Disclaimer: Don't own nothing. BBC and Conan Doyle share. Plus, messing with historical facts.
A.D. 53
Mycroft is dizzy with relief when his searches finally bear fruit. There was little chance that they'd amount to anything, but he had to try. He couldn't give up on his little brother. Not after what happened to the other one. To think that Sherlock is so close...
Ten years. That's as long as he hasn't seen his brother. Oh, Sherlock will be angry for Mycroft's tardiness, that's for sure. But he'd told Sherlock. He'd told him that it was a waste to actually fight together with Caratacus' army, that there were better uses for his brother (uses Mycroft would control, obviously), but when had Sherlock ever listened to him? Emperor Claudius (well, his generals) was invading them, and Sherlock fought.
At least he wasn't killed on his first attempt, in the battle of the Medway. Mycroft had personally combed the place to make sure Sherlock wasn't among the dead bodies (Sherlock so owed him for that). Which meant Sherlock had been taken prisoner. Made a slave. For a while Mycroft had expected to see him on his doorstep at anytime. Surely Sherlock would flee? But it had never happened.
Caratacus had fought on and on for years and still lost, and Mycroft had negotiated and obtained that the defeated chief be allowed to live in Rome quietly. Sweet, clement, maybe not so bright emperor Claudius. Seven years since the Medway, and Mycroft had followed his past ruler, and searched, searched relentlessly for three years.
Until he finally found one Iohannes Iacobus Vattius – with such a name, undoubtedly a Jewish adopted into a Roman family, presumably for services rendered – veteran of the Legio IX Hispana, master of his brother, here in Rome too.
Mycroft expects the worst, of course. To find Sherlock incapacitated, abused, barely alive. What else could prevent him from escaping? Well, that stopped today. He'll see to it.
When he reaches the place, he's surprised. Vattius opens the door himself, while Sherlock is decoratively draped across a kline. His brother doesn't seem in pain, but perhaps he's really too ill to move? Sherlock always had an uncanny ability to hide his suffering. Mycroft remembers when his little brother broke his wrist as a kid. He'd been doing something he shouldn't have (what a surprise) and he'd hidden the injury for most of the day, too afraid to face the obvious 'how did it happen?' question.
"What brings you here?" Vattius asks.
"I was hoping for a transaction. I have quite peculiar tastes, and from what I heard your slave would be perfect for my needs. Of course, I'd pay you handsomely. Or perhaps I can make you interested in a slaves' exchange?" he answers smoothly.
Iohannes frowns instantly. "Sherlock is not for sale. You've been misinformed. Sorry but your trip is useless."
"But you don't even know what I offer." Mycroft nods, and a gorgeous young woman comes in. "Anthea is truly a flower. Of course, I have other options..." It'd pain him to part with her, but anything to have Sherlock back.
"I'm sure she is," Iohannes cuts in, "but as I said. Sherlock. Is. Not. For. Sale. You can report that back to the one who sent you."
And who is that supposed to be?
"If you could give us a few moments alone, Iohannes, I'll send my brother on his way," Sherlock drawls.
Why did hid brother do such a thing? He hands out precious information in the same breath with which he disrespects his master (there'll be consequences, surely). Sherlock knows all too well information is power. Does he want to take revenge for Mycroft's lengthy absence by giving his master the upper hand?
But Iohannes agrees to leave them. "Though I'm sorry to say there's no ransom high enough to make me free Sherlock; having him it's like living with Apollo himself after all," he adds.
"If he can't be plied..." Mycroft can't end that threat.
"You'll leave him...leave us alone," Sherlock hisses.
"I'm doing this for you," the elder explains. Really, it should be obvious.
"And I'm asking you not to. I'm fine, Mycroft," Sherlock insists, losing his tunic to prove it. Never grew out of his exhibitionist tendencies, but it's true that there are no recent scars on him, much less wounds. Of course, Vattius is medically trained, so he should know how to hurt without leaving traces, but why would Sherlock defend him so hotly? Why does he, indeed? "For once in my life I'm content," his little brother declares.
Mycroft can't contain his horrified gasp. "So he hasn't hurt you. He's broken you. My brother, a slave and content. How did he manage that, pray tell?" He spits the words out like their taste is absolutely awful. It is.
"He saved me. And I'm not talking about when his commander offered to buy him a slave for his heroics and instead of a nice bed slave he picked me because he saw that I was being tortured. I still remember these first few months after the battle, when his very life was so long an uncertainty, and I was simply 'too much of an hassle', continuously being sold and bought and abused and if only you'd come then, Mycroft..."
Sherlock's voice breaks and he shakes his head, as if to remove the images of that time. Mycroft's unacknowledged heart breaks a bit, too. He'd still been trusting Sherlock to take care of himself then. To need no help. If he'd acted – no; he was still the enemy then. He'd simply be caught too.
A wan sigh, and Sherlock is back to himself. "No, Mycroft, he saved me when he loved my deductions. When he called me brilliant. When we stumbled on a crime while searching accommodations and he let me solve it and helped me work with the urbaniciani. When he tried to get me puzzles – cases – ever since so I wouldn't be bored. When he was lonely enough not to require my subservience, but treat me like a human being." His voice softens on that last sentence. "Someone liked me without a gag on for the first time in my life, Mycroft. You can't ask me to give that up."
The eldest sneers. "He's not your friend,Sherlock. You say he gets you cases. Do the clients pay him? Or the urbaniciani? Or both?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Don't know, don't care. It doesn't matter." Of course. He's never been interested in economy. That avenue will not make him see the truth.
"I don't doubt that he's lonely," Mycroft agrees. " But he's your master and you need to stop deluding yourself. If he considered you a friend he would have already offered to set you free himself. Didn't you hear him before?"
"He'll never set me free. He's scared that I would leave him. It's stupid, of course, I wouldn't, but Iohannes isn't like us. And I really don't mind, Mycroft." Sherlock blushes, but he adds bravely, "I like that he can't deny that I'm his."
"He took you to bed," the eldest spits out, disgusted not by the behaviour (expected, really) but because of his brother's smitten reaction. "If I knew it was all you needed to become docile, I'd have found you someone ages ago."
"He didn't yet," Sherlock replies, blushing further, "but I'm too stubborn to give up that dream. He's a romantic, Mycroft: he wants to settle down – a girl, a few kids, the whole package – and somehow sex got linked to courtship in his mind. It's maddening. But" and Sherlock grins "he won't wed someone who hates me."
"Everyone hates you," Mycroft points out. Not spitefully. He's just stating facts.
"Of course. He could – should – let them mistreat me and marry tomorrow. Or if he doesn't want to see that happen he could sell me, obviously. Actually, there's a rich eques I suspect is behind most crimes in Rome who has been trying to buy me for months, even sending a few dummies to try it, and Iohannes always refused."
That explained the veteran's earlier sentence.
"Why didn't the man just have you – you both if need be – killed if he controls crime?" Mycroft queries. Someone had to be rational.
"That criminal admires me, brother. He'd be content keeping me chained up somewhere and out of contact with any other human being – much less the urbaniciani. But the point is – Iohannes refused princely sums, Mycroft. You see that we're not that rich. Yes, I soothe his nightmares by playing the lyre, but that's hardly worth keeping me," Sherlock explains.
"So at the very least he cares for you. And you're working on getting more. So be it. Call him back."
"I said I'd send you away!" Sherlock cries out.
He doesn't want to disappoint his master, does he? Oh, Sherlock. "Call him back." It's an order, and his brother relents.
"I'll leave soon, I promise," Mycroft assures the moment Vattius comes into the room, "but I wanted a few words with you. First of all, thank you for taking care of my brother. He has nothing but praise for you, and I'll admit that I didn't expect that."
Iohannes grins. "Does he?"
"Obviously," Sherlock mumbles.
"I was prepared to take him with me no matter what, but I've been persuaded to do something I've never done...trust my precious brother's welfare to a stranger." It's an experiment, Mycroft tells himself. He'll monitor the situation, and if ever things turn sour, he'll kidnap Sherlock to keep him safe if need be.
"Don't worry. Sherlock's too amazing for me to allow any ill to befall him," Iohannes states with conviction. He's honest, no doubt. Sherlock silently preens at the praise.
"I'm afraid I'll forever worry about him," Mycroft admits with a smile. "And about that; if you're ever in a difficult situation, please allow me to help. Despite my status as a pardoned enemy, I'm quite capable of successful intervention. If Sherlock's honest, he''l have to recognize that I have a few talents myself."
"When you aren't busy digesting," his brother grumbles. Still harbouring his misconceptions,then. He hoped that the doctor would have cleared them away.
"Thanks. And I'm sure you are an accomplished man. But we'll try to get by by ourselves. I'll ask for help – I will, I'm not stupid – if the situation is unmanageable, but honestly I don't think it will be," Iohannes replies. The proud soldier. Of course.
"I wasn't trying to be meddlesome," Mycroft soothes.
"Yes you were," Sherlock cuts in. Brat.
"Just to let you know that you have an ally. Since you haven't left the battlefield – not truly – it seemed prudent to have you realize your full resources. And now I really must go. But if I'm allowed to, I'd like to come back every now and then," the elder brother concludes.
"Sure," Vattius agrees, friendly, "if Sherlock wants to see you." Now, that might pose a problem.
P.S. A kline is a half-bed half-sofa (Romans and Greeks ate lying down: if you've ever seen a Roman banquet on a movie, you've seen many klinai – plural of kline – with people on). The urbaniciani are the police. Claudius' invasion of Britain, the battle of the Medway in year 43, Caratacus' resistance (he was chieftain of the Catavellauni tribe) and him being ultimately pardoned and allowed to live in peace in Rome are all historical facts. Iohannes Iacobus is sort of a translation of John Hamish, Hamish being a variant of James and Iacomus – from which James was born – being a late variant of Iacobus, so since I don't think it would exist in I century I went with the original form. Watson and Vattius too have more or less the same meaning if I've engineered the thing well – remember w is not in classical Latin alphabet. I left Sherlock and Mycroft as Briton's names.