Chapter Text
The governments of the world were held together by a fragile thread.
Nobody knew this better than Mycroft Holmes.
After The Pulse, came The Collapse. He should have expected it, that the people would blame the government for their trouble, the lack of technology, the money rendered nearly worthless, their cities burned by radicals, sometimes themselves.
There was the day he knew his assets would be seized, and any transfer would have been considered suspicious. They were all being watched, even the 'minor' official that he was. He did at least have the clarity to have all the accounts in his name, and he hoped his brother was just as wise.
He burns all of his records in the fireplace, even though most of them are useless now.
Along with his mobile. The fire burns brighter and spreads, taking with it the family heirlooms. Things, material things, that will never be replaced.
Sentiment, Sherlock would have said.
He leaned on his brolly, walking out of the mansion for what he believed was the last time.
They'd burn it within the week out of spite, and somehow it felt better if he was rid of things himself.
He'd save them the trouble, turn himself in. Sherlock would never forgive him if he ended up dead. They could have the assets, they could have everything - if only they would not go after his brother, Sherlock. As long as Sherlock stayed free.
Play his cards right, hopefully they would be kind to him. Mycroft could not be more wrong.
Someone in one of the trucks from those that call themselves The Resistance see the expensive suit he's wearing and bother to pick him up. The Prime Minister had already had as public an execution as possible, and god knows what had happened to the Royals. He had cut off all communication.
He knows better than to fight them but he's roughed up anyway, simply because the commoners are angry and want someone to blame for their trouble.
The soft-spoken man with the three-piece is an easy target, though it's only a few punches and tearing at the brand-name suit.
It could be worse.
In fact it will get much worse, but just how badly, he has no idea.
Once his papers are stamped, he's ordered to remove the torn clothing that's left, his pocketwatch that Father gave to him, the brolly Sherlock bought him as a going-away present - and he's given a dark brown tunic to indicate his status. He has no collar yet, that is detirmined by whoever might purchase him. The slave laws are being written by those who the people have elected might suit them better.
But Mycroft knows people - if he knows anything at all. They'll rebel, turn against their leaders once their conditions have not changed.
He is branded, by a number he does not choose; transported to where he is not to know. Likely to be shipped off to the desert - where most of the refugees were headed, the cities were too much of a hotbed, the deteriorating power plants approaching dangerous levels of radiation.
Already the new slaves and their new masters alike were sickening - radiation poisoning. As he's bound and shipped off in the cargo hold of a plane with the others, though some of them have chosen this life to simply be fed, he has alot of time - time that is normally occupied with his Work, to think.
"My...croft..."
"Yes, Mummy?"
"Sherl..."
"He's getting you some water, Mummy, shall I..."
"He...can't S'all...alright. Don'-don't wan' h-him to see..."
"Alright, Mummy, shh. Try not to talk. Save your strength. " Don't die, Mother. Please don't die.
"My...croft."
"Yes, Mummy?"
"Promise me...promise me one th-thing baby."
"Anything." I'll promise you the world. Get better please, even though I know it's hopeless. For me, mostly for Sherlock. He needs you. He's always needed you more than I ever did.
"You'll. You'll look af-after him. W-won't you? He n-needs s-somone My...croft. Dif...ferent. Al..ways ha...has been."
Her breathing becomes shallower, and he can feel - if not smell that the end is close now. Oh, Mummy...
"I promise, Mummy. I'll look after him, you'll see."
"You kn-know I-I support y-you if-if you want...the Ministry. But, not like y-your fa-father, you'll be...good at whatever you...do. My."
The blue eyes widen briefly as though seized by something and she turns to the door, a bright, peaceful smile on her face. Then there's a last shuddering breath, and she is gone. Mycroft doesn't know where he's going to begin with twelve-year-old Sherlock.
"Look, Mummy, I've brought your..."
Mycroft looks up to face his brother, watching as Sherlock drops the glass, eyes wide with shock, and it shatters into thousands of peices, sloshing water on the floor. Cold.
"Mummy, no! Don't you-you promised!"
And now, Mycroft has one of his own to keep.
He would keep that promise. Even if it cost him.
No begging to come rescue him. He wouldn't expect that. Sherlock didn't know. Probably wouldn't care even if he did know. Wouldn't be aware until it was too late and he was shipped off to wherever they were sending him. To whoever chose to purchase him.
It couldn't be good. Not for My - no he wasn't that anymore, was he? A number.
"You're numbers, now. Slaves. You have nothing, no career, no past, no family that bothers to want you - or, if you're so lucky, they've already been sold."
It's hot in the airport hanger. Sweat dribbles off the thirsty slaves, but they're not given water. Desert. As he'd thought. Kandahar? Oman? He doesn't think it matters now.
The woman who used to have fur coats and a pet cheetah is whimpering, shuddering. She won't last long.
The demand will either disappate as the slaves die from heat exhaustion or being overworked, or - they will simply find others willing to sell themselves for a roof and a meal.
They're crowded into a broad cage of some sort, barely sheltered from the heat.
He rubs the fresh mark on his arm, still inflamed. Still healing.
1893.
That is your name. You're a number, just a number. Nothing more. Nothing less.
His hand drops, the chains clinking around his wrists.
The others are crowded around the door, peering out. Afraid.
Someone begs for water.
He's afraid too, though he'd never admit it.
He can hear them shouting, betting numbers.
The poor were the ones with the money now, the middle class remained lucky.
If they had enough technology to sell. Or something to trade.
What wasn't fried in 'The Pulse', or what's considered to be worth something. Anything to trade.
It's rather hot today, considering the cities had been destroyed, abandoned, the survivors have now taken refuge in the desert, in the mountains.
He's not really looked at with appreciation. Middle-aged, not really suited for hard labor yet.
In not exactly ample conditions, so he looks far from his best.
Hadn't had 'proper food' since...probably since he'd first found himself in this predicament.
And he was thirsty... terribly thirsty.
He'd forgotten to focus on how dirty he felt. How alone.
He'd already calculated his injuries. Nothing major, really. Nothing that was life-threatening if left untreated.
Bruises would heal, cuts would scar over. Ribs would fuse. Scrapes would mend.
Where were they taking him?
The only thing he couldn't gather from any evidence.
Who would want a half-starved, middle-aged slave anyway? Would they be kind to him? Feed him occassionally?
His head bows as someone rattles the bars of their prison with a detached interest.
Would Sherlock be alright?
Oh please, Sherlock be alright. Stay away. Stay hidden.
"Hey, Slave. 1-8-9-3. Come over here."
Slave. No free will.
The word still tastes bitter in his mouth.
Owned. Not free.