Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The arrival of the Holmes to the area made the residents nervous. Changes in leadership were always a time of tension, a time of new rules, new expectations, new tributes.

In their anxiety, they weren’t sure if they should lock themselves inside or wait and see what the new Lord looked like. Curiosity got the better of most of them, and many lined the main court in silent deference as a string of ominous black Mercedes drove in slowly with men in black suits and burgundy ties flanking every car. Following the cars were tanks and a multitude of troops that seemed to be coming from every direction, yet completely in sync with one another. The sheer number of the men all dressed in the Holmes burgundy and the harden, chiselled look of experience on these men proved that their King Lestrade had been right to surrender. The realm’s badly outnumbered and outgunned boys had been saved from a mass slaughter against the military machine that the growing Holmes empire had amassed.

Humbled by the sight and by their own shame, the residents held back tears as the leading Mercedes reached the Great House’s main door. The men in black opened both passenger doors as the citizens held their breath. So much about the Holmes family was a mystery. Of all the expanding empires, the Holm Empire news blackout was the most severe. Even the Peldam Empire to the south sent public broadcasts - peaceful ones of children singing and marching. All anyone saw of Holm were signings and summit meetings.

As a result, only a few pictures circulated the news and all of them were of one man: Prince Mycroft Holmes. Even children recognized his wide face with its broad tip, hawk nose and furrowed brow that cast an ominous shadow of mystery over his pale eyes. Based on the pictures, the man appeared to be in his thirties, but other than that, one could hardly say.

Two men climbed out of the back of the car. Both were tall, obviously well dressed, and intimidating. Clad in a three-piece pinstriped suit and a Holmes burgundy tie, the first man had large features and appeared to be smiling, though the smile added no charm to his dangerous look. The crowd held back a gasp. Prince Mycroft Holmes in the flesh. He looked no less menacing than his dark photographs.

The second man was a mystery. He wore no smile, no burgundy, just a blue scarf under a wool coat. The navy blue stripes on the scarf screamed Lestrade blue, but the scarf was also lined with a darker blue and given the circumstances, the blue appeared to be more of a coincidence as the man did seem related to the Prince. The two men did not resemble each other much, but there was something about his calculating look. A sibling? Perhaps a cousin? Either way, there appeared to be two of them now, and this one was even less friendly. The mystery man paused as he walked around the car, his cold eyes narrowing in calculation as he casually glanced over the courtyard. Then, he turned swiftly and continued to join Prince Mycroft Holmes as the men in black, big as they were, shuffled quickly out of his way and followed them inside.

The citizens shivered, fearing for their King Lestrade and his daughters, but there was little anyone could do.

Chapter Text

Greg Lestrade decided it best to receive them standing, a bit aways from his chair. It would be best to appear equals, at least at first. He knew next to nothing about what he was up against other than the drifting rumours that the Holmes family had sons, all remarkably intelligent and ruthless, though no one knew exactly how many.

He was careful to leave only a few guards with him. He didn’t want to appear threatening or defensive. The round table and its burgundy chairs they had set up in front of the throne stood out quite a bit against the Lestrade blue that filled the room, but it probably wouldn’t matter. Everyone knew that the “negotiations” would be a photo opt more than anything else. He was glad that his late wife would not have to see this.

All the doors to the Great Hall suddenly swung open and a handful of men in black suits entered each doorway. Prince Holmes entered through the doors closest to the throne, taking Greg a bit by surprise. He had expected Prince Mycroft Holmes to enter from the back of the room out of respect, but then he reminded himself that it may be a local custom. Either way, it wasn’t going to matter in a couple of hours.

Following Prince Mycroft Holmes as he entered the Great Hall with his entourage was a young man in his late twenties. They appeared to be together and perhaps related. A Holmes brother? If so, why would both men be here when one would have sufficed? His kingdom Evanden was not particularly big, nor in a strategic location, just nearby. He had only managed to avoid being annexed through careful alliances, though the partnerships had not held up. The Holmes family would hardly need to send two sons to such a weak state… Perhaps if he seemed upfront and straightforward, he could somehow spare his daughters, though he had his doubts - two girls with titles to further “legitimise” the Holmes Empire would be too tempting... if only he had hid them sooner.

Prince Holmes was the first to speak.

“Well, King Greg Lestrade. I must commend your wisdom in the peaceful transfer. Armed measures can be so… distasteful.”

Greg just stood there and glanced at the mystery man to see if the younger one had anything to add, but the man just stood there, completely uninterested.

“Yes, well, there were lives to think about…” Greg provided, uneasily and paused.

“That is always a plus,” Prince Mycroft said while nodding and with an exaggerated study of the room, “Lovely place, it’s so re-”

“Oh, Mycroft, give it a rest,” interjected the younger man much to Greg’s surprise. The man narrowed his eyes and huffed, “Just get on with it, will you? And don’t forget the men you promised me.”

“Sherlock!” Prince Holmes muttered under his breath, then remembering Greg, he turned and said, “Do forgive my brother here.. He’s.. well..,” Prince Holmes dropped his plastered smile for a moment and then lifted it back up to get to business. “Shall we?”

“Right…” Greg drawled out, unsure of himself. So, a brother. The rumours had been true. The Prince had siblings. At least this one - a Sherlock Holmes.

Greg gestured to the table and seated everyone. Prince Holmes sat back and relaxed, looking about the room, at the guards and the empty seats. After a brief pause, he asked Greg the dreaded question, “King Lestrade, where, pray, are your daughters?”

“They’re upstairs resting. Caught the flu, I’m afraid.”

“Pity. We would have liked to meet them, wouldn’t we have, Sherlock?” Prince Holmes turned to his brother only to realise that the young one had wandered off to the middle of the room, glancing up at the small balcony in the back that most men never even notice. “Sherlock!” the Prince half yelled under his breath.

The younger Holmes ignored him and continued to examine bits of the room. Prince Holmes glared in his brother’s direction until the younger one finally turned around to meet his eyes.

“What? It’s not like you need me for this part,” Sherlock Holmes huffed and stormed out of the middle doors, yelling, “Just don’t forget! I want bodies for my experiment!”

The older Holmes sighed, but promptly turned back to Greg, “Well then, why don’t we get onto the details of the tribute?”

Greg swallowed. Bodies? Experiment? Ruthless was one thing, simple cruelty another.

****

John hurried through the halls as fast as his limp would allow him. He needed to inform King Lestrade of the plan before the new Prince Holmes arrived, but as he turned the corner to the corridor leading into the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of a string of men in black suits and burgundy ties. He must be too late.

Unfortunately, the angles of the corridor made any visuals of the new Lord impossible… not to mention he wouldn’t be able to communicate with King Lestrade. Perhaps he could casually enter the Great Hall and blink morse code to the man, but that would be a stretch... King Lestrade may be intelligent and received a boatload of telegrams in his time, but he may never have had to interpret one himself. Further still, it would be risky, especially right in front of Prince Holmes.

The balcony! John turned around and quickly rerouted to the back corridor that led to the balcony. He wasn’t sure what he could do from there, but he figured he might as well try.

Once upstairs in the checker floor hallway, he spotted two more men with burgundy ties and froze. The two men turned to yet a third man who was facing the wall with his arms out. John didn’t recognize him. The wool coat on him suggested upper class, yet the curly brunette with very pale skin didn’t resemble any of the nobles that John was used to seeing strolling through the palace, but then, John hadn’t been the family doctor very long.

“For the love of God, I don’t have anything on me,” cried the tall gentleman as the two suits began patting him down. John eyed the partial Lestrade blue scarf around the man’s neck and relaxed a bit. Friend, then. At least they were evenly numbered if anything happened. When they were done with the annoyed man, they turned to John.

“Operative?” one of them asked.

The men were clearly foreign, but John understood them well enough, he supposed. “Dr. Watson, family physician,” he supplied as they gave him a pat down. He was glad he had left his gun in his room. One of them examined his cane in rather good detail, but seemingly satisfied at its innocuity, handed it back to him.

Having finished their task, they took one last look at the tall gentleman and then looked at each other for a split second before marching off, leaving John in the chequered hall with the tall gentleman. They reminded John of automations in the precision of their synchronised movements.

“Well, I hope they’re satisfied,” said the tall man as he fixed his scarf and began to turn towards the hall’s exit.

“Oh, I don’t think they will be until they’ve pat down all of Europe,” John quibbed.

The man paused and granted John a mere half turn with his feet still pointing towards the exit. Then, much to John’s surprise, the man asked, “Spain or Palestine?”

John’s mouth dropped, “How did you...?”

“Well, which is it?” The mystery man pressed.

“Palestine, but how did you know?” marvelled John.

Instead of answering the question, the man made another move towards the hall’s exit and said, “Come now, Dr. Watson. Lead the way to the balcony.”

“Balcony? How did you…?” John stopped short, trying to recall if he had ever seen the man in the palace before, but no, he was sure he never had. “That’s it then? We’ve only just met and I’m to lead you to the balcony? I don’t even know your name.”

The man’s responses were getting quicker as if time was of the essence. “I know you're an army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Palestine. King Lestrade took you on as the family physician, so a decorated army doctor at that. You've got a gun that you normally carry around, but for whatever reason you left it behind this morning and you’re in a rush to get to the balcony as well as I am. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock, and I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.” He finished with glee at the last line and then turned once more. “The balcony, Dr. Watson.”

In awe and definitely sceptical, John was surprised to find himself leading the way while mulling over this “Sherlock” character. Had the royal family hired a consulting detective? If so, why? Perhaps they had told this “consulting detective” about the family physician, and how he’d arrived at the service of the Lestrade family was not really a secret. Perhaps…

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock’s voice cut through John’s thoughts.

“Just.. how? How did you know?”

“It is my business to know what other people don't know,” he spat out in rapid fashion, “but I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But you introduced yourself as a doctor, a family physician to be exact, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but it didn’t bother you when the man took your cane away, like you'd forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic, a common syndrome in soldiers. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic: wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan: Spain or Palestine.”

John was stunned. There was no way the man could know all of that. “You said decorated,” he added.

“Your attire suggests a man of modest means, but you have an expensive cane, a gift then, probably from the Lestrade family after the honourable discharge. The Lestrade family would hardly take on a family physician with a limp, psychosomatic or not, unless you were old family friends or highly decorated. My money’s on the latter. Perhaps wounded in action while protecting the King himself.”

John felt a surge of anger at the comment about the psychosomatic limp. The man must have been talking to someone... “And the gun? How could you possibly know about the gun?” No one knows about that.

********

Sherlock watched the man follow the train of thought. Doctors, always looking for those loopholes.

“Your right coat pocket. It’s loose, especially around the edges, as if something’s regularly weighed it down, something big.” Sherlock paused for a moment to let Dr. Watson observe the pocket in question and continued, “Perhaps a stethoscope or other medical instrument. Yet, that’s the side you cover with your cane when you walk so whatever you carry there regularly was something you carried, but hardly used. Perhaps something you felt would protect you, remind you of the army days. A gun, then. You carried it up until this morning as the cloth has barely recovered, though it moves loosely enough to indicate that you left it behind somewhere. Not to mention that the men earlier would have found it.”

“And the balcony? How did you know I was headed there?”

“Obvious. The east wing and southern stairs are wider with better handrails for a man with a limp and yet you chose to come through this hallway, meaning you came up the central stairs. You’re in a hurry, coming up those particular stairs would be a hassle, but you’d do it to save time, which you would only do if your goal was the central hall. Any other day and with other people in tow might indicate a medical emergency, but you’re unaccompanied and today is the day, the arrival of the Holmes empire. So, you must have a different motive. The balcony in the Great Hall has no visible doors and goes largely unnoticed to the audience, which would be perfect for a secret attack, yet you’ve no weapons. A message then. A message that you hope to deliver to King Lestrade.”

“That...,” Dr. Watson started.

‘Is bullshit, a load of crap, all made up. Yes, go ahead, cut it down’, thought Sherlock.

To his surprise, the good doctor finished with, “Was amazing.”

At this, Sherlock did a full stop and eyed the doctor carefully. It wasn’t often that people surprised him. The man in front of him stood at 1.7m with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. The face was chiselled with experience, but the eyes glowed with intense honesty. This Dr Watson may actually mean it. “You think so?”

“Yes, of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary,” Watson offered. The man practically glowed in awe.

Again, Sherlock had been ready with a sarcastic remark, but the blonde man continued to surprise him. Unsure, he simply said, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” asked the doctor earnestly.

“‘Piss off.’”

At this, the two glanced at each other and chuckled. This soldier-doctor fellow was interesting.

Sherlock was glad that he had had the foresight to have the suits look like they were frisking him before patting the doctor down. The doctor seemed completely at ease since Sherlock would have appeared to be loyal to the Lestrade house. Common enemies made fast friends. He had no doubt that this doctor would have run the other way if the name Sherlock had had a “Holmes” attached to it. His favourite blue scarf probably helped as well. He smirked at that thought. Mycroft had wanted him to wear some family colours, but Sherlock couldn’t fathom wearing anything that coupled him with his brother.

They had almost reached the balcony now. It hadn’t been a long distance, but the doctor’s cane slowed the journey and their conversation hadn’t helped matters. Not that Sherlock really cared. He had wanted to check out the balcony out of mere curiosity, and the man before him seemed like a more interesting puzzle.

Watson stopped in front of a wall panel that had a painting of some 18th century noble lady next to a curious looking lamp. From under the lamp, he pulled a metal tube and then glided the tube along the edge of the lady’s dress until there was a very light ‘click’.

Ah. Of course! Magnetic locks! No wonder Sherlock couldn’t find the door! There were no buttons, no levers. There hadn’t even been a seam. Watson pushed the side of the panel and soon enough they were edging onto the balcony from the right side. Both of them kept their heads low.

“... We’ll be defenceless!” cried an exasperated Lestrade, “No, Prince Holmes. We surrendered peacefully to save our boys from war and you want to march them off for some imperialistic mission while their homeland remains defenceless against the warring states. Your family is indeed formidable, but there are other empires to worry about. If you take our men, this land is as good as a wasteland.”

“I might remind you that you are hardly in a position to argue, but really, you need not worry so much about the defences. I assure you that the Holmes empire can take care of you. We will, after all, be needing your grain and the recently discovered pocket of ore supplies,” replied Sherlock’s brother.

“The ore… How do you know about the ore? and what do you mean the grain supply?” the king’s voice quavered. The voices lowered back down and Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the words. Not that it mattered; these negotiations were always the same with angry or desperate rulers trying to save their land, their people or even their own skins as his brother broke the news of the region’s impending doom.

Sherlock smirked. The young consulting detective had long learned to just ignore it all. He just wasn’t interested. His brother had managed to drag him down to this one using every threat in the book and then every enticement - something about princesses. Definitely not interested. He was promised, however, a nice stockpile of cadavers if Mycroft held up his end of the deal.

Suddenly, another man’s voice rang clear down the hall.

“Prince Mycroft, we believe we’ve located the Ladies! They were on this floor the whole time!”

So, Lestrade’s lie was uncovered. What else was new? Though few usually had the audacity to lie so blatantly. Love was always such a vicious motivator.

Sherlock edged toward the handrail. They had mostly kept to the back side of the balcony to stay out of view, but now he wanted to see if the girls were visible. As he did so, a hand grabbed him and pulled him down. Oh, right, the doctor. Sherlock shot a look of impatience towards the medical man, who had evidently been calling his name. The horrified Dr. Watson looked tense and was now peering through diamond shaped gaps in the handrail.

Chapter Text

The gaps weren’t small. It was a calculated risk to be this close to them, but then John just had to see the girls. Had they really been discovered? He had just finished hiding them!

Twenty-one men dotted the great hall. Fifteen suited men with burgundy ties along the right; four in grey suits and blue ties towards the upper left; and King Lestrade himself were all standing. Sitting in a relaxed manner with his legs crossed was Prince Holmes, who kept a steady eye on the King even as the men in black marched about behind him. Finally, the two young ladies wearing high tea dresses entered. John’s and his Majesty’s went wide simultaneously.

Who were these girls in the princess’s outfits?

Fortunately, King Lestrade quickly composed himself, gracefully turning to Prince Holmes to coolly introduce the girls, “Prince Holmes, I present you, my daughters: Margaret and Elizabeth Lestrade.”

The girls step forward with a small curtsy and then retreated behind their “father”.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the Prince with a smile and then turned to King Lestrade, “Looks like they’ve quite recovered, wouldn’t you say?”

King Lestrade’s eyes darted to the floor, then the girls, and back again. John’s message had been too late and well, clearly, inaccurate. John wondered who had put these girls up to this. It was certainly risky, much riskier than hiding the princesses as servants with the ‘flu.’ Perhaps Sergeant Donovan? No, must have been Anderson. Only Anderson would be cocky enough to think this would work… Then again, the girls chosen resembled his Majesty in his light skin and snub nose. With no surviving pictures of the Ladyship, Prince Holmes couldn’t possibly know the difference.

Suddenly, a whisper next to John chimed in, “He doesn’t seriously think he can pass those girls off as his, does he? Though it does appear that he didn’t quite plan this himself judging by his look of surprise.”

John glanced at Sherlock and then back at the girls. Both had on navy blue cloaks with white fur trim fastened with one broach. The cloak opened down the middle and hung down to their thighs, revealing mostly the bottom portions of their dresses. The older one, who he supposed was to be “Margaret”, had her light brown hair down, gracefully swung to one side. She wore a slate grey dress with tulle lace and scalloped edges, matching grey socks and buckle tops. Young, yet elegant. The younger one, “Elizabeth”, had on a simple timberwolf silk dress and black shoes. Both dresses were knee high, but their Lestrade blue cloaks worked well with the outfit and despite a relaxed look, the ensemble certainly upheld a moneyed air.

John frowned, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, look at them!” Sherlock cried.

Clearly, Sherlock knew what the princesses actually looked like, but John decided it best to feign ignorance. “What, because they’re nervous? That’s Prince Holmes! Of course, they’re going to be nervous.”

Sherlock shot him a look, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not obvious to me,” John said quietly.

“The older one’s hair: unnaturally wavy at every quarter-length, suggesting that the hair had been in a bun at least all morning. Perhaps to get work done, so effort was made to look presentable last minute. Any self-respecting lady’s maid would have done the girl’s hair first thing out of bed, on a regular basis, but her straight brown hair is completely unstyled and unaccustomed to attention other than a neat bun.”

John felt uneasy. Sherlock clearly saw details that others didn’t see, but once the man had pointed them out, John could not “unsee” those details and he feared that the girls would give themselves away any minute now. “She could have just wanted it out of her way.”

“Then there’s the dress to consider: elegant, certainly expensive, but the cut ends right at her knee line instead of a bit above or below it. Not her dress then. Can’t be a hand-me-down, she’s the oldest and mother’s out of the picture.”

“That’s fantastic,” John let out before he could stop himself.

Sherlock paused to look at him again, but quickly resumed his gaze upon the girls and continued, “And of course, her hands: coarse, dry, and cracking from frequent work involving water. The nicks and scars suggest experience with a knife. This is no lady. She’s a servant, kitchen maid at that. Then, there’s the younger one, with completely frizzy hair. Quite a feat, considering that King Lestrade himself has straight hair. Even if his late wife had frizzy hair to pass on, it’s a trait of incomplete dominance. King Lestrade could not have given the girl frizzy hair if he wanted to; the girl would have had wavy hair at best. So, the two are genetically unrelated. Hence, not his daughters. Need I continue?”

John was a doctor - a doctor for crying out loud! and he hadn’t even noticed the hair, definitely had forgotten about straight hair’s recessive trait. “Brilliant, just brilliant.”

“D’you know you do that out loud?”

Embarrassed, John quickly apologised, “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s ... fine,” Sherlock said softly.

John looked back down, nervous now. He tried to focus his attention on Prince Holmes, who hadn’t moved from his seat at all even as King Lestrade offered apologies over the misunderstanding. The king seemed nervous, but Prince Holmes remained impassively cool. Would he know? Could he see what Sherlock saw? Suddenly curious, John glanced over to Sherlock and dared to ask, “What about that man? What do you make of him?”

Sherlock scoffed and narrowed his eyes before continuing.

“Three-piece suit with a gold pocket watch in the middle of the twentieth century? Posh, overly concerned with propriety. No coat, yet doesn’t seem to feel the cold. He’s talking about people’s sons and livelihoods, like a game of chess. Cold-hearted, arrogant and self-assured,” Sherlock spit the words out with utter contempt.

John nodded, “Smart and dangerous, you figure?”

Despite the obvious scorn, Sherlock coolly continued to mock the currently scariest man in all of Europe. “Smart? Most definitely. Dangerous? Yes, dangerous to everyone in the pastry family. Thin arms, thin legs, and skin that hasn’t seen the sun in ages. Not much of an athlete then. Strikes me as lazy. Must diet to keep the pounds off, but too lazy to eat healthy. He certainly seems to know his way around a biscuit judging by those crumbs on his pant leg.”

Biscuit. He pictured Prince Holmes handling a biscuit with all the decorum of an international summit and chuckled.

Bemused, Sherlock asked, “What?”

“... way around a biscuit,” John provided, but the recollection made him laugh.

Before either of them realised it, they were laughing. Loudly.

“Oh? Sounds delightful. Might I ask what’s so funny?” John froze at the cool, controlled voice that rang clearly across the hall. He peered out a diamond gap and met eyes with Prince Holmes, who deigned the slight turn of head to look John’s way.

****

Greg was momentarily relieved to see the attention of the dreadful man turn away from him and his “daughters”. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, resisting the urge to massage his aching forehead. Bloody hell. How did this happen? Who’s brilliant plan was this? He had told them to send his daughters away, not getting bloody replacements from what he could guess was the kitchen staff! Goodness. His acting skills were shaky at best, but there was no way these girls would have the faintest idea what to do when, and this Prince Holmes certainly did seem to care for general decorum. Even a ladies maid would have been better. Once the girls were found out, and they would definitely be found out, Holmes may as well doubt everything Greg said.

He turned to the girls for a second and realised it was a mistake when they met eyes. They were clearly as uneasy about this as he was. So, he flicked his glance to the floor and turned away to follow Prince Holmes’s gaze towards the balcony. As far as he could tell, there was no one there, but Prince Holmes must have heard something earlier since with the simple move of a raised hand and a finger twitch, the Prince had sent six men flying out of the Great Hall, presumably towards the balcony. Greg just prayed that it wasn’t one of his men with some other cockamamie idea.

The suits returned with two men between them: Sherlock, who Greg had met earlier, and Sir Watson? What were they doing together?

Greg shot Sir Watson a quizzical look, which the man returned by shaking his head and nodding towards the girls. Okay. So, Sir Watson didn’t put the kitchen girls up to this strange task, but unfortunately, that hadn’t been Greg’s question. The king sighed.

The group of them finally stopped short of the negotiation table and one of the black suits nudged Sir Watson closer to the elder Holmes. The poor doctor half tripped on his cane but composed himself quickly, and Prince Holmes, well, Prince Mycroft Holmes, finally got up from his seat and sauntered over to the two men.

“Ah, Sherlock, I guessed as much...” The older one greeted his brother and turned to Sir Watson with a smile, “and you are?”

“Watson. Captain John Watson,” replied Sir Watson.

“Active, are we? If they’re keeping invalids under service here, things must be dire indeed.”

Sir Watson pursed his lips a bit. “No, I am currently the family doctor.”

“Ah, the doctor. How very useful… Now do share. What was so funny, Dr. Watson?” Prince Holmes demanded playfully, “ I do enjoy a good laugh.” When the answer was not forthcoming, the smile left his face, and Prince Holmes leaned into Sir Watson as if to scrutinise every movement.

Good old Sir Watson just remained completely still, defiantly holding Prince Holmes’s gaze. Greg found himself impressed; he himself had struggled to stay steady in front of those calculating eyes.

“He said your diet’s not working,” Sherlock suddenly offered coolly, “and marrying one of those girls isn’t going to be doing you any favours. You look like you could be their father.”

At that, Sir Watson’s eyes widened, and Greg saw the doctor’s shoulders move up in tension, a slight movement, covered by the man’s black coat, but still a visible one.

“Is that so?” Prince Holmes seemed amused, but Greg couldn’t tell if that was a good sign.

Sir Watson’s gaze shifted towards Sherlock for a split second but immediately re-centered upon the elder Holmes, though this time towards the man’s chest rather than eyes. The doctor nodded. It was Greg’s turn to widen his eyes. What was Sir Watson doing? Does he not know who Sherlock is?

Prince Holmes immediately dropped his smile. Tensing his lower eyelids ever so slightly, he leaned in slowly until he was inches away from Sir Watson’s face. “Answer me, did you really say that?” he demanded, articulating each word slowly.

Greg heard the girls’ breath stop and found himself holding his own.

“Yes.” And before Greg could register the word, Prince Holmes had signalled the men behind Sir Watson. The suits robotically swiped Sir Watson’s cane and right leg from right under him and Sir Watson went down with a grunt. His left leg didn’t even have a chance to fall completely before one of the suits gave the doctor a kick from behind, right on the wounded shoulder. Sir Watson arched back and cried out, twisting onto his back. Breathing hard, he looked up at Prince Holmes expectantly.

“You did, did you?” The menacing man repeated.

“Yes,” Sir Watson gasped out. This time it was the Prince himself who gave Sir Watson a kick. Sir Watson grunted but didn’t yell. When Holmes pulled back for another kick, Sir Watson tensed, curling his limbs into his body to try and protect his chest and head.

“He must have been right on the money for a remark like that to bother you,” Sherlock interjected suddenly. Greg glared at the cool, collected man who had just gotten Sir Watson a beating.

Holmes stopped mid-kick. “It’s not the comment I’m kicking him for, I assure you,” he spit out, “It’s the lying.” Then, looking back down at the man at his feet, the elder Holmes asked, “Tell me, what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”

Sir Watson looked up at Sherlock, “Holmes?”

“Yes, Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes, my brother,” Mycroft Holmes demanded Sir Watson’s attention.

“I…, I don't have one. I barely know him. I only just met him a few moments ago.”

“Yet, here you are lying for him. Either you’re lying again or you're very loyal, very quickly. ”

“I’m not. I’m just…” Sir Watson began to say, but the Prince cut him off.

“Brave, perhaps? Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?” The Prince gave one final kick and regained his posture, flattening out invisible wrinkles.

Two of the suits picked up the doctor, much to the groaning man’s displeasure, and deposited him into a chair. Greg tried to make eye contact to see if Sir Watson was alright, but Prince Holmes stepped in the way.

Mycroft Holmes turned back to Greg. “My apologies, Lestrade, looks like we’ve created quite a scene, but I do despise deception.”

Greg swallowed nervously, patting the sweat away from his brow. If - no, when Mycroft Holmes discovered the deception about the girls, the whole kingdom would probably pay.

********

Sherlock watched Lestrade squirm at the word “deception”. Who was deceiving who? Mycroft clearly knew that the girls were fake.

His brother resumed his relaxed seat at the table, so Sherlock gestured for a chair and plopped himself down. Mycroft was smiling again. Good.

“But, you need not fret about your little fib about the girls being unwell,” Mycroft continued, “I’m delighted to see that your daughters are in fine health, and seeing as they can indeed join me today, I’ll leave you some of your troops along with mine. Wouldn’t want the girls to worry about their homeland, now, would we?” He gave a quick smile to the girls and then faced Greg once more. “A thousand men will do, I suppose. Surely, you won’t object to that.”

Back to the tribute conversation. How boring.

“Object? Those are my men! My daughters! I won’t have you taking them hostage!” Lestrade dared to raise his shaky voice up a notch.

“Hostage? King Lestrade, well, Lord Lestrade, I have no intention of holding your daughters hostage,” Mycroft justified, “I plan to wed them, …”

A wedding. What a surprise. Sherlock studied the two girls in the back and tried to envision either of them with Mycroft. The image was laughable. He scoffed and yawned, feeling the oppressive boredom begin to kick in. He just hoped Mycroft would remember his promise about the bodies.

His brother continued, “... well, one of them, to my dear brother here.”

Wait. His brother? Sherlock’s eyes shot open and bolted upright. “Over my dead body,” Sherlock bristled as he tried to deduce which of the possible seven reasons had made Mycroft want to take these girls.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft growled, staring Sherlock down, “You agreed to come. Surely, you knew what it was for…”

“I am NOT getting married. You promised me decaying corpses to examine. There was nothing about a marriage.” Arms raised, Sherlock spun around in frustration. “If you want a Holmes-Lestrade arrangement, marry one of them yourself!”

His brother, on the other hand, remained cool, “You said it yourself. I’m old enough to be one of their fathers. It would hardly do for me to be seen with such young ladies.

“Then, marry him!” cried Sherlock, pointing at Lestrade. “He’s the right age!”

“Lestrade is still in bereavement. We would have to wait two more years if we were to follow the decorum. Besides, our kingdom needs a Holmes heir and I doubt he can provide that, nor do the customs here recognize such a marriage, which would defeat the purpose,” Mycroft sighed, “Look, you’re going to get married sooner or later. What importance does timing make?”

“NO!” Sherlock edged closer to his brother, scowling with every effort of a child in tantrum.

Mycroft held his gaze, “Might as well be one of these Lestrade girls, don’t you think?

“Lestrade girls?! Mycroft, you must be joking!” Sherlock raged, “These girls are nothing more than…”

“SHERLOCK!” A voice from Sherlock’s right stopped him. Dr. Watson’s wide-eyed expression burrowed into Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock huffed.

After a short pause, the doctor relaxed a little and petitioned, “Don’t… Please don’t speak poorly of Princess Margaret and Princess Elizabeth.”

Sherlock paused and studied the doctor’s eyes. They held no anger; no disgust; fear, yes, probably for Lestrade and these girls; and spirit, oh, definitely. Even when factoring in Dr. Watson’s fear of the girls being discovered, there weren’t many who’d raise their voices in the presence of Mycroft. Not to mention, Dr. Watson simply wanted to protect his king even at the risk of bodily harm, just like the doctor had tried to protect him earlier. Few protected Sherlock, and those who did, did it out of fear of punishment, not in spite of it.

The room had gone silent now. Sherlock turned his gaze to the floor, drew in a breath, and let out a half whispered, “I’m sorry.”

When he looked up, he saw Mycroft staring at him incredulously, toggling his gaze between Dr. Watson and Sherlock.

“I just don’t want to get married, Mycroft.”

“Tis what it is, brother mine, tis what it is. You know you’ll have to.” Mycroft said gently. “At least you get to choose between the two.”

Sherlock shrugged. He’d lost his fight long before it had really begun and he didn’t have the energy to continue.

At that, Mycroft gleefully turned to Lestrade and asked, “Would you care to choose which men I take?”

Lestrade widened his eyes in disbelief and just shook his head. “I can’t. They all belong here.”

“Very well then. I’ll choose for you. Starting with this Dr. Watson,” Mycroft turned to the suits behind John. “Get him and the girls ready for the tribute parade and bring them back to me.”

The doctor looked up and then at Sherlock. Another seed of rebellion began growing in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.

Mycroft had begun strolling out of the room. “Come along, Sherlock, let’s go take a look at the troops.”

Sherlock didn’t move. “I want the doctor,” he said and looked towards Mycroft.

Mycroft spun around and studied him.

“You promised I could keep one, one of the troops.”

“Sherlock, when I promised you could keep one, I didn’t mean an invalid. You’re to have protection, not a pet.” Mycroft chided.

“An assistant, not a pet.” Sherlock emphasised the word pet and frowned, “Besides, what are you going to do with him?” Sherlock focused all of his energy into a brotherly stare contest.

But Mycroft refused to play, instead, he smiled, “I’m keeping him. As my pet.” With that, he resumed his stroll towards the troops. “Come along, Sherlock. We haven’t got all day.”

The room began emptying out, but Sherlock remained in a stunned stupor. Mycroft couldn’t be serious… could he? The Holmes family did no such thing as take on pets. It required affection, a trait none of them possessed. He looked about for John Watson and caught a glimpse of the man being led out the middle doors.

Chapter Text

John clambered into the car rather gratefully. The parade had been exhausting - both physically and emotionally. He had always imagined being in a parade, ever since he’d joined the army, but this tragic send off was not what he’d had in mind.

Family and friends wept for their chosen sons, many had wept for the loss of the “daughters”, and everyone had wept for the end of the Lestrade family rule.

Fortunately, no one in the crowd knew what the girls were supposed to look like, and those in the palace already seemed well informed of the situation. The replacement girls themselves stood bravely through the whole ordeal, though they were clearly scared.

John had talked to them briefly after the three of them had been escorted to their individual rooms to grab belongings and wear something “tribute” worthy, which turned out to mean evening dresses for the girls and a suit for John. He had hoped he could wear his uniform, but they insisted on the suit - the three piece one at that. So, he put on the grey-blue set that King Lestrade had gotten him and then reached for his navy blue tie before pausing. He supposed it made sense that he wouldn’t be allowed to wear the Lestrade blue and his suspicions were confirmed when they stepped in and handed him a burgundy tie.

While in his own room, he had been tempted to grab his gun, but the Holmes men never left his side. So, all he managed to pack was a duffel of clothes and his medicine bag, which the men took away so that he could join the parade with just his cane.

The girls were assured that their belongings would be packed for them, though that clearly was not all that comforting as their real belongings were in the servants quarters. Even so, they remained silent. Once the three of them had been dressed, they were left alone for a bit. The younger one, whose real name turned out to be Ruth, was too scared to talk, but the older one explained that it had been Captain Anderson’s idea. She apparently had been chosen based solely on the fact that she and the princess shared the same official name, Margaret, though most people called her Molly. The whole thing sounded like it had been rushed and ill-planned. They didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to their own families and wondered if they would be recognized during the parade.

The King turned Lord Lestrade had dropped in to say goodbye to his “daughters”. He apologised for the situation, though everyone knew it wasn’t his fault. John informed the King of the princesses’ real whereabouts, which the former king gratefully accepted. The four of them agreed that appearances had to be kept up: Ruth and Molly had to pass as the Lestrade princesses and that the real princesses had to remain hidden. John promised that he would help whenever possible as only the three of them would know of the girls’ real identity once they were in the city of London, the capital city of the recently renamed land of Holm. He kept quiet about Sherlock’s deductions for fear that it would make the girls more nervous.

After all the fanfare, the girls were placed in a black Mercedes-Benz Pullman and driven off. He had hoped to stay by their side, but the suited men pulled him back and put him into an identical looking Mercedes, where he presently waited.

He didn’t wait long before the door opened and Prince Mycroft Holmes climbed in on his left side. John felt uneasy. King Lestrade had tried to comfort John, saying that the Prince clearly wanted John as the girls’ doctor and not as a pet, whatever that meant. According to the King, the brothers clearly had a troubled relationship and the pet comment had only been made to annoy the younger brother.

Still, it was only half reassuring to John since the brothers had spoken of a marriage between the King and Prince as if it were commonplace. John had heard of cultures where homosexuality was not illegal, but he had never imagined there were places where it was actually socially accepted. Any such leanings in Evanden would have resulted in ostracization at best.

Thus, finding himself alone with the powerful man in the backseat of a car was unnerving on more than one level. John shifted over, moving himself as far away from the ominous looking man as possible.

Suddenly, the door on the right opened, and Sherlock - no, Prince Sherlock? no, too much of a petulant child to really deserve that title - proceeded to climb in. John ended up jammed between the two men: one a ruthless potentate and the other a trickster without remorse, more than anything, he was very conscious of his thighs touching theirs.

“Sherlock, I told you to go in your own car. There’s not enough space here,” Prince Holmes the elder gritted out, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.

Sherlock kept it simple. “No, I’m going with you.”

“Then, at least go in the front!” puffed the elder Holmes.

“No,” Sherlock drawled out and then proceeded to cross his arms and relax.

Finally, the ginger sighed and shifted in his seat to face forward.

It looked like the younger brother won this small battle, so John adjusted his cane to use it as leg support for the bad leg and propped himself as upright as possible to reduce the amount of contact he had with either of them. The movement reminded John of the bruises that were forming on his back and chest from the kicks, but having few options, he steeled himself for a long and rather uncomfortable ride.

Just as he was settling in, John felt a hand on his left thigh, not terribly high up, but still distressingly positioned. He looked down to see Prince Mycroft Holme’s hand, adorned with a gold ring, resting gently as if to reassure him. “Do try to relax, Dr. Watson. It will be two hours before we reach the port,” the elder Holmes then gave John’s thigh a gentle squeeze.

Mortified, John stiffened, drew a breath, and swallowed. Perhaps pet had been the right word. He needed to relax. Balling up his fists, he slowly breathed out and loosened the tension from his shoulders and leg. Still, he couldn’t resist moving ever so slightly to the right, towards Sherlock.

******** 

Sherlock had closed his eyes in victory once the car had started rolling away. All this effort and travel, and he didn’t even walk away with a single corpse. Mycroft had made it sound like he was going to get hundreds and he had made plans. They hadn’t counted on Lestrade giving up before the fight even began. So, no corpses, no experiment.

If he couldn’t get what he wanted, he certainly didn’t want Mycroft getting what he wanted… though it wasn’t very clear what it was that his brother was thinking. Still, the small win had made him happy, well, happier.

He sighed and began ruminating about future experiments when he felt the man next to him shift a little closer. Opening just his left eye to investigate the cause, he was compelled to open both when he saw Mycroft’s ring, better yet, Mycroft’s hand on the doctor’s thigh.

His chest felt hollow, clawed at by some mysterious force. Sherlock catalogued everything he’d eaten in the last several hours and decided that perhaps his body was hungry. He tried to ignore it.

His eyes, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore Mycroft’s possessive grasp. His highly restrained brother had the abandon to allow his hand to rest on the doctor’s thigh right in Sherlock’s sightline, leaving Sherlock to ponder over the implications.

The first thought was that Mycroft was simply trying to get on Sherlock’s nerves. Sherlock had indeed shocked his brother when he had apologised about his outburst in the Great Hall. He himself wasn’t quite sure what had compelled him to do so, but the look of surprise on his brother’s face had been worth it. He could always figure out a way out of the marriage idea later.

But Mycroft trying to unnerve Sherlock couldn’t be right. Mycroft didn’t like Sherlock’s games and usually ignored him, though nothing else made sense. Never once has Mycroft shown any interest in anything so pedestrian as intimacy. Sherlock was convinced that it was what set his brother apart from the rest of the world. He himself tried to emulate that sense of cold indifference.

Yet, there was no denying that his brother was touching this doctor’s thigh.

Was it possible that Mycroft was really interested in this doctor? If so, what would this mean? It was true that Mycroft showed no interest in girls. As a matter of fact, there had been rumours regarding Mycroft and a classmate named Vincent back when Mycroft was in high school, but then, the boarding school was male only, and things do get exaggerated.

It was also notable that Mycroft was still not married, but Sherlock had always supposed that it was because the family had wanted Mycroft to marry into a royal family in order to give their empire some legitimacy. Having successfully commandeered the throne sixteen years ago, the family had achieved great power but faced judgement from the aristocracy for their lack of royal blood. Eurus was out... and it was too late for the oldest brother, so the duty would naturally fall on Mycroft, the second oldest, and it wasn’t until now that Mycroft had had a chance to marry a precious princess only to turn that duty over to Sherlock, or at least try to anyway.

Would mother even approve of such a coupling? Mycroft with an army doctor? They needed titles. Sherlock supposed it didn’t matter. Mycroft was the de facto ruler of the Holm even if Mother was the one in the throne. Not to mention, it wasn’t uncommon in the upper class circles to take on a pet of the same gender. It made some things easier since the pet could sometimes serve double duty as a valet, and the rest of the world wouldn’t be the wiser. While not important to anyone in Holm, some diplomats from abroad frowned at the sort of thing, something about pets’ rights. As a result, opposite-sex pets usually didn’t travel abroad with their masters, and same sex ones were favoured. Still, Mycroft and Dr. Watson? Sherlock shuddered.

He tried to keep his eyes closed for the remainder of the ride but was unfortunately conscious that Mycroft never moved his hand away from the doctor-soldier, Sherlock’s doctor-soldier. He’d found him first. Slowly, that dark hollowness in his stomach started to brew into something much more useful - a plan.

By the end of the journey, Sherlock was determined to win possession of the doctor somehow. He’d successfully delayed choosing a man from amongst the troops, finding fault in each and every one of them, but his brother hadn’t let up until Sherlock had stormed off. It was yet another display of Mycroft’s ever-growing control over the empire and over Sherlock’s life. If his brother wanted the doctor, then Sherlock was going to make sure that the darn doctor wanted Sherlock instead.

When they got to the port, Sherlock quickly stepped out and gave John Watson some space to relax and clamber out away from Mycroft. Then, Sherlock dashed on board, feigning disinterest and watched as Mycroft placed a hand on the doctor’s shoulders, making the doctor tense up.

Good, drive him away, dear brother. Drive John Watson right into my arms.

Sherlock kept a peripheral eye out for all the increasing physical contact that Mycroft made with the doctor. The gestures looked casual and relaxed, but Sherlock knew better. His brother’s cold self-restraint was ebbing, and timed right, Sherlock would soon have something with which to hurt the loathsome man. But timing was important, can’t be overdoing it now.

*****

Molly held Ruth’s hand as they boarded the boat. Somebody had said “yacht”, but Molly didn’t really know the difference. She didn’t have much experience with anything related to water. Once, when she was nine, her family had gone to the ocean, and she had marvelled at its awesome power. Now though, it seemed like a large prison, an endless gulf that would keep her from her homeland, where her biggest worry had been whether or not the oven was hot enough.

After boarding, they joined Prince Mycroft Holmes and Dr. Watson for a tour of the boat. Prince Sherlock Holmes was also technically on the tour, but he kept wandering off and returning, clearly bored with the formalities. The elder Holmes rolled his eyes at his brother’s impatience but had managed to smile at Molly and Ruth for the rest of the tour. She kept quiet for most of it, silently taking in all the upholstered furniture, the rich curtains, and mahogany wood.

The boat’s interior was breath-taking. It had multiple lounges, dining rooms, bedrooms and even grand bathrooms. The bathroom in her cabin was bigger than her servants quarters back at the palace, and this was just a boat! She couldn’t for the life of her imagine what the famous Octland Palace of Holm looked like if this boat was decked out in every luxury known to man.

Despite the grandeur, Molly was happy the tour was over. It made her nervous that she didn’t quite know what to do. She had tried her best to look indifferent to all the riches, especially in front of the two Holmes Princes. They both seemed so accustomed to it all, and she wasn’t sure if the real princesses would have been indifferent to it as well but it felt like the safer thing to do.

Once they were left alone, Ruth began crying again. Only fourteen, she had spent a good part of the car ride bawling, trying to come to terms with this sudden change in her life. Poor Ruth - no, Liz, she needed to get into the habit of saying that name, even if it was just in her head - Poor Liz just had every dream dashed and was so scared of being caught that she hardly spoke. She had more family than Molly, loved to cook, and even had her eyes set on one of the royal house’s footmen.

Molly didn’t have people like that. Sure, she had parents, but they really didn’t talk much, and she had no interest in most boys around her. They all seemed so dull. She could never seem to get a conversation going about any natural sciences like chemistry. Everything usually centred around her cooking, which was okay she supposed, but it wasn’t what she had wanted to do. No, if her parents had had the money, Molly would have studied to be a doctor or perhaps a nurse. Instead, she’d been in the kitchen since she was twelve. There was something mechanical in it as well, but it didn’t excite her the way something in the nature sciences would have.

Just when Liz’s sobs were subsiding, one of the suits dropped by with a message for both of them to meet Prince Sherlock in the dining room. Molly sighed. This game of pretending was somehow more trying than the backbreaking work that she was used to in the kitchen. At least there, she’d always known what to expect.

Molly and Liz were the first to arrive in the dining room, quickly followed by Dr. Watson.

“What’s wrong?” the doctor asked with concern.

“Wrong? We were just called here by Prince Sherlock Holmes,” Molly supplied.

“That’s funny. My note says that one of you needed medical attention.” Dr. Watson showed the girls his note and then wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

“Do you know why he’s called us here?” Molly asked.

Dr. Watson shook his head, “Haven’t the faintest.”

“You don’t think he knows, do you?” Molly licked her lips.

The doctor just frowned. With a sigh, he simply gestured to the one dining table that had been set with four settings, “Why don’t we sit down?”

Prince Holmes arrived shortly thereafter and joined them at the table. He leaned in with elbows on the table, folded his fingers under his chin, and studied Molly and then Ruth as if he could see the truth.

Molly swallowed in anticipation.

“So, tell me. Did King Gregory, your father, allow you two to travel much outside of Evanden?” Sherlock asked, lifting his chin up to let his fingers unfold to a half prayer stance.

The doctor jumped in, “No, it was too dangerous.” The girls nodded in agreement and edged closer to Dr. Watson.

“I figured as much. My brother is rather a bore, loves all the rules. He can be so petty sometimes,” the Prince rolled his eyes at the mention of his brother and then continued, “Doesn’t seem to understand that there can be cultural differences and all. So, I thought I’d show you some of Holm’s etiquette, specifically London’s. That is, if you’re interested. ”

Molly and Ruth nodded fervently. Molly looked over at Dr. Watson who wore a stern look on his face as he gently massaged his shoulder, where the Prince of Holm had kicked him. The poor doctor; he had only just fully recovered from being shot and then this all happens. Molly wasn’t sure what exactly went on between the doctor and Prince Sherlock, but still, who kicks a man with a cane?

It pleased her that Prince Sherlock Holmes did seem hellbent on annoying his older brother, but then again, the younger prince didn’t seem quite the angel either. The brothers had fought on and off throughout the boat tour about the corpses that Prince Mycroft Holmes had promised but failed to deliver. God only knows what powerful men want with corpses...

Still, Molly wasn’t about to pass up a potential lesson in high class behaviour. Any information would be helpful, and coming from Prince Sherlock himself, it would most likely be accurate, compared to some of the tidbits Captain Anderson had given them right before they left.

“For starters, in Holm, we don’t use the royal family’s last names. Instead of King Lestrade, we would naturally say King Gregory.”

Molly mouthed the name silently. It felt odd to call King Lestrade by his first name, but she liked that it would give a clearer distinction between Prince Mycroft and Prince Sherlock.

“Ok, let’s begin from the entrance. I’ll need everyone to get up and we’ll enter the room together,” Prince Sherlock commanded, pairing himself off with Molly and Dr. Watson with Elizabeth.

They practised walking in, making their curtsies just so, and waiting for the men to pull out their chair. Prince Sherlock was very detail oriented, talking about the angle of the eye and the importance of looking indifferent.

“Look bored when you can. Granted, I realise that you’re probably nervous. My brother does have that effect on many people, I assure you,” Prince Sherlock smiled. “But, no need to look nervous around the help. Ignore them and keep your eyes straight ahead. I’m well aware that the Lestrade kingdom has more relaxed rules regarding this sort of thing, but you’ll never gain respect in the Holmes kingdom at that rate.”

The girls swallowed and nodded. Molly was grateful that Prince Sherlock seemed to be brushing off all their eccentric behaviour as foreign customs. Each time he did so, she felt the tension in her muscles relax a little. Perhaps there was hope; they just might be able to fool everyone. She glanced at Dr. Watson. He too seemed to be frowning less.

They went through a multitude of steps and nuances that were evidently part of every high class meal. Molly’s head swirled. The only part she did understand with clarity was the order of the meal as that didn’t seem very different from the Lestrade kingdom and she had memorised menu after menu while in the kitchen.

“Yes, it’s a lot of information. Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine. And, if you have any questions on the cultural differences, just ask me. Don’t worry, I won’t overwhelm you with too much. In the morning, I’ll instruct you on the court introduction order and what to say and not to say to mother.” He rolled his eyes again.

Molly giggled. Prince Sherlock was clearly the black sheep in the family, but he seemed friendly enough. He was also a good teacher, pointing out the subtlest nuances of upper class culture. Molly wondered if that had been taught or if he was just a particularly observant man.

The girls took turns picking up their utensils and stemware in order, playfully pretending to be enjoying their invisible meal. Liz picked up her wine glass and offered a pretend toast to which Molly joined in. The girls giggled, their first real laugh all day.

Prince Sherlock relaxed into his chair, leaning back and smiling. It wasn’t a big smile, not the kind that revealed any teeth, but the corners were clearly turned up, in a quiet gentleness. Molly tried to replicate it with her thin lips, her chest filling with a new feeling of wonder for the mysterious man.

In her mimicry, she noticed that Prince Sherlock wasn’t quite looking at her, nor Liz, but at Dr. Watson, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Watson mouth a 'thank you', to which Prince Sherlock just smiled.

Chapter Text

As they parted, Sherlock reminded them all once again, “Don’t let Mycroft know about this. I bet him a date with Mother that you all wouldn’t know what to do, and I definitely don’t want to lose.”

The girls giggled again and Sherlock waved good-bye.

John was tired but very glad to see the girls more relaxed, not to mention it was a relief that Sherlock clearly cared enough to help them keep up their ruse. The younger Holmes had even been kind enough to not let on that he knew the girls were fake, citing cultural differences. John chuckled at how clever the man could be and was decidedly glad that Sherlock hated Prince Mycroft Holmes. After all, the aching bruises were from Prince Mycroft, not Sherlock.

Once the girls had left, John left the dining room and started to head back to the meeting room where Prince Mycroft and his generals were scheming. Halfway there, the black curls of Sherlock popped out of a side door. Once he was fully visible, John noted that the man was holding a jar of peanuts.

“Ah, Dr. Watson! Just the man I wanted to see,” Sherlock said while jumping in front of John’s way. “If one were allergic to say-- peanuts-- exactly how many peanuts could he eat before he would die?”

All tiredness suddenly left John’s mind. “Die? Prince Sherlock, what… no, who….?”

“Call me Sherlock. My brother’s the Prince and I don’t like the association,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. “And, it’s a simple question. How much would kill a man, an allergic man?”

Eyeing the jar of peanuts in Sherlock’s hand, John treaded the question carefully. “It would really depend on the person and how allergic the man or woman was. I have heard of a few extreme cases where the person need not eat any. The residual oil of a peanut touching some other food was apparently enough to kill.”

“I see,” Sherlock furrowed his brow and passed his lightly closed hand under his chin. “So, you’re saying that in short of pouring a whole jar of peanuts, there’s no guarantee.”

Alarmed, John stammered, “There’s really no need for a whole jar. You should be starting with just the oil to test the severity of the allergy, though if you’re sure the allergy exists, even that might be risky.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, my good doctor, it was only a hypothetical question,” Sherlock said casually at John, though his gaze had already wandered off elsewhere. The younger Holmes reached into his jar of peanuts and popped a few in his mouth. With that, Sherlock turned and began walking away. He reminded John mid-chew, “Don’t forget that you were taking care of the girls’ seasickness!”

Right. Sherlock’s question was a bit disconcerting, but at least he didn’t seem allergic to peanuts himself. John sighed and decided he had best return to Prince Mycroft, whose presence he had left rather suddenly.

By the time John had returned to the meeting room, it was emptying out.

Prince Mycroft smiled at John’s return and placed a hand on John’s shoulder to turn him around. “It is tea time, my good doctor. We islanders must have our tea, open sea or not. Come along, we’re going to the lounge by the deck. With the wind subsiding, I thought it might be nice to get some sun after a cuppa.”

Sigh. The deck was back where he’d just come from. The boat was smaller than the palace, but between the tour, the tutorial, and the shaking of the boat, John’s cane hand burned. Still, it seemed meaningless to protest.

Tea time itself was a quiet affair with most of the boat’s occupants sitting in the sheltered deck lounge, enjoying the view. The girls were using their newfound knowledge of upper class etiquette and blending in quite well, and John was careful not to overdo his manners so that it would set him apart from the girls.

After tea, everyone indulged Prince Mycroft and went out to the deck to “enjoy” the sun, though no one really looked terribly happy about it except for the Prince himself.

The deck was fairly spacious with random pockets of lounging furniture and benches. John took the opportunity to tuck himself away in a corner and sat down on a bench. He was just beginning to massage his cane hand when the appearance of Prince Mycroft made him realise his error in isolating himself from the others.

“Is your hand bothering you?” the Prince asked innocently as he approached from John’s right.

“No. No, I’m fine,” John moved his hands to his left side, covering his right hand with his left.

The tall man sat down to John’s right and reached over. John initially fought the urge to defend himself against an attack and then felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead as he yet again realised that he had miscalculated. The Prince pulled at John’s aching hand and began massaging it. John’s back straightened, his free hand balled into a fist, and his neck curved upward as he stilled himself.

Suddenly, John heard Sherlock’s voice. “Doctor! We need a doctor!!” Prince Mycroft scowled as John turned to his right to see Sherlock’s face sticking out from around the bend. “Dr. Watson! We need you!”

John bolted up and headed straight for the middle of the deck where a man lay supine. As he approached, some men in suits brought him his medical kit.

“I had them go get it,” Sherlock explained. Then, Sherlock turned to the man on the floor, “Sir Ericson, Dr. Watson is here. Don’t worry.”

John kneeled by Sir Ericson, who was thankfully still conscious but clearly having trouble breathing. Through the wheezing, Sir Ericson managed to say one word, “Peanuts.”

“Oh, silly me, I forgot that those chocolate truffles had peanuts in them!” cried Sherlock from behind.

John’s mouth wouldn’t close. Instead, he darted a look at Sherlock and back at the wheezing man. He swallowed, but in his disbelief, he still couldn’t quite close his mouth.

Another gasp pulled John’s attention back to the body in front of him and John got to work.

********

Sherlock beamed as the good doctor brought the man back to health. His timing had been impeccable: offering the peanut laced truffle to the dessert-loving Ericson moments after Mycroft disappeared. Good thing too, since by the time the round Sir Ericson managed to have an allergic reaction, Mycroft was already giving the doctor a hand massage! He hadn’t thought Mycroft had it in him to seduce the doctor. It was a brief interaction, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if the doctor had enjoyed it, but clearly his brother needed to be stopped.

Sherlock noticed more changes right away. On the way from London, Mycroft and he had their own table for all dinners. Tonight, however, Mycroft had attempted to sit Sherlock with the girls at a table of three, while Dr. Watson and himself shared  a table of two. Sherlock jumped into action.

“You are not relegating me to the kids table! It’s bad enough that you tricked me into this trip and now, you won’t even sit with me?” Sherlock sulked and then added, “You never even got me my cadavers.”

“Sherlock, how many times must I tell you... That was if there was a war. I can’t control the fact that Prince Lestrade decided against it,” Mycroft scowled indignantly.

“There must be corpses waiting around somewhere in the empire!”

“Yes, and they have families! We cannot just snatch the bodies of the newly deceased away from the families. It is quite frowned upon…”

“By who? The dead don’t care...”

“Sherlock, what would you have me do? Shoot a few of the tributes?” Mycroft was getting riled up.

Always the drama queen. Sherlock played it cool, loving his impassive upper hand, “God knows you have enough of them.”

“Fine. You choose the ones you want, and I’ll have them shot if that’s what you want,” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.

There was a cry. Sherlock paused and glanced over at the girls, who were both now pale white. As his eyes met theirs, Elizabeth burst into tears. That was unplanned.T he girl evidently didn’t like it when people argued.

Mycroft shook his head, “Now, would you stop talking about cadavers in the dining room?”

“Hmph.” His brother was always one for decorum, though it was possible that the word cadaver had triggered Elizabeth’s tears…. could test the theory.

Sherlock chose a slightly elevated voice to mock his brother, “I’m Mycroft, I’ll shoot people down because it’s convenient, but god forbid someone says cadaver in the dining room!” He raised his voice towards the end before yelling, “Cadaver!”

A quick glance over at Elizabeth’s new stream of tears affirmed his theory. Sherlock brought his voice back to normal and added, “and NO, I don’t need you to randomly start shooting. I’m trying to solve murders, not cause them.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, “That’s all noble and all, but you’re going to starve the people on this boat if you don’t sit down.”

“I’m not sitting until you sit with me,” Sherlock interjected defiantly.

“What do you want me to do? Bring in a different table?”

“You know, you could just sit with me and move the doctor to the kids table,” Sherlock pointed out and grinned.

Mycroft had the footmen bring in a bigger table.

It was round and sat five comfortably. His big brother then placed Sherlock between the two “eligible maidens”, effectively positioning Dr. Watson to Mycroft’s left and Sherlock far enough to not really be able to hear their conversation when Mycroft whispered. Sherlock frowned. The table was not very big nor were there any armrests on the upholstered chairs. Watson would be vulnerable throughout the meal.

As predicted, during the soup, Sherlock saw Mycroft’s left hand begin to wander from time to time. The doctor looked away and focused as much attention as he could on Elizabeth to his left, but conversation from Elizabeth was not very forthcoming. Evidently, the earlier argument had clamped her shut.

Sherlock waited, trying to engage his brother in conversation.

“We should get them a new governess, seeing as their old one fell ill,” Sherlock said as he passed the butter to Elizabeth. Elizabeth looked puzzled and seeing as no one wanted it, placed the butter by her wine glass.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you want for your future bride,” Mycroft said between spoonfuls of soup. He then turned to Watson, “They can have our doctor as well, which would free up Dr. Watson here so he might relax.” Mycroft’s hand reached down to the doctor’s thigh in a gesture that Sherlock could only assume was a pat. The hand never came back up.

Dr Watson frowned, “I had hoped to stay with the girls. Don’t really care to be idle.”

“You must be joking,” Mycroft smiled, and the doctor twitched noticeably, his eyes flicking down towards his own thighs. Had Mycroft just squeezed the doctor’s thigh?

That was enough. Sherlock reached over as if to be reaching for the butter by Elizabeth, and gently nudged Elizabeth’s red wine glass over in the doctor’s direction, staining the good doctor’s trousers.

“Oh, goodness me! I’m such a klutz. Dr. Watson, you’ll need to change, I’m afraid,” Sherlock cried out.

John Watson grimaced, “I’m okay.”

“No, no. We can’t have that. You must change into something dry.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got an extra suit,” John said somewhat abashed.

“Nonsense. We have plenty of suits around. Don’t we, Mycroft?” Sherlock said solicitously.

Mycroft just nodded, cautiously wiping wine off his left hand with his napkin.

“Come now, you can’t possibly stay in that. It wouldn’t be proper.” Sherlock’s final supplication won the doctor over, and the doctor got up to change.

As soon as the doctor was out the door, Sherlock dashed to his seat. “Now, about that marriage, Mycroft…”

Mycroft sighed. His eyes glazing over in boredom tinged with frustration.

Sherlock argued with Mycroft just until Watson returned to find his seat taken. Gesturing to his own seat, Sherlock kept up his argument until Watson had gratefully taken Sherlock’s seat, away from Mycroft. Once that was achieved, Sherlock promptly shut up.

After dinner, with everyone in the main lounge, Sherlock plotted his finishing act for the evening. Again, timing was crucial. He walked about the boat for a good half an hour, peering over every deck. Then, when he felt it had been long enough, he approached the lieutenant on duty and asked for a light and binoculars.

“What the heck for?” asked the sceptical lieutenant. The man must have already met Sherlock before as his tone carried the I won’t fall for your random shenanigans again attitude..

“Oh, nothing. Just thought I saw someone overboard.” Sherlock shone the light in the general direction in question. “It’s probably nothing though.”

The lieutenant took a peek and saw the offending blob and began yelling, “Captain! Captain! Man overboard!”

“You think he jumped? He seems to have a lifesaver around him,” said Sherlock calmly, using the lieutenant’s binoculars.

The lieutenant looked about frantically and noticed that the rope for the lifesaver had caught on the railing. “Oh! Thank goodness! Hold on! We’re pulling you in!”

As he did so, everyone rushed to the back of the stern to join the lieutenant, everyone but Sherlock. Sherlock edged toward the helm, pointing in the general direction of where the unfortunate soul had been spotted. While everyone was turned about, he pushed the wheel of the boat ever so slightly and disappeared before they pulled up the pile of clothes he had wrapped around a lifesaver.

Grinning, he waited in the smoking room until Mycroft had dismissed everyone but Dr. Watson from the lounge. Then, fifteen minutes in, he barged in on Mycroft leaning into the doctor and promptly informed his brother that the boat was running off course.

Not surprisingly, by late evening, John seemed to have already developed an automatic sense of relief upon seeing Sherlock, the rescuer. Like a scared rabbit relieved to see the hunter instead of the dog.

*****

Molly had always been an early riser. It had been a necessary part of her job, though she wasn’t quite sure what her job was anymore. She rose quietly, loath to awaken Ruth, who had cried herself to sleep. Molly slipped into something warmer to wander about the boat. She had found the tour unsatisfactory since she couldn’t study the rooms in much detail in front of the Holmes brothers. Moving from the music room to the smoking room and then the dining room, Molly tried to imagine Prince Sherlock spending time in each of the rooms. Would he have been reading? smoking?

‘Probably chasing after his brother like a little boy,’ she thought and smiled at the events of the day before. In almost every encounter, Prince Sherlock had been so desperate for Prince Mycroft’s attention that it was somewhat endearing, if not troubling. It must be hard to have such a powerful brother. A cold-hearted one at that. The Prince did say he’d shoot a few of the tributes down just to please the younger brother. Molly was glad that Prince Sherlock clearly didn’t want people getting shot. Though, she couldn’t quite figure out what the man’s obsession with dead bodies were. Something about an experiment.

Molly moved out of the dining room and edged along the corridor until she heard some familiar noise. It was the galley. The staff were already setting up for the morning meal, loudly clanging pots and pans and chopping things on their chopping boards. Out of curiosity, Molly paused and was tempted to go in, but restrained herself. She might be intruding. Back at the palace, the kitchen staff often felt uncomfortable during the rare occurrences of someone from upstairs coming into the kitchen. So, she was about to turn back when she caught a glimpse of a slender man with black curly hair arguing with the head chef. What was Prince Sherlock doing in the galley? And was that a harpoon in his hand?

“What do you mean there are no more pigs carcasses on board? The galley inventory clearly states four whole pigs. What did they do, walk on out of here? We’ve only eaten one so far, and I’ve seen to the second one, so clearly there are still two carcasses available! I just want one of them!” cried Prince Sherlock.

“To do what?” the cook sneered, “dice it up to watch it bleeding’?”

“No, I’m going to harpoon it! I’m not carrying this thing around for decoration. Do pay attention.”

“That’d make it inedible, that would! You already lost me one of them, you know.”

“And, you’ll be giving me this next one before I tell my brother about your little scheme with the onions.”

At that, the head cook’s eyes went wide.

“That’s right. I know you’re ordering more onions than necessary with my family’s money and selling the extra off for a nice side profit. My brother will have you shot if he finds out. So, I suggest you stop your little scheme before someone gets hurt and get me the carcass.”

With that, the cook dashed inside and had two men bring out a carcass. “Just not in here, please, just not in here,” the cook said with a sigh.

Prince Sherlock looked about the room, made eye contact with Molly, and conceded. “Take it out to the deck.”

Molly gasped. Was she not supposed to be here?

Prince Sherlock walked straight at her with his harpoon in his hand, paused a foot away from her face and asked, “You want to watch a pig carcass get harpooned?”

Molly tilted her head quizzically but nodded.

She wished she had worn something a bit warmer, for the nippy weather on the deck, but there was no time now. She watched in awe as the devilish man violently harpooned the dead carcass and began studying it. He explained how the blood might come out differently if the pig were alive and how the carcass would have been different had it not been gutted and so on.

Molly nodded. “Yes, there would have been a lot more blood, less bits of flying flesh.”

Prince Sherlock shot her a look and Molly quickly regretted mentioning anything. A princess would clearly not know how blood spilled from a pig, only a cook and a butcher’s daughter would know such gruesome details.

Fortunately, Prince Sherlock’s eyes relaxed, “Your governess was quite open-minded about your education.”

Pleased with the excuse that Prince Sherlock had given her, Molly continued to add bits of her knowledge from the kitchen work.

“Your kind clearly have a more useful education. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near butchering as a kid. Had to bribe the local butcher in Uni to get a closer look and the man didn’t have any live ones.”

“You must have seen a lot on the battlefields then.”

“Not really. Mycroft won’t let me on them.”

“Oh. Well, you do know your stuff.”

Prince Sherlock grinned and then went back to harpooning the carcass some more. By the end of it, Prince Sherlock was covered in random bits of raw pork and grinning like a child who just received a bucket of ice cream.

She couldn’t stop smiling at his enthusiasm.

Chapter Text

After breakfast, Molly joined her “sister” and Dr. Watson in the deck lounge to watch the boat leave the open waters of the ocean and approach land. Nearly forgetting their coffees, the three of them sat fascinated by the landscape that unfolded before them in a continuous roll. The boat rocked less as the nearby islands shielded it from the more tumultuous waves of the open sea. Yet, the stillness brought no peace. Instead, it added to the overwhelming oppression that hung in the air as the three of them neared London, the heart of Holm.

No photographs of London existed past 1920 when England had been renamed Holm nor did people have a tendency to ever exit once they entered. Still, her grandfather had once told her that the city itself was beautiful, and Molly wondered if she would somehow know that they had reached it.

Once lunch neared, there was quite a flurry of movement on board, continuing well into the afternoon. A tailor was sent their way to “update” their dresses to the latest London fashion, which for Molly seemed to mean adding a bunch of burgundy to an otherwise decent dress. Still, the changes weren’t all bad. Perhaps it would please Prince Sherlock. Molly decided she would go ask his opinion after they were done with her hair.

As she exited her cabin, Molly ran into Dr. Watson clad in his new charcoal grey suit and another burgundy tie. He gave her an approving smile and then together, they searched for Prince Sherlock.

They found him in the music room playing the violin. She had never heard the piece before, but it had a nice lilt to it and was pleasant to listen to. Perhaps London wouldn’t be so bad. It did afford her the company of this man, who had so many talents.

Both of them sat themselves down and waited for Prince Sherlock to finish, clapping once the tune had ended. Prince Sherlock looked startled and shot a quick glance their way, but then he coolly looked away and began repositioning the violin under his chin. Molly prepared for another song when she heard Prince Sherlock’s voice bounce off the walls.

“Your posture doesn’t do the dress justice.” His voice dripped with disapproval. “And Watson, do find her some white gloves. Her hands look positively provincial.”

Shaken, Molly looked towards Dr. Watson and tried to straighten herself. She looked down at the nicked and calloused hands she had earned through hard work, a part of her she had been proud of. And now, for the first time in her life, she hated them.

Prince Sherlock began playing another tune, turning as he did so. His turn allowed her to see his hands. Even from a distance, she could see the graceful smooth skin of silver spoon upbringing delicately handling the violin bow. She had to leave before the tears that threatened behind her eyes became public.

She lodged herself in a corner bench on the deck and willed herself to stop crying. When she was down to sniffling, Dr. Watson came by and sat down next to her. He was holding white gloves.

“Molly, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Dr. Watson said, “Cultural differences, that’s all.”

“Is it, Dr. Watson? You and I both know that he’s right. I’m no princess, and the whole world will know it when they see my hands,” Molly sobbed.

“They’ll see what they want to see,” Dr. Watson waited for Molly to look his way. “A beautiful princess.” The doctor smiled at her and despite herself and her own doubts, she felt better.

She let out a sigh and collected herself. “Well, perhaps we should help them see that,” she said meekly and opened her hands for the gloves. Grinning now, the doctor handed them over.

Putting them on, she tried to imagine how a real princess might have reacted in that situation. “And you’re right. It’s not like he knows that I’m not a princess. I suppose a real princess wouldn’t have been bothered by his words.”

“Right,” the doctor drew out and furrowed his brow. She looked at his doubt quizzically, but her thoughts were disrupted when she noticed a large tower with a clock. She had seen pictures of it before. Big Ben, her grandfather had called it.

They had arrived.

Another set of Mercedes awaited them off the boat, and Molly marvelled at how clean the city was as they drove down a wide street. Everything seemed so orderly, so well-kept.

The citizens seemed unaware of any new arrivals, for which Molly was glad. The parade at home was exhausting and she had feared there would be one on this end as well. No, this was much better. She could observe the daily routines, the shops, the offices without all the frills. The citizens she saw wore jet black jackets with pants or dress skirts, and regardless of gender, each had on a burgundy scarf tied in various fashion around their neck. A few walked in clumps, smiling as they headed this way and that. They seemed happy enough, walking in twos and threes, chatting and window-shopping.

The more she observed, the more something nagged at her. Perhaps it was the unnatural cleanliness. The streets didn’t look lived in at all, but cleanliness would hardly be a crime. No, it was something else. Something about the movements of the citizens. As they crawled past more and more people, she finally realised what it was - no one on the street was over thirty, and everyone was in the same outfit, the same burgundy, and the same smile. They even seemed to have the same well-timed steps as if missing a beat wasn’t humanly possible for them.

********

Tap, tap, tap. Sherlock tapped his finger against the car’s armrest. He’d never waited for the group before, and this was taking forever. Usually, he’d dash off in the first car and disappear so that he could skip the meet and greet altogether, but the doctor had insisted on waiting for the girls and he didn’t want to risk leaving John, his John, with Mycroft.

Mycroft, for his part, seemed to be enjoying the slow process, offering John a history lesson en route.

“It’s been in the family for years. We acquired the land from the royal parks back in the 1700s and began building it in the early 1750s. The completed design is different from the original, adapting to the times, but the overall layout did keep the octagon layout alive, at least for the central court.”

John peered out the window past Sherlock as the car passed by a big building. “And what’s that?” he asked.

“That, Dr. Watson, is the former British Empire’s main palace, known as Buckingham,” said Mycroft curtly, “though now it’s purely an administrative building. We’ve moved the royal family a little ways from here. Anyways, our Octland Palace is in the middle of Hyde Park, which we will be entering shortly.”

Silent, the doctor didn’t take his eyes off of the former palace, moving his head to follow the image. Sherlock had never thought much of the former British Empire, nor of the palace, but perhaps for John, the notion of a former palace, former realm might be too close to home. When the palace began to disappear from view, the doctor’s eyes followed, eventually meeting Sherlock’s.

“It’s well taken care of, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sherlock offered. “The family could have burned it down, but I suppose they were too lazy.”

At that, John turned his gaze away.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. We wouldn’t burn down such a beautiful building. That cost the English a fortune to build,” Mycroft said with a grin, and then he turned to the doctor. “Do know that we’re really not all that bad, John. We just get some bad press.”

Ha. Like the doctor would believe that, but if the doctor’s expression revealed anything, Sherlock couldn’t see it from his angle.

Soon enough, they were at Octland Palace. John’s eyes went wide, his limited intellect probably trying to wrap its head around the massive structure.

The car drove through the right thruway and went around the middle court, stopping in front of the West Wing. Sherlock groaned. Mycroft must have already arranged to see Mother. He hated these meetings, but then, he supposed he could participate. Just this once. Perhaps he could get Mother to give him the doctor.

Once the car stopped, guards came to escort the guests to the throne room in the usual fashion, which hardly seemed necessary for the guests in question, but Mother did like to be careful. Sherlock contemplated joining the girls and John for the maze-like route, but decided to follow Mycroft on the more direct path.

The Octland “Throne” Room was an octagon-shaped hall in the middle of a confusing array of geometric shaped rooms, each with multiple doors. Guests were taken on completely different routes each time with innumerable turns so that they would be disoriented by the time they entered the Throne Room. On top of that, Mother decided that the sparse furniture in the Octland Throne Room would move, covering three of the eight doors that led into the chamber. This would further disorient any guest that was a repeat visitor. Only Mother and Mycroft knew the straight path at any given moment, which would expedite their escape should they need one.

Sherlock and Mycroft reached the throne room early with Mother just coming in.

She took a seat and addressed Sherlock’s brother first, “Mycroft. I take it that your journey was successful.”

“Indeed. I brought back a few tokens: two Lestrade girls and a doctor. They should be here shortly.” Mycroft smiled.

“Good.” Mother turned to Sherlock. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Mother greeted him. “The trip away must have done you some good to have you willingly come into my throne room. I had imagined that the guards would have had to pull you in here.”

Sherlock scowled. So Mother had been expecting him, and of course they were meeting in her “throne” room. Damn power play. “We do have telephones. A call might have been sufficient unless of course the plan is to scare the guests as soon as they arrive.”

“Scare them?” Mother chuckled. “Nonsense, I just want to meet them. Besides, those telephones are such a nuisance. One never knows who’s listening.”

Sherlock just scoffed. What was the point of technology if people were too afraid to use it.

“So, how was the trip?” Mother asked with a smile.

“It was fine,” Sherlock lied. Must get this over with.

“Just fine? I want details.”

“What for?”

Mother leaned forward a bit from her throne. “Two of my boys just returned from abroad with guests. Contrary to what you may believe, Sherlock, I do care about your well-being.”

“Then, you’ll cancel this wedding business. I’m not partaking in any of it.”

“Hardly. Marital bliss may be just what the doctor ordered for you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t need your doctor. I found another one,” Sherlock glanced over at Mycroft before continuing, “though it seems Mycroft here is hell-bent on stealing him from me.”

“Mycroft, is this true?”

Mycroft feigned a look of surprise. That actor. “Stealing? I would hardly call it stealing. Sherlock here gave him up.”

“I did not!” Sherlock raised his voice indignantly.

“You lied and let him take the fall for your own words,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, “You gave him up.”

“And then I claimed him!” Sherlock raged. Sherlock stepped towards Mycroft.

“Sherlock!” It was Mother’s turn to raise her voice. Sherlock froze. “Mycroft, why don’t you give the doctor back?”

“I want him.”

Mother blinked. It was a subtle reaction, but the pause spoke a thousand words to Sherlock. It wasn’t often that Mycroft declared a particular want or need, especially on a personal level. Her face softened. This was bad.

“Mother, no,” Sherlock stopped. Pleading would most likely be futile. He’d fallen out of Mother’s favour since a summer experiment blew up a small portion of the North Wing when he was ten years old.

A guard stepped into the room and announced the arrival of the princesses and doctor.

****

Twenty-two. Twenty second door and he was facing… South, was it? There had been so many other zigzags within each room, that John was only about half sure that north was now behind him. Was this the daily route? or were these guards just trying to bewilder the princesses and him?

After twenty-two doors, John was finally in an octagon shaped room, carpeted in a dark burgundy, but sparsely furnished with a chair on a small platform stage, curtains to its side, two flag poles with the Holmes flags, and a large chandelier.

Three figures already inhabited the room: Prince Mycroft and Sherlock looking away from each other in awkward silence and a lady sitting in a big chair - no, throne? Was this Sherlock’s Mother? She’s so young! She did have silver blond hair that would normally indicate age, but the rest of her, the smooth skin, the lack of wrinkles or freckles all seemed to point towards youth. Even with a doctor-trained eye, John couldn’t quite deduce how old she was. The woman looked like she could be anywhere between thirty-five and sixty. Still, the edges of her pointy features and her light grey eyes screamed Sherlock. This must be the “meet and greet” that Sherlock had prepared them for in the morning. The ageless woman decked out in a burgundy gown must indeed be Sherlock’s mother.

As the three of them introduced themselves, John focused on getting the bow right and going through the motions, but he got the distinct feeling that the Queen was staring at him. One would have imagined that she would have been more interested in the girls. Yet, the hairs on his neck prickled as she kept a deadpan eye on him, the doctor, the “only” non-royal blood in the room.

She pointed at John and finally spoke, “You. Come closer.” Her voice was commanding, yet melodious.

John stepped forward to appease the Queen.

“Turn. Turn your head for me.”

John obeyed, though the command was an odd one.

“And the other way.”

Again, John obeyed without much thought.

“He looks like Vincent,” she said, though to no one in particular.

Vincent? Who was Vincent? John looked about to see who she might be talking to, except he was the only male in the room that wasn’t a possible heir.

Prince Mycroft chuckled. It was an uneasy chuckle, accompanied by a slight wringing of the right hand. “Surely, you’re not talking about Vincent from secondary school.”

“He looks like him,” she simply repeated.

The Prince got serious. “Mother, that was a long time ago.”

Who was Vincent? John shot Sherlock a look, but Sherlock was busy raising an eyebrow towards his brother.

“Dr. Watson, was it?”

Her voice pulled his attention back to the Queen’s intense face.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” she stated with a bit of amusement.

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John pointed out, and quite honestly, John couldn’t help but think the woman was beautiful even with her age. Sherlock clearly took after her, though where Prince Mycroft came from, he wasn’t sure. What did Sherlock’s father look like? Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in the paternal genes.

The Queen chuckled. “I like him.” She turned to the older of the two brothers and nodded.

John wasn’t sure what the exchange had meant, but he saw Sherlock’s face suddenly scowl. That can’t be too good.

The nameless Queen rose from her seat and moved past John to the girls. John held his breath as the regent studied the girls up and down.

Finally, the Queen smiled at Molly. “This one will do just fine. Just fine.”

Sherlock glared at his Mother from a distance. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Forgive me for wanting grandchildren. We all know that Eurus isn’t going to be producing me one any time soon,” Sherlock’s mom retorted.

Eurus. Wait, there’s another one? While John wrapped his head around that one, a sudden knock disrupted the proceedings.

They were ushered out and escorted through yet another maze of doors until they finally returned to the cars. Prince Mycroft and Sherlock had taken a different path and appeared to have left earlier. John took a seat with the girls in their car and studied the route, though there wasn’t much to study. The car completed a circle around the courtyard and entered into the Northern Tower.

John hadn’t expected the driver to let them out inside the building, but the road continued through it. As a matter of fact, there was even space for parking on the ground floor of the wing.

When the car rolled to a stop, a number of servants were awaiting them, ten to be exact.

“Your Royal Highness,” they bowed and curtsied to each of them in turn. John wasn’t sure if he should correct them in the error of addressment, but just then, Ruth burst into tears.

Both Molly and John moved themselves closer to her, and John patted her on the back.

Ruth drew herself in towards John for a bit and cried.

“There, there, Liz, it’ll be okay,” he consoled, though intentionally using the name Liz to remind her of her mission. Eventually, the cries subsided into sniffles, and Ruth backed away.

John offered the staff a sheepish grin and nodded for them to lead the way. The oldest among them, a grey haired man named Henry of a grave disposition did just that, silently.

Fortunately, a young lady’s maid stepped along side the girls and introduced herself. Betty, a cheerful blonde girl in her late twenties, was to be their lady’s maid and set to consoling the two young girls. John was glad to note that the three of them seemed to click.

A young gentleman in his late teens stepped up besides John.

“I’m Daniel Donovan. I’m to look after you,” Daniel smiled. “Was just a footman, but I learn quick if you give me a chance.”

John tried to smile back but found himself too tired to make the full effort. Instead, he continued to count: one corridor, fifteen steps up, two doors, and another ten steps up a criss-cross stairwell so far. John continued to make mental notes, though he was aware that he wasn’t going to be running out of the palace anytime soon, especially with his limp. Still, the soldier in him catalogued it away. Counting was always better than dwelling.

“Must be hard, leaving the Lestrade Palace,” the man said.

John just nodded.

“You know, it’s the first time they've had guests, the royal family, I mean.” When John wasn’t very forthcoming in the conversation, Daniel just continued. “Makes sense, I suppose. They’re really not the type to have friends, are they?”

John glanced at Daniel quizzically. The boy was not trained to keep his mouth shut.

Five more steps. John stopped to take a quick break. At the top of the stairs stood an older lady expectantly peering down the railing. She didn’t seem to pay much attention to John nor the girls, and John found himself looking back down, wondering who she was waiting for.

Just then, a curly blob of hair came nimbly up the stairs. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Oh, Sherlock~,” the older lady cried with joy. John watched in amazement as Sherlock walked past John and actually embraced this Mrs. Hudson. The man had seemed so cold to just about everyone else that this came as quite a surprise.

John climbed the remaining five more steps.

“John! I see that my brother put you in 222A. Good spot. You’ll be close by. I’m in 221B most of the time, if you’re free,” Sherlock practically beamed. “You ought to see some of my experiments. They will interest the doctor in you.”

The doctor nodded. He couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

Sherlock glanced at the staff who were now clearly waiting for John to finish his conversation. “Right, though maybe later. After you get settled in.” With that, he turned back to Mrs. Hudson who was inquiring about the outside world.

John continued his directions: right turn, second door on the left. It was then that he’d realised that young Daniel had gone quiet.

After two more doors, Henry stopped along with the entourage and gestured towards the door on the right. “We imagined the Princesses would prefer the southern side.” Then, he turned to John while gesturing towards the door on the left. “For your royal highness, we prepared the northern guest room.”

John furrowed his brows and finally decided to correct the error, “I’m not... You can drop the title, I’m not royalty. Only they are,” John gestured towards the girls.

At this, Henry’s brows twitched, but the old man just nodded. “Very well. Dinner will be at seven-thirty, downstairs. Daniel will escort you.” With that, Henry turned his attention to the girls.

“I thought you were a Prince… with the nice guest room and all,” Daniel remarked once Henry was out of earshot.

“Nope. Just the girls’ doctor.”

“Oh,” Daniel frowned. “Are you really going to see his experiments?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, you would do well to avoid that Prince Sherlock,” Daniel said, nodding as if to affirm his own words.

“And, why’s that?” John inquired.

“Because,... he’s a psychopath. A real one. I’ve heard all the rumours.”

John frowned and before he could stop himself, retorted, “I could be wrong ... but I think that’s none of your business.”

Daniel shut up after that.

Chapter Text

As Betty showed the two “princesses” their rooms, Molly found herself holding her breath, not wanting to give off any impression that she wasn’t used to the luxury and expensive rooms. They first entered their personal sitting room, or was it called a drawing room? Molly wished she’d paid more attention while working at the Lestrade Palace.

Sunlight streamed into the room from the top third of two of the walls, where wooden trefoils interlaced gracefully with larger openings. The room was lightly furnished with armchairs and a sofa centred around a coffee table.

“I imagine it’s smaller than what you’re used to,” the lady’s maid apologised, “The tower divides into four equal wings, well, almost equal. So, the individual rooms are unfortunately a bit smaller…. The Prince did mention that if you wanted a piano or something, we can roll one in.”

Molly shook her head. “This is fine.”

“Very well, the bedchamber is this way. We were told you two would likely want to stay together,” Betty gestured to a door towards the back of the room. After the first open door, Betty paused to let the girls catch up. “I almost forgot, this here is one bathroom and the door next to it is a closet. The bigger bathroom is inside, however.”

They passed through the small atrium and into the bedchamber. It had been furnished with two beds interspaced with night stands and a couple of armchairs. To the right was a fireplace with a small glow that attested to its already lit state, though it fought the Southern sunlight for attention.

“There’s a terrace on the other side of that door over in the corner. It’ll link up directly with Prince John… no, Doctor, was it?” Betty looked towards Molly and Ruth for confirmation before continuing, “Doctor Watson’s room. It’s nice in the summer, but I don’t imagine anyone would want to be out on it right now.”

Molly wanted to go check it out, but Betty continued their tour into the side of the room.

Behind a partition was yet another door, leading into a grand bathroom. It had a very large tub and a sink that ran across the wall with two taps. The room was pleasantly warm and humid from a bath that had already been drawn.

“To the sides are additional toilets and separate walk-in closets, though the one on the south end is a bit larger. If you’ll be needing extra space, however, we do customarily store the grander outfits below stairs.”

Molly just nodded.

“Well, that’s about it for now. Your governess will be here tomorrow. So, in the meantime, would either of you care for a bath?”

Molly and Ruth exchanged glances, and Molly smiled, nodding for Ruth to go ahead first.

As Betty helped Ruth into her bath, the older princess decided to explore a bit. The walk up had been so quick that she hadn’t been able to absorb much. All she knew was that they had come up a flight of stairs that ended with a great big set of doors in front and a hallway that expanded to the right and left and curved around like a great upside down “U”. At the curves of the “U” and at the very tips were smaller doors - four total. Thinking back, she understood that there must be four wings to this tower and based on the sunlight streaming into her room, she was able to tease out that they were in the east wing.

She carefully closed the door to her room and walked around a bit, taking in the grand room that divided the girls from Dr. Watson. She wondered what the doctor was up to and went over to the door to knock. But, just before she could, a young man opened the door and was grumbling on his way out.

Molly paused. Daniel, was it? She had seen the man with Dr. Watson earlier.

Realising Molly’s presence, the young man looked up. “Oh! Your royal highness. Do you need something?”

“No, I’m quite alright,” Molly added a smile to ease the grumbling man. “How’s the doctor?”

That had apparently been the wrong question. Daniel frowned. “He doesn’t want anything. Just told me to leave him alone.”

“He probably needs some time to warm up to you, that’s all,” Molly offered.

Daniel nodded. “Well, he’s taking a bath at the moment…”

“Oh, I see.”

Daniel moved to leave when an idea entered Molly’s mind. “Daniel, would you say you know this tower well?”

“I suppose so, would you like a tour?”

Molly nodded and let the newly minted guide lead the way out of the wing back to the balcony of the ‘U’ shaped hallway and stopped in front of the stairs. From the balcony of the ‘U’ shaped hallway, she could see everything from the grand chandelier in the centre to the first floor carpet.

Daniel stopped for a moment and began to explain the general layout. “There’s not a lot to see from here, at least not without disturbing the residents of each of the wings, but I guess it would be helpful to know that the wing we just came from is the East Wing of the North Tower. To the right is Prince Sherlock’s wing and in front is Prince Mycroft’s wing. Each of the wings look identical to the wing we just came from, but the Princes themselves use both rooms, though for each his own purpose. Prince Sherlock uses one as his residence and the other as a laboratory and Prince Mycroft Holmes uses his residences interchangeably. ”

They passed some guards as they neared the stairs. “Right, I almost forgot,” Daniel pointed towards the tip ends of the ‘U’ hallway, “Those doors there lead to the guard room. While a majority of the guards reside elsewhere, there will always be at least one unit up here. If you ever need anything, you can always ask at the guard room, though if it’s not urgent, ringing the bell in your room will be just as effective, and of course, you met Mrs. Hudson briefly. She has a room there between the North and East wing. She can help with other needs you might have; though for the most part, she serves Prince Sherlock…. She’s really one of the few who can.”

From there, Daniel led them downstairs and began showing her the different rooms: a music room, a theatre, a game room of sorts, the drawing room and more. As they passed room after room and gallery after gallery, Molly felt lost even as her guide led her around. She should have been happy to see such riches, but instead, all the rooms made her realise that she would have no excuse to leave, making the grand house an elaborate but sure cage.

****

The bath was wonderful. John felt sturdier and more relaxed without all the grit from the sea clinging to his body. The warmth also helped against the sore muscles and fully formed bruises. He wanted to take his time, but unsure about what he was to expect next, he decided it best to get ready quickly.

He was glad he did. No sooner had he dressed did John find two tall nameless suits at his door.

“Prince Mycroft requests a private audience,” one of the men said.

“And, if I decline?” John asked playfully.

“Then, we are to carry you,” the other gentleman said matter-of-factly.

John grimaced as he envisioned them carrying him off between them and begrudgingly followed them back to the dome shaped middle of the residential wing. They circled the dome in almost a complete semicircle until he was continuing through the doors on the west side. This must be Prince Mycroft’s wing. Odd that John would be placed so close to the main family. The men took him as far as the wing’s grand room and sat him down before leaving him there.

With no further instructions, John studied the grand room. If he didn’t know any better, John would have thought he was back by his room. The west wing looked similar to the wing he’d just left with doors on both the northern and southern sides. John wondered if it also had two bedrooms, which might mean that Sherlock would be in one of them. Sherlock had said 221B, except nothing had numbers on them. He tried to guess which one, looking for clues the way he had seen Sherlock deduce, but the doors were identical.

Several minutes passed before a young lady in a secretarial suit exited from the southern set of doors. John sat up a little straighter, taking in her attractive features. She had a diamond shaped face and soft eyes. He moistened his lips to put on his best smile. The brunette looked towards John and smiled back. He couldn’t help beaming until she reminded him as to why he was there to begin with, “He’s ready for you.”

Inside, Prince Mycroft sat at a desk, speaking into a telephone while shuffling papers. He was clearly using his sitting room as a half-office and John had come in the middle of business. Half-distracted, the Prince gestured toward a burgundy divan for John to sit down. John complied and waited.

He couldn’t quite figure out what Prince Mycroft had wanted him for. His bedroom was far too nice for just the family doctor, not to mention it was rare to position the doctor so close to the family unless someone needed constant care. No, he had been given other indications, physical advances whenever Prince Mycroft thought no one was looking…, but then, some of it was curious. Like, the night before on the boat ride in, everyone else had left him with Prince Mycroft in the lounge. John had been so sure that the Prince was going to try something that he was relieved when the mighty man just sat there, ignoring John for fifteen whole minutes before sliding over to John’s side. Thankfully, Sherlock arrived shortly thereafter. John shook his head. It was probably best not to overthink it all just yet.

An elevated voice disrupted John’s thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?” He apologised. It appeared that Prince Mycroft had finished whatever business he was attending to and was now peering at him for a response.

“I asked if you would care for some tea.”

“No, no thank you,” John didn’t care to prolong the meeting any more than he had to.

“I must insist. It’s quite an important part of our culture here in Holm.”

“Alright then. I suppose a cup couldn’t hurt,” John replied and then felt uneasy as he watched Prince Mycroft brew the tea himself. The image entranced him. He hadn’t pictured Prince Mycroft doing anything so domestic for himself let alone for someone inferior.

“You’re wondering why you’re here,” Prince Mycroft said, offering John a cup and sitting himself down in a chair he’d pulled up.

“No, I… Yes, your highness. I just wanted to be clear on my duties.” John took a sip. The tea was dark and rich. Not bad for someone with maids around the clock. Not at all bad.

“Oh yes, duties,” Prince Mycroft smiled.

John forced a smile back. It helped to think about his tea.

“You are to have none.”

John raised an eyebrow and then quickly stoned his features to be as impassive as possible.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be without use. I just don’t want you occupied whenever I should need you.”

“For?” John swallowed, half afraid of the answer, “For what exactly might that be?”

“For sex, of course,” Prince Mycroft chuckled, “My dear John, you didn’t think I would just flirt with you and not take you to bed?”

John almost dropped his tea.

“No, I am a man of efficiency, and I dare say that you have been a most delicious find,” Prince Mycroft continued. “I regret that it took kicking you to see that, but I don’t intend on hurting you if possible.”

He knew from kicking me? Did he enjoy that - that exercise of power? Sadist. John finally placed his tea back in the saucer and sat up straight. No, he could never service a man who enjoyed giving pain nor any other man for that matter.

“I’m flattered. Really, I am, but I don’t swing that way,” John stated as politely as he could manage, putting his tea down.

“I’m aware, but that doesn’t really matter.” Prince Mycroft kept an even eye on John.

John glared back. “You can’t make me,” he said defiantly and rolled his hands into tight fights on his lap.

“I hardly think you’re in the position to refuse, but if it bothers you, you can think of it as a way of saving lives.”

“Lives?”

Prince Mycroft smiled and leaned in a little, “Yes. Dr. Watson, for every evening spent with me, I’ll send one of the Evanden tributes home… Of course, conversely, for every time you refuse to comply, I will shoot a tribute. Lord knows I have enough to spare, not to mention it would finally get my brother Sherlock off my back when I can produce the cadavers he wants so badly...”

“You wouldn’t,” John whispered, trying to control his breathing. His fists unrolled as he arched up his shoulders. His fingers now clawed at his own knees.

“Wouldn’t I? How would you know?” Prince Mycroft dropped his smile and looked at John sternly.

John lost his breath. Why? Why him? Because he looked like someone named Vincent?

“Why you?” Prince Mycroft echoed John’s thoughts with a chuckle, “Why not? If I were interested in flawless skin and innocence, I should have been a happy man. Sadly, that is not how it seems to work.” He sighed.

John looked up and dared to make eye contact. Was the man serious? Would he shoot those innocent men? In reviewing the thirty hours that he’d known the man, John didn’t doubt that the Prince could and would, if provided the right ammunition. Sighing, John averted his eyes to the floor. He could never respect a man like that.

“Dr. Watson, I am not asking for your heart, just your body. You can imagine you’re with someone else.”

He heard the shuffling of the Prince’s suit and then a set of polished black shoes came into view.

“The doctor in you won’t let those men die, now would you? Or would it be the soldier in you? One of those must find the arrangement adequate. The men have a chance at returning home, after all.”

John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. No, he couldn’t let those men die. Not even if he had to lay his own life down for them.

“That’s a good doctor,” smiled Prince Mycroft, leaning in. “Of course, this arrangement is our little secret. One word, to anyone - including my brother - and I will shoot them all. As far as everyone else is concerned, you enjoy my company.”

Great. So, he had to lie and act as well as whore himself out. John closed his eyes, holding back the burning disgust and anger knitting at the centre of his nose.

“It needn’t be all bad. You might even enjoy yourself,” the Prince said.

“I.. I’m really not…” John swallowed. He had never had any interest in men. Not that there hadn’t been opportunities, especially in the army away from the pressures of societal norms. No, he was just never interested… at least, he didn’t think so… Either way, the idea of any intimacy with Prince Mycroft Holmes or any male was not a pleasant one.

“I never said you were, but that doesn’t preclude enjoyment.” The taller man sat himself next to John, placing one arm behind the soldier-doctor and the other into the centre of John’s lap.

John’s heart clenched, goosebumps running up his arm. All previous encounters with the Prince had only gone as far as a shoulder, a thigh. John could ignore those, loads of men were rather touchy, but this, this he couldn’t ignore, especially now that the hand in his lap had started to move in circular motions. Every ounce of soldier training in him wanted to punch the man.

“Now John, if you’re done coming to terms with it all, do relax. Think of someone else if you must.”

********

Mother was being annoying again, calling him back to see if he liked the girls. Without the buffer of Mycroft, the meeting was even worse.

Sighing, Sherlock strolled back to his residential wing. He wasn’t in a hurry. Mycroft was sure to be busy catching up with all the paperwork that had piled up in his absence, not to mention preparing for the committee meeting that evening. Boring, but thankfully, not Sherlock’s problem, and it kept his brother busy and away from John. Perhaps, Sherlock could invite the doctor on his excursion into London tomorrow. He gathered that the doctor would like that.

But the doctor wasn’t in his room. Bullocks. John hadn’t struck Sherlock as the type to just wander around without permission, not without a mission anyway. Mycroft must have already taken him. Sherlock quickened his pace and stormed over to Mycroft’s wing. No guards past the wing gates. Bad sign. He should have waited for the doctor and taken the man with him. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

As he paraded down the hall, he glanced at both doors and quickly chose the door on the left, the Southern side, grinning at the small scuff that the good doctor’s cane had left for him to find. In one combined movement, he turned the knob, opened the door, and barged in screaming, “Mycroft!!!”

The two were on the study’s divan. Sporting a smirk, Mycroft calmly but quickly crossed his left leg over his right and leaned back a bit. John, on the other hand, looked horrified and curled his body into the divan, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees in a defensive position.

“Sherlock, even eight year old tramps in London know how to knock and wait their turn,” Mycroft chided with annoyance.

“That wouldn’t be any fun, would it now?” Sherlock offered dryly.

“Yes, you do like to stop all my fun, don’t you? But brother dear, don’t you think the good doctor deserves some enjoyment?”

At that, John blinked rapidly and tightened his already thin lips as he tried to sink his body deeper into the divan and failed. Only then did Sherlock notice the bulge in John’s pants that he was clearly trying to hide.

“John, if you would excuse us,” Sherlock said looking directly into the doctor’s eyes.

John’s nose twitched as he glanced at Mycroft’s quick nod before standing up. The doctor turned and kept an arm in front of himself but the cane forbade much consistent hiding. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the swell in John’s pants, the doctor’s dilated eyes, and embarrassed escape all confirmed Sherlock’s mounting suspicions: John Watson may actually enjoy Mycroft’s company.

Once the doctor left, Sherlock turned his attention to Mycroft.

“What are you playing at?” Sherlock demanded.

“Playing? I’ve merely taken an interest in the good doctor’s well-being. It’s called caring for others, you should try it sometime.”

“You would call that ‘caring’,” Sherlock lilted calmly. What was his brother up to? Despite all of Sherlock’s deduction skills, it was hard to read his siblings.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tsked, “Sex is a need that must be fulfilled. It would hardly do for the doctor to be deprived. He obviously craves it.”

“Transport. It’s all just transport,” Sherlock grit his teeth.

“Be that as it may be for you, the rest of us have needs,” Mycroft emphasised.

“Us, Mycroft? You mean you. Since when were you so pedestrian?”

“Ah, the sex talk is upsetting you, but make no mistake, Dr. Watson does enjoy it.” Mycroft shook his head gently. “Now, what did you want to see me for that you so rudely interrupted us? Surely, you wouldn’t have barged into my room without a good cause?”

“Nevermind that now, I want him. I need an assistant.”

“Don’t be childish, Sherlock. You only want him because he’s mine.”

“Now who’s being childish?” retorted Sherlock coolly. He had to agree that taking something of Mycroft had a certain appeal to it, but it was more than that this time. This one, this John Watson, had made him laugh. Him. Sherlock never laughs. “I propose a game. You give him to me for half the day for two weeks and then at the end, he chooses.”

“Why should I play? I hardly stand to gain anything.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Fine. If I lose, I’ll marry one of the Lestrade girls.”

At that, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You seem confident.”

“Well?” Sherlock brimmed with impatience. Mycroft always acted like he had the upper hand.

Mycroft chuckled, “Are you sure? You know that in the end, he’ll like me better. That’s how you lost Redbeard if you recall.”

Sherlock felt his temperature rise as he scrunched his face up in a childish pout. He had been so sure that Redbeard would come towards him...

“It was hardly surprising given how you treated the dog. Imagine what a man will think - especially a man with needs. You wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“I know about needs.” Sherlock hated how childish he always sounded when he got into arguments with Mycroft.

Mycroft scoffed. "I do doubt that."

Sherlock scowled. Then, collecting himself, the young detective resumed a more business-like tone, though the demand in his voice still remained juvenile. “Is it on, then?”

“Certainly, but two weeks is not enough time for the ordinary to form an opinion. Let’s do eight weeks.”

“Three.”

“Six then.”

“From nine to nine?”

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock. There are only so many hours that the good doctor is awake. You get noon to eight. I don’t have time during the day to entertain him anyway.”

“Deal.” Sherlock grinned.

The game was on.

Chapter Text

Martha Louise Hudson hummed while unpacking Sherlock’s case, normally a valet’s job, but Sherlock didn’t trust anyone else. She worried that it made him anti-social, but then, that might just be his nature.

That said, he was acting a bit strange after the trip… Overall, he seemed fine, but he was on high alert, like he was on a case. Not to mention she had heard him attempt to invite the young blonde man to 221B, Sherlock’s laboratory.  Sherlock was usually so protective of his research…

In her years at the estate, however, she learned to just take it all in stride. The Holmes boys were not the predictable type.

After finishing his shirts, she reached in for the trousers when her hand touched something cold and metallic. How odd.

Martha fingered the gun in her hand. It wasn’t quite the usual kind that the Holmes empire used. No, this one was different. Smaller, though it appeared to use the same size bullets as the empire ones. Her inspection of the item, however, was interrupted by the sound of doors closing.

Ever the curious one, Martha went to the peephole of her door to watch a young blonde man lean heavily on his cane as he walked past her room. Ah, the new resident of 222A. Daniel had just informed her that the man was apparently a doctor and not a prince. Strange that he was placed so close to the Princes, but then, she never really understood these Holmes boys.

Either way, the doctor seemed dishevelled and upset…. and based on the direction he was coming in, he must have had a run in with one of the brothers.

Poor fellow. Can’t be easy having been transported to a completely different land. Perhaps some tea would help.

Resting the tray on her knee for a second, Martha knocked and waited... and waited. ‘He would take longer to get to the door with that limp,’ she thought. Just as she was about to knock again, she heard a voice.

“Is someone there?” and after a pause, the door opened a crack.

Smiling, she raised up her tray.

The doctor managed a weak smile. “That’s very kind, but I…”

“I won’t be taking no for an answer. You’re not going to turn away a lonely old lady now, will you?” With that, she pushed her way past the young doctor and settled herself down, busying about pouring him tea and handing him a biscuit. Then, with the thought that it was best to open up to the doctor first to put him at ease, she jumped about in her life story for some interesting, yet benign tidbits. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, the doctor seemed to relax.

“Mrs. Hudson, how long have you been with the Holmes family?”

“Going on thirty years now, I think.... I was here when Mycroft and Sherlock were just boys. Mind you, I did have a stretch of time off in the middle… but then, the Holmes family welcomed me back when everything fell apart. I’m certainly glad to be here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Were the princes always… so…” the doctor hesitated, “different”?

“Different? How do you mean? I mean, Mycroft, Prince Mycroft, has always been an upright gentleman, trying to do right by his family, and… Sherlock, yes, he’s always been rather more interested in his research and theories than other people, but he means no harm. Really, he means well, and you, Doctor Watson, might understand that, being a man of science yourself.”

“Please, you can just call me John.”

Martha smiled. “Yes, well, John, the Holmes brothers really do mean well. Even when Sherlock blew up his wing, he was just trying to help Prince Mycroft, though I suppose it didn’t work out that way.”

“Sherlock blew up his wing?”

“Well, just a little. Really, you should have seen it. Ten years old with one singed off eyebrow.” Martha couldn’t help but chuckle and tried to control it when John began to laugh. Encouraged, she continued, “He had one eyebrow and wore a patch on the other just for fun. Went around pretending to be a pirate.”

“A pirate? That’s just too much.” John laughed.

Martha beamed. She could tell that they would get along swimmingly.

Just then, she heard Sherlock calling her name in the hallway.

********

“Mrs. Hudson~!”

Where was the lady when one needed her? Based on the absence of her tea tray, Sherlock had assumed she had gone visiting the East Wing but apparently not to the ladies which left the doctor.

He burst into John’s study to see the two of them giggling.

That’s not right. Only he should get to see John laugh. Besides, what would they have any reason to laugh about? Let alone giggle…

Leaving the door open, Sherlock let out a small cough. He hadn’t actually been invited in and only just realised he’d broken one of the many protocols other people demanded. He didn’t usually care, but with John, a tiny part wanted to be good, to be better than his usual self.

The giggling stopped and the two of them turned their attention to him.

“Mrs. Hudson. John.” Sherlock said with a nod.

“Oh Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“If it’s about the souvenir I brought back, please hold onto it for a bit longer. I’ll retrieve it in a spell.”

He remained by the door, uneasy now. Was he supposed to ask to enter? He was so used to barging in on his family and the police, but this was different.

Thankfully, a footman arrived at that moment. “Prince Sherlock! I’ve been looking for you. A message came for you from Scotland Yard. They are requesting your presence immediately.”

Sherlock took the note and announced it to the room. “There’s been a murder.”

“Where?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“At Paddington station, a fellow got run over by the train.”

“How do you know it was murder? It could have been an accident,” John asked with a head tilt. Sherlock liked that the man didn’t take an assumptive statement at face value.

“Fourth one this month. All the same. Victim seemingly jumped.”

“You can’t force someone to jump.” Mrs. Hudson declared.

“No, but it’s murder just the same,” Sherlock stated, ever confident. He turned to the footman. “Ready the car. I’m going.” He was about to turn and leave when he saw John open his mouth for a moment and then close it.

Sherlock paused. “Would you like to come? I could use your expertise.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’re a doctor, an army doctor, in fact. Must have seen your fair share of injuries, violent deaths.”

John nodded.

“Well, would you? Come with me?”

John smiled and tilted his head in a nod.

“Could be dangerous.” Sherlock added.

Finally, the doctor chuckled. “Oh God, yes,” John said, his eyes aglow.

This doctor truly knew how to surprise Sherlock. No one had ever been excited to join him on anything, at least not without a dozen questions and quirked brows full of scepticism.

They made their way to the car, slowed by John’s cane. When they got there, a message was waiting for the doctor. John folded the slip up and quietly tucked the note away.

“Do you imagine we’d be back before eight?” John asked. “It’s already getting dark.”

Hiding a smirk, Sherlock deduced that the note was from Mycroft. “Long before,” he confirmed. He elaborated to give the doctor some peace of mind. “It’s only a bit after four and Paddington Station is close. We could practically walk there.” But, if the doctor chose to be out when it was Mycroft’s turn, it wouldn’t be on Sherlock to return him.

They climbed into the car and Sherlock watched as John massaged the cane hand once again. It didn’t seem right for the doctor to suffer through an implement when he didn’t actually need one. Perhaps… perhaps Sherlock could do something about it.

The body at the crime scene was obvious enough. Sherlock barely had to even look at it to deduce what had occurred. A shame really. He had wanted to show off a bit to John, but the whole case was open and shut, simple.

Still, in an effort to amuse the good doctor, Sherlock asked for his opinion and listened intently as John made some good guesses, or at least better guesses than the policemen. They were idiots as far as Sherlock was concerned. Their only saving grace was that they were among the few who treated Sherlock with some modicum of respect, whether that came from the royal background or the detective services, Sherlock didn’t care.

They managed to set Sherlock and John up with some tea near the platform in question so John could sit down. Sherlock insisted the criminal would be back and that they merely needed to wait. With that, he soon managed to clear the area save for the more mundane image of one royal prince sitting with a colleague. And, biding his time, he waited for the perfect moment.

Eying a random passing messenger headed straight for the back platform, Sherlock let out a half whisper just to John. “Look, he’s getting away! Quick!”

And the two were off, chasing an idea.

**** 

John drew in some long breaths to regain control. His mind had been so trained on keeping an eye on the target in the dark that he’d barely felt his body in motion, but now that he’d caught up with Sherlock, his surroundings came back into focus and he was out of breath.

It had been a long while since he’d felt his lungs stretch in this manner. Or his limbs for that matter. Everything hurt in the most delicious way, muscles pulled the way a soldier’s should be.

“Ok, that was ridiculous,” he admitted to no one in particular. They had just run through the station, through crowds, right onto the dark tracks and straight towards a canal, where they had both stopped, unable to follow anyone in the dark.

With a last swallow of breath, he faced Sherlock and repeated, “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock turned to him and deadpanned, “And you put up fake princesses in Octland palace.”

John froze and then realising just how absurd that was, laughed, heartily. That was certainly more ridiculous when he thought about it and Sherlock joined in.

Calming himself down, John defended his original statement. “That wasn’t just me.”

They laughed for a good while before calming down.

“So, you think he got away?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock stated. “It was a long shot anyway.”

“Then, why bother sending the police away? We could have used more manpower.”

“Oh, and here I thought we were just passing the time.” Sherlock said rather sarcastically. “Or, dare I say, proving a point?”

“What point?”

“You.” Sherlock pointed at John to which John tilted his head and then followed Sherlock’s pointed finger down towards John’s leg.

John had run. He hadn’t even realised it while he was in motion. He ran through the station, through crowds, and right onto the tracks. He scoffed. How could this be? He didn’t think he was ever going to be able to run again.

“How did you…?” John looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but then suddenly looked past John towards the dark waters and squinted.

“What is it?” John asked.

The consulting detective didn’t respond, deep in thought as he headed towards the canal, peering at it from side to side as if studying the water.

What a mysterious mind behind the cold demeanour. John had watched as Sherlock treated practically everyone around him with disdain. The policemen all but cowered in front of the prince turned detective. It wasn’t clear to John whether the police actually needed Sherlock or if they were required to call upon him, but the information stream that flowed out of the brilliant mind at any given point was simply fascinating. John couldn’t help but look at the man in wonder.

That said, John had no idea what Sherlock saw in the canal. He tried to study it with the same discerning eye, and as he did so, he happened to look across the canal and see a bank clock that made him freeze.

It was already half past seven.

He gulped. Just how close was “close” when Sherlock said Paddington Station and Octland Palace were supposedly walkable?

“Sherlock! We should go back!” John said as the lanky figure moved further away.

“It’ll be alright!” Sherlock muttered and disappeared.

John waited a solid minute. “Sherlock! I mean it! I need to get back!” John yelled in the general direction that Sherlock had disappeared in and waited another precious five minutes before he realised Sherlock wasn’t coming back.

He was going to be late for Prince Mycroft.

He ran back towards the car and tried to get them to drive him back but they wouldn’t abandon the prince they’d brought. Without other options, he ran.

Chapter Text

John gently closed the door behind him and stepped into the prince’s study. It was empty. Even with his new found running ability, he had been late.

Surely the guards would have turned him away if Prince Mycroft wasn’t around at all?

He noticed that aside from the desk lamp, a secondary light was illuminating the room through the door on the far side. Perhaps the rest of the suite was similar to his own.

Unsure, he walked towards it and saw that through the door there was indeed a small atrium where the light was coming from and another open door to the left revealed traces of a grand bathroom, just like John’s own suite. That meant the door in front would be the bedchamber.

He knocked.

“Come in,” the voice on the other side commanded.

The bedchamber was dimly lit with a fire crackling and bouncing colours off the walls. On the far side sat Prince Mycroft at yet another desk, its lamp brightening the paper littered wooden surface and hiding the face that hovered above it.

“You’re late.” The voice growled. “I do not tolerate lateness.”

“Well, you know what they say. Waiting makes the heart grow fonder,” John quipped and then immediately regretted it.

The prince rose along with his voice, “Lie down on the bed. Now!”

John concentrated on breathing and moved efficiently towards the bed. Orders. He could do orders. There was no thinking in that.

Prince Mycroft moved too, towards the bed that stood between them, albeit off to the side a bit. John sat himself down on the soft bedding and prepared to lie down.

“Strip first.”

John licked his lips and then quickly obeyed, disconnecting himself from the reality of what faced him.

Naked, he lay down with his hands by his sides and moved over a tad to the middle. He waited for Prince’s weight to tilt the bed to his left side, but the decompression of the mattress came from John’s right, close enough to lean John’s thigh against the Prince’s trousers.

John looked up and finally saw Prince Mycroft’s face in the bouncing light of the fire. The deeply furrowed brows nearly hid the prince’s glare, but the pupils were penetratingly cold as if struggling to hold back a deep-seated rage. John rubbed his left thumb against the other fingers on his free hand. His right one had gotten lodged between his thigh and the prince and he didn’t dare move it.

Prince Mycroft leaned in and placed his right palm on John’s chest. The palm lifted to fingertips and slid towards the scarring on John’s left shoulder before tracing the raised scar tissue.

“Looks healed,” The prince said dryly.

“Yes,” John whispered, keeping his eyes on the unwelcome hand.

“Does it ever hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

John turned to look at Prince Mycroft in the face again, and as he did so, he felt the fingers start to dig. He scrunched up his face as the old pain resurfaced.

“I,” Prince Mycroft spoke slowly, enunciating each word as separate sentences, “Do. Not,” and like a dance, the fingers at John’s shoulder made a circle, covering every inch of the old wound… “Tolerate. Lateness.”

John stopped breathing. It hurt. He arched his body in protest, trying desperately to move away.

The prince pinned him down with his other hand and sang, “Uh-uh-uh, stay still. This is your punishment after all.”

The Prince was smiling. Smiling at his pain. John heaved his body once more.

“Of course, you could just have a man shot instead.”

John stilled, willing himself to stay put through the pain, staring up at the bed’s burgundy canopy. God, everything was burgundy. It disgusted him.

Fortunately, the Prince let go of the shoulder and reduced the pressure on his whole body. John took long breaths. Was the worst over?

“Turn around.”

John obeyed, turning himself onto his stomach. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands and arms so he tucked them under himself and stilled. Fingers lightly traced his back all the way down to his thighs. The unwanted contact had John swallowing hard. His Adam's apple felt inflamed.

“Now, don’t move,” chided the prince and shifted positions, dipping off the bed and returning. And then, something hit John’s right thigh. It was thin and long with enough flexibility to cut through the air with a swish. John tensed. Another whack landed on the left thigh. It didn’t hurt much but both hits had felt tentative, like Prince Mycroft was simply trying it out.

John bit his lip. This couldn’t be good.

“Remember, stay still,” Prince Mycroft reminded. An intangible weight began knotting John’s gut as he tried to guess the prince’s next moves.

The next whack hit John’s ass, hard. John gasped and dug his head into the bed. The target area was less sensitive than the back of his thighs, but the whack with whatever thin rod the prince had procured was harder, much harder, sending a prickling wave of pain up his body.

“I said stay still,” The harsh voice bit out before adding a relatively hard slap on John’s back with the prince’s own hand.

How? John stilled himself as best as he could, relaxing his lower body and moving all the tension to his hands. Gripping the bedding below him, John reminded himself to focus. Shallow breaths. Just focusing on breathing. He had always fancied himself a resilient man, but this was new. It was humiliating, being punished for tardiness like some schoolboy.

The fifth, sixth, seventh counts of contact were slightly lighter but still painful. They landed in rapid succession without much reprieve. And they didn’t stop. No, they just kept going, increasing in strength ever so slightly. John lost count somewhere in the twenties in order to place any remaining mental focus on trying not to move. He lost control a few times, earning himself harsh slaps on his back, and even those were welcome as they gave his thighs and ass a short respite.

By the time the prince stopped, John was panting and couldn’t stop digging his head into the bed. It hurt. “That was one per minute you were late.”

John seethed. Anger stinging his eyes. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t make it back in time. They would likely have made it back by car had Sherlock not wandered off.

Prince Mycroft finally got up and took a step back as if to study his handiwork.

John could feel the redness of his thighs and probably his face, all rushing with blood.

“One final reminder...” Prince Mycroft said with a smile, walking towards the head of the bed. He leaned in, close to John’s face.

John backed his head away. A kiss? The idea of kissing the sadistic bastard made John sick. He held his breath and closed his eyes trying to imagine something else only to tense up in pain. Prince Mycroft had found John’s neck and bit down hard. John mentally screamed. The damn prince marked him. Anger shot up even as some strange relief took over. It was better than a kiss and an oddly welcome distraction from the pain on his thighs.

Finally satisfied, Prince Mycroft placed a final warning, “We won’t be late again, will we? I do detest being mad at you.”

John swallowed and nodded. Still trying to regain his breath.

“Now, I’d like to get started. Sit up.”

Started? What was everything up to now? John sat up on the bed, wincing as his raw thighs and butt rubbed against the bed.

“I’d like to see you come,” Prince Mycroft said gleefully, as if the anger had simply melted away. “Why don’t you get yourself back up and we can finish what we started earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Now? After that particularly sadistic combination of pain? John scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No? It’s not very hard. You managed to get yourself up last time,” Prince Mycroft looked surprised.

John just glared. That had been a completely different set of circumstances. It was difficult to manage then, this time would be near impossible.

“Hmm, shirking your duties so soon? I would have imagined that you’d last longer.” Prince Mycroft’s brows bounced with the man’s sinister lilt.

John heaved out a breath. This man was unbelievable.

“Fine.” With that, Prince Mycroft suddenly headed towards his desk.

Not knowing what to make of that, John took the moment to visually assess himself. Slight inflammation in the left shoulder, thighs and ass. Definitely a bite mark but despite how painful it was it hadn’t broken skin. So, nothing that wouldn’t heal.

“Give me a letter,” Prince Mycroft demanded from the desk.

“A letter?” Where was this going?

“Yes. One from A - Z.”

“Oh,” John said, finally understanding the question, though not the intent behind it.

“‘O’ it is,” the Prince confirmed as he flipped through some pages and scanned the sheet. “Looks like you’re in luck. There are only three men with a last name that begins with O. Makes it easier to choose.” The Prince moved to pick up the telephone on the desk.

No. He couldn’t be. “No, wait,” John shook his head, “No, no, no.” He swung his body towards the desk and got up. He’d barely taken a step when the Prince raised a palm in his direction, halting him in place with the unspoken command.

Prince Mycroft rested the receiver on his shoulder and looked at John, “What are you going to do, charge at me? It’ll only get them all killed.”

“Don’t.” John shook his head. “Please, don’t,” he pleaded.

“I won’t, if you will…” Lord Holmes asserted.

Resigned, John sat back down and closed his eyes. He could hear the dials turning on the phone, and as John reached for his flaccid cock and began stroking it, the receiver clicked loudly and Prince Mycroft returned to John’s side.

********

Sherlock’s initial survey of Mycroft’s wing had not been fruitful. Damn guards were hell bent on keeping him away from the wing and Sherlock couldn’t get them to see otherwise. Perhaps challenging his brother openly had been a bad idea, but then without the challenge, it would have been difficult to spend any time with John alone. The doctor was still Mycroft’s, after all.

He hurried back to his room to gather some supplies and flew down the stairs to the dining room below. Then, navigating the maze of corridors with years of accumulated knowledge, Sherlock found the ceiling panel that led to Mycroft’s North study. Empty.

John would have had a pretty good head start, two hours, give or take, though he had likely been on foot.

Sherlock shook his head. He had gotten distracted. The traces on the canal had turned out to be much longer than Sherlock anticipated and not nearly as fruitful. Given the doctor’s nature, John might have waited a bit but there was no telling when the good doctor gave up and came back to the palace. Stupid. Sherlock should have taken the doctor with him.

After picking the lock to the bedchamber, Sherlock entered the study. Also dark. No matter, the terrace connected the whole wing and Mycroft was probably not expecting him to come through the terrace door. He opened the North chamber’s door to the terrace as silently as possible and turned off his flashlight. Too risky.

Having edged over to the Southern chamber, Sherlock peered in through the glass as he silently picked the lock.

The two occupants of the room were together, sitting on the bed. Mycroft, clothed in pants and an unbuttoned shirt, but clothed nonetheless, thank god, had two of his left hand fingers in John’s mouth. John sucked at them, naked. Sherlock scowled but found himself entranced with John’s face.

Mycroft pulled his fingers out and the doctor let out a moan. The warm glow of the fireplace coloured the doctor red and Sherlock couldn’t tell if John was blushing, but he certainly looked like he was enjoying himself. Then there was Mycroft’s right hand, rubbing the tip of John’s cock as John stroked himself rather vigorously.

Soon enough, John had climaxed and was catching his breath in Mycroft’s arms and Sherlock froze. He shouldn’t be here. Just as Sherlock decided that perhaps this was not the time to barge in on them, the pick he was working with successfully clicked, disengaging the mechanism that kept the door closed.

The door creaked open letting Sherlock hear the room better.

Mycroft was cradling the doctor’s flushed face with his right hand. “There, there. Relax.” His brother’s seduction skills were far beyond Sherlock’s calculations.

As if looking up from a fascinating book, Mycroft suddenly turned and looked at Sherlock.

“Sherlock! What in God’s name are you doing?!” Mycroft cried indignantly. He gently pushed John away and stood up. John shivered from the cold coming in from the terrace and looked up. Realising that they had company, he opened his eyes wide and stared at Sherlock in bewilderment.

“I could ask you the same,” Sherlock replied, almost absentmindedly. He couldn’t think. So he just kept his eyes on John. John looked away and moved his body to hide behind Mycroft. Sherlock’s right eye twitched. Mycroft wasn’t John’s protector, Sherlock was. John needed to know that.

“This is my room. You don’t come in here uninvited or the game is off,” Mycroft raised his voice, demanding Sherlock’s full attention. “I will only indulge you and your games if you play by the rules, Sherlock.”

John peered around Mycroft’s body and toggled his gaze between Sherlock and Mycroft as if asking, ‘What game?’ Sherlock kept a cool face. He couldn’t risk John knowing.

“I was just looking for John. He’d disappeared while we were at Paddington Station.”

Mycroft sighed. All the energy in his earlier glare evaporated, and his brother sat back on the bed in front of John. The doctor briefly tensed and then leaned into Mycroft. Sherlock frowned. This did not look good.

“Sherlock, you were well aware he was with me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t even look for him here. Now, grow up, but first, close the door. You’re going to freeze poor John here to death,” Mycroft sounded defeated.

Ah. The cold. John may have merely wanted the warmth Mycroft’s body offered, though the earlier scene was harder to explain. Sherlock stepped in and closed the door before muttering out a “Sorry.”

Mycroft’s glance changed again, though Sherlock couldn’t quite place what had brought about the new calculated stare. His brother then turned to John and caressed the doctor’s face. John held Mycroft’s gaze.

“Well, John, seeing as Sherlock has already ruined our night, you might as well get dressed. He’s unlikely to stop pestering until he has his way. I’m just glad he came after you did.” Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s choice of words and watched as the doctor uneasily got up and climbed into clothes. When he was done, he turned to Mycroft expectantly.

Mycroft had resumed his position at his desk and buttoned up his shirt. He glanced up and noted John’s question. “We can resume our date tomorrow, John,” Mycroft smiled, “Perhaps with some evening tea.”

John nodded.

“And perhaps Sherlock will remember not to bother us.” Mycroft warned. “I will have that ceiling door sealed, but brother dear, I do hope I do not need to take extra measures.”

Sherlock pouted at this and moved ahead out of the room, pausing only to check that the doctor was following him.

The guards gawked as they exited Mycroft’s wing, unable to fathom how Sherlock had gotten in. One of the guards trembled, probably afraid of what Mycroft would do knowing that they had failed. Sherlock ignored them.

As they approached Sherlock’s wing, he turned around and impeded the doctor’s progress.

“You’re playing with fire, you know,” Sherlock finally said.

“I beg your pardon?” It was barely audible.

“Seducing my brother. I’d advise against it.”

John looked up at him and scoffed. Sherlock couldn’t read the face. Annoyance? Anger? The nose wrinkle suggested hate, but John’s eyes clearly looked exhausted.

“That’s,” John paused and took a breath in frustration, “That’s all you have to say?” Good, the doctor’s spirit was coming back.

Still, Sherlock was at a loss. “What? What do you want me to say?”

“At least with him, I know where I stand,” John grit his teeth, his anger clearly rising. This wasn’t good. Sherlock had never dealt with this before.

Sure, he’d made people angry, half the time without even knowing why they would react that way. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mother. Sherlock smirked at that idea. He’d made mother angry loads of times. But, he had never really had to deal with the aftermath. They’d all made it clear what he had to do to appease them and it all seemed petty. And well, servants and citizens that he frequently enraged didn’t need to be bothered with.

“Is this about me interrupting?” Sherlock probed, “Do you want me to apologise?”

John scoffed again, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock faced it, dead-on, trying to read where the anger was coming from.

Then, the fumes gave way to bewilderment. “You really don’t know, do you?” John asked with a breath.

“Know what?” Sherlock went through their day. The man should be thanking him now, not mad at him. He’d clearly missed something.

“Just, leave me alone. I’m not in the mood,” John said, his exhaustion having beat out any other emotion.

“Is this about the case?”

“The case? Who cares about the case, Sherlock?” John shook his head. “Does the case always come before… before…?” John went quiet.

“Before what?”

John sighed. “Nevermind. I just need some rest.” With that, John tried to walk past Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his left arm and placed his palm on the doctor’s shoulder to stop him.

“Don’t,” John flinched and looked away. “Not now.”

“I need to know,” Sherlock tried again.

“I said, ‘Not NOW’!” John raised his voice and pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock watched the doctor continue down the bend and disappear into the guest room.

Perhaps this sex thing was important after all.

*****

Molly sat up as straight as she could manage as she took in her breakfast. Ruth, no ‘Liz’, had quieted down the moment Prince Sherlock entered the room, filling the room with an awkward silence. She had made it quite clear to Molly that she was not interested in marrying the strange man, nor really anyone in Holm, bitterly shedding tears for her footman Oscar who remained back home.

Had the prince sat himself down, Molly herself would have attempted conversation, but the Prince Sherlock simply stood by the window and peered out of it as if the world could only be more fascinating from that particular spot. Not that she minded. The morning light coming in bounced off his striking profile and made the man practically glow.

Eventually, she abandoned her plate to approach him, hopeful.

“Prince Sherlock, How is your morning going?” Molly asked quietly.

He turned to her, as if suddenly aware she was even in the room. “It’s fine,” he said coolly.

“Is there anything you are looking for?”

Narrowing his eyes, he turned back to the window. “Not really your concern.”

Molly frowned at the moody man and wanted some clever remark to say to him but drew a blank, saved by a sudden scowl appearing on the prince’s face.

Prince Mycroft had entered the room. “My, my, and now you’re at breakfast? Dear brother, the princesses are indeed a good influence on you.” The elder brother’s thin lips pressed into a satisfied smile that bordered on a smirk.

“I am here to study the behavioural patterns of our local crows for a case, and this window happens to be the best location,” Sherlock explained, resuming his study.

“Admirable, brother, but if it’s crows you’re after, you may want to begin with a window that can see the garden trees. Or better yet, maybe you should eat first. Even crows understand basic priorities.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

At that point, Dr. Watson came into the room - on foot, with no cane. He paused, shifting his glance at each of the brothers with a curt “Morning”, before heading over to Molly. “Good morning, Princess Margaret,” he greeted with a nod. “Good morning, Princess Elizabeth.”

“Dr. Watson! You’re walking! Without your cane” Ruth blurted out before Molly could even respond.

“Oh, yes, well…,” the doctor went quiet for a moment and looked up at Prince Sherlock, who had turned towards the table to find himself a seat. “Turns out I don’t need one, after all.” The doctor’s eyes softened a little.

“Well, that’s wonderful news, isn’t it Prince Sherlock?” Molly cried out.

“Indeed,” Prince Sherlock gave Molly a small smile with a nod, sending a little buzz into her chest.

“Right,” Dr. Watson looked at Prince Sherlock for a moment longer and then sat down in front of where Molly had been sitting.

Prince Sherlock took the open seat next to hers so Molly went back to resume her meal.

Prince Mycroft chatted lightly about the new governess the girls were to meet today and subjects they were to study. Molly did look forward to it all but for the moment, she was more interested in getting Prince Sherlock speaking.

“Prince Sherlock, can you tell me more about the case you’re working on? The one with the crows?” Molly asked tentatively.

Both the young prince and Dr. Watson looked up at that, first at Molly and then at each other.

“I’ll be going into Scotland Yard today. I thought maybe you would join me,” Prince Sherlock said to Dr. Watson, completely ignoring Molly’s question.

Molly wished she could go, join the men on their adventure, and was surprised when the doctor turned the offer down.

“I’m afraid not, Prince Sherlock. I’m not ready to venture out again,... just yet.” Dr. Watson looked down at his food.

“I see.” Prince Sherlock stood up. “Well then, good day to you, Doctor Watson.”

Molly had been sure the two had been using first names just yesterday. It was odd and tense. She hoped it wouldn’t last, but Prince Sherlock left, citing some need to get to Scotland Yard early.

She certainly hoped all meals were not like this.

Chapter Text

John regretted not having gone with Sherlock. The tedium of the afternoon had him thinking only about one thing all day: his pending ‘date’ with Prince Mycroft.

Last night, when the prince had threatened to kill a man, John hadn’t thought, he had just jumped into action. Now, he had the whole day to think about it, to picture it all. He tried not to, but the more he tried, the more the scene crept into his mind, every last minute of it. A dark well built up in his chest, filling his lungs and heart not unlike the burn of hard liquor. He didn’t know what was worse, the sensation that he was drowning on dry land, surrounded by air, or the desire to drink himself to stupidity - the desire to forget it all.

It was the lack of options that got to him the most. He could refuse, but Prince Mycroft would simply kill the innocent men. While cruel, the ruler certainly seemed a man of his word. He might even make John watch, just for fun, that sadistic fucker. Sigh.

That ruled out running away as well. Not to mention he had other promises to keep. The girls.

He could just do himself in, but he didn’t struggle through a bullet injury just to do that. No way, not him. Prince Mycroft would probably just find another poor bastard anyway.

No, he would have to see this through.

That resignation would lead him to the inevitable imaginings of the next step. John frowned. Things were escalating rather quickly and it really wasn’t going to be long before Prince Mycroft actually took him to bed. As a matter of fact, had Sherlock not interrupted last night’s meeting, they probably would have gone further. John shuddered at the thought.

He was still mad at Sherlock, but a part of him was grateful too. Looking back, he wasn’t sure how much more he could have taken in one night. Then again, he wouldn’t have been punished had Sherlock been more responsible. John sighed.

His thoughts looped and fed his anger so much so that by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he couldn’t decide if it had arrived too soon or not soon enough, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be late.

The guards ushered him to the northern chamber this time. Much like the southern one, John found a study that linked to a bathroom and bed chamber. The two were nearly identical, down to the wall clocks.

Interesting. Perhaps it was a security measure, even the household wouldn’t know exactly which room their prince was in at any given moment.

The bedchamber was well lit with a mixture of incandescent light and the fireplace. Prince Mycroft was sitting at an arrangement of armchairs hovering over some tea and biscuits. It seemed late for tea, but then the people of the island did seem to love the hot beverage. Pouring from the teapot, the man in front of him seemed gentle had John been able to forget the purpose of the visit. John wasn’t really in the mood to eat, but it seemed rude to decline. So, he sat down and waited.

In time, the prince looked up and smiled.

“And how is your day going?”

“Good,” John replied rather automatically, “Fine. Just fine.”

“That’s good. Very good,” Prince Mycroft beamed. “Biscuit?”

The hospitality was unsettling. The man had been so vengefully angry last night, doling out bizarre punishments and revelling in John’s pain. It struck John that Prince Mycroft had been at least consistent: any infraction, lying or being late, was treated with violence, but otherwise, the potentate seemed caught up in lust and ritual.

A part of John wanted to draw that violence out. His heart told him that the pain would be easier to deal with than submission. Fortunately, his brain knew better. Something about the punishments had an edge, a creativity that John did not wish to challenge. It was just better to not piss the man off again.

They chatted over tea, as if neither of them were aware of the planned activity that followed, but soon enough, tea was over and Prince Mycroft did not skirt around the issue.

So, John found himself, once again, on burgundy sheets, butt-naked. This time, however, the prince also began to strip.

“Would it be safe to assume that I would be your first?” he inquired while removing his jacket.

John looked at him indignantly. He was by no means a virgin.

The prince clarified, “First time receiving, that is,” as he removed his tie.

First time with a man, hard stop. John swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck.

“I ask to know if you’ll be requiring preparation,” the prince continued, removing his shirt to reveal his chest hair. “I don’t have any experience receiving either, but I have been told that some warmup helps.”

At this, John nodded. Whatever that meant, if it would help, he’d take it.

“I figured as much.” The prince removed his shoes and socks, having now disrobed down to just his trousers. “And I have no intention of causing you any permanent damage, though preparation may not necessarily save you from pain if you’re not aroused.”

With that, he went to the back of the room and opened his desk drawer, pulling out an “s” shaped metal hook. One of the curves was larger than the other and at both ends were metal balls of varied sizes. He also pulled out a bottle of what appeared to be surgical lubricant.

John concentrated on breathing, preparing himself to submit. He realised that this was what he was mentally preparing himself for all afternoon: to submit, to let the man take him,... to ‘save a life’ as the prince had so eloquently put it.

“Okay then, I got a few things that might help. Lay down and turn to your right side and hold your knees as close to your body as possible.”

Good. Instructions. John could do instructions. He rolled himself into the foetal position, ever glad that Prince Mycroft had chosen to have him lay on his good side. The left shoulder still hurt a bit after yesterday’s… massaging.

John heard the man shed his remaining clothes and a few snapping sounds that seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place. A weight compressed the edge of the bed and came closer until John could feel the heat of the other man. Half grateful that his face didn’t show, John stilled himself and concentrated on a decorative lamp in the corner of the room. It had angels on it.

After hearing the slick sound of lube being applied, John felt hands at his butt cheeks, spreading them. Something cool lazed about his entrance with some gel. Must be a finger, but it was gloved. The snapping sound earlier had been surgical gloves. The prince apparently didn’t like to get his hands dirty.

John cleared his mind. The foetal position, the glove, and the lubricant all helped him imagine that this was just a medical examination, though he was more frequently on the giving side of the exchange. The finger worked itself around the hole, spreading out the lube and once it was satisfied with the liberal application of the gel, it entered.

It felt strange. His body objected to the intrusion, and every instinct had John tighten up, even though the doctor in him told him not to. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Just a medical examination.

Then, the finger left and was replaced by another. John realised where this was heading and steel himself. Soon, both fingers entered together and John gasped. Up to now he’d relied heavily on his imagination: imagining girls to arouse himself or medical examinations to induce calmness for all the inappropriate contact, but this, this he had no experience with. As the fingers scissored around all he could note was that his imagination failed him.

This burned. And the sensation didn’t just stop at his anus; no, it induced the symptoms of a bad stomach ache. His whole body shook as it tried to get John to expel the offending object, and John could feel cold sweat moistening the burgundy sheet below him. How anyone felt pleasure from this was beyond him. He rubbed his hands against his knees and breathed heavily.

“Do relax. John, you must relax or you’ll hurt yourself,” Prince Mycroft cooed, but graciously added more lubricant as well.

Better lubricated, the fingers began stroking from inside. The cold chill of pain was replaced by confusing tingles of pleasure. Nothing strong but definitely there, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t about to enjoy this uncommanded.

John welcomed the return of the acid-like anger from the afternoon, but the feeling of violation conflicted with confusing arousal as the fingers found his prostate again and again. John slowed his breathing and concentrated on the angel lamp.

“Good, John, very good,” Prince Mycroft praised his pet. John loathed the fact that the praise actually seemed to help.

Soon, the fingers were replaced by something cold and hard. One of the round edges of the “s” hook. John tensed again. His pulse raced and he found breathing hard to control.

But despite its size, the metal actually glided in better than the fingers. He relaxed faster. Or perhaps he was just tired from all the tension from before because he definitely felt more relaxed.

“Very nice,” Prince Mycroft patted John’s left thigh in approval. “I’m rather tempted to just get to it, but I’m afraid that the next ball, the bigger one that is, is only half my girth and you’ll need the preparation.”

Half? John held his breath as his mind dared to imagine what that would be like. He couldn’t fathom it. He didn’t want to.

“Would you like to continue with the preparation balls?”

John nodded. The movement should have been a simple one, but he felt so tired, so drained.

How long was this night going to be? Already he’d felt like it had been hours. He glanced at the wall clock. Eight-forty. Only forty minutes in the prince’s company and it felt like an eternity.

John closed his eyes. This was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

John was flying, somewhere over a blue-green ocean. He couldn’t feel his body and the lightness of it all felt so thrilling. But, his body was calling, calling him back, and John felt his mind stretch taut as it fought to remain in flight. The struggle seemed to last for eternity and a second all at once, but the body was stronger, calling upon gravity for help and pulling at one single point of delirium to click his mind back in place.

Groggy, John started up the morning banter with his body. He was clearly on a bed, warm, inside the sheets. Someone was humming.

Wait, someone was in his room, humming, and coming closer. John’s eyes snapped open his eyes.

Burgundy. Burgundy sheets. Not his room.

He turned towards the sound, moving the sheets and blanket in the process. The air wasn’t cold, but it certainly felt a bit chillier on his bare skin. He was naked.

The humming was coming from a tall man, jauntily shifting through some papers, swaying nude save for a burgundy robe of silk that was open in front.

“Prince Mycroft?” It took him a moment to realise that he had spoken aloud. John quickly sat up and defensively pulled the blanket around himself as his thoughts wandered. Did the prince own clothes not in burgundy?

“Prince? My goodness, John. First off, it's 'your highness' and more importantly, I can’t have you calling me Mycroft in bed and then Prince Mycroft in the morning! Do call me Mycroft, I insist,” Mycroft chuckled. “And, how did we sleep?” Mycroft beamed and then resumed his humming in the most disturbingly cheerful manner.

John looked around. There wasn’t much sun in the northern room, but a glance at the windows did reveal that day had indeed come and must have come some time ago. The curtains were drawn and Mycroft was sipping tea.

“Are you hungry? I can have them bring up some breakfast, or is it really lunch at this point? Either way, I can call for food if you care for any,” Mycroft solicited.

John didn’t, but the idea of sitting in that bed any longer didn’t appeal to him either. He pulled at the sheet and swung out of the bed.

“Oh, such modesty, my dear John. I don’t think you need to hide anything between us anymore. Not after last night,” Mycroft chuckled, “which does remind me, you may want to go to the bathroom first and wash up as you seemed so unwilling to go after sex last night.”

Sex? John rubbed his head, searching his memories.

“I drew you a bath not too long ago. It should still be warm. I would like to say that it was out of concern for you, but honestly, I would rather you not get anything onto the upholstery.” Mycroft made a face at the thought but quickly returned to smiling as if nothing could possibly bring his morning down. “Anyways, I’ll call up some food for you.”

When his memory failed him, John decided to comply and go to the bathroom to assess himself. Sure enough, his bottom felt a bit strange… stretched, yes… sticky… quite a bit. He grimaced.

Action. Action was always better than thinking. John hopped into the bath and scrubbed himself the best he could. The bath was warm, but not hot enough to feel clean, not that he felt like he’d ever feel clean again. Still, it felt good and his muscles definitely felt tired. The warmth of it all began slowing his movements down, and the stillness dragged his mind back to the issue on hand.

He couldn’t remember the night.

He remembered arriving early, having some tea, and conversations. He even remembered Mycroft ‘preparing’ him, loosening him up slowly so that sex wouldn’t hurt as much, or so the man said. But, his memory cut out there. Somewhere around eight-forty.

John dried himself with one of the many burgundy towels that were stacked on the rack and was glad there was also an extra robe. Of course, it too was burgundy, but John could care less about that right now.

He wrapped himself up and walked back to the bedchamber, but found himself wishing he had delayed just a little. A footman was positioning a tray of food on the coffee table and John caught the man sneak a glance his way. Of course the man quickly averted his eyes when he’d realised that John was looking, but John felt himself flush all the same. The thought of people finding out about his relationship with Mycroft was not a pleasant one, but then again, the news would probably travel one way or another.

Annoyed, John held in a sigh and moved towards the coffee table as nonchalantly as possible. Thankfully, the footman retreated and left before John even sat down.

Mycroft joined him at the breakfast platter of various sandwiches, fruit, and other nibbles. John wished there was hot food, or no food at all. His stomach felt rather queasy.

“Tea?” Mycroft solicited.

John nodded gratefully.

As Mycroft rose slightly to reach for the teapot, John caught sight of Mycroft’s flaccid member through the loose robe and cringed. As promised, it was indeed considerable in size. Oh Lordy, no wonder he didn’t remember. Maybe his mind was in shock.

John raised his fists to his thighs and rubbed towards his knees, exhaling long breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Mycroft handed him the tea and cocked his head a little to the side. “Something wrong, John?”

“No. God, no,” John attempted a lie, but then remembered the kicks from their first encounter and sighed before revealing, “I just don’t remember… us… having sex.”

Mycroft looked at him blankly and blinked a few times. “None of it? But you seemed to like it so much.”

Something dropped inside John’s stomach as he pictured himself moaning with Mycroft…, enjoying himself. The image hurt. Whatever was holding him up was starting to tumble and John began to shake. Only four days in and he was already a mess.

Mycroft suddenly looked concerned. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I can fill in the details. Where does your memory end? Do you remember coming here at all last night?”

“Eight-forty….” John whispered.

Mycroft looked sad and moved to the armchair to John’s left. He placed a hand on John’s thigh and sighed. John concentrated on losing the tension in his shoulders.

“John, that’s most of the night! We had two go’s at it! You’d even said my name a few times and…,” Mycroft trailed off, disappointment lacing his words, “Well, I’d rather thought you’d enjoyed it.”

John shot up. “Ok. I’ve.. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, but I am going to go, right now.”

Shedding the robe in one smooth movement, he jumped into his clothes and dashed out.

Mycroft didn’t stop him.

********

Sherlock stopped pacing the hallway as he watched the footman leave Mycroft’s room.

Almost noon and no sign of John yet. Sherlock had been in the hallway all night and with the tray of food that passed by not too long ago, the wait may be longer still. How John could stand being with Mycroft this many hours was beyond him, but then, most people in Sherlock’s life preferred Mycroft over him.

Sherlock never seemed to know quite how to treat people and so it was easier to just act like he didn’t care. And for the most part, he didn’t, but… he did for this one.

It had hurt to know that John was mad at him, whether for barging in on the two of them together or something else, Sherlock couldn’t say. So, while he never quite figured out what had upset the doctor, Sherlock knew he had to get back in John’s good graces sooner than later if he was to have any chance at winning the game he had going with Mycroft. He just needed to time it right.

He heard the muffled sound of an inner door closing and shuffled feet. Too quick of a pace to be Mycroft, the lazy bastard.

Sherlock turned the corner towards his own room again and spun around. The sound of feet rapidly scraping the carpet were coming closer now. He held back and counted the pace until it was close enough to the corner before he took a step forward to reveal himself.

Stopping abruptly, John looked up. “Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Uh, good morning.” John looked tense.

“Or afternoon,” Sherlock corrected.

“Right…,” John said absentmindedly. His eyes narrowed. “Well, I best be going now.”

How to stop him? Sherlock scanned the doctor. Slightly damp hair falling a margin heavier than usual. Freshly bathed. Clothes from the day before, of course. No crumbs, too quick to have eaten from the tray that had just been delivered to Mycroft’s suite. Food then, people do food. “I thought maybe you’d join me for lunch, if you haven’t eaten.”

Averting his eyes, John sighed. “I’d like to be alone, thank you very much.”

“I meant out, of course. Just for lunch. We’ll be back before three.”

John looked up but said nothing.

“Perhaps we can take the princesses with us. Princess Margaret had expressed a desire to leave the palace for a bit, and you’d make a good chaperone,” Sherlock suggested.

Letting out a breath, John met Sherlock’s gaze. His eyes relaxed. “By three? You promise?” John asked. And after a short pause, he added, “Last time, we were out for much longer than I’d anticipated.”

Was that the issue? Had John been mad about Sherlock failing to bring him back to the palace? Perhaps because he had been looking forward to being with Mycroft?

“By three. You have my word,” Sherlock replied, keeping his face calm and blank, lest it belie his internal thoughts.

“Very well.” John gave Sherlock a small smile. “Could do with some air, I suppose.”

“Done. I’ll have them ready the car.” Satisfied, Sherlock reached into his pocket for the souvenir and handed it over to its rightful owner. “Also, I believe this is yours.”

Gripping it slowly, John pulled the gun close to his body before looking up at Sherlock, eyes wide. He let out a breath. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this again. How did you…?”

“Your drawer. Grabbed it while they lined you all up for the parade. It’s not loaded, but thought you might want to keep it close seeing how you used to carry it around everywhere.” Sherlock dropped his voice a little. “But, maybe don’t tell Mycroft or the guards about it.”

John chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That made Sherlock smile. Their little secret.

Now, looking at Sherlock with bright eyes of wonder and gratitude, John whispered, “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Sherlock had intended the move to be tactical. A bribe, so to speak, but looking at John’s eyes now, a curious feeling settled into his chest. Whatever this was, it was nice. He was going to have to find other ways to make John look at him like that, like Sherlock, and only Sherlock, was everything the world had to offer.

*****

Molly glanced over at Prince Sherlock, utterly pleased to be in his company.

Even Ruth looked happy through the meal. Granted, she may have just been glad to get away from their new governess.

Molly herself had to admit that their governess was a little intense. Not that Molly had any real experience with governesses, but Ms. Irene Adler had a look about her that pierced the soul, unnerving the two of them. Throughout their first lesson Holm’s history, Ms. Adler stared at the girls with a wicked smile on her face, her eyes rarely blinking. If someone had told Molly that Ms. Adler meant to eat them, Molly would have believed every word. More likely than not, however, was that Ms. Adler was simply a spy for Prince Mycroft, there to report back any misgivings about the girls. So both Molly and Ruth treaded carefully, lest they give themselves away as mere commoners.

Their second lesson had been shaping up to be more of the same when the message from Prince Sherlock arrived. The girls were more than relieved to go with him, especially accompanied by Dr. Watson.

Taking a bite of her tarte, Molly once again looked over at Prince Sherlock. He’d barely eaten, seemingly too busy in conversation with Dr. Watson, a conversation to which she wished she was privy.

If she had her way, she would be sitting in Dr. Watson’s seat towards which Prince Sherlock would periodically lean over to say something, and while it was too quiet for Molly to make out, the doctor would invariably chuckle or respond, all smiles and easy mood. Whatever had transpired between the doctor and Prince Sherlock having resolved itself so that they could return to a first name basis.

She decided it best to keep her secret admirer to herself. The neatly written note on a cream coloured card had magically appeared in her nightstand, provoking a happy mystery that she didn’t need ruined. She didn’t know where it had come from, but whoever had written it had called her beautiful and it made her heart leap. Some part of her wished fervently that it was actually Prince Sherlock himself, but it could just as easily be a cruel prank by the servants.

If she shared, the men of science and medicine before her were unlikely to make much of it, especially her Prince Sherlock who had shown disdain towards all things related to romance at every chance.

And yet…

If Molly didn’t know any better, Prince Sherlock was interested in Dr. Watson. She watched as their hands would collide, every now and then, seeming on accident. Except, Molly knew Prince Sherlock as a very deliberate man, a bit childish, but deliberate. So, these chance brushes seemed too coincidental. The back of the prince’s hand brushing against the doctor’s just so. The good doctor chuckling nervously in apology, oblivious to the prince’s intent.

Prince Sherlock was not courting Dr. Watson. Was he?

Molly let the disappointment of that thought settle in her stomach and kept up her study of the prince. By the end of the outing, Prince Sherlock had said ‘John’ some thirty odd times and brushed his hands in one form or another against the doctor’s at least the ten times Molly was able to observe.

She sighed. Prince Sherlock was most definitely courting Dr. Watson.

Chapter Text

John sighed as Daniel skirted around the corner. The servants had been increasingly cold towards him, avoiding him whenever possible.

He suspected it had something to do with being close to Mycroft as none of the servants nor guards seemed at ease around the prince, and now that John’s ties to the future king was increasingly common knowledge, the servants and guards alike treated John like he was tainted, afraid to be anywhere near him.

It likely didn’t help that the only other person with whom John kept any normal company was Sherlock. If anything, John was sure the servants liked Sherlock even less. Mycroft was at least courteous, generous enough with his greetings and thank yous, like a proper gentleman. Sherlock’s courtesies, when present, were more of an exception than the norm, leaving a demanding, spoilt prince who often forgot basic salutations and seemed more wrapped up in his own world of mysteries and intrigue, drifting off, speaking of murders, as if the dead held more interest for the self-declared detective than the living.

John did not mind Sherlock’s drifting attention. It was a relief to not be the main focal point in the room, the cause for excitement. Sherlock’s mind was always at work and it clearly saw in John, a peer, a man of science, nothing more.

Sherlock was kind enough with him, sharing tidbits of the cases he was working on and elaborating handsomely when John asked questions. John marvelled at how the genius deduced so much from careful observation and took to writing them down as a distraction from Mycroft’s attentions, which had been frequent.

Seventh day as a palace resident and John had already spent four memoryless nights with the manipulative prince. At this point, he felt like he had more memory gaps than he had memory.

Why? It made no sense.

Still, he couldn’t complain. It made it easier to pretend that he was just a guest at the palace, visiting Mycroft for tea on most evenings and enjoying his afternoons with Sherlock, the princesses and occasionally Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson. The lady stopped by almost daily with tea and a story, for which John was grateful. She was the only servant in the wing that didn’t treat him like a pariah and she had quite the treasure trove of Sherlock stories, all the mischief of him going against the family’s wishes at every opportunity.

Just like he had with John’s gun, when Sherlock’s defiant streak against his brother had yet again played in John’s favour.

At that thought, John reached into his pocket, running his hand over the metal with renewed gratitude swelling in him. He had been spiralling when Sherlock had offered a respite from the burgundy halls. And then the gun.

The weighted metal had so effectively put a plug in the sense of helplessness that John had felt that first morning after. Even without ammo, the gun’s mere presence grounded him, reassuring John of the soldier in him, of his own inner strength.

He’d be lost here without Sherlock.

******

Martha knocked at Dr. Watson’s door, eager to share the bit of news that had made the palace rounds.

She loved all new residents of the North Wing. They brought so much life to the day to day operations that the wing hadn’t seen in years.

The princesses were young and shy, but as the week progressed, playful and kind. Martha had never met royalty as down-to-earth and generous as the Lestrade Princesses. Princess Margaret was quite sensible in all matters and never seemed to want to bother the servants more than she had to, choosing to do much on her own. Princess Elizabeth was quiet, keeping close to her sister but no less polite.

Really though, it was Dr. Watson she found companionship in. She enjoyed having tea with him. Not only because he was useful, prescribing medicine for the ache in her hips and helping with the occasional cut or headache, but also because he was an amiable gentleman. A great listener, attentively listening to the many stories Martha had from the years in the Holmes family’s company.

He seemed to keep notes too, which made Martha even happier.

Smiling, she glanced down at the newspaper she’d brought with her and after they settled into their seats and the tea was properly poured, she proudly handed Dr. Watson the folded paper.

“Have you seen this yet? Our Sherlock is getting married!”

“Married?” Dr. Watson asked as he accepted the paper and gave it a glance. “Ah, to Princess Margaret.”

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful news?” Martha beamed. Sherlock all grown and married with children was an image she had looked forward to and never quite thought she would get to see.

“How wonderful indeed,” the doctor remarked dryly. Then after a brief pause, the doctor got to his feet. “I should check on Princess Margaret. I doubt she was consulted before the news was made public.”

Martha wished she could deny the doctor’s suspicions, but she knew what the Holmes family was capable of. Poor Princess Margaret may have no idea she is to wed Sherlock.

She followed the doctor out, not even bothering with the tray.

As they made their way to the princesses’ room, Martha heard Sherlock’s voice.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s angry voice elongated the name as it carried through the hall. “What is the meaning of this?”

No one had to tell Martha nor the doctor what was happening. Sherlock had not been told of the marriage either.

“Not here Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded. The sounds of feet shuffling after that indicated that somehow, Prince Mycroft had subdued Sherlock.

Poor Sherlock. Martha had been so happy for him up until a minute ago.

********

Sherlock seethed, struggling to control himself as he paced Mycroft’s room.

“Do calm down. You’re overreacting.” Mycroft’s voice was irritatingly calm.

“Oh come off it Mycroft! You know very well I still have five weeks before any decision is made. This is premature.”

“Weddings take time to plan, brother mine. It would do well to get everything in motion for your inevitable defeat.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“No?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows with mild amusement.

“No!” Sherlock snapped back, even if he himself had doubts, he most certainly wasn’t going to tell Mycroft about them.

“Tell me Sherlock, when’s the last time you spent any time alone with my John? He comes to me practically every other night, and it’s only been a week. What makes you think you have any chance?”

That shut him up. Sherlock didn’t want to admit it, but Mycroft had the clear advantage here. Older, more powerful, more knowledgeable in all things sexual.

Sherlock stormed out of Mycroft’s room, furious that his brother so effectively controlled his life and that Mycroft, damn him, may be right about John.

Something had to be done. Sherlock was sure of it, but every outing, every meal and activity with John had all been in the company of the princesses or even Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock had not minded, not as long as John continued to listen to him, speak to him. Ignoring everyone else was easy.

Sherlock enjoyed how John’s face lit up when they spoke of Sherlock’s cases, how John asked questions, and even how John took notes, writing about the cases as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world, as if Sherlock was the most fascinating person.

Of course, John saw Sherlock platonically, which was fine, Sherlock didn’t need anything more, but if the game depended on John’s decision, then Sherlock was at a disadvantage. Based on the frequency that John visited Mycroft, the sex was important to the doctor, but John showed no interest in Sherlock beyond the friendship, and if there had been any indications of a sexual advance, then Sherlock had missed it.

Or perhaps as the prince, Sherlock was expected to make the first move?

He sighed. Where would one even begin to change that dynamic?

Chapter Text

“We’re stuck here, aren’t we?” John asked.

Sherlock fiddled with his pocket watch, his normal confidence having evaporated now that his plan had come to fruition.

He and John were officially stuck in the wine cellar, breathing out puffs of heat in the cold air. The week of planning, bribing, and threatening to arrange everything for this moment had been thrilling and honestly, brainlessly easy. He just had no idea what the next move was.

Give him murderers, arsonists, or ruthless criminals, and Sherlock could give you all the ways to attack, how to catch them, contain them, expose their operations. So, ensnaring one unsuspecting doctor in this elaborate plan was easy. But making the first move towards some form of open intimacy? Sherlock had no data points to reference. Zero.

All this and the game could just end abruptly if Sherlock’s interpersonal skills failed him once again, but he had to keep things moving. Sooner or later, someone would be coming down for a crate of wine.

So, after making a show of playing with the door latch and then each small window, Sherlock shook his head. “Seems so, though someone will likely be by before the day is out. We’ll just have to wait here,” he confirmed John’s suspicions.

Sherlock sat down on one of the wooden crates and lit his pipe. “Care for a smoke?”

“Not unless it can warm me up.” John shook his head settling in on a crate as well. He rubbed his arms and shoulders. Their lack of coats were no match for the cellar’s temperature.

Idiot. Sherlock should have planned better than this. Then, looking over at the massive display of wine bottles, Sherlock stood up to pull on one of them. “There’s always alcohol blankets, if you’re up for it.”

John chuckled. “I suppose we might as well.”

There were no glasses to be found anywhere so the bottle changed hands back and forth, each taking a few swigs to let the warm liquid wiggle its way into their stomach and spread its glow. Sherlock tried to be careful with his intake, afraid that too much would hinder him from thinking straight but as John continued to drink, he found himself keeping pace, trying to keep up with John’s clearly higher tolerance.

Relaxing into the sensation, the conversation became easier, or at least from Sherlock’s perspective. John broke out into a parlour game of twenty questions, starting with the uncreative “wine”, “bottle”, and “Holm”.

Grinning wildly, Sherlock guessed each one in no more than five questions even as John moved to the more mundane “bird”, “hat” and “police” before finally letting Sherlock be the answerer. He started slow with more unique answers like “Octland Palace” and “gun” as an idea began forming.

The bottle emptied before they knew it, and Sherlock realised he was running out of time. He watched John open another bottle and set it in his hands. Pulling the crate just a little closer, Sherlock nodded to show that he was ready with the next answer.

“Is it alive?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock wondered if this was going to end the way he imagined.

“Is it a person?”

“Yes.” Or perhaps the game would just end abruptly, awkwardly.

“Is this person real?”

“Yes.” And quickly. Sherlock stifled a sigh.

“In Holm?”

“Yes.” Very quickly.

“Important?”

“Very much so, yes.”

John smiled at the fifth confirmation, pleased that he was on the right track. “Royalty then?”

“No.”

Scrunching up his face, John went into a moment of silent thought. “But I don’t know important people here other than royalty. That doesn’t seem quite fair.”

Pleased that the game had turned more interesting after all, Sherlock smirked. “My dear Dr. Watson, I trust you can guess this. I would not choose someone I did not have evidence that you knew.”

John’s face relaxed, pondering that a bit with a couple of swigs of the new bottle of wine. “This one’s pretty good,” he said, squinting at the label. Finally, John ventured, “So, someone important, but not royalty… Oh, someone important to you?”

“Yes. That’s seven.”

“Wait, that’s not fair. It was the same question,” John protested.

“It wasn’t. You added two words,” Sherlock said dryly, leaning forward a bit more for emphasis.

John huffed but continued all the same. “Is it Mrs. Hudson then?”

“No.”

“Princess Margaret?”

“She would be royalty.”

John shot him a look. “But, we both know she’s not. Is the wine getting to you?”

“No. I’m fine. And fair enough, no. That’s already nine then.”

John took a few more swigs and handed the bottle to Sherlock, lost in thought.

Sherlock drank to pass the time and as the silence elongated, his thoughts meandered, anxious that perhaps John couldn’t guess because the answer was unacceptable.

John went over to Mycroft’s room every other night, and while Sherlock secretly wanted to believe that John was there against his will, nothing ever indicated any real distress. The happy doctor went about smiling and asking after the princesses’ education and well-being, Sherlock’s cases. If anything, the doctor seemed content, adjusting well to life at Octland Palace. There was no tension.

And it was this lack of tension that Sherlock was so drawn to. John seemed eager to be with Sherlock and Sherlock wanted more. “Do you give up? Shall I tell you?” Sherlock offered.

“No, no, that would ruin the game!” John said with a chuckle. “I still have eleven left, Sherlock. Just give me a moment.” He smiled, looking directly at Sherlock. “This is fun, you know?”

Whether it was the wine talking or a genuinely entertained soul, Sherlock didn’t care. John was looking at him, really looking at Sherlock. So much happiness in those eyes.

And now a dawning. “Wait, wait… is it… me?”

“Congratulations Dr. Watson, Yes. Ten questions, not bad, not bad at all,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“But you said… important…”

Sherlock nodded. “I assure you I did not lie. You are important to me…”

John’s eyes widened, mouth parted.

As an assistant! Sherlock should add ‘as an assistant’ to give himself an out, but the words froze. Even with all the wine, he couldn’t get himself to add the words. They would be a lie.

Treading into uncharted territory now, Sherlock inhaled as he leaned forward and held his breath as got closer. Would John pull away?

John didn’t. He moved closer as well and now their faces were just centimetres apart and Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

Instinct that he didn’t even know he had took over, his neck craning on their own accord, and his lips reached John’s to give John’s bottom lip a gentle suck. John didn’t move.

Emboldened, Sherlock repeated the motion and John reciprocated Sherlock’s slow pace, their lips moving in tandem. Sherlock’s heart aflame in warmth at the confirmation of hope. He wanted more. Leaning forward, Sherlock lifted his hand to cup John’s face when John suddenly went owl-eyed and stood up, pushing Sherlock away.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I can’t.”

The warmth in Sherlock’s chest was replaced with a tightness. What now? Unsure, Sherlock risked an open question, “Is there something I could…”

“Daniel!” John suddenly exclaimed. “Oh, thank god you got the door open! We’ve been freezing down here.”

Indeed, the footman stood by the cellar door, staring at them. How long had he been there?

Sherlock didn’t care for him, focused more on John’s sudden rejection, searching John’s face for some warmth, but it had gone into army mode, all stern and cold.

The doctor refused to look Sherlock in the eyes as he rushed off to leave the room.

What had Sherlock done?

*****

Molly watched Doctor Watson walk swiftly up the main stairs and around the corner to his room, Prince Sherlock close on his tail.

The vantage point that Mrs. Hudson’s room allowed was to die for. Every movement in and out of the main staircase and corridors was laid out in perfect view, a remnant of the room’s former status as a guardroom.

Prince Sherlock attempted to stop the doctor, but the doctor pulled away and stormed off, leaving the prince silently brooding.

“Oh dear, looks like Sherlock has had another fight, this time with the doctor,” said Mrs. Hudson in a slight whisper.

Curious and longing to be closer, Molly slipped out of Mrs. Hudson’s room towards the doctor’s door to find Prince Sherlock sitting in front of it, back to the door. His head down, the prince looked distraught, the weight of the world keeping him locked in place.

It was true that the prince did not seem to have many friends and if the doctor and he had fought, then... Molly's heart broke for her prince. 

She contemplated going up to him, offering him comfort or at the very least a distraction, but ultimately decided against it and tried to back away quietly. Even so her movements must have been loud enough for Prince Sherlock to perk his ears up and make eye contact. He huffed, got up and marched off to his own room.

Molly looked away, attempting to hide her disappointment at Prince Sherlock’s disdain for her presence from Mrs. Hudson who was surely watching.

****

John was not an emotional man. Sure, he’d liked the idea of marriage, settling down, kids, the whole nine yards, but he would hardly call himself a romantic. Yet, here he was, losing the rest of the afternoon ruminating over the implications of his time in the wine cellar with Sherlock, Sherlock declaring that John was an important person to Sherlock and then the kiss - Sherlock’s kiss.

The young fool had likely drunk too much and let it all get away from him. It had been evident about halfway through the first bottle that Sherlock’s tolerance was no where near John’s.

Still, the declaration and kiss had felt so honest, so open…. No Holmes up to now had shown him such vulnerability. Certainly not the prince, no 'Mycroft'. John still had trouble using the name despite all this time. He needed to use it even in his mind. No, Mycroft’s advances were always so cold and possessive, not tender. The closest thing to vulnerability Mycroft ever showed him was the morning humming, and one could hardly call that a weakness.

It occurred to John that he and Mycroft had never kissed. Well, that he was aware of. He still didn’t remember his encounters with the prince. Eight times now in a bit over two weeks simply amounted to eight times of arriving to Mycroft’s chamber and awakening the next day with aching muscles, stickiness, and the occasional bruise, yet never a memory. The bruises indicated a few moments of aggressiveness, but nothing too bad. He supposed that Mycroft was generally gentle, thank god for that.

The blissful curse of his mental eraser taunted him the first few times, but he soon learned to welcome the peace that came with it. His straight mind clearly couldn’t cope with any of it and the memories would just add horrors, haunting him the way the war sometimes did. Things were easy between him and Mycroft. So, as long as he was on time and obeyed, John wasn’t going to remember a thing while still keeping those men safe. Why change that?

Cause of the kiss.

It made no sense. He was straight, never having doubted it. Even now, after eight encounters with his own gender, he shuddered at the thought of it all. Then again, perhaps he was being close minded. While homosexuality was punishable back home, the people of Holm had no such rules and if he allowed himself to admit it, the kiss had been nice. Too nice.

John shook his head. Even if he could get over the idea of being with a man, the promise that the kiss had held had scared him. If he’d responded, dared to explore, it would only hurt more to want something he couldn’t have, and he definitely couldn’t have it, not as long as Mycroft wanted him, and that showed no promise of letting up.

No, it was best to stay on Mycroft’s good side. The man wasn’t all bad, just a bit powerful and possessive, perhaps even lonely. John thought of the mornings following their time together and how Mycroft just seemed happier, always humming and smiling. The man needed John, more than Sherlock anyway.

Remembering that even the walls had eyes, John decided it best to keep his distance from Sherlock for a while. Mycroft did seem possessive enough that the wrong eyes could potentially bring trouble for Sherlock, John, or both.

Still, that kiss.

John’s thoughts wandered, repeatedly visiting the memory of that last round of twenty questions.

Sometime, while he was lost in his thoughts, someone had shoved a message card into his hands. Mycroft’s signature cream coloured note card contained just two words: “eight-thirty, M.” He wanted to ask the messenger for more details, but his foggy mind couldn’t even determine who’d handed it to him. Sherlock would probably mock him in this state.

John turned over the message card in his hands, though he didn’t expect to see anything else on it. It was just odd. Mycroft had hardly ever called him in two nights in a row… not since those first three days when the eager prince had dropped everything to spend more time with him. John had practically lived in the prince’s chamber at that point and was afraid he was losing his mind, but thankfully, their encounters slowly petered off after that. They were on a roughly every other day schedule, but perhaps it had been premature to judge a trend.

Sighing, John decided to get some early supper in and get ready. God knows how much rest his body got on these nights. He certainly felt tired the morning after.

John smirked. Mycroft must have the endurance of an Olympic athlete. Then again, maybe all of the Holmes clan did, Sherlock didn’t seem to sleep at all.

Chapter Text

As usual, John reached Mycroft’s chamber at five of, and Mycroft seemed busy at work, his usual. The man was glued to the telephone while flipping through some files. The generic questions of ‘where?’ and ‘any possible reasons?’ from Mycroft’s end offered no clear picture of what the substance of the conversation could be.

John decided to maybe start the tea himself and got busy when suddenly, Mycroft’s voice elevated.

“Who?” It wasn’t quite yelling, but Mycroft’s raised voice gave John pause.

John turned to the prince and risked a curious glance, but Mycroft didn’t notice. He was leaning over his desk on his elbows, holding his head with his free hand and the telephone receiver in the other. John pitied the man. So much bureaucracy must be difficult to deal with.

“Well, find him.” Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “Ok. Keep me posted.” He hung up and wrapped his hands together, breathing deeply.

“Anything I can do to help?” John offered.

Mycroft lifted his head past his hands and for the first time, John saw the man’s eyes. They weren’t tired. No, they glared at him, at the world, sharp with anger.

Unsure of what else to do, John sheepishly looked towards the tea. “Tea’s almost ready, if you want some.”

John expected Mycroft to relax, to sigh and default to his usual tired politeness, instead Mycroft tighten his knuckles together, the prince’s hands forming a tight ball. He stood up and leaned over his chair as if trying to control himself. The man never seemed to have much trouble with that except when dealing with Sherlock and John found himself wondering if Sherlock had done something else to aggravate Mycroft.

John smiled at the thought.

But Mycroft was coming towards him now, his face still set in anger.

Reaching for the teapot, John made a slight turn when he felt a hand around the right side of his neck. Its grip was strong and firm, pulling John to Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft kissed him.

Well, if John could call that a kiss. It was more of a mashing up of lips, a harsh, possessive smack. John instinctively pushed away and took a step back, but the grip on the neck held, bending John over just enough for Mycroft to knee him.

Shocked by the sudden violent manoeuvres, John found himself on his hands and knees trying to recuperate, coughing and heaving. John’s left side hurt, but his breathing was steady, controlled, the threat of further violence bringing sharp focus to his mind, if only to stop himself from reacting. Let Mycroft have his way.

Mycroft moved in to kick him, and John fell to the floor.

John heaved his breaths in and out, trying to get back on his hands and knees. He needed to stand up, to calm the raging man down somehow. Perhaps if he looked Mycroft in the eyes…

An arm wrapped around John’s neck from behind and pulled, dragging him in the direction of the bed. John couldn’t breathe. His own weight was against him, choking him as Mycroft dragged him backwards. Finally panicking, John reached over his head to try and gain some kind of leverage, his hands flailing about desperately. When he failed to disengage from the hold, the soldier in him took over and kicked backwards, his heel connecting with Mycroft’s shin. The hold loosened, giving John enough space to punch Mycroft in the face.

Prince Mycroft dropped him. Grateful, John gulped in breaths. He attempted to crawl away from Mycroft when he heard the first words addressed to him all night.

“You want someone to die tonight?” The voice was low, a whisper, but enough. John stopped moving and turned his head to look up.

Mycroft raised a hand to his face and then checked it for blood, though John could have told him himself that the prince was indeed bleeding a bit. Before John could form any other thought, however, Mycroft gave John another kick. He grunted, steeling himself for another attack.

The arm wrapped around John’s throat again and began dragging him.

Why didn’t the man just ask John to move? It’s not like he had ever really disobeyed.

John could hear the man panting, ‘not the most athletic man’, John thought as he suppressed every instinct in him to fight the pressure on his neck.

Thankfully, the bed wasn’t too far, and Mycroft swung around to deposit John on the soft surface. John counted his blessings that the man wasn’t stronger. Taller, yes, but not stronger.

“Strip,” Mycroft demanded. The voice was cold, its usual gentle demeanour absent.

Reluctant but not stupid, John removed his shoes first and then socks. He looked up and wondered if talking would help. Probably not. He would probably just have to deal with this version of Mycroft tonight. With a sigh, he lifted himself a bit to take off his grey jumper.

Was Mycroft ever like this before? John cursed his memory for failing him. He might have picked up a few ways of handling the prince if he could remember from night to night. John started to unbutton his shirt, half lost in thought.

Two hands suddenly came at him, grabbed his half unbuttoned shirt and ripped the shirt open. John barely had time to register the lost buttons when the hands pulled John closer in order to take the shirt off. As John’s body got closer to the Mycroft’s, he instinctively jerked his shoulders away. Mycroft slapped him.

At that, John raised his hands in front of him to remind himself not to react, turning his palms out towards the prince to show as much compliance as possible. While Mycroft wasn’t terribly strong, he was clearly a violent man and non-compliance would have its consequences.

The hands moved to John’s belt, unbuckling them with uncomfortable efficiency. Soon enough, John was naked with the prince leaning in and slapping John’s thigh to get John to move deeper into the bed. The wordless manoeuvring made him feel like a dog or a horse.

He was complying. He’d always complied, following all of the sadist’s bloody orders. Mycroft didn’t need to slap him to get him to move!

Another slap at John’s inner thigh seemed to indicate that Mycroft wanted him to open his legs and bend his knees. John moved slowly.

Mycroft slapped him again for dawdling, this time dangerously close to John’s balls. Recalling his punishment for being late, John moved faster. Last thing he needed was for Mycroft to bring out the rod. Mycroft moved in, unbuckling his belt.

Right. No prep, then. ‘No prep could potentially cause bleeding,’ supplied the doctor in him. Would it hurt? Even the preparation stage that he sometimes remembered were sometimes painful.

Did he wonder this every time and then just forget?

As Mycroft positioned himself near John’s bottom, John exhaled, feeling the heat and weight of the other man on top of his legs. This will probably hurt. It will probably make him bleed, but he will live and heal and it’ll all be fine. Steeling himself, John just hoped that the encounter wasn’t a long one.

Would that thought be the same every time too?

John supposed it would be. Without the former memories, John was unlikely to form any truly ‘new’ thoughts. Well, that's rather depressing.

No more thoughts. None of it would matter by the morning anyway.

The phone rang and Mycroft paused.

The bell sounded once more, and the bureaucrat unceremoniously left John, pulled up his pants and went to go answer it.

John didn’t dare move.

“This had better be bloody good,” Mycroft stated over the line.

John couldn’t make out what was being said, but Prince Mycroft clenched his jaw as he listened.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” He hung up and began pulling on the rest of his clothes.

Realising that he’d been given a reprieve, John gingerly sat up, awaiting some kind of dismissal.

The prince busied himself with looking presentable and moved towards the door. John opened his mouth to ask if he should (could) leave, but Mycroft was already out the door.

No orders. In a relationship that depended on that dynamic of hierarchy, having no orders was distressing.

Not knowing what else to do, John went to examine his shirt. A couple of frayed threads, lost buttons. It wasn’t irreparable. He fished around for his lost buttons, finding a few on the bed and another two on the floor. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would be kind enough to sew them back on or lend him some needle and thread. He tucked them into a pocket and folded his clothes neatly. He didn’t dare put them back on in case Mycroft returned.

Sighing, John sat back on the bed and waited.

Chapter Text

John awoke to a burgundy world.

He must have fallen asleep while waiting for Mycroft’s return, but it was morning now, light peeking in from behind the curtains.

Whatever that phone call had been about must have been important enough to keep the ruler away all night.

John felt relief wash over him. He certainly had not liked dealing with such a violent version of the man, so he was grateful that the call had hailed Mycroft away. Still, without knowing what had caused such an outburst, John wasn’t completely at ease.

He checked himself over, reviewing where the kicks and slaps had landed, but the damage was minimal with bruises mostly around his chest and abdomen. Those were simple enough to hide. Satisfied, he moved off the bed.

If Mycroft had been away all this time, John would certainly be allowed to leave, right?

He shrugged at his own internal dialogue and pulled his clothes on before checking himself in the bathroom mirror. Nothing visibly wrong. Good. He exhaled and left the room.

It wasn’t until he was half-way back to his own room that he’d realised that he remembered the whole night, down to the minute. He remembered the prince kicking him, climbing on top of him. The phone call saving him.

The night was by no means without its own trauma and yet he remembered it. Why? Because it was violent? Perhaps the violence had helped his mind stay alert, ever aware of the threat of a kick. Or, was it because it hadn’t actually involved sex? Maybe his mind shut down when the sex occurred, like it was afraid of it.

There’s a thought he’d never imagined himself having.

The boys in the military would probably laugh if they’d ever heard Captain John Watson was afraid of sex. John shook his head.

Near Sherlock’s wing, he picked up his pace and walked quickly past it. He certainly didn’t need Sherlock’s penetrating eyes now. No, he needed time to think.

“Doctor Watson!” Molly’s voice reached from across the open gallery. He turned to see her wave him towards Mrs. Hudson’s room.

After a brief hesitation, he obliged. The doctor in him was always quick to respond to such a frantic gesture.

*****

“What’s wrong?” The good doctor asked as he reached the door. He gave both Molly and Mrs. Hudson a head to toe scan, looking for injuries or some kind of ailment that could have possibly had Molly calling him over.

Realising her error, Molly lightly shook her head and gestured to the armchair before sitting herself down on the chaise lounge with Mrs. Hudson.

“Do you know where Prince Sherlock is?” Molly asked, eager to see if the doctor knew anything more.

“Sherlock?” The doctor sat up and leaned forward. His voice suddenly too loud. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s terrible. The guards were sweeping the palace looking for him last night,” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, wringing her hands.

“They wouldn’t tell us much, but it sounded like Prince Sherlock was in trouble,” Molly supplied, disappointed that the doctor seemed to know less than she did. “And, I don’t know if it’s connected but they took Ms. Adler away this morning.”

“I thought perhaps you were with him given that all the hubbub brought the whole world out into the hallways except for you.” Mrs. Hudson raised her brows in a look of hope.

“No, I was… occupied,” Dr. Watson frowned as he lightly shook his head. “When’s the last you saw him?”

“I suspect around the same time as you, Dr. Watson.” Molly shook her head. None of this was reassuring. The last she saw Prince Sherlock, he had looked so distressed.

The doctor shared a look of concern. “I’m sure he’s fine, Princess Margaret. He has a knack for getting himself out of the trouble he lands himself in.”

Molly nodded. She was grateful for his words even if his distraught expression belied a certain anxiety.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” the doctor repeated. All the same, the doctor’s face took on a distant look. He stood up and went to Mrs Hudson’s door, looking out towards Sherlock’s room.

Sighing, Molly hoped he was right.

But her anxiety said it was time to reach out to her secret admirer again. The knowledgeable admirer cared about her and her Prince Sherlock, filling the pages with words of reassurance.

Care went into those messages to her and the mind on the other side had helped her through some of her homework and troubles with the palace staff. Perhaps the mystery admirer could help find Prince Sherlock too.

********

Sherlock sighed. He was so tired.

And as usual, Mycroft was being a pain in the ass. All Sherlock wanted to do was to go to his room, and Mycroft had the audacity to keep Sherlock in the throne room. The next in line prince wore a stern face, sitting in mother’s throne while his fingers left oval trails in the burgundy velvet of the arm rest. He was also sporting a light bruise, which was odd, but Sherlock was too tired to make sense of it.

“Won’t mother be joining us?” Sherlock asked with a yawn. He lifted himself off his chair for a brief moment to tug on the sheet he’d managed to wrap himself in, not for its warmth but for the cover it provided for the cuffs on his damn wrists.

Mycroft shook his head. “She left me in charge to handle the situation. You know she can’t stand seeing you launch yourself on some suicidal mission.”

“Suicidal? It’s only suicidal for the stupid,” Sherlock protested, miffed that he was being spoken to like a child. “Truly Mycroft, it pains me that you think I would be that stupid. Why would I enter anywhere if I didn’t believe I had a way out.”

“I don’t know why you do anything, dear brother.” Mycroft kept his eyes fixed to Sherlock even as he lightly shook his head in admonishment. “So, what was your way out?”

“You, of course, though I had imagined it would have taken your men a bit longer.” Sherlock said with a huff. It bothered him that he didn’t even manage to accomplish his mission before Mycroft’s men stormed the place.

“Foolish. Selfish. Brother. When will you learn that you cannot just waltz about the dodgy parts of town without protection?”

“Mycroft, Adler was a governess, selected and approved by YOU. YOU placed her inside the palace walls. If you want to blame anyone, you should blame yourself!” Sherlock seethed.

“Sherlock, you’re a prince! You should know better than to go out with the girls’ governess, let alone disclose security protocols to someone you barely knew! For what? A bit of attention?”

This conversation was irritating. “Well, I was high…”

“Yes. I know,” Mycroft said curtly. “So, you admit it. You were high enough to run your mouth and show Adler how to decipher our code. And now,... now, we have a security breach at the port.” Mycroft sighed. “You realise that if you were anyone other than my brother, I’d have had to execute you?”

Sherlock just glared at his brother. He hadn’t known about the port’s security breach. Should he care? Mycroft had a handle on the situation, didn’t he?

“Who else have you told?”

“No one.” Sherlock enunciated. The fatigue of the night’s activities trumped any real attempt at sarcasm.

“No? Not even John? I’m told you were drunk with him in the wine cellar.”

“John? Why would I tell John? Besides, even if I had, who would he tell? He’s practically glued to one of us day and night.”

“Regardless, he’s not one of us.”

“He might as well be. You certainly seem to prefer his company over mine and I can assure you that I feel the same.” Sherlock humphed. “Prefer his company, that is.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Of course you do, brother mine, of course you do.”

Sherlocked paused to study his brother, a figure he’d studied for his entire life. Mycroft’s nose twitched in disgust, and suddenly a sharp thought pierced through the tiredness. No.

“Wait, I really didn’t tell him anything,” Sherlock emphasised.

His brother stood up, heaved a long sigh and let his shoulders drop. “You may not have had to actively tell him anything, Sherlock. He’s not as dimwitted as you might believe.” With that, Mycroft headed for the door.

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered out.

Not John.

Mycroft wouldn’t hurt John, would he? John was special even to his brother. Sherlock was sure of it.

A short pause gave Sherlock hope but Mycroft simply turned to let the guards back in. “Get him cleaned him up. And don’t let him out of his room,” commanded Mycroft.

No.

Sherlock tried to rise from his seat, forgetting the sheet and the cuffs, but his body was still recovering from the alcohol and drug cocktail he’d procured from Adler, and he stumbled.

Mycroft was gone.

John.

John was in danger and it was Sherlock’s fault.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong again. Mycroft’s usually well-lit room was dark, like that first night when he had stripped in front of the prince, the night that Mycroft had “punished” him for being late. This was not good, not good at all.

John advanced cautiously. Prince Mycroft was at his desk with his elbows on the surface. The sharp contrast of light coming from the desk lamp hid Mycroft’s large features, highlighting just the man’s right hand and gold ring.

“Hello?” John asked the dark figure.

The figure moved slowly, and as John’s pupils adjusted to the fire-lit darkness, he noticed two guards in the back. That was definitely odd. They never had company, at least as far as he could remember.

The silhouette of the tall man moved into view and came ever closer. Soon, Mycroft was at arms length of John and began raising his right arm. John stiffened, preparing himself for a blow, but the older man simply placed his right palm on John’s left cheek.

“Oh, John. What am I going to do with you?” Mycroft tsked.

Bemused, John blurted out, “I’m sorry?” and then regretted it. Recalling the random outburst of rage Mycroft had exhibited two nights ago, John gulped. If he had indeed pissed off the powerful man again, now was not the time to be questioning anything.

Still, he needed to know. Balling his hands into tight reassuring fists, John dared to ask, “Did you… find Sherlock? Is he… okay?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and gritted out, “Sherlock’s fine. He’s confined at the moment, but he’ll be fine, for now.”

For now? Still, John felt his shoulders drop the tension he’d held the past two days. He’d felt responsible for the young man’s alcohol intake and was sure it was somehow connected to Sherlock’s disappearance.

“But we’re talking about you.” The prince’s face hardened. “Anything you care to share with me now? or do I have to extract it from you?”

Extract? Now, that did not sound friendly. “I haven’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The taste of acid filled John’s mouth.

“If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then we have an even larger problem.”

John fisted his hands by his sides and looked up at Mycroft’s face, hoping to read some kind of hint or clue. It remained impassive and unhelpful.

Was it the kiss? He blushed. It wouldn’t surprise John if the prince had spies everywhere. Maybe it was the gun? Or, could it be the girls?! Had Mycroft found out about the princesses? He averted his eyes but felt his face flush all the same.

“Ah, so you are hiding something.” Mycroft sighed and tapped John’s cheek with the palm that was on it before dropping his hand.

“Well?” Mycroft pressed.

John felt anger rising, mixing toxically with his fear. He couldn’t confess to anything without possibly giving away more information, without hurting someone else, but the prince was evidently bent on keeping him in the dark, “Well, what? I don’t know what you want.”

“It’s okay, whatever it is, telling me now will be better than me finding out later. I can be quite reasonable,” assured the sadist.

John huffed at the notion of a magnanimous Mycroft, especially after the display of dominance and power the other night.

“For starters, you can tell me where you got the gun.”

“Gun?” John furrowed his brows, watching as Mycroft went back to his desk to retrieve a gun and notebook.

“Yes, this gun,” Mycroft lifted it for John to see, though John didn’t need to see it to know it was his. “It’s not our standard issue, and my men assure me you did not have a gun on you when they escorted you out of Evanden. And believe me, they were in no condition to withhold any information from me.”

John looked away. Would Mycroft hurt Sherlock for giving John a gun? Being family must count for something… yet, the roughness with which Mycroft spoke of Sherlock’s current condition indicated that even family had limits.

Mycroft tsked. “Between that and all these notes about the palace history and personnel, including Sherlock’s movements, one would think you’re planning an assassination.”

Horrified, John shook his head. “No, that’s not… that’s not what the notes are about…,” John protested.

“Oh? What are they about then?”

And Mycroft had John there. John himself wasn’t too sure why he took so many notes. He’d simply found Sherlock and Sherlock’s deductions to be fascinating but that reasoning was suddenly feeling insufficient in the face of such an accusation as an assassination attempt. “They’re just notes. Nothing more.”

“So, a gun magically appears in your room and the notes on the palace procedures, history and personnel are just some whimsical study? Next, you’ll be telling me that you plan on writing a novel.”

“Yes,” John gritted out and lifted his head to hold Mycroft’s gaze.

Mycroft sighed. “I want to believe you. I do. But with all palace matters, precaution takes precedence, and you’re clearly hiding something.” With that, Mycroft’s face hardened once again and he lifted a hand to summon the two that were in the back before turning to John once more with the deadpan command of, “Strip.”

John exhaled in frustration and fear. He didn’t know what was coming, but it wasn’t good. Nonetheless, he moved with efficiency, to follow orders and to conceal the uneasiness he felt.

He was only half undressed when the guards reached him and to his dismay, one of them started to help, the other took his right wrist and began looping some rope. This was definitely not good.

The two worked quickly, removing any remaining article of clothing and then tying his wrists and ankles. His wrists were strung up to hooks in the ceiling that he’d never noticed, the bed’s canopy having effectively hid them from his view. His ankles, they tied to the ends of a wooden rod, spreading his legs at a little under double his shoulder width. An additional loop of rope tied the rod to the bed, fixing John in place.

Now, facing the fire, John had trouble making out what the figures in front of him were doing. Only their silhouettes offered any information but even that wasn’t much. It seemed that one of them was setting up a suitcase while the other had sat down to examine the contents. The first one was then handling some kind of rod. Mycroft, with his unmistakably tall shadow, half sat on the edge of his desk, twirling a pen in his hand.

SSimmmm. A high-pitched sound suddenly echoed through the room. It wasn’t loud, but the shrill of it was unnerving. It seemed to be coming from the man with the rod, so John focused all his energy that way. Ttak! A crack sounded through the room, accompanied by a small spark, revealing itself against the black of the men’s silhouettes.

John dropped his gaze to the floor in front of him.

Electricity.

His breathing began to elevate at the thought. He’d seen the burns on a few of his patients, everything from blisters to the darkened flesh burned beyond repair. He steadied his breathing to keep himself calm.

John swallowed. Mycroft wouldn’t let them truly hurt him, would he? Perhaps they went through similar rituals in the past and John just didn’t remember.

Simmm. Ttak. Simmm. Ttak. The men performed a few more tests. The refrain of shrill and spark taunted him, dissolving any remaining anger into unadulterated fear. The vulnerability of his bound condition didn’t help.

The figure with the rod moved towards him and stepped aside, giving the fire a chance to illuminate the man’s face. It was unfamiliar and unsmiling, but John’s attention went more to the rod, glaring at it as if he could force it to stay away. He couldn’t give up the princesses and certainly wasn’t going to incriminate Sherlock since Mycroft seemed possessive enough to care. John was stuck.

The man lifted the rod to John’s face, so John stilled, closed his eyes, and held his breath, slowly exhaling to keep steady against the anticipation of pain. But the man waited.

A voice from John’s left asked, “Do you know what that is?”

“An electric rod,” John turned to look at the Mycroft.

The prince moved into the light but made no attempt to take the rod from the guard. John could see him admiring it like a shiny toy.

“Quite clever. Yes indeed. I acquired it as a souvenir from some Argentinians a while back. They were using it on some political prisoners. Seemed useful. Of course, I had this one modified a bit. It was unreliable in maintaining a low enough current to not leave any permanent damage.”

John gaped. Just when he’d thought he’d understood the man. “So you torture people, then? A little hobby on the side? It’s not enough to randomly shoot them?”

The tall bully just grinned. “Random? Not at all. I assure you that it has its necessities. As my colleague is fond of remarking, this country sometimes needs a blunt instrument. This rod is just that, and wielded with precision and without remorse, it’s quite effective. I suppose you’re the first to see it in my bedchamber, which is a bit unfortunate. But I would prefer if no one else knew you were being questioned.”

John just glared at him, at Mycroft the torturer. The man was as evil as the rest of Europe made him out to be.

“But, not to worry. You won’t die. You won’t even burn. I had them test it quite thoroughly yesterday. But this will hurt. The men we tested it on can attest to its bite,” The prince stated as calm as ever.

Tested it on? Sick bastard. “On Evanden men?” John asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did you test it on Evanden men?” John repeated sharply, not caring to hold back the anger building in him.

Mycroft paused. “I threaten you with electricity and your thoughts go to your men?”

“Men like you wouldn’t understand.”

“There are no men like me,” Mycroft stated matter-of-fact. “Now, let’s stop stalling. Tell me what it is that you think you’re hiding from me. If it helps, I likely already know. You’d just be harming yourself by withholding information from me.”

John scoffed. The choices Mycroft offered were terrible: confess anything and everything or face whatever torture they had planned for him. John didn’t put it past Mycroft to lie about already knowing, just to put John at ease, and that level of deception made him angry. With that thought, he felt his fear dissipate and a new determination take hold. He wasn’t going to crack, not to this man, not like this.

The prince cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “So, what will it be?” he asked.

John turned his head away to face the rod and exhaled, steeling himself.

Mycroft humphed and gave John a long look before finally gritting out, “So be it.”

The tall silhouette took a few steps closer and lifted the pen-like object he’d be playing with to John’s lips. The pen turned out to be a smooth wooden rod, like the back end of a drumstick but slightly flattened.

“For your teeth. Just in case…” Mycroft’s voice explained at the same moment John realised the wooden rod’s purpose. John opened his mouth for the wooden rod, welcoming the protection, though he refused to be grateful for it. The prince backed away into the darkness, back to his desk.

A muffled shuffle of garment told John that some kind of gesture had been made and the shrill of the rod filled the room once more. John took deep breaths as it neared his abdomen. Twak! John felt himself jerk away. The pain was sharp and intense, strangely travelling beyond the area of target. He looked down to see if there was any damage, but the torturer’s word had held true. It only hurt, hurt like hell.

The rod whined again and John gripped the rope at the end of his wrists. Twak!

This one hit his right thigh, twitching it. Simmm. He breathed deeper, faster. Twak! The next came back up to the middle of his chest. John heard himself grunt as his whole body jerked back. Simmmm. Twak! The left thigh. Another grunt. He’d barely had time to recover. Twak! The right thigh. John let out a stifled groan. He was panting now. Focus. Quick short breaths to mollify the pain during the short respite.

Simmmmm. It was back. Twak! It hit the back of his left calf. His whole leg jerked, the wave sending a whine out of his throat. Twak! The same spot. Another yell escaped him even as he bit down hard on the wood in his mouth. John willed his vocal cords to still, clenching his throat, holding tightly onto the satisfaction that would come from denying Mycroft any further show of pain.

It hit his inner right thigh next and despite himself, John moved away, grunting. Perhaps a grunt would be okay. Twak! Same spot. He really wanted to be quiet. But as the rod continued its assault, he yelled. Please not the same spot. Please. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John realise he had lost the ability to even hear the rod, fixated as he was on managing his pain.

He would not cave. Determined, John managed his best glare at the man wielding the rod and was rewarded with shocks to his balls, twice. His breathing was erratic now. Heart racing.

A short respite seemed to be in session, and in the rod’s absence, John could hear his own pulse, pounding at his eardrums. His whole body overheating from the stress and pain alone, and his skin burned extra wherever the rod had graced it.

Get the breathing under control.

He looked around for something to focus on. Mycroft’s hand was raised, apparently having been the cause of the break.

“How are we doing?” The prince asked casually, like an afternoon greeting between business associates. “Ready to talk?”

John huffed and shook his head. The pain was causing him to sweat now, but his spirit had never felt more alive. Fuck Mycroft, Holm, all of it. John refused to show any weakness.

Mycroft’s hand went back down.

And the dance started again, hitting his thigh, calf, ankle. It travelled all around his body, increasing in intensity as everything became more sensitive. The rapid succession of the movements cause his body to flail about, unable to steel himself against the next assault. Soon, he lost track of it. He was aware the rod was running along his left side, but everything hurt, and his body seemed unable to pinpoint the exact spot anymore. It occurred to him that he was moving away desperately. It also occurred to him that he was growling.

Just hold on.

Mycroft’s benevolent hand rose, halting the procedure.

“How about now?” Mycroft asked, or so John guessed. His strained breathing and heaving chest made the words seem distant.

John feebly shook his head and watched the hand go down.

They continued their dance, the rod and he. The world seemed to dissolve leaving only the two of them. Since John stopped hearing it, the whole experience had become increasingly distant, yet his body still danced, proving that the rod had never left.

As the sense of distance increased, his mind let go.

Somewhere, he understood that the merciless shocks were continuing but they took on a surreal edge as if he were dreaming. Mycroft stopped it periodically to question John, but John refused to speak a word, and so the dance continued, on and on.

And finally, it stopped, and by then, John didn’t even have the mental capacity to be grateful.

The men untied him, lowered him down carefully, and laid him on Mycroft’s bed. Tired, John drifted, wanting sleep but reluctant to leave himself so vulnerable, not when Mycroft was still hovering close by.

The pain began to subside, the current not strong enough to leave permanent reminders on the nerve endings, just an ache. He felt a weight dip the mattress and realised that the room had emptied out, leaving his mild rope burn as the only outwardly physical trace that it all had ever even happened. If his heart wasn’t still racing, he might have even thought he had imagined it.

“You are quite something, John,” A voice said. “You did very well. Beyond what I expected.”

In his exhaustion, John failed to make sense of the unwarranted praise. He turned towards Mycroft’s left hand that was now stroking John’s hair. The doctor was aware that he should feel angry, but in his fatigue, he couldn’t quite muster up the emotion.

“Not many wear out my patience. You either don’t have anything you’re hiding or you won’t talk, and at this point, any additional pain won’t help.” Mycroft stated, though not quite to John. The prince seemed to be pondering something but then just smiled. “Either way, I’m satisfied. Get some rest.”

John didn’t need a second command for that one. Sleep took him almost immediately as someone put covers over him.

******

Martha paused by the foot of the bed, where the balled up figure of Sherlock lay, unmoving.

She wanted to reach out, comfort the lad, reassure him that whatever had transpired, he was still a good person. It was a role she had played many times before when Sherlock was young, but instinct said that the fully grown man would reject any comfort at the moment.

Quietly, she picked up the tray of yet again untouched food and silently prayed that Mycroft would end Sherlock’s isolation soon.

The pain in Martha’s hip startled her into jostling the tray and the utensils slid about, clinking against the glass.

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock’s deep voice was quiet but sure. He hadn’t even turned his head to see if it was indeed her.

Martha smiled. How typical of him.

Sherlock turned her way. “How’s John?”

“Dr. Watson?” Martha questioned, suddenly realising that she had not visited the doctor yet today. She had been too preoccupied with the Princess’s distress over the ransacking of every room in their wing yesterday, and so Martha had spent the better part of the morning helping Princess Margaret look for some missing letters. Doctor Watson’s room was likely turned inside out too. She should have gone see if he needed any help.

“Yes, Dr Watson. How is he?”

“He’s fine, though I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Last I saw him, he was quite worried about you,” Martha added, hoping the extra attention would cheer Sherlock up.

“Worried? Why would he be worried?”

“Your confinement to your room isn’t quite public knowledge, dear. So, as far as the new residents are concerned, you’re still missing.”

“What? Why?”

“Prince Mycroft’s orders,” Martha provided. She suspected that perhaps Mycroft wanted to keep any missteps on Sherlocks part private, but she wasn’t sure and wasn’t about to speculate. “Mind you, he’d probably want you fighting fit before he reveals anything.”

“Of course.” Sherlock humphed but did finally sit up, which was a good sign.

Martha turns to leave when a “Mrs. Hudson,” stopped her. “Yes?”

“Would you leave the tray?”

Martha gave him a small nod. “I’ll bring you another.”

********

“Good to see you dressed, Sherlock. It’s about time, really.”

Mycroft’s smirk was irritating, but Sherlock paid it no mind. He wanted to ask about John but didn’t want to risk an outburst if the news wasn’t good. “I take it I can leave now?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft said. “Provided that you can tell me what you were trying to achieve. I trust that you’re sober now and can actually articulate a proper reason.”

Sherlock glared.

“Or not…” Mycroft sighed. “Moment of insanity, was it? Afraid I can’t let you out if that’s the case. A member of the royal family roaming about the city with loose marbles is the last thing we need right now.”

“This exercise is pointless. Just let me out Mycroft.” Sherlock struggled to keep his composure.

“We have a country to protect, Sherlock. Pedlam grows by the day, a majority of Brecane answers to its flag today with only a few Northern states still within our control. So, god damn it, give me a good reason why the second Prince of Holm is risking his life and his country.”

Sherlock seethed. “You know why! You always know why.”

“For once, Sherlock, I don’t believe I do. So explain it to me.” Mycroft’s voice was stern but the eyes held more concern than anger.

Deflated, Sherlock leaned back into his chair and sighed. “It was an experiment.”

“An experiment?”

“Yes, Mycroft. If you must know, I had hoped to experiment before getting married off. Hardly serves for a Prince to not know his way around… you know.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow and then huffed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” He palmed his face for a moment before adding, “Impeccable timing. Never an ounce of interest in all matters of sex and now, now, when we’re on the brink of war, is when you’re finally curious.”

“To be fair, you weren’t trying to marry me off before. And, it looks like I’ll be with Princess Margaret soon enough.”

“Accepting defeat so soon? How very unlike you,” Mycroft teased.

“You’ll find a way to get what you want. You always do.” Sherlock conceded. “Now, will you stop this ridiculous isolation?”

“Very well, Sherlock,” Mycroft confirmed. “I’m leaving for several days so we’ll need you to play at prince for once. You won’t have to do much, just sit through the meetings. Despite your shenanigans, as a member of the royal family, your mere presence can be useful. Promise you’ll show and I’ll let you out.”

Sherlock scoffed, annoyed at the prospect of sitting through bureaucratic briefings. Still, the idea of time with Mycroft away was appealing. “And John?”

“What of him?”

“Will he be staying here?” Sherlock asked, hoping the answer would reveal if John was even still alive.

“John will stay here where it’s safer. He’s proved rather resilient… and loyal.”

Sherlock’s heart swelled, and he fought to keep his lips from twitching. John was alive.

“If your question is about the hours, I suppose you need not conform to our agreement while I’m away.” Mycroft asked again, eyeing Sherlock’s face. “So, you promise then?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied as dryly as he could. It wouldn’t do to show Mycroft that Sherlock was now excited. John would potentially be more available for several days with Mycroft away.

Mycroft’s smirk returned. “Well then, do attempt to keep the country intact. Enjoy playing prince.”

“Oh, I will.” Sherlock waited until Mycroft left before letting himself smile.

Chapter Text

As usual, Molly was early, which afforded her a moment to herself before anyone else arrived.

The ballroom’s piano reflected the hall’s decor in an array of glimmering lines that streaked against the piano’s glossy burgundy wood. Next to the piano stood an organ, an older thing of black and gold chinoiserie design. This juxtaposition of the old and new didn’t surprise her. The palace, after all, was full of such contrasts, just as it was full of contradicting needs and wants.

Molly, herself, was in constant conflict, the warring nature between ‘Molly’ and the donned persona of ‘Princess Margaret’ was an ever-present question, loaded with doubt and wishful thinking.

It warred in her again even now as she ran her gloved hand along the ivory keys of the piano, while suppressing the desire to press one. The sound would ring across the hall, calling unwarranted attention.

Which… was fine, she supposed. The rational side of her mind at once recognized that it would bother no one, yet Molly didn’t quite feel like she could own up to it. Perhaps a true princess would have dared, uncaring of what the world thought of her. Or perhaps the polite upbringing would have kept the princess from exploring just as fear kept Molly from daring? Thoughts of this nature were a constant to daily life at Octland Palace, and it was exhausting.

Amid that, these dance lessons were a respite from it all, unique moments when ‘Princess Margaret’s’ and Molly’s own needs aligned. After all, even Princess Margaret couldn’t afford to embarrass herself at her own wedding by tripping over her steps in the local waltzes.

Granted, when the lessons had begun nearly two weeks ago, they had come with a certain set of butterflies. Prince Sherlock was supposed to be here in the ballroom with her, Ruth and the doctor, so Molly had self-consciously kept a constant gaze at the hall’s doors to see if Prince Sherlock might surprise them. He never did show and now that he was missing, the dance lessons were in effect, all for the trio taken from Evanden. They could enjoy a moment of freedom from the prying eyes of actual royalty, and since ‘Princess Elizabeth’ and Dr Watson were always running late, Molly had most of the time to herself where she learned to let go, relax and fully embrace the music whenever the pianist got going. Sometimes, she’d even feel like she was indeed Princess Margaret, growing bolder with each lesson, but the feeling didn’t last. So, there she stood, hesitating to even press a few keys on the piano.

Her internal debate came to a pause when the ballroom door opened, and the dance instructor Ms. Katherine and the pianist entered to begin the lesson. Molly smiled, glad that she might get a few steps in before even Dr Watson and Ruth arrived.

She went into full swing with the instructor, limbering about the hall, when naturally, she went flying past her prince as he sidestepped them physically. He had appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

“Prince Sherlock!” she cried out. “You’re back! Are you well? Where have you been?” She had so many questions for him as she frantically looked him up and down. To her relief, he looked to be in perfect health, handsome in his three piece suit, as he always managed to be.

Prince Sherlock for his part was less enthusiastic, giving her a curt nod and pressed smile, but then, this was the closest they’d been since the world decided Prince Sherlock was to marry Princess Margaret, so Molly could appreciate how awkward all of this must be for him. He straightened himself out and extended his hand to her, instantly making Molly feel self-aware.

She quieted herself, unsure what Prince Sherlock expected, but eager to be close. For the first time, she could openly show interest. It would almost be expected given that they were to wed. So, she smiled and gingerly took his hand, grateful that she was wearing her gloves that hid her less delicate features. To her delight, he pulled her in and gave the instructor a nod to begin the music. His proximity and the warmth that came with it had her heart in a flutter already, so the prospect of a dance had her nerves tingling. They were sure to stumble.

They did not. Prince Sherlock spun her about gracefully while she tried to keep up. She was suddenly glad that he had not joined her in their lessons earlier. The couple of weeks of work had indeed paid off, not quite enough to keep pace with him completely, but enough that she only needed to fix a step or two once in a while. He, on the other hand, frankly didn’t need the lessons at all.

Molly let Princess Margaret smile uncontrollably as she enjoyed her first dance with her betrothed, even though his face remained stoic and calm. That was fine. She didn’t expect anything more given that she’d rarely seen him express himself outside of annoyance. It simply pleased her to be so close to him.

When the final note played out, Molly heard clapping and turned to see that Doctor Watson and ‘Liz’ had entered the hall, both marvelling over Prince Sherlock’s sudden return.

The doctor gave Prince Sherlock a quick look of concern, and the two of them seemed to stand a bit straighter as they scanned each other. Finally, Prince Sherlock nodded and smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was a proper one all the same, and the doctor returned it until the prince’s eyes held the doctor’s gaze a little too long. Dr Watson’s smile became uneasy as he chuckled awkwardly and looked away.

The wordless exchange reminded Molly of Prince Sherlock’s interest in the doctor, and wondered if the doctor felt the same when Prince Mycroft came into the hall, immediately drawing the doctor’s attention.

With Doctor Watson at his side, Prince Mycroft grinned snidely and teased his brother, “I’m impressed. I heard you attended the morning briefing, and now this too. I should have found some princesses earlier.”

Molly expected Prince Sherlock to scowl or at least frown, but her prince simply continued to stare at the doctor. Instead, it was Prince Mycroft who frowned, visibly annoyed at his brother’s aloofness. Then, smirking, Prince Mycroft stepped unusually close to the doctor and wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders. Doctor Watson calmly met Prince Mycroft’s eyes, looking away from Prince Sherlock.

Only then did Prince Sherlock react. The reaction was subtle, but Molly knew her prince well enough to see the confidence leave his shoulders, his face etched in concern. Whatever had transpired between him and the doctor was still weighing heavy in the air between them.

Prince Mycroft drew Doctor Watson away. “Well, I only stopped by to borrow John here for a moment, so don’t let me stop the lessons. He’ll be right back.” He grinned and led Doctor Watson out.

As the lesson continued, Molly watched an agitated Prince Sherlock glance regularly at the doors.

This annoyed her, but at least, as the Prince’s betrothed, she no longer needed to hide it.

****

“I will be away for several days,” Mycroft explained, thrumming his fingers on the armrest.

John looked up from his tea, tensing. Would he be expected to join Mycroft on such an occasion? Since the ‘interrogation’ a couple nights ago, he’d played up his outward interest in Mycroft, if only to keep Mycroft happy. John was, first and foremost, a survivor. Even so, a joint trip was not an event he would look forward to.

“...And do not intend on taking you with me,” Mycroft continued.

Relieved, John went back to drinking his tea. “Well, bon voyage to you.”

“But that’s not why I asked you here.” Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “As it happens, it has come to my attention that Sherlock is in need… of a bit of experience, in the sexual context…”

“Right…, and?” John shifted a bit uncomfortably. When Mycroft wasn’t forthcoming, John finally added, “What’s that got to do with me?

“I have decided that in my absence, I would like you to show him the basics.”

“You what?” John did spill his tea this time. “God damn it. You can’t be serious.” Proprietary and pretence went out the window in the face of what Mycroft was proposing. ‘You’re sick, you know that?”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “Sick? Hardly. It’s a generosity. Believe me, sharing is not quite what our family is known for,” Mycroft remarked. “Of course, he can’t know I sent you. He’d reject it on the spot, knowing him.”

Share? Like some toy? John fumed, wishing he could slap Mycroft. Staring at the loathsome man just seemed inadequate in the face of things.

“Where’s all this anger coming from?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head. “You seemed so eager to please me these past few days, and this would please me. It shouldn’t be difficult, seeing as you’ve already been with me almost a dozen times. And, publicly, it’s not an issue. It’s not like I openly claimed you as a pet. You can appear to do whatever you want.”

John huffed. Great, just great. John was nothing more than a whore to Mycroft, disposable enough to dispatch to another royal family member, though apparently, without the other family member even knowing. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to force myself onto your brother? And make Sherlock believe it was all my idea?” His voice rose, barely hiding his anger. He was done pretending to be okay with any of this.

Mycroft made a face. “Force? Such a vulgar word choice.”

“Yeah? What words would you use?” John seethed.

“It’s rather adorable to see you so mad,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Like you’d rather be with me.”

What?! The delusional psychopath. John’s eyes went wide even as he kept the anger etched on his face.

“As for words, I’d call them educational sessions. Surely, a doctor such as yourself would make for the most excellent teacher in the ways of the body. Sherlock is rather naive, I’m afraid.”

“Naive?” As far as John was concerned, Sherlock was the smartest man he knew.

“I’m quite sure he’s still a virgin,” Mycroft explained.

Oh. John frowned. “He’s a prince. I’m sure he has enough experience already.” Even as he said so, John began to doubt himself. Sherlock did seem rather naive, if the kiss was anything to go by.

“Are you now? And with whom would you imagine Sherlock having had experience with?” Mycroft asked, raising his brows.

“I don’t know. Acquaintances? School friends?”

“Of Sherlock’s?” Mycroft laughed.

Anger brewed further in John’s chest. He’d already lost all respect for Mycroft after the electrocution, but this was another level. “If Sherlock lacks any friends in his life, it certainly didn’t help having you for a brother,” he retorted.

Mycroft’s face twitched into a frown. “I do what I have to.”

“You mean, what you think you have to. There is a difference, you know. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be deciding what education Sherlock needs in this department.” John looked sternly into Mycroft’s eyes. There was no way John was agreeing to this.

“Oh John, if you were paying attention, you’ll be the one deciding the curriculum. I simply ordered the tutelage. Besides, the Evanden men I’ll send home thank you in advance,” Mycroft corrected with a snide smile.

John stared, breathing heavily as his face flushed, half from outright rage, which made sense, and half from embarrassment, because damn him, but the thought of being with Sherlock had his heart going. Regardless of the reason, he felt his fists tightening repeatedly as every part of him subdued the desire to punch Mycroft’s face. “And if he doesn’t want it? Doesn’t Sherlock get a say in this?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mycroft smirked.

Right. Like Mycroft would care, damn him. That said, John already had a feeling Sherlock would welcome such a development.

Mycroft continued, “I’ll tell you what. You educate Sherlock, and I’ll send ten men home. And if it turns out you were unsuccessful while I am away, I’ll shoot ten.” Mycroft stood up to leave, indicating the end to the conversation.

John huffed in disbelief. He had thought nothing could surprise him anymore, but John couldn’t have imagined this. Ten men. The stakes were too high to be playing at some moral high ground.

From the doorway, Mycroft asked for confirmation, “You wouldn’t let those men down, now, would you?”

Running his hands through his hair, John let out a long breath and shook his head.

The ease with which Mycroft played with lives perturbed John. It demanded John’s compliance whether or not the doctor wanted it, though in this case, John wasn’t sure he truly minded, and he had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t either.

No, John could now drop the distance he’d created between the two of them and find out if that kiss really meant anything.

********

Quick, quick, slow. Turn, repeat.

Sherlock went through the steps again.

The ballroom had emptied now and it was just him, imagining the music. The lessons had ended a few minutes ago, but John hadn’t returned, so Sherlock took to practising the steps while mentally running through the options for how best to use the next week that Mycroft promised to be away.

It was a rare thing to leave Sherlock unsupervised but with Mother having gone West for a holiday, the moment Mycroft was on that boat, Sherlock was free to do whatever he wished.

And he had plans.

His long list of potential cases had built up while he stayed close to the palace in order to make the most of his fleeting hours with John. Now that they were free of any hourly constraints, he could choose any of the cases to go solve without having to return to the palace early, assuming of course, John would want to join him. There was a mild awkwardness to their interaction earlier, but Sherlock was sure John would get over it. It was just an experiment after all.

A few more turns and Sherlock felt done with the dancing exercise. The chances that John would return were diminishing with each passing minute.

Naturally, that’s when the door opened, John’s blonde hair peeking through with a look of surprise at the emptied hall. The doctor locked eyes with Sherlock and stepped inside, ill at ease.

“Am I too late?” John asked. His stance was still awkward, accompanying a tightness in the lips and eyes that suggested discomfort.

“It appears so,” Sherlock provided. He didn’t move from his spot, not wanting to advance toward John until he was certain that proximity didn’t cause John to run away. Some things take time, especially if Sherlock’s only real tactic was to pretend it never happened in the first place.

John shrugged. “I suppose there’s tomorrow.”

“The instructors actually won’t be back until next week.”

“Oh.” John’s shoulders dropped a notch. “I’ve already missed so many of them.”

Sensing disappointment, Sherlock recalculated his next move. “If it’s the steps you’re worried about, I could show you.”

“You?”

“Yes, I quite like dancing.” He really did, and his family never seemed to find much reason to engage in the activity, which was a bit disappointing.

John chuckled, his lips twisting into a half smirk.

“I hold my own.” Sherlock demonstrated with a few steps, and John’s look relaxed into one of wonder, as if the mind couldn’t fathom what it had just seen. Sherlock smiled.

Finally, John nodded. “Alright then, show me what you got.” He moved forward until he was an arms length away.

Brushing aside any uneasiness on his own part, Sherlock took the step forward to guide John’s arms and hands into position and began leading.

John chuckled again, this time blushing. It was still awkward, but John’s eyes held the smile as much as the rest of his face. The embarrassment grew as John struggled to keep pace and stepped on Sherlock’s toes.

Sherlock did not mind.

As a matter of fact, as their dance continued, Sherlock found himself grinning. The grin felt permanent, the way his muscles tightened and refused to go back to his usually controlled expression. Over time, his cheeks hurt, the muscles there having been unaccustomed to prolonged use in smiling so freely. It was a silly face, but perhaps it was the face Sherlock would wear if his family indulged in such things.

He smiled at that thought, smiled openly and honestly.