So I finally got around to starting something new. I can't thank those of you who stuck with me through Out On The Rocks enough. I'm still amazed by the response. I hope you will enjoy this to but will warn you that it will be heavier on the smut and a lot darker. I hope you enjoy it and if it's not for you thanks the same for popping by.

An Unwanted Gift.

He had never agreed with the process of slavery, the very idea of it was enough to make his stomach turn. Yet here he was, apparently being a 'war hero' (debatable) meant that one had a God given right to own another human life. A gift from the state, that was what they had called it. That was exactly what he didn't understand. Honestly he would have been more appreciative of a few extra pounds a month to afford more than a shoe box just outside of central London, or maybe even a better therapist. But here it was and beggars could not be choosers. The room he had been placed in to await the next candidate, was dimly lit, the white walls marked with he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what. The tiled floor was unclean, messed with greasy foot steps and clumps of hair and blood. For something which had such a strong legal standing the auction rooms and kennels really left a lot to be obvious signs of abuse and mistreatment making him feel even less at ease than he had originally been. Half of the slaves that had stood before him in offering looked malnourished and diseased and although he felt pity for each and every one of them John couldn't imagine sharing house with them. As a doctor he honestly wanted to take them and give them the help they required. Perhaps that was what he would need to do, just pick the next poor wretch who walked through the door and take her home. Cure her, pay her, and set her free. Which was all well and good until the door actually opened and he wasn't confronted with a her at all.

The figure that crawled through on hands and knees was slim and pale, a mop of greasy raven curls mussed on top of his head. John wasn't quite able to catch his features thanks to angle and dim light but just the figure was enough to give the sense of a kind of beauty a slave should not own. A presence which spoke of wealth, if you ignored the filth over the pale skin and the complete disintegration of the pointless loin cloth tied around his waist. John blinked, looking up towards the suited man holding the leash.

"My preferences clearly stated someone of female gender."

The suited man nodded, offering up the knowledge that John had just systematically declined every female they had within the walls of the auction house. His mouth formed a small o shape and he nodded his response silently,dropping down to crouch in front of the broken figure of a man. Still he did not raise his head, some stupid assumption about respect more than likely beat into him by over paid auction masters who had no real idea how to treat a human being.

"Look at me."

He murmured softly, the pads of his fingers resting on the pale, sharp chin to guide the slaves face upwards. The first thing that hit him was those eyes. Deep, unreadable, hypnotising. Then the rest of the face, bruise black and blue yet the natural colour of the skin pale as ivory. Each feature sharp, chiseled even. Cheek bones like knives. The sight of him made John's insides burn and he felt guilt for it. That something so sorrowful, so obviously abused and taken for granted could make him feel such a considerable amount of want. Never mind that the male figure which lacked the softness and curves of the female was the only body he had seen to make his pule beat just that little bit faster. There was a pause, one he found himself unable to account for. If beauty were the commodity up for sale he would have snatched this one up without a second thought. And in reality he had no idea what he had been waiting for, passing over slave after slave. The guilt of having to actually own a human being laying uncomfortably with the way he had been bought up. Slaves were for the upper class, his middle class family had done what needed to be done without assistance and then when he was old enough he had moved on to university. In London plenty of people owned slaves, even the students of the wealthier families but the class divide was so severe he had not had much to do with any of them. And now he was here, faced with the task of picking someone to be his property. Sex, chores, work, anything he desired. That was the job of whoever he chose.

The slave was watching him, eyes piercing as if he could read every bloody thought running through John's head. It unnerved him, but at the same time it was inexplicably refreshing.

"Name?"

John asked quietly, head inclined in question. Most slaves had identification numbers and that above all really grated on him. As a soldier he had been assigned a number and what had he become? Little more than a piece on a chess board to be maneuvered around by people who would never really understand war. Maybe he hadn't been a slave in the really sense of the word, but he had run into the battle field without question, blinded by national pride and stupidity and had come back with little more than a limp and a shoulder he could hardly move.

"Sherlock Holmes."

This gave him pause, so the man still had a name? This either made him very new or very important. A prize to the market, one which they would not let go of lightly. And yet here he was being offered up to John on a silver platter. John stood, resting heavily on his cane, attempting to steady his breathing as his eyes continues to move over the slave. The lashed on his back, the marks of restraint on his ankles and wrists.

"Tell me your story."

"I do not have a story." He replied, voice hoarse from lack of use. "But I can tell you yours."

The man in the suit pulled harshly at the leash around his throat, hissing his name in a sharp tone which promise punishment. John glared at him then looked back down at the slave named Sherlock, his interest growing by increments. What exactly did this slave think he knew, after a mere five minutes of hardly knowing one another?

"Go on."

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. I also know that you're completely disgusted with this entire process, the child of a military man from a middle class family. I also know you're about to take me home. So why not just sign the papers and get me out of here as soon as possible hmmm?"

And then the cheeky git raised his eye brow, looking at him for all the world as if he had just ordered John to pick him up and carry him away. And so he stood there like an idiot for a few moments, having been told things this bastard couldn't possibly know. Eventually, and as a complete surprise to him, he heard the words spill from his mouth before he had registered what he was saying,

"This one. I'll take him."