Sherlock´s father a proportion, which changes young Sherlock´s life. John Watson is suffering from the aftermath of his traumatic war experiences, and is working as a doctor for rich people´s slaves. Then James Moriarty decides, that his favorite toy slave needs a doctor.
Warnings: AU-slavery. Bad treatment of slaves, social inequity, subordination, abusive relationship, sexual abuse, etc.
Disclaimers: Sherlock and other characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC. I don´t own them, I don´t make money with them.
Thank you to my lovely beta reader Cryptic Nymph for her hard work. All mistakes are mine.
Their game was on.
It was not a game of noisy words or shouts. The men around the heavy antic oak table watched silently as the two gamblers who remained tried to beat each other. Only short words were uttered, as they investigated their final cards, trying to decide what would be the best move to take next. No-one paid any attention to the blond male slave behind the men, hardly eighteen years old, but he was still alert and ready to fill their glasses or any other wishes these men might demand of him. The brand on his forehead was clearly visible. The sign of ownership. His right: to be used. An old-fashioned bulb lit the smoke-filled room dimly.
"Do you call, Mr. Holmes?" grunted the other gambler; a man in his forties, though his hair was already greying, to match his grey eyes. Hard and calculating, the eyes of professional. His face was expressionless, looking still more like a military man than a criminal. A man with muscles, used to giving and taking orders.
"Wait. Three." The other man said finally. The cards were changed and the man, known as Mr. Holmes, had to make an effort to keep his face expressionless. He was almost a professional himself, but this night had been hard and so much was at stake. He was determined to win, but was so close to losing all.
His fortune had already decreased during these years after the War and after his successful business with army supplies and guns had gone down. His new business with the tinned food industry didn´t offer him big money, or what was worse, the thrill which he had been used to in the war time. Still, he could have spent peaceful days with his family and running his business, but it wasn´t enough for his restless mind. Bored and frustrated, he let his war-time business companion, Colonel Sebastian Moran, lead him into a gaming club.
The new world of uncertainty and the possibility of winning big money in a short time gave him the excitement he had longed for. It seemed like a paradise to Richard Holmes for a while, until his downfall had begun. He lost more than he could afford, but he returned over and over again. His luck could have turned better anytime. He had no other options.
He had lost considerable sums of money, more than he could afford. Now he was gambling his last valuable possession, his family mansion, as his last attempt to improve his situation, to pay at least some of his debts and get back his lost property and self-respect.
On the other hand, if he lost now, then it would be the end of his wealthy life style, his family´s good name and property, and even his marriage, which he couldn´t let it happen.
He was ready to do anything to prevent it.
It was time to reveal his cards for all to see.
He laid his cards slowly on the table: three, four, five, six and seven of hearts. Straight flush.
If this was not the winning hand, then what would be? There was only one better hand than his, but statistically, the chances that his opponent had it were minimal. This couldn´t have gone better. This was the turning point for his luck. This had to be the taste of victory!
"Colonel Moran. Your turn." He could not lose, not this time. His most valuable family property, his family mansion, was safe. His marriage was safe. His life would be worth living again. Soon, very soon, everything would be like before, or even better. He would stop his gambling and concentrate on more serious business again.
"With pleasure," the Colonel answered, starting to reveal his own cards slowly. When they lay side by side with Richard Holmes´s cards, his victorious mood had vanished. Instead, he felt a knot in his stomach, like someone had just punched him in his solar plexus and he couldn´t get enough air. He still didn´t let any signs of his inner turmoil show.
This wasn´t real.
Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. The royal flush against Mr. Holmes´s straight flush.
This had to be a bad dream. The likelihood that these two hands would be against each other was almost nonexistent.
What an unexpected turn of events. Richard Holmes suppressed his urge to burst into hysterical laughter.
The royal flush.
Holy fuck.
"It seems as though it is time for you to start looking for a new place to live, Mr. Holmes," his former business partner said wryly. "Like some cozy little place a family of four could live in. Though not exactly a mansion."
Mr. Richard Holmes's final game had ended.
"Unless… Unless we can reach an agreement. There is always a choice."
When Richard Holmes drove home later that night, the conversation he had had with his gambling partner still echoed in his ears.
"Your son, Mr. Holmes, is key to our problem," Colonel Moran said to his former business partner, forming perfectly round blue smoke circles with his expensive Cuban cigar.
"I have two sons, in fact. Please, would you explain further?"
"I will. My friend, a wealthy, influential gentleman, is looking for a suitable young man to be his new partner. He isn´t interested in a traditional marriage with a woman. He's looking for a man with a proper background and look. His former partner died unexpectedly after a short sickness. I understand that your younger son would be a suitable candidate."
Mr. Richard Holmes frowned. He wasn´t sure if he was pleased with the direction that their conversation was turning.
Colonel Moran took a sip from his golden drink before he continued. The ice cubes made a little noise against a glass as he put the glass back on the table.
"You are a smart man, Mr. Holmes. I know you as a business associate and a gambler, and I have learnt to respect you. Don´t insult me by pretending that this is too difficult for you to comprehend. I am ready to forget my right to your property, even help you with your, eh, current financial problems, if you accept my offer. My friend understands that your younger son is the more preferable young man for his purpose. My friend is an influential man and ready to remember those who have helped him. His friendship would help you with your little financial problems. He is also a very tactful person, keeping a low profile with his actions. But I can assure you, you won´t want him as your enemy. That's why he has gained such success and his reputation remains illustrious to the public. Your wife wouldn´t know anything. So, what's your answer?"
Colonel Moran didn´t even try to hide his admiration of his friend.
"Your… ehhr… friend could well purchase a slave boy for his purposes. Why choose a free boy from a well-known family like mine? It would be so much more complicated. And my son is surely not the easiest choice."
"Exactly. He loves a good challenge. He wants to do things the hard way. It gives him so much more."
Mr. Holmes stared at his cards as if they could guide him in the right direction: to choose between his younger son or his home. Losing his estate would mean the end of his current life. It was his main property. Besides, he couldn´t hide his gambling anymore from his wife any longer. She wouldn´t forgive him. He wouldn´t allow himself to lose it, at any cost.
Moran´s suggestion was unusual, but not unheard of. It was not illegal in their society.
The problem was, his wife was very keen on their younger son. He had always been her favorite and under her special protection, despite his problematic personality and the constant troubles he caused. His younger son was a time bomb, waiting for any excuse to explode.
The choice was frighteningly easy to make. The older Holmes only had to invent a believable story for his wife about why her younger son would disappear suddenly. Of course he couldn´t tell her that he had lost him in a poker game.
He had already thought it over, when his driver drove them to the wide front drive of the Holmes mansion.
An elaborate melody of a violin echoed from behind the closed door of his son´s room. His son being awake, disturbing his family with his playing at such late hours of the night, didn´t surprise Mr. Holmes. He didn´t care for music, considering it a useless activity. He waited a second before he pushed the door open, stepping in without bothering to knock first.
His son´s silhouette stood out against the window, his back to the dark room, his tall, lanky body expressing his concentration on the music. He didn´t turn to look at his father, although he was aware of his presence. His father turned the lights on. He should have finished playing to show his respect for his father, such was the etiquette expected, but he seldom cared for such formalities. His father frowned, suppressing his irritation towards his unruly son. Not now, when he had more important things to talk about with his son. His son had always been like that, difficult to handle even at his best, impossible most of the time.
The room looked a mess. Clothes lay all over the floor; the bed was, naturally, unmade; several experiments were occurring in the self-made laboratory on his table; unfinished experiments all over, in petri dishes growing cultures, who looked more molds than anything else, in breakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, desiccators and volumetric flasks among other laboratory glassware, suspect powders waiting for further tests or colorful liquids spreading an unhealthy smell into the air.
He was most likely creating a new disease, thought Richard, and using us as his lab rats.
He was forbidden from experimenting inside the house after the explosion and subsequent fire in the kitchen. Their kitchen slave had gone hysterical after the incident, refusing to return to her work, and the older Holmes had to call a doctor for her. Even that event didn´t stop him from building a new laboratory in his own room, and there it was still.
An embarrassing thought occurred to him: This agreement would offer a neat solution for what he should do with his troublesome offspring. To name just one example of his appalling behaviour: that catastrophic dinner, when he had invited his older son´s headmaster and some other important authorities, and his mouthy eight year old son revealed how the headmaster´s wife had cheated on her husband with Mycroft´s gymnastics teacher… Richard had tried to save the evening by telling them that the boy had a very rare variation of Tourette's syndrome, and that they should simply ignore him. He had ordered his son to his room and locked him there for the rest of that night, letting him out only the next afternoon. His older son had had a pensive look on his face, but he stayed silent.
His son´s play turned nervous, almost hostile, when he sensed that his father had stepped into his room. He should have knocked... definitely, he should have. He wasn´t a child any more, he had his right to privacy...
His father registered the change in the music, but dismissed it with a shrug.
"Sherlock, would you stop that noise? I have much to discuss with you."
No reaction. His father frowned. His son had no right to pretend that he didn´t notice his father. He came closer to his son, grabbed the violin and pushed it forcefully aside. The only thing which stopped him from smashing the hated instrument against a wall here and now was that it was his wife´s gift to his son, and it had been very expensive. Richard Holmes had always respected money.
His son didn´t respect anything at all. A son like that didn´t deserve his father.
"Could you pay some attention to me, son?" He repeated, irritated, as his son ignored him completely. This stubborn boy had always brought out the worst in him, though he had tried to hide it for the sake of his wife, so as to avoid an argument.
"Let go of my violin, father," his son hissed. He didn´t want to listen to his father. He just needed to be by himself, in his own thoughts. They stared at each other coldly.
"You don´t seem to have brought home any profits tonight, father."
"Now, listen carefully, son. Do you care for your mother?"
The question surprised him. "Of course, father. You know that."
"And you don´t want to upset her, at any cost?"
"No, I don´t." The younger man answered curtly, not loosening his hold on his precious instrument.
His father frowned at the lack of respect in his son´s answer. He had never given him any. But soon, very soon, he wouldn´t need to suffer that misfortune ever again. The thought of it made this so much easier.
"Then I want you to be a decent son for once. Listen to me very carefully and do as I tell you; just this once, for your family. You should be grateful, I'm offering you a chance to show your love for your family, for your beloved mother."
His father stood before him and told him about the agreement he had made with this criminal, Colonel Moran. He told him that his future was over now, and what he expected him to do.
"What about my studies, father?" Sherlock had been planning to study chemistry at university.
His father snorted, and told him that he could forget his personal plans. This was the only alternative he had henceforth.
"There is always an alternative!" His son shouted, without realizing he had raised his voice. Another sign of disrespect, but he didn´t care about that at this moment. His father couldn´t do such a thing.
"Don´t start with your usual tantrums. Try to behave. Remember, you can save your mother´s health and home. Her health is not as it used to be. Don´t worry her more than you already have. Your duty as a son is to guarantee the wellbeing of your family, in all the means you have. And to obey your father, of course. You can now do both."
"What if they have wanted Mycroft? Would you agree with them – give him up just like this?"
"You are the one this gentleman is interested in. You should consider yourself honored. "Don´t be difficult. Keep your brother away from this. Mycroft has nothing to do with our contract. You wouldn´t be in this trouble now if you had been more like him. Stop worrying your mother."
"Me? I worried her? How about your gambling problem? If she knew about that, how it would affect her health?" His son asked bitterly, his gaze not leaving his father as he locked the window to prevent any escape attempts. Richard Holmes didn´t expect his son to try anything, not when his mother´s health and well-being depended on his co-operation, but he wanted to be sure.
Sherlock's father didn´t answer. He turned on his heel and left a meaningless name echoing in the air after him: Moriarty. James Moriarty.
"But it is my birthday soon…" His son whispered to the empty room.
Soon, he would be 18. Usually he wouldn´t have cared about such trivialities as birthdays, but after that day, his father couldn´t have sold him. But he wasn´t yet an adult, and the contract had already been signed. Technically, he was already this man´s property, his slave partner. He closed his eyes, trying to pronounce that impossible word, to taste the preposterousness of this mocking term. More a concubine than a real partner, with the rights and social status that real wives had. What a crooked twist in his life...
Of course, Sherlock knew about slaves, like he knew that the solar system existed, but that was all. He hadn´t given a second thought to the institution until now, when he had to.
He had to get out of here. He methodically probed his now secured window. He knew, that it was secured carefully to prevent his escape attempts, but he could easily to break out using acids, which he used in cleaning his laboratory glassware. There was another alternative to this life, as he had told his father, to get out from this room, to run away from the life of a slave. But he couldn´t, if he cared for his mother. He knew that he probably could find a way to leave, but then his mother would suffer. He was strong enough to withstand his fate, to protect her from his father´s weakness. And besides, where could a slave escape to?
This was his last night at his home. He needed to prepare for his future, not the one that had been stolen from him.
He raised his violin gently. He tried to continue the melody he had played earlier, before his father had interrupted him, but instead of that elegant melody, he only managed to get aggressive screeches from his violin. After trying for some time, he gave up, and put his valuable instrument down again on the bed and went to lie by it. He touched his violin like it was alive, a warm and feeling human being, its wood smooth and comforting. He stared at the opposite wall, waiting for dawn and his father's call.
He decided that whatever happened, whatever methods his future owner used on him, he would return them wholly. He wouldn't submit willingly to his new role. Maybe his new owner would like a misbehaving slave.
Most importantly, who was James Moriarty, who wanted a son of a free man as his concubine? He surely didn´t pick Sherlock randomly, he must have had a good reason for it.
Had he spied on him? And if so, why?
The night started to turn from dark velvet to an early daybreak, and eventually the door opened again. This time behind his father came his personal driver, who knew about all his father´s secret trips and business.
"It is time to go."
When his son took his violin from the bed to put it into a violin box and take with him, his father interrupted him.
"Are you going to take it?"
"Yes."
"I don´t believe that you would be allowed to keep it."
Sherlock stiffened. He wouldn´t leave without his violin. It was his most precious possession.
"I will, anyway. I won´t leave without it."
His father considered it for a moment.
"It is an expensive instrument. Slaves are not allowed to own such things."
His son didn´t let go. Mr. Holmes looked at his son tentatively, giving in reluctantly.
"All right then."
The father and son stepped out to meet a warm summer's morning. It was so early that inside the rest of his family were still sleeping: his mother in her private bedroom, his older brother Mycroft, who was making a career in the British Government, so Sherlock was told, an expected visitor in his father´s house.
The early morning promised a beautiful day to come. Sherlock dismissed the greenness of vegetation and the birds´ song. They didn´t exist to him anymore. His father pushed him inside his old Bentley, locked his seat belt and sat next to him, as the driver locked the car doors. Richard Holmes gave a sign to the driver, who started the engine, and the car began its long journey away from Sherlock´s childhood and former future.
They didn´t talk to each other during the whole two-hour drive, from the posh part of city to a completely different kind of area, filled with abandoned factories and warehouses. Richard didn´t like this part of London at all, but Moran had given him this address, and he knew better than to object. There wasn´t really anything to say. His life was in the hands of Colonel Moran´s friend´s good will. If he was happy with their bargain, Richard Holmes would be free from his debts and get a fresh start in life.
The driver opened the door. He wasn´t just a driver, but also Richard Holmes´s personal body guard and right hand man. He had muscles and fighting skills. Richard´s skinny son would not have a chance in a fight against him. Naturally, the driver respected all the members of the family, but his real loyalty was to Richard Holmes´s orders.
Colonel Moran and his four muscular minions were already waited. On Moran's orders, the four circled the new-comers quickly and separated Sherlock from the others, forcing his hands behind his back and handcuffing him. Moran smiled widely when he saw that Richard Holmes had kept his word.
"A new slave cannot walk over like that, not without proper accessories."
Sherlock stared him, keeping his head up proudly, reading the life of the man in front of him. Moran stared back at him, like he was an object. His client – his friend – would be satisfied. When he was happy, then Moran would be. It was a neat working arrangement between them.
"He is a pretty little thing. I can see why Mr. Moriarty is so keen to obtain him. Everything seems to be in order."
This man didn´t talk to him but about him, though he stood before him, so near that he could... and he did. The young man spat in the older one's face. The gesture expressed accurately his thoughts about this Colonel. An army man. No need to waste oxygen to him.
Everybody tensed. Mr. Holmes hurried to give him a clean handkerchief.
"I am so sorry. This is new for him… He is difficult, even at his best."
Moran wiped himself clean slowly.
"Oh dear. He has a temper. Moriarty has work to do with this one. He's lucky that Moriarty gave me strict instructions about how to handle him."
But then his gaze stopped on the black violin case, which had dropped onto the concrete when Sherlock's hands were cuffed.
"He insisted on taking it with him. It is very important to him. More important than humans," Richard explained nervously.
Glee spread over Moran´s face. He had an idea.
"Is that so? Too bad. He cannot keep it. Could you take it out of its box, Richard?"
Richard Holmes hesitated. He knew what Moran was going to do, and for the first time, he felt something close to regret, though the feeling vanished soon.
Sherlock knew also, and paled.
"No! Father!" He shrieked, attempted to come loose from Moran´s minions´ grasp.
"Listen, I can take the instrument with me, Moran, so you don´t need to wonder what to do with it. It isn´t exactly his, not anymore…" Richard tried.
"Take it out of the box! Now!" Richard didn´t dare to object more. He opened the box to take the instrument out, and gave the beautiful violin to Moran.
"It really is a rare item, like its owner." Moran grinned, placed it on the ground and stepped on it. The wood cracked dryly under Moran´s weight.
"You will be as broken, sooner or later, as your precious instrument." He spat the words to Sherlock.
He stepped off and nodded to elder Holmes to collect its remains and put them back in its box.
"Enough of that! Boys, it's time to go."
Somebody bent Sherlock´s head back to make a vein more accessible. Then he felt a sting in his neck. The stinging sensation spread from the injection all over his body. This time they let him go, and he took a wobbling step, his limps heavy and his sight blurred.
"So strong. It burns…" He thought, before the darkness swallowed his mind and he collapsed into the waiting arms of Moran´s men.
I am not very familiar with poker vocabulary. So, I studied a bit of it from internet. There may be some inaccuracy still left. I am hoping for understanding.
Sherlock is still a young man in my story (although almost an adult), who has lived a protected life concentrating to his studies and violin playing, so he may be a bit softer here than in the tv-show.
To make the story more believable, I have to change the other characters´ age as well. So James Moriarty must be a bit older than Sherlock here to be a beliavable criminal master mind and a leader of a crime organisation. Mycroft still seven years older than Sherlock, and Watson near thirty, because he is already a doctor and has taken part in the War, so he is something near thirty.