Sherlock’s point that it sounded that way. “It’s not a contest.”
“Hm.” Sherlock swept into the room. As John flicked on the light, he was treated to a replay of all the anxiety that had cropped up the first time Sherlock saw John’s room in the slave quarters. If Sherlock could deduce John’s life story from a setting with so little personal input, what could he read from this, John’s chosen lodging as a free man?
Sherlock turned in a slow circle, his eyes darting from point to point, doubtlessly cataloguing clues and observations. He bent over John’s heater, poked at a stain on the wall, and sniffed the curtains. When he whirled around and caught sight of John, his face fell. “Well. It’s a… nice place.”
John watched him swallow his deductions, those perfectly formed manifestations of the unfathomable power of Sherlock’s brain, and cursed himself for a fool. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean-“
“It’s the only thing I knew for certain you liked. Being brilliant.”
“Then carry on. Come on, I’ll take your coat.” John shrugged off his own jacket, hung it on the door of the wardrobe, and tossed Sherlock’s over it. He turned to find Sherlock looming well inside the bubble of John’s personal space, eyes scanning over him incessantly.
“What?” John asked.
“I didn’t get to look at you properly last night. I haven’t had a chance since…”
“Since Moriarty.”
“Let me look.” Sherlock crowded John up against the door, but waited for his nod to grab at John’s jumper and pull it over his head.
Sherlock divested John of his clothes with alarming efficiency. There was nothing coy or teasing in the act, but John found himself half hard from the pleasure of watching Sherlock in single-minded pursuit of a goal and, in fact, of being that goal.
As soon as John stood bare before him, Sherlock grasped John’s head in both hands, turning it this way and that. John got the uncomfortable feeling Sherlock was examining not his face, but his skull. When Sherlock thumbed over the right of the parietal bone, he frowned. “The report said one of the soldiers struck you with the butt of a rifle.”
“It’s healed.”
“Hm.” Sherlock released John’s head gently before dragging his hands down John’s chest. He paused to squeeze a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes roving over John’s body to assess any response. It wasn’t until Sherlock darted down to fix his teeth on the nipple and bite down that he won a surprised groan from John. He let up the pressure and gave a decisive nod. “Interesting.”
His hands continued their downward trajectory, spreading over John’s hips. Sherlock dropped to a crouch, and John prepared himself for the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth, but instead, Sherlock pressed his face to the crease of John’s thigh and breathed in deeply. Scenting him. John’s cock twitched against his belly and he slumped back against the door. Sherlock looked up with a pleased grin splashed across his face. “Noted.”
Sherlock’s hands dragged along the outside of John’s thighs, stopping briefly to confirm a ticklish bit at the back of John’s left knee. Then he lifted John’s right leg and turned it slightly.
“What’s this?” Sherlock traced his finger along the nearly invisible line of a fading cut on John’s calf.
“From a knife.”
The look in Sherlock’s eyes sharpened from interest to anger. “Moriarty did this?”
“Yeah.”
Sherlock set his teeth against John’s calf and bit down, hard enough to send frissons of pain jolting along John’s nerves, but not hard enough to break the skin. John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides even as Sherlock’s grip tightened on his leg. Then the pain disappeared. John felt his cock throbbing, fully hard now, and, to John’s surprise, almost ready to be set off.
Sherlock smoothed his tongue over the cut, set John’s leg back down, then slid his hands down to encircle John’s ankles. “He won’t touch you again. You’re mine.”
“Sherlock.” John tried to reach for him, but Sherlock pressed him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest.
“No, stay. I want to do this without any distractions.” Sherlock brushed his cheek against the inside of John’s thigh. “I want to take my time with you.”
John tried once more to move and was shoved back. “Stay, I said.”
“Sherlock.” John put the snap of command into his voice.
Sherlock snatched his hands back as if he’d been burned. “I’m sorry.” He jerked away so quickly that he tumbled back on his arse. “I didn’t anticipate-“
“Sherlock, it’s fine.” John dropped to a crouch and caught Sherlock by the shoulders, ducking until he could meet his eyes. “That was good, alright? I didn’t want to finish too soon. But I need to know that you’re going to stop if I ask you to.”
“Yes.” Sherlock collected himself from his untidy sprawl. “The object is for you to enjoy yourself, isn’t it?”
“For both of us to enjoy ourselves, I hope.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock’s tense form. “Come on. I want your clothes off.”
If Sherlock had undressed John quickly, he set a new land speed record taking off his own clothes, seemingly oblivious to John’s rapt attention as more of his naked skin came into view. Sherlock was stood folding his jacket when John lost the ability to keep his hands off for a moment longer.
He tucked his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed his face to the back of his neck. “I’ve got you all to myself.”
“You have had for weeks,” Sherlock said as he dropped his clothes on the chair.
“This is different. No Empire holding my contract. No household rules. No one to punish me. I can do whatever I like.”
“And what would you like?”
“On the bed, go on.” As Sherlock clambered onto the bed, John gathered supplies and put them on the bedside table, within easy reach. He stopped to admire the sight of Sherlock stretched out on his back, a long, pale line of temptation. “Put your hands on the headboard.”
“Are you going to tie me up?”
“No, you’d hate that.” John sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a challenge. Keep them there as long as you can.”
“Indefinitely.” Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. “Am I meant to keep them there all night? What could possibly prevent me from holding on, aside from boredom?”
“I suppose we’ll see.” John suppressed a grin as he patted Sherlock’s hip.
Sherlock grasped the slats of the headboard with a dramatic sigh.
John climbed into the narrow bed and knelt there, considering what to do first. “Now, do stop me if there’s anything you don’t like.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be certain to-ah!” Sherlock’s flippant commentary cut off in a gasp as John swallowed most of his length in one go. John allowed himself a pleased little chuckle, which reverberated through Sherlock, causing another gasp.
“It’s not fair,” Sherlock bleated, when he’d got his breath back. “You’ve had more practice.”
“How is this unfair?” John licked up Sherlock’s length and enjoyed the resultant shudder.
“If the disparity remains, it will take longer for me to surpass your skill level and impress you.”
John let go of the half-dozen things he might have taken issue with in that statement in favour of soothing Sherlock’s vexation with a kiss. “Well.” John drew back and worked Sherlock with his hand while he pretended to consider. “I’m willing to let you catch up. I can find some other way to amuse myself in the meantime.”
John grabbed a bottle from the bedside table and drizzled lube onto Sherlock cock as he stroked it, enough to dribble down the crease of his arse. John’s fingers chased after, and he pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s hole.
“That,” Sherlock rumbled. “Yes.”
John swiped his thumb through the trail of slick and pressed it in. Sherlock spread his legs wider. When John glanced up, he found Sherlock watching him raptly, and he felt a warm thrill at having captured Sherlock’s focus so completely. He’d do his best to keep it; he certainly had a few tricks in mind. John rubbed his thumb around the rim for a moment, testing the muscle: tight, but not tense. He pressed his thumb in deeper, then drew it out in one smooth motion. He did it again, raptly attentive as his thumb disappeared into Sherlock’s body. “Alright?”
Sherlock tightened his grip on the headboard and nodded. John removed his thumb and wet two more fingers to slide into Sherlock. After dipping inside, he pressed just the pads of his fingers to the outside of the hole and rubbed until Sherlock’s breath became uneven and ragged. Then John dipped back inside to work in and out, alternately sliding and stretching. He looked up to take stock of Sherlock’s responses: the flush that climbed up his cheeks, his breath gone shallow in his chest, his knuckles white where he gripped the headboard, his eyes screwed shut. John stopped. “Sherlock, are you in pain?”
Sherlock shook his head, a perfunctory, abbreviated movement.
“You’re never this quiet. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m listing the elements chronologically by the birth date of the scientist who discovered them.”
“You…” John blinked. “What?”
“I got the idea when you had a similar problem earlier, not wanting to climax too soon. If I watch you… do that, my ability to participate will shortly be at an end. Therefore, I’m attempting to occupy my attention with rearranging the periodic table.”
“I…” John shook his head. “It’s not that I can’t appreciate the problem you’re facing, but I’m a little insulted you’re not even paying attention.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. His gaze slid from John’s face to his hand before he dragged it up again.
“We can stop if you like,” John offered. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and rested his hand against Sherlock’s thigh. “Take a break. It’s not a race.”
“Continue.” Sherlock hooked one bony foot around John’s back and shoved him forward.
“It’s just, I thought you’d want to record this.” John ghosted his hands across Sherlock’s thighs, then down to smooth over the round swell of his arse. “Keep it in that hard drive of yours so you can replay it.” He brushed the back of his knuckles against Sherlock’s sac, then down slowly to tease against his hole. “Revisit the memory when you’re bored. Or frustrated.”
Sherlock tried to push his hips down against John’s hand, to get more friction, but John moved with him, not wanting to be rushed.
“John,” he growled.
“There’s a benefit to a slow build, you know.” John hooked a hand under Sherlock’s knee and pushed his leg up, the easier to drizzle slick directly against Sherlock’s hole. He rubbed two fingers against Sherlock’s opening, delving in just the tip of one finger before withdrawing again. “Even when I’m wanking, I like a bit of a warm up before I get to down to business.”
“John,” Sherlock snapped. “If you insist on describing your masturbation habits, I will be forced to go back to the periodic table.”
“You like hearing about me getting myself off,” John realized. His own cock gave an interested twitch when he considered it. “Would you like to watch, sometime?”
“John!” Sherlock pulled at the headboard, rattling it against the wall.
“Alright! Sherlock.” John set down Sherlock’s leg and smoothed a hand down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall. “Sherlock. Breathe. That’s it. Now wiggle your toes.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
The annoyance of an unrelated physical action was enough to prevent Sherlock from climaxing immediately when John pressed three slick fingers into Sherlock and curled them expertly to make him shout and slam his head back onto the pillow.
“Maybe my memory’s not so good as yours, but I still plan on filing tonight away for future use. The sounds you make…” John withdrew his fingers and worked them in again, just to drag another wordless cry out of Sherlock.
“Please,” Sherlock gasped. “Go on. I can take it.”
“Patience-“
“Is for another day, John. I think you’ll agree I have been sufficiently patient tonight.” Sherlock tried to shove back against John’s hand, and once more was thwarted. He lay back and huffed in frustration. “I am not made of glass. I may not have your wealth of experience, but I’m not entirely unpractised.”
“Alright.” John paused in his ministrations. “When you said-“
“Yes, I haven’t made an extensive study of this particular act, but I’ve engaged in similar… That is to say-“
“Yes, I don’t need a diagram.”
“As I said, I was told it wasn’t…” Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the ceiling. “Many slaves consider this… excessively intimate.”
“Sherlock.” John reached his free hand up to capture Sherlock’s chin and make him meet his eyes. “It’s a bit too late for me to be afraid of excessive intimacy. And I. Am not. A slave.”
“I know that, John.” Sherlock abandoned his grip on the headboard to lay his hand against John’s cheek. “I do know that.” He dragged John up to pull him into a kiss. While somehow managing to keep his mouth affixed to John’s, Sherlock poured lube into his hand and grasped John’s cock to slick it. He threw one leg around John to pull him snug against Sherlock’s body. “Now get on with it.”
Sherlock tilted his hips up and guided John unerringly. John had only to shift forward and slide in. He held onto Sherlock’s arms and watched the play of Sherlock’s expression from overwhelmed to determined to impatient.
Before he could issue demands for more, John reached between them to palm Sherlock’s cock. “You are amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to be impressed by, with you around.”
“Show me.”
John eased in further, slowly, looking for any sign of reluctance Sherlock might be too proud to voice, but he found only frantic arousal as Sherlock rolled up against him. “Wait,” John warned. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes!”
“Are you certain?”
“I told you yes.” Sherlock writhed under him with no leverage either to thrust into John’s hand or push further onto his cock. “John Watson, if you do not immediately-“ His eyes widened. “You do want revenge! You’re doing this to torture me!”
“I would never-“ John laughed.
Then he was unceremoniously shoved onto his back. In a trice Sherlock had his arms pinned to his sides and was sitting astride him. “That’s better.”
Sherlock rose up on his knees and guided John back inside him. He sank down in one smooth motion, and let out a sigh of relief when he had taken it all. “Much better.” He leaned over John, drawing a gasp out of him. “Now, tell me, how do you like it?”
“Any way… is not going to last… very long.”
Sherlock began to rock against John, lifting up a bit more each time, then sliding down to the hilt. “I told you I wanted to know all your secrets. Every thing you like. Every kind of sound you make during climax. Every expression on your face when you’re inside me. I want to learn every way there is to bring you pleasure.”
“Sherlock!” John’s hands clenched on Sherlock’s hips, and he thrust up off the bed, fucking into Sherlock with desperate strength as he reached his end. Sherlock felt solid in his hands, an immovable force that would move for John, if he asked it. The heady freedom of that power burned through John’s blood, wringing out every muscle and pouring out all his energy. He collapsed against the bed and lay panting helplessly.
Sherlock braced himself over John with one hand while the other sped over his cock. “Of course I want to record this. Every part of you you’ll let me have, I will take. Let me… Let me…” His head snapped back as he gasped for air.
John folded his hand over Sherlock’s stroking with him as his body came back under conscious control. “That’s it. That’s beautiful, Sherlock. Finish it.”
Sherlock squirmed on John’s cock as he screamed out his climax. That long, pale body arched back impossibly as he shot stripes of come against John’s chest, messy and uncontrolled as John had never seen him. He collapsed on top of John, panting.
From next door came a pounding on the wall, and a muffled shout of, “Oi! Keep it down!”
“Piss off!” Sherlock shouted back, though his authority was somewhat undermined by the raspy rattle of his voice. He rolled off John and flopped onto the little remaining empty space on the bed.
“Sherlock, those are my neighbours,” John panted. “I do have to look these people in the eye tomorrow.”
Sherlock tilted his head just enough to display a raised eyebrow. “Do you like them more than me?”
“God no.” John’s nascent laughter bubbled over then, and Sherlock joined in until they wore themselves out and lay regaining their breath.
Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand to stare down at John. “In any event, it is your fault. You deliberately set out to make me scream.”
John couldn’t resist darting up to plant a kiss against Sherlock’s smirk. “And I don’t regret it.”
--
Lestrade picked up a cup of tea from the café at the end of the road. His breath turned to vapour in the chilly morning air, making a hot beverage a necessity. Then, too, he needed something to do with his hands to keep from checking the time every minute or two. He’d chosen a stakeout position a cautious distance away, at the turning of the street. Though it wasn’t, strictly speaking, proper, he’d wrapped his scarf around his neck to obscure his collar. The neighbours were less likely to confront him if they thought him a free man, and he might have to wait here a long while.
Lord Mycroft’s car didn’t look much different from any other on a street like this, but Lestrade recognized Wood when she stepped out and opened the kerb-side door. Upon getting out of the car, Lord Mycroft moved his gaze around the street, taking in his surroundings. Lestrade ducked around the corner, just to be safe. When he dared to look again, Lord Mycroft had disappeared inside the house, and Wood leant against the bonnet, lighting a cigarette.
She nodded to him when he approached the house. “Smoke?” she held out her pack.
“No, I’ve given up.”
“Suit yourself.” She tucked the pack into her coat pocket.
Lestrade hung his jacket in the foyer, next to Lord Mycroft’s handsome wool herringbone. He padded down the corridor, straining his ears for voices, and nearly ran into Kieran holding a tea tray.
“I’ll take that, lad,” Lestrade said. Kieran gave him a cautious smile and scurried away. Lestrade drew in a slow breath, let it out, then pushed through the door into the sitting room.
Lord Mycroft sat ensconced in an armchair opposite Jasper, who caught sight of Lestrade first and raised an eyebrow. In response, Lord Mycroft stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly to take in the sight of Lestrade. “Gregory. I understood you’d be out.”
“Yes, I know.” No one said anything else for several seconds. At last, Lestrade set the tray on the sideboard. “If I may, you’re looking fit, sir.” Not exactly true. Lord Mycroft looked thin, starving. He might have said wasting. “Would you like some tea?”
“I should be going.” Lord Mycroft rose from his chair and started towards the door. “There’s some important business in Whitehall that-“
“Please, sir.” Lestrade stepped neatly in front of him, head bowed. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone, if I may.”
“I’ll be going.” Jasper pushed to his feet, shuffled out of the room, and pulled the door firmly closed behind him.
Lord Mycroft cleared his throat and retreated to his chair. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”
Lestrade poured a cup, added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred. The clinking of the spoon against the china sounded strikingly loud in the stillness of the room. Lestrade brought the cup and saucer to Lord Mycroft’s chair, slid to his knees with practiced ease, and offered it up. Lord Mycroft took it gingerly from Lestrade and held it in his lap without drinking. Lestrade settled his hands on his thighs and debated how to begin, now that he had Lord Mycroft here, alone. For so long he’d known how to make himself heard with his master; he’d known his place in the household. Now, every word seemed fraught, every motion heavy with import.
“Is your position here satisfactory?” Lord Mycroft asked.
“The work is interesting, sir. Jasper’s very good at what he does.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t arrange this, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lestrade said quickly. If this went south, he didn’t want Jasper to face the consequences.
“No. I’m very aware of your independent bent.”
Lestrade should have known his master would see through him. He shifted closer and raised his head enough to check Lord Mycroft’s reactions unobtrusively. “Sir. May I be permitted to ask you a question?”
“Yes.” He sat up straighter in his chair.
“Why did you set yourself up to take the blame for the murder of the Chinese Ambassador? Why were you willing to give up your position?”
Lord Mycroft set his tea on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap. “We’ve been over this, Gregory.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I’m having trouble grasping the concept.”
Lord Mycroft turned his face away, towards the window. “I told you, I am not a coward.”
“No, I’m certain of that, sir.”
“Then what else is there to say?”
“Sir, did your decision…” Summoning his courage, Lestrade laid his hand on Lord Mycroft’s knee. “Did it have something to do with me?”
Lord Mycroft turned back slowly and met Lestrade’s questioning gaze. “I believe you know the answer to that.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Well, if that’s all.” Lord Mycroft rose quickly, smoothed down his tie, and strode towards the door. “I’m afraid I must-“
“Lord Mycroft. Sir,” Lestrade called.
Lord Mycroft kept walking.
“Mycroft.”
He halted with his hand on the doorknob.
Lestrade braved the few steps between them and laid his hands against Mycroft’s back. He could feel the heat of his master’s body through his jacket. “I’d like to serve you again.”
“You’re serving me here.”
“As your personal slave.” Lestrade felt Mycroft shudder under his hands.
“I trust you understand that the possibility of your return is more than appealing to me.” Mycroft turned to face Lestrade once more. “However, the reasons for your decision to resign remain.”
“Yes.” Lestrade bowed his head. “I’ve had time to think about the situation. I have one request to make that would allow me to return to my post in good conscience.”
A breath swelled in Mycroft’s chest, then he seemed to catch himself, and frowned. “I cannot do for you what I did for John. You must understand, the Imperial justice system- “
“I understand. I know the law.”
“I’ll do what I can to give you independence. I can give you papers to function as my agent. You could live independently, work. Meet whom you liked. I wouldn’t interfere. You needn’t even wear a collar.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“Of course.” Mycroft swept past Lestrade to pace the length of the room. “You want true freedom, not the illusion. In time, influence correctly applied might enable me to--”
“No. No, Mycroft.” Lestrade stepped in front of Mycroft to stop him, and this time made so bold as to take his hands. “If you care about me, if you really do-“
“I do,” Mycroft broke in. “I’m willing to provide any proof you require.”
“Then you have to accept that what I am in the world isn’t going away.” Lestrade set his feet and braced himself to say what was necessary. “I believe that you care about me beyond what I think is entirely justified. I don’t need any more evidence of that. But I’m not alone in enduring the kind of treatment that upsets you. If I were free, somehow, you wouldn’t see it anymore. Not the way you do now. So that’s my condition for coming back. You won’t pull anything fancy to have me freed; you have to live with me in this station, as I am.”
“I….” Mycroft looked pale. He opened his mouth only to shut it again.
“Is that an acceptable request, sir?”
“Ask something else, instead.” His voice had barely enough power behind it to reach Lestrade’s ears. “Please.”
“I can’t. This is the one thing I can’t live with, Mycroft.” He’d had long enough to consider what he wanted to understand that nothing else could fix what lay between them. “No one else can be hurt because of me. Because you’re not content with the way things stand between us.”
“I have never been discontent with you.” Mycroft closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, his penetrating gaze, the one that saw more than it should, focused on Lestrade. “I accept your condition.”
“I need your word.”
“Then you have it.”
“Promise me,” Lestrade said, drifting closer.
“I promise.”
“Once more.”
“I swear, Gregory.” Mycroft took hold of Lestrade’s shoulders and drew him near. “I’ll do as you ask.”
“Then it’s settled.” Lestrade leaned in, almost close enough to touch. “May I…?”
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed.
Lestrade kissed him. His body remembered this well, and relaxed into Mycroft’s familiar hold. The tension he’d been holding for weeks melted away as he leaned against the solid weight of his master. Mycroft’s hands slid up his arms and brushed Lestrade’s collar. Lestrade drew back quickly to find Mycroft looking down.
“It’s strange to see you without my collar.”
Lestrade rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “This one doesn’t fit me as well, anyway.” He frowned, realizing he didn’t know what had happened to his proper collar. “Is it…?”
“It’s in my office at home.” A hint of a blush rose in Mycroft’s cheeks. “I confess… I’ve taken to keeping it near while I work. I find it… consoling.”
“Then take me home.” Lestrade delivered one more brief kiss. “Please.”
Mycroft nodded. He smoothed his hands down his jacket, and Lestrade reached up to straighten his tie, which had been pushed askew. Mycroft pulled open the door and strode out, composed and straight-backed once more. Lestrade followed the man he had chosen.
--
[Epilogue coming soon]
Part One is here (mind the warnings).
Or check out the master post for the In My Master's House series.
Part Five
Lestrade watched John pick up his pint, raise it halfway, and set it back down for the third time in a row. He hid a smile behind his lager and waited. John would make his point in his own time.
At last, John shook his head, took a healthy swallow of his beer, and looked at Lestrade. “I guess that’s all there is to tell. Does this make me a complete idiot?”
“Well…” Lestrade considered what he knew of both men in light of John’s recounting of recent events. “Lord Sherlock thinks everyone’s an idiot, so I don’t see how you could be an exception.”
“That makes me feel ever so much better, thanks.”
“I’ve known Lord Sherlock a long time. Before I even know he was nobility, in fact.” Lestrade compared the manic young man he’d once met to the lord who’d broken into his room last week and chalked up a surprising number of differences. “He acts differently around you. He tries. I’ve never seen him go to that trouble for anyone.”
“Do you think he really gets that I’m not…“ John gestured vaguely to his person, or maybe to his neck. “Not his property anymore?”
Lestrade settled back in his seat and considered the man before him. He couldn’t really know what Lord Sherlock was thinking-no one could-but Lestrade would have been shocked if he had any tricks John Watson couldn’t handle. “If anyone’s capable of reminding him, it’s you.”
“So you’re not going to try to talk me out of this.”
“Strangely, no. I’m not.” Lestrade raised his class and clinked it against John’s. “You have my blessing.”
“Well, that’s me sorted.” John laughed and took another swig. “Are we going to move on to your love life, then?”
“Lord.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m going to need at least one more before I’m prepared for that conversation.”
John’s laughter died away. “Bad, is it?”
It was Lestrade’s turn to pick up his pint and set it down again, un-tasted. “John, a slave doesn’t have a love life. He has a duty. And I’ve done that. Haven’t I?”
“Listen-“ John’s eyes flicked past Lestrade to catch on something in the pub. Instantly his back straightened and he braced himself against the table. “Incoming, watch out.”
Lestrade turned, expecting, perhaps, some rowdy patrons who took exception to a slave sitting at a table with a free citizen, and instead saw Lord Sherlock barrelling towards them.
“You’re early,” John greeted him. “How did you know where-“
“Jasper mentioned it. And that’s not cheating, that’s listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people.” He rounded on Lestrade. “Are you trying to talk John out of engaging in a relationship with me?”
“Sherlock, let him be,” John said warningly.
“If he is, John, he’s hardly one to be giving romantic advice.” Lord Sherlock said over his shoulder, before returning his glare to Lestrade. “Look at the state of your relationship.”
“Oi, Sherlock.” John hooked his hand around Lord Sherlock’s elbow, but was immediately shrugged off.
“Misery loves company, is that it? You’re hoping John will end up as miserable and pathetic as you.”
“Sherlock!” The pointed command in John’s voice made Lord Sherlock turn. John’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a thin, flat line.
Lord Sherlock’s eyes slid away: to the floor, the far wall, and briefly to Lestrade before returning to John. “Not good?”
“Bit not good, yeah.” John looked pointedly from Lord Sherlock to Lestrade.
Lord Sherlock sighed. He crowded John over one place and commandeered his chair. With a quick glance at John, Lord Sherlock propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “Lestrade. As you may know, my brother is an idiot.”
“Funny,” Lestrade snorted. “I’ve heard him say the same about you.”
“Listen!” Lord Sherlock slapped his palm against the table, jarring the drinks and earning annoyed looks from the other punters. “You’re a detective, of a sort. For God’s sake, will you see what’s right in front of you? Mycroft has not acquired a personal slave to take up your duties. This fact has not gone unremarked upon in the social circles in which my brother runs. Anthea has been filling in at functions for which an attendant is required. She complains about it endlessly via text.”
“She texts you?” Lestrade asked. He’d long suspected that not all of those constant messages could be to Lord Mycroft.
“We correspond. Have since the Milverton case. Mycroft has made every accommodation he can think of to win back your affection, and if you so much as hinted at any other condition, he’d send his minions to take care of it before you were done speaking. It’s clear my brother has no intention of replacing you. If you don’t put him out of his misery, he’ll go on stoically subsisting until he eats himself to death or has a mental breakdown. My money’s on the former. If there’s anything he could do to win you back, I suggest you name it. If there’s nothing, say so, and we can all move on with our lives. Now, if that’s worked out your issues, I presume you have no objections to my taking charge of John.” He stood and flung his scarf over his shoulder. “Good evening.”
John settled back in his seat and looked up at Lord Sherlock. “Have you asked if John has any objections to your taking charge of John?”
Lord Sherlock set his jaw mulishly and pushed his words out through gritted teeth. “May we go to dinner now, please?”
“Yes, alright. Bye, Greg.” John managed, mostly, to hide the smile in his words. Sherlock swept out of the pub as John began pulling on his jacket. When John stood, he clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Think about what he said, yeah? He’s a tosser, but he may be right.” John followed after Lord Sherlock.
Lestrade nursed his pint for another half hour before making his way home through the chilly streets. He found Jasper in the library with a book and a brandy.
“Did you enjoy your outing?” Jasper asked without looking up.
“I think I’ll go out tomorrow.” Lestrade leaned against the doorframe, aiming for casual. “Run some of those errands on the house list.”
“Oh?” Jasper peered over the top of his spectacles.
“Leave early. Probably come back after tea.”
“I see.” Jasper wore a smile as he turned the page of his book. “Goodnight, Gregory.”
--
JOHN
John stopped at the corner and folded his arms. “You already deduced the best Chinese restaurant in the neighbourhood, and my favourite dish, and what my fortune cookie said, though I still say that was a lucky guess. You don’t need to deduce where I live.”
“It’s simple. The work’s half done already.” Sherlock tried to bound ahead again, but John caught his arm.
“Sherlock, I know you’re brilliant. There’s no need to keep showing off.”
“Fine.” Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and raised his chin. “Then lead on.” He sulked during the short walk to the building, the journey up the lift, and the trudge down the corridor to John’s door.
John’s fumbling with his keys pulled an aggrieved sigh out of Sherlock. John turned to find him staring off down the corridor, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t mean showing off.”
“Yes, you did.” Sherlock snatched the keys out of John’s hand. “It’s this one.”
“Thanks.” John took his key back, opened the door, and motioned Sherlock inside. “I just meant you don’t have to try so hard.”
Sherlock remained stubbornly planted in the corridor. “And yet, I must somehow make myself sufficiently appealing to compel you to want to be with me, and if I fall short of that standard you’ll choose someone else.”
“That’s not exactly…” When John reviewed their conversations in his head, he had to concede Sherlock’s point that it sounded that way. “It’s not a contest.”
“Hm.” Sherlock swept into the room. As John flicked on the light, he was treated to a replay of all the anxiety that had cropped up the first time Sherlock saw John’s room in the slave quarters. If Sherlock could deduce John’s life story from a setting with so little personal input, what could he read from this, John’s chosen lodging as a free man?
Sherlock turned in a slow circle, his eyes darting from point to point, doubtlessly cataloguing clues and observations. He bent over John’s heater, poked at a stain on the wall, and sniffed the curtains. When he whirled around and caught sight of John, his face fell. “Well. It’s a… nice place.”
John watched him swallow his deductions, those perfectly formed manifestations of the unfathomable power of Sherlock’s brain, and cursed himself for a fool. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean-“
“It’s the only thing I knew for certain you liked. Being brilliant.”
“Then carry on. Come on, I’ll take your coat.” John shrugged off his own jacket, hung it on the door of the wardrobe, and tossed Sherlock’s over it. He turned to find Sherlock looming well inside the bubble of John’s personal space, eyes scanning over him incessantly.
“What?” John asked.
“I didn’t get to look at you properly last night. I haven’t had a chance since…”
“Since Moriarty.”
“Let me look.” Sherlock crowded John up against the door, but waited for his nod to grab at John’s jumper and pull it over his head.
Sherlock divested John of his clothes with alarming efficiency. There was nothing coy or teasing in the act, but John found himself half hard from the pleasure of watching Sherlock in single-minded pursuit of a goal and, in fact, of being that goal.
As soon as John stood bare before him, Sherlock grasped John’s head in both hands, turning it this way and that. John got the uncomfortable feeling Sherlock was examining not his face, but his skull. When Sherlock thumbed over the right of the parietal bone, he frowned. “The report said one of the soldiers struck you with the butt of a rifle.”
“It’s healed.”
“Hm.” Sherlock released John’s head gently before dragging his hands down John’s chest. He paused to squeeze a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes roving over John’s body to assess any response. It wasn’t until Sherlock darted down to fix his teeth on the nipple and bite down that he won a surprised groan from John. He let up the pressure and gave a decisive nod. “Interesting.”
His hands continued their downward trajectory, spreading over John’s hips. Sherlock dropped to a crouch, and John prepared himself for the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth, but instead, Sherlock pressed his face to the crease of John’s thigh and breathed in deeply. Scenting him. John’s cock twitched against his belly and he slumped back against the door. Sherlock looked up with a pleased grin splashed across his face. “Noted.”
Sherlock’s hands dragged along the outside of John’s thighs, stopping briefly to confirm a ticklish bit at the back of John’s left knee. Then he lifted John’s right leg and turned it slightly.
“What’s this?” Sherlock traced his finger along the nearly invisible line of a fading cut on John’s calf.
“From a knife.”
The look in Sherlock’s eyes sharpened from interest to anger. “Moriarty did this?”
“Yeah.”
Sherlock set his teeth against John’s calf and bit down, hard enough to send frissons of pain jolting along John’s nerves, but not hard enough to break the skin. John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides even as Sherlock’s grip tightened on his leg. Then the pain disappeared. John felt his cock throbbing, fully hard now, and, to John’s surprise, almost ready to be set off.
Sherlock smoothed his tongue over the cut, set John’s leg back down, then slid his hands down to encircle John’s ankles. “He won’t touch you again. You’re mine.”
“Sherlock.” John tried to reach for him, but Sherlock pressed him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest.
“No, stay. I want to do this without any distractions.” Sherlock brushed his cheek against the inside of John’s thigh. “I want to take my time with you.”
John tried once more to move and was shoved back. “Stay, I said.”
“Sherlock.” John put the snap of command into his voice.
Sherlock snatched his hands back as if he’d been burned. “I’m sorry.” He jerked away so quickly that he tumbled back on his arse. “I didn’t anticipate-“
“Sherlock, it’s fine.” John dropped to a crouch and caught Sherlock by the shoulders, ducking until he could meet his eyes. “That was good, alright? I didn’t want to finish too soon. But I need to know that you’re going to stop if I ask you to.”
“Yes.” Sherlock collected himself from his untidy sprawl. “The object is for you to enjoy yourself, isn’t it?”
“For both of us to enjoy ourselves, I hope.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock’s tense form. “Come on. I want your clothes off.”
If Sherlock had undressed John quickly, he set a new land speed record taking off his own clothes, seemingly oblivious to John’s rapt attention as more of his naked skin came into view. Sherlock was stood folding his jacket when John lost the ability to keep his hands off for a moment longer.
He tucked his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed his face to the back of his neck. “I’ve got you all to myself.”
“You have had for weeks,” Sherlock said as he dropped his clothes on the chair.
“This is different. No Empire holding my contract. No household rules. No one to punish me. I can do whatever I like.”
“And what would you like?”
“On the bed, go on.” As Sherlock clambered onto the bed, John gathered supplies and put them on the bedside table, within easy reach. He stopped to admire the sight of Sherlock stretched out on his back, a long, pale line of temptation. “Put your hands on the headboard.”
“Are you going to tie me up?”
“No, you’d hate that.” John sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a challenge. Keep them there as long as you can.”
“Indefinitely.” Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. “Am I meant to keep them there all night? What could possibly prevent me from holding on, aside from boredom?”
“I suppose we’ll see.” John suppressed a grin as he patted Sherlock’s hip.
Sherlock grasped the slats of the headboard with a dramatic sigh.
John climbed into the narrow bed and knelt there, considering what to do first. “Now, do stop me if there’s anything you don’t like.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be certain to-ah!” Sherlock’s flippant commentary cut off in a gasp as John swallowed most of his length in one go. John allowed himself a pleased little chuckle, which reverberated through Sherlock, causing another gasp.
“It’s not fair,” Sherlock bleated, when he’d got his breath back. “You’ve had more practice.”
“How is this unfair?” John licked up Sherlock’s length and enjoyed the resultant shudder.
“If the disparity remains, it will take longer for me to surpass your skill level and impress you.”
John let go of the half-dozen things he might have taken issue with in that statement in favour of soothing Sherlock’s vexation with a kiss. “Well.” John drew back and worked Sherlock with his hand while he pretended to consider. “I’m willing to let you catch up. I can find some other way to amuse myself in the meantime.”
John grabbed a bottle from the bedside table and drizzled lube onto Sherlock cock as he stroked it, enough to dribble down the crease of his arse. John’s fingers chased after, and he pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s hole.
“That,” Sherlock rumbled. “Yes.”
John swiped his thumb through the trail of slick and pressed it in. Sherlock spread his legs wider. When John glanced up, he found Sherlock watching him raptly, and he felt a warm thrill at having captured Sherlock’s focus so completely. He’d do his best to keep it; he certainly had a few tricks in mind. John rubbed his thumb around the rim for a moment, testing the muscle: tight, but not tense. He pressed his thumb in deeper, then drew it out in one smooth motion. He did it again, raptly attentive as his thumb disappeared into Sherlock’s body. “Alright?”
Sherlock tightened his grip on the headboard and nodded. John removed his thumb and wet two more fingers to slide into Sherlock. After dipping inside, he pressed just the pads of his fingers to the outside of the hole and rubbed until Sherlock’s breath became uneven and ragged. Then John dipped back inside to work in and out, alternately sliding and stretching. He looked up to take stock of Sherlock’s responses: the flush that climbed up his cheeks, his breath gone shallow in his chest, his knuckles white where he gripped the headboard, his eyes screwed shut. John stopped. “Sherlock, are you in pain?”
Sherlock shook his head, a perfunctory, abbreviated movement.
“You’re never this quiet. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m listing the elements chronologically by the birth date of the scientist who discovered them.”
“You…” John blinked. “What?”
“I got the idea when you had a similar problem earlier, not wanting to climax too soon. If I watch you… do that, my ability to participate will shortly be at an end. Therefore, I’m attempting to occupy my attention with rearranging the periodic table.”
“I…” John shook his head. “It’s not that I can’t appreciate the problem you’re facing, but I’m a little insulted you’re not even paying attention.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. His gaze slid from John’s face to his hand before he dragged it up again.
“We can stop if you like,” John offered. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and rested his hand against Sherlock’s thigh. “Take a break. It’s not a race.”
“Continue.” Sherlock hooked one bony foot around John’s back and shoved him forward.
“It’s just, I thought you’d want to record this.” John ghosted his hands across Sherlock’s thighs, then down to smooth over the round swell of his arse. “Keep it in that hard drive of yours so you can replay it.” He brushed the back of his knuckles against Sherlock’s sac, then down slowly to tease against his hole. “Revisit the memory when you’re bored. Or frustrated.”
Sherlock tried to push his hips down against John’s hand, to get more friction, but John moved with him, not wanting to be rushed.
“John,” he growled.
“There’s a benefit to a slow build, you know.” John hooked a hand under Sherlock’s knee and pushed his leg up, the easier to drizzle slick directly against Sherlock’s hole. He rubbed two fingers against Sherlock’s opening, delving in just the tip of one finger before withdrawing again. “Even when I’m wanking, I like a bit of a warm up before I get to down to business.”
“John,” Sherlock snapped. “If you insist on describing your masturbation habits, I will be forced to go back to the periodic table.”
“You like hearing about me getting myself off,” John realized. His own cock gave an interested twitch when he considered it. “Would you like to watch, sometime?”
“John!” Sherlock pulled at the headboard, rattling it against the wall.
“Alright! Sherlock.” John set down Sherlock’s leg and smoothed a hand down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall. “Sherlock. Breathe. That’s it. Now wiggle your toes.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
The annoyance of an unrelated physical action was enough to prevent Sherlock from climaxing immediately when John pressed three slick fingers into Sherlock and curled them expertly to make him shout and slam his head back onto the pillow.
“Maybe my memory’s not so good as yours, but I still plan on filing tonight away for future use. The sounds you make…” John withdrew his fingers and worked them in again, just to drag another wordless cry out of Sherlock.
“Please,” Sherlock gasped. “Go on. I can take it.”
“Patience-“
“Is for another day, John. I think you’ll agree I have been sufficiently patient tonight.” Sherlock tried to shove back against John’s hand, and once more was thwarted. He lay back and huffed in frustration. “I am not made of glass. I may not have your wealth of experience, but I’m not entirely unpractised.”
“Alright.” John paused in his ministrations. “When you said-“
“Yes, I haven’t made an extensive study of this particular act, but I’ve engaged in similar… That is to say-“
“Yes, I don’t need a diagram.”
“As I said, I was told it wasn’t…” Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the ceiling. “Many slaves consider this… excessively intimate.”
“Sherlock.” John reached his free hand up to capture Sherlock’s chin and make him meet his eyes. “It’s a bit too late for me to be afraid of excessive intimacy. And I. Am not. A slave.”
“I know that, John.” Sherlock abandoned his grip on the headboard to lay his hand against John’s cheek. “I do know that.” He dragged John up to pull him into a kiss. While somehow managing to keep his mouth affixed to John’s, Sherlock poured lube into his hand and grasped John’s cock to slick it. He threw one leg around John to pull him snug against Sherlock’s body. “Now get on with it.”
Sherlock tilted his hips up and guided John unerringly. John had only to shift forward and slide in. He held onto Sherlock’s arms and watched the play of Sherlock’s expression from overwhelmed to determined to impatient.
Before he could issue demands for more, John reached between them to palm Sherlock’s cock. “You are amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to be impressed by, with you around.”
“Show me.”
John eased in further, slowly, looking for any sign of reluctance Sherlock might be too proud to voice, but he found only frantic arousal as Sherlock rolled up against him. “Wait,” John warned. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes!”
“Are you certain?”
“I told you yes.” Sherlock writhed under him with no leverage either to thrust into John’s hand or push further onto his cock. “John Watson, if you do not immediately-“ His eyes widened. “You do want revenge! You’re doing this to torture me!”
“I would never-“ John laughed.
Then he was unceremoniously shoved onto his back. In a trice Sherlock had his arms pinned to his sides and was sitting astride him. “That’s better.”
Sherlock rose up on his knees and guided John back inside him. He sank down in one smooth motion, and let out a sigh of relief when he had taken it all. “Much better.” He leaned over John, drawing a gasp out of him. “Now, tell me, how do you like it?”
“Any way… is not going to last… very long.”
Sherlock began to rock against John, lifting up a bit more each time, then sliding down to the hilt. “I told you I wanted to know all your secrets. Every thing you like. Every kind of sound you make during climax. Every expression on your face when you’re inside me. I want to learn every way there is to bring you pleasure.”
“Sherlock!” John’s hands clenched on Sherlock’s hips, and he thrust up off the bed, fucking into Sherlock with desperate strength as he reached his end. Sherlock felt solid in his hands, an immovable force that would move for John, if he asked it. The heady freedom of that power burned through John’s blood, wringing out every muscle and pouring out all his energy. He collapsed against the bed and lay panting helplessly.
Sherlock braced himself over John with one hand while the other sped over his cock. “Of course I want to record this. Every part of you you’ll let me have, I will take. Let me… Let me…” His head snapped back as he gasped for air.
John folded his hand over Sherlock’s stroking with him as his body came back under conscious control. “That’s it. That’s beautiful, Sherlock. Finish it.”
Sherlock squirmed on John’s cock as he screamed out his climax. That long, pale body arched back impossibly as he shot stripes of come against John’s chest, messy and uncontrolled as John had never seen him. He collapsed on top of John, panting.
From next door came a pounding on the wall, and a muffled shout of, “Oi! Keep it down!”
“Piss off!” Sherlock shouted back, though his authority was somewhat undermined by the raspy rattle of his voice. He rolled off John and flopped onto the little remaining empty space on the bed.
“Sherlock, those are my neighbours,” John panted. “I do have to look these people in the eye tomorrow.”
Sherlock tilted his head just enough to display a raised eyebrow. “Do you like them more than me?”
“God no.” John’s nascent laughter bubbled over then, and Sherlock joined in until they wore themselves out and lay regaining their breath.
Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand to stare down at John. “In any event, it is your fault. You deliberately set out to make me scream.”
John couldn’t resist darting up to plant a kiss against Sherlock’s smirk. “And I don’t regret it.”
--
Lestrade picked up a cup of tea from the café at the end of the road. His breath turned to vapour in the chilly morning air, making a hot beverage a necessity. Then, too, he needed something to do with his hands to keep from checking the time every minute or two. He’d chosen a stakeout position a cautious distance away, at the turning of the street. Though it wasn’t, strictly speaking, proper, he’d wrapped his scarf around his neck to obscure his collar. The neighbours were less likely to confront him if they thought him a free man, and he might have to wait here a long while.
Lord Mycroft’s car didn’t look much different from any other on a street like this, but Lestrade recognized Wood when she stepped out and opened the kerb-side door. Upon getting out of the car, Lord Mycroft moved his gaze around the street, taking in his surroundings. Lestrade ducked around the corner, just to be safe. When he dared to look again, Lord Mycroft had disappeared inside the house, and Wood leant against the bonnet, lighting a cigarette.
She nodded to him when he approached the house. “Smoke?” she held out her pack.
“No, I’ve given up.”
“Suit yourself.” She tucked the pack into her coat pocket.
Lestrade hung his jacket in the foyer, next to Lord Mycroft’s handsome wool herringbone. He padded down the corridor, straining his ears for voices, and nearly ran into Kieran holding a tea tray.
“I’ll take that, lad,” Lestrade said. Kieran gave him a cautious smile and scurried away. Lestrade drew in a slow breath, let it out, then pushed through the door into the sitting room.
Lord Mycroft sat ensconced in an armchair opposite Jasper, who caught sight of Lestrade first and raised an eyebrow. In response, Lord Mycroft stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly to take in the sight of Lestrade. “Gregory. I understood you’d be out.”
“Yes, I know.” No one said anything else for several seconds. At last, Lestrade set the tray on the sideboard. “If I may, you’re looking fit, sir.” Not exactly true. Lord Mycroft looked thin, starving. He might have said wasting. “Would you like some tea?”
“I should be going.” Lord Mycroft rose from his chair and started towards the door. “There’s some important business in Whitehall that-“
“Please, sir.” Lestrade stepped neatly in front of him, head bowed. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone, if I may.”
“I’ll be going.” Jasper pushed to his feet, shuffled out of the room, and pulled the door firmly closed behind him.
Lord Mycroft cleared his throat and retreated to his chair. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”
Lestrade poured a cup, added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred. The clinking of the spoon against the china sounded strikingly loud in the stillness of the room. Lestrade brought the cup and saucer to Lord Mycroft’s chair, slid to his knees with practiced ease, and offered it up. Lord Mycroft took it gingerly from Lestrade and held it in his lap without drinking. Lestrade settled his hands on his thighs and debated how to begin, now that he had Lord Mycroft here, alone. For so long he’d known how to make himself heard with his master; he’d known his place in the household. Now, every word seemed fraught, every motion heavy with import.
“Is your position here satisfactory?” Lord Mycroft asked.
“The work is interesting, sir. Jasper’s very good at what he does.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t arrange this, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lestrade said quickly. If this went south, he didn’t want Jasper to face the consequences.
“No. I’m very aware of your independent bent.”
Lestrade should have known his master would see through him. He shifted closer and raised his head enough to check Lord Mycroft’s reactions unobtrusively. “Sir. May I be permitted to ask you a question?”
“Yes.” He sat up straighter in his chair.
“Why did you set yourself up to take the blame for the murder of the Chinese Ambassador? Why were you willing to give up your position?”
Lord Mycroft set his tea on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap. “We’ve been over this, Gregory.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I’m having trouble grasping the concept.”
Lord Mycroft turned his face away, towards the window. “I told you, I am not a coward.”
“No, I’m certain of that, sir.”
“Then what else is there to say?”
“Sir, did your decision…” Summoning his courage, Lestrade laid his hand on Lord Mycroft’s knee. “Did it have something to do with me?”
Lord Mycroft turned back slowly and met Lestrade’s questioning gaze. “I believe you know the answer to that.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Well, if that’s all.” Lord Mycroft rose quickly, smoothed down his tie, and strode towards the door. “I’m afraid I must-“
“Lord Mycroft. Sir,” Lestrade called.
Lord Mycroft kept walking.
“Mycroft.”
He halted with his hand on the doorknob.
Lestrade braved the few steps between them and laid his hands against Mycroft’s back. He could feel the heat of his master’s body through his jacket. “I’d like to serve you again.”
“You’re serving me here.”
“As your personal slave.” Lestrade felt Mycroft shudder under his hands.
“I trust you understand that the possibility of your return is more than appealing to me.” Mycroft turned to face Lestrade once more. “However, the reasons for your decision to resign remain.”
“Yes.” Lestrade bowed his head. “I’ve had time to think about the situation. I have one request to make that would allow me to return to my post in good conscience.”
A breath swelled in Mycroft’s chest, then he seemed to catch himself, and frowned. “I cannot do for you what I did for John. You must understand, the Imperial justice system- “
“I understand. I know the law.”
“I’ll do what I can to give you independence. I can give you papers to function as my agent. You could live independently, work. Meet whom you liked. I wouldn’t interfere. You needn’t even wear a collar.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“Of course.” Mycroft swept past Lestrade to pace the length of the room. “You want true freedom, not the illusion. In time, influence correctly applied might enable me to--”
“No. No, Mycroft.” Lestrade stepped in front of Mycroft to stop him, and this time made so bold as to take his hands. “If you care about me, if you really do-“
“I do,” Mycroft broke in. “I’m willing to provide any proof you require.”
“Then you have to accept that what I am in the world isn’t going away.” Lestrade set his feet and braced himself to say what was necessary. “I believe that you care about me beyond what I think is entirely justified. I don’t need any more evidence of that. But I’m not alone in enduring the kind of treatment that upsets you. If I were free, somehow, you wouldn’t see it anymore. Not the way you do now. So that’s my condition for coming back. You won’t pull anything fancy to have me freed; you have to live with me in this station, as I am.”
“I….” Mycroft looked pale. He opened his mouth only to shut it again.
“Is that an acceptable request, sir?”
“Ask something else, instead.” His voice had barely enough power behind it to reach Lestrade’s ears. “Please.”
“I can’t. This is the one thing I can’t live with, Mycroft.” He’d had long enough to consider what he wanted to understand that nothing else could fix what lay between them. “No one else can be hurt because of me. Because you’re not content with the way things stand between us.”
“I have never been discontent with you.” Mycroft closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, his penetrating gaze, the one that saw more than it should, focused on Lestrade. “I accept your condition.”
“I need your word.”
“Then you have it.”
“Promise me,” Lestrade said, drifting closer.
“I promise.”
“Once more.”
“I swear, Gregory.” Mycroft took hold of Lestrade’s shoulders and drew him near. “I’ll do as you ask.”
“Then it’s settled.” Lestrade leaned in, almost close enough to touch. “May I…?”
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed.
Lestrade kissed him. His body remembered this well, and relaxed into Mycroft’s familiar hold. The tension he’d been holding for weeks melted away as he leaned against the solid weight of his master. Mycroft’s hands slid up his arms and brushed Lestrade’s collar. Lestrade drew back quickly to find Mycroft looking down.
“It’s strange to see you without my collar.”
Lestrade rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “This one doesn’t fit me as well, anyway.” He frowned, realizing he didn’t know what had happened to his proper collar. “Is it…?”
“It’s in my office at home.” A hint of a blush rose in Mycroft’s cheeks. “I confess… I’ve taken to keeping it near while I work. I find it… consoling.”
“Then take me home.” Lestrade delivered one more brief kiss. “Please.”
Mycroft nodded. He smoothed his hands down his jacket, and Lestrade reached up to straighten his tie, which had been pushed askew. Mycroft pulled open the door and strode out, composed and straight-backed once more. Lestrade followed the man he had chosen.
--
[Epilogue coming soon]