I love slavery fics, but usually John tends to be the slave. I wanted to reverse that without making Sherlock's enslavement a sudden change in their life, nor did I want to make him a brainwashed sex slave. John is also often portrayed as someone firmly against slavery, and that is something I want to do a little differently, too. Apart from that, I just really want to explore what the world might be like, should slavery be a common thing.
This story is also on AO3.
John Watson had never owned a slave in his life. They had a family slave when he and Harry were children, but by the time John had been six years old, her health had gone downwards from old age and she'd been put down soon after. They never bought another slave. Couldn't afford one, John himself couldn't afford one once he had moved out. Then he'd joined the army, still unable to afford one, but also entirely unable to maintain one. Not that he had ever really wanted one, not that he thought he should have one. To own a slave would be a life utterly in his hands. And John, given his somewhat...unfortunate history with slaves before the army didn't feel confident about having such responsibility.
He had, of course, met and worked with plenty of slaves during his life. He'd used slaves just like any normal citizen would. Slaves were, after all, an essential part of everyday life no matter where you went. Well, almost at least, if one didn't count the few strange hippie countries that had outlawed slavery. It was a miracle their economy survived.
There had been slaves at the kindergarten and the schools he went, there were slaves at the university and there certainly were slaves in the army to "keep company" to the soldiers. But never had he owned a slave of his own.
Well, apparently he was about to now.
He had read the letter through several times, just to be sure he understood it right. And thus Captain John Hamish Watson, as the letter addressed him, now nervously stood at one of the front doors of the Greater London Institute of Slavery, an enormous building complex with offices, reception areas, waiting rooms and most importantly the holding centres where unowned slaves owned by the monopoly of the Institute were kept, trained, bred and grown. InS was responsible for the popular monthly slave auction within its compounds, and it held the title of the largest slave market in Europe. John leant to his cane, holding the letter in his free hand, attempting to figure exactly where he was supposed to go.
"Can I be of use, sir?"
John turned his head to see a door slave standing in the doorway. As was to be expected of his kind, the man was well over his fifties, but eager to help him find his way in the building complex.
"Uh, yes", John replied and limped through the door the slave kept opened for him. "I'm here to collect a slave."
The man smiled at him. "Aren't you all, sir?"
Technically John could have whacked man with his cane for being clever with him, but he just handed the slave his letter. "I've got this."
The slave gave the document a quick look and then hurried to open the inner doors for him. "Second floor reception. The lifts are over there, sir", he pointed as he spoke. "Take a queuing number, it's sixth button, and just sit to wait."
John thanked the slave. When the lift's doors opened, he found himself in a cozy reception area with large windows, green sofas and a handful of potted plants. There were at least thirty people in the room, a few of them with slaves. He eyed the ticket machine. Button number one said "auctions", number two "lost property". The sixth read "pensions", so John pushed it and received a ticket with F135 printed on it.
It took nearly an hour before the LED board chimed and his number appeared on it, instructing him to room number 12.
"Hi, John Watson", he greeted once he'd closed the door behind him. "Collecting a slave."
"Yes, I gather that from the fact that you are here", the woman whose office he had entered said. She stood up to shake his hand. "Joan Bruce. Please, have a seat."
John took the invitation and sat in an armchair as she sat back on her seat as well on the other side of the desk. He smiled at her, but she didn't smile back, just typed, presumably his name. Though there ought to be dozens of John Watsons in London. He handed the document over the table and Ms Bruce took it without saying a word.
"First slave?", she commented after ten seconds of more typing and clicking.
John licked his upper lip. He wondered if they did any background checks on new slave owners. "That obvious?"
She looked at him pointedly, like a person who dealt with similar situations on daily basis. "Yes. Also helps that there are no previous ownership records in the national database."
"Oh. Right."
Silence fell between them for nearly a minute as she kept working on her computer. The phone on the table started ringing, but she never answered it. John tried to occupy himself by looking at the framed picture of Mt. Fuji on the wall.
"So, a war hero?" Ms Bruce finally inquired pleasantly as the printer on the side table started printing.
"Apparently, yes", John admitted reluctantly. After a few seconds of silence he added, for the sake of conversation: "I didn't know they were giving slaves to veterans these days."
"Only for the decorated ones, and even them only if someone applies for them to get one. Apparently your heroic actions awarded you one." She glanced at the printer, unconsciously stroking her wavy black hair behind her ear. She was wearing large silver leaf earrings. "Whatever it is you did."
"I saved a friend's life."
"Good for you."
John felt a sting of bitter anger at her dry remark. What did she know?
Ms Bruce reached for the printer and then handed him the paper. "Please check that all your personal information is correct and then sign here."
"And that's it?" John asked, but his surprise was drowned under the annoyance he'd started to feel towards the woman.
"There'll be a few other documents you need to sign after I've brought the slave, but that's it", she confirmed. "Are you familiar with the slave rights?"
"Yes, of course." He eyed at the document and quickly signed it without really reading it.
"Good. But, just because it is my job to remind you: six meals a week is the minimum. There's more information about the exact calories on the pamphlet. Causing permanent injuries is forbidden and a slave must be allowed a reasonable amount of sleep. Again, the pamphlet has some ideas of discipline. An injured or ill slave must be allowed enough time to recover. After all, a healthy slave is a useful slave", she recited like she was trying to sell toothpaste on TV. Even her enthusiastic smile with a row of whitened teeth matched the image in his head.
"That should pretty much cover it, but a copy of the actual slave rights act is with the papers you receive. I suggest you read it carefully. Your slave's ID is 99OR-79/3J3A. I'll print out its papers and you can give these", she began, handing him the said slave rights act, the newest copy of monthly Possessions magazine published by InS and something called The Handbook of a New Slave Owner, "a quick look while I collect your new property."
John inwardly grimaced at the description. Most people referred to slaves as him or her when their sex was clear, but there were always those who preferred "it". She obviously had the slave's paperwork on her screen, so she fell into the latter category. But perhaps it came with the line of work.
He didn't get to choose, but considering the circumstances, he was quite positive it would be a female. He was an invalided soldier. They probably thought he needed someone gentle to take care of him. Not that he was complaining. He imagined a young blonde, girl-next-door type of a slave. A little shy, but eager to please and make a good first impression on her new owner. There would be sex tonight. John didn't waste time on thinking he'd be the slave's first owner, but he actually preferred it that way. His thoughts drifted to the dark skinned slave girl back in Afghanistan. Her name...John wasn't sure if she'd had a name. Whatever the soldier chose, probably. She'd liked John, had been sad to see him leave. John regretted he'd been too much in physical pain to have one last night with her.
Ms Bruce got up and the printer behind her started working again. "Make yourself comfortable. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes."
She disappeared through a back door that locked itself automatically behind her. John glanced at the clock on the wall and for the lack of anything better to do began reading.
99OR-79/3J3A hadn't been born a slave despite being one for most of his life. He used to be a human being. His name had been William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His parents were of a wealthy background. His mother a celebrated mathematician, his father an artist. They had owned several slaves themselves. He had lived in a nice country house with his family until... Well. One wrong word uttered at the wrong moment had been enough to change that. But that was all far in the past now, none of it could be undone.
Sherlock opened his eyes. The holding room seemed uncharacteristically spacious due to the natural light pouring in from the small windows. It was a sunny day out there. He'd been to rooms with a layout identical to this one before, but it was his first time in a room with a window. Usually he'd been held in the underground rooms or on the other side of the corridors where the windowless rooms were just as dark. He didn't even need to share the four bed room after his "flat mate" had been taken away eight days ago. How lucky of him.
He stretched his arms the best he could while lying on the lower bunk before sitting up and twisting his neck until it gave a satisfying crack.
Bored. So fucking bored.
He had been in the holding centre for almost two full weeks now and it would still be nine days until the famed monthly auction. Damn master and mistress Summers for handing him over so far from the auction day. Damn InS for not putting him for sale publicly. It worried him. Why hadn't they put him on sale yet? Did they think he was worth more if sold at the auction? Didn't seem very likely given his what must have been written on his file.
Damn mistress Summers. He hadn't even done anything wrong, not this time, not after Florida. When master Summers had purchased him little over a year ago, it had been a relief. And he'd sworn to himself this was the last time. He hadn't exactly embraced his new life with his new owners, but he'd decided he was tired of trying to escape it. Pursuing freedom wasn't worth it, not if it wasn't one hundred percent certain to happen. He'd sworn himself he wouldn't risk it, wouldn't risk his life, sworn himself he'd behave. And he had. For little over a year he'd been as good as he could. It had taken him effort. A fucking year of near picture perfect slave and then his mistress sold him because she grew bored of him?
It wasn't fair. A year of tolerating her stupid kinks and playing along and she got bored? He'd been bored ever since setting his feet into her house, but he hadn't complained. Much. And then one day she just said she was bored and wanted to sell him and buy someone else!
He looked at the mattress above him. If today was indeed Thursday, 21st of January, it would be his twenty-third anniversary as a slave in little over two weeks. How time had flown. If he were to close his eyes, he could still easily recall his first night in a cell identical to this.
Sherlock glanced at the narrow window near the ceiling. He would've begged on the floor to be let out in fresh air had he thought it would be any help. He had hardly been out of this room. Given his ill temperament, he hadn't been sent to train younger slaves or do any kind of work, not even when in his boredom he had asked to be given something useful to do. He was nearing the point where he would willingly attempt something incredibly stupid during the next time he'd be herded to the showers if it weren't for the fact that he knew from experience that such an attempt would only get him tied to the bed. And then he'd be guaranteed to end up going completely insane out of the frustrating lack of anything interesting.
He swung himself to the top bunk in an urgent need to just do something. Besides, he couldn't properly see out without sitting on the top bunk. At this point he was desperate enough to stare at the little strip of blue sky and the wall of the opposite building visible behind the glass. Seeing even a glimpse of a bird or something else that moved would be better than the grey walls or the back of a mattress above him.
"Bored..!" he groaned out loud when he heard approaching footsteps from the corridor. Maybe they would hear and even bang the door while they passed by. "BORED!"
The footsteps paused behind his door. He jumped down upon hearing a distinctive beep of the card reader and the electronic locks unlocking. The floor guard must have really had a bad day for bothering to actually open the door. Sherlock could hardly hide his grin while kneeling on the floor like he was supposed to. Couple of blows with the baton and he'd have at least something to distract himself from this boredom. He would welcome the adrenalin rush with open arms if it could bring some change to this ever predictable dullness of the holding centre, where each day was followed by an identical one.
But it wasn't the floor guard alone. Instead a woman about his age, dressed in a grey skirt and a purple jacket stood in the doorway. The floor guard who had opened the door waited behind her in the corridor.
Single, two big dogs, owns a nearsighted, right handed slave, had fruit salad for breakfast, office job, his brain supplied and then: oh, I've been passed to a new owner. Either someone who knew him had bought him (unlikely, no one had ever bought him outside an auction or the market hall) or he had randomly been chosen from the slaves available.
Some kind of lottery winner, perhaps? A slave among gift vouchers and cars wasn't an unusual prize. Sherlock shouldn't have kept looking at her, but he did, since most people found it unnerving to have a slave stare at them like a free person.
"99O-R79/3J3A", she read from a small tablet's screen without bothering to look at him. "Change immediately and follow me. You're leaving." She clearly had already gone through his file for she added: "Again."
Sherlock rose, pulled the blue tee shirt over his head and let the dark grey sweatpants along with his underwear drop on the floor before stepping out of them. He used his bare foot to lift them, gathered all the clothes in his arms and exchanged them with the floor guard for an ill-fitting dressing gown: too short, but hanging loose on his narrow shoulders.
Once they were out and the door had been closed behind them, the guard shoved him a black duffle bag containing all his possessions. Sherlock threw it over his shoulder and followed the woman, nodding a goodbye with a grin to the guard. The man narrowed his eyes in obvious distaste and grabbed his arm violently.
"You better behave yourself", he warned. "Because you're lucky, you know. Your number's already on the list. They would've dispatched you after the auction if you were left unsold. And I see to it personally that you'll end up on that list again if ever find out you've been thrown back to this facility."
"Duly noted, sir", Sherlock replied, wrenching his arm free. "I believe my new owner is waiting."
He hissed in pain when the guard thwacked the side of his head. "You're complete waste of money and you've been given far too many chances already."
Sherlock had to bite his tongue not to say anything. It wouldn't do him well to anger the man. If he ended up with a bloody nose, the slave handler who had come to collect him might have him changed for another one. Then he'd definitely end up to the death row he hadn't even known he'd been on already.
"You are correct, sir", he said quietly, bowing down his head.
"Keep that attitude and they might keep you. Move it."
Sherlock let the man shove him away. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Enough chatter, you're lagging", his handler called from the lift. She didn't hit him. She didn't need to. One brush of her shocker on his shoulder and Sherlock was on his knees, biting back a whimper.
"Quiet", she ordered. "Not a word unless he wants to hear you speak. You're a troublemaker and probably should've been dispatched a long time ago. You aren't worth your own paperwork."
John hadn't even bothered to open the pamphlet containing the full slave rights. He was familiar enough with them. The new owner's handbook hadn't seemed very interesting either, so he settled for flipping through the pages of the magazine. Possessions was the largest and most popular publication in Britain aimed for slave owners. InS funded most of it, and naturally tried to make as much money out of it as possible. It included a four page sneak peek of the monthly auction, so people were actually able to start bidding for the best slaves even before the actual auction day. The auction itself was an ancient tradition, even though selves here were on sale every day of the week.
Apart from the obvious self-advertising it was like any other slave mag. The articles gave advices (10 creative ways to discipline your slave), covered the latest hot topics (Medical testing on all terminally ill slaves,yes or no? Experts answer on page 22!), interacted with the readers (AmazingElli asks:"My slave gets hysterical around dogs. Nothing seems to help. What should I do?") and offered fashion tips (Season's hottest trends to make your slave stand out).
The printer had silenced seven minutes ago and John wondered if he could just go and pick the documents himself, when Ms Bruce returned with a man heeling her.
A man.
John's jaw dropped in disappointment. She led the slave to his side of the desk, picking up the prints on her way. The slave stopped near the wall, carefully lowering a duffle bag to the floor.
John stood up as well, feeling uneasy with everyone else standing. But seriously, a man?
"Here it is, Mr Watson", she announced unnecessarily, tugging the slave's sleeve. He yanked his arm away from her, undid the sash and shrugged the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall around his feet.
"Prime condition, as you can see", she hurried to say, hastily making the man turn around a full circle. "Just turned thirty-three, excellent health despite it's been two years in America", she read from her tablet.
"No tendencies for falling ill and naturally it has passed all our health checks and its vaccinations are in order. Would you like to have a look at the teeth? Prostate? Erection?" she offered, picking up a box of disposable latex gloves from the shelf.
"Er, no thanks, I trust everything's alright."
John gave the slave a brief look from head to toe. He was tall, taller than John, but then again, it wasn't a big achievement. He was a few years younger than John and looked the part, had a curly black hair, pale skin, piercing blue eyes and it was very clear he had been fully shaven some time ago. He had scars on his back, so John wouldn't have called him "prime condition". John quickly settled for his face. It wasn't a bad face, but quite far from what he had been hoping for. He wouldn't have said the face was unpleasant, but there was definitely something alien about it. Alien in a weird, handsome way. But it was a male. The slave's jaw was tense and he stared intensively at the wall behind his to be master. John thought he really ought to say something. Maybe he could still get a female if he opened his mouth now. Ms Bruce looked at him as if expecting him to say something, and when he didn't, she pushed the slave's shoulder down and hissed: "Floor."
Sherlock, who so far hadn't said any of the sixteen remarks that had crossed his mind obeyed, albeit a bit slower than he should have. He knelt, leant his forehead against the floor and brought his hands before his head where they could be seen. No matter how many times he kowtowed, it was always humiliating. It didn't help to be completely naked, but it was customary since the Roman Empire for a buyer to be able to fully see all parts of the potential property. He briefly entertained the idea of commenting on some of the "cosmetic errors" left on his body the woman had tactically failed to mention, but decided against it. She did have the baton after all, and he preferred to be able to properly walk when he'd finally get out of here. And despite his natural instincts to rebel, he had no desire to sabotage his sale if the alternative was possible execution after the auction.
A shiver ran through his body, but it had nothing to do with how he felt about the situation. He was fine with being shown like this as long as he kept his mind occupied with something else. The floor was cool and felt cold against his skin. He was cold, he could feel the hair rise on his arms in response to the sensation. Sherlock rested his forehead against the linoleum and closed his eyes in attempt to relax. The two free people in the room kept talking as if he wasn't even there. How he hated it.
"It comes with a standard ID chip on the left arm. It has a GPS tracker that can be accessed online. I'll enclose your log-in information for our online services with the contracts. It's covered by the basic insurance automatically. However, in this case I would strongly recommend you to get a proper insurance that covers more than the absolute musts."
Sherlock felt like sighing in annoyance. The soldier who was to become his new owner sounded puzzled: "Why do you say that?"
"I read its file", she replied, but hurried to continue: "There's nothing wrong with the file or the slave."
"It says he's property of the InS", his to-be owner said, rustling the prints.
"Initially, yes, but that's the case with nearly all of the slaves The Institution handles", she said, emphasising her correction. Typical from an InS worker to frown upon the abbreviation everyone else but themselves were using.
"All the rights concerning the body will be moved to you, of course", the woman continued to explain. Sherlock had heard these lines every time when sold, ever since he was twenty-three.
"So what does it mean, then?"
"Well, we can't remove it from you or anything. The first three years are a trial period of a kind."
This part Sherlock hadn't heard before, so he listened carefully what being a pension legally meant for him and his new owner.
"If this item doesn't suit you, you can request it to be changed for another slave during that time. After three years there will still be a period of two years when it can't be sold privately. Basically, if after three years you decide you don't want to keep it, you can hand it back to The Institution and The Institution will compensate you, but won't give you another slave anymore. If after five years you still want to keep it, the resell rights will be handed to you as well."
"Right. Alright."
"However..."
The next part Sherlock knew well.
"It most likely doesn't concern you, but this item cannot sign the so called "emancipation" contract before two-thousand and..." she rustled the papers for reference, "thirty-two."
Sherlock already knew this. John, however, felt slightly uneasy. Now would be a really great moment to say he actually really, really would prefer a female. Especially after that. He didn't want an ill-behaving slave. He wouldn't trust himself with a slave like that.
"Why not? Not that I was planning on freeing him or anything..." It felt a little bad to say so in front of the slave in question. He was only vaguely aware of what an emancipation contract actually meant apart from the obvious: a contract between the legal owner and the slave where the owner agreed to free the slave. He imagined the conditions of such contract to be extremely strict. The owner could not back away from it easily, so the contracts weren't very popular as far as he knew.
Ms Bruce all but rolled her eyes. "Personally, I don't understand why anyone would free a born-a-slave, or even a class C slave like this one here", she huffed. "They can't adapt to the society. They only become a burden for the real, tax paying people like us."
John turned to briefly look at the man crouching on the floor, not commenting her words. The man was skinny and pale, but not in a way he'd seen abused slaves being skinny. He wasn't malnourished. Just regularly skinny like a slave. He clearly had muscles, but he could also see the man's spine visibly sticking out from his back. The scars didn't stand out much from the pale skin, but they were scars and there were lot of them. If they weren't caused by an abusive owner, they were unquestionably a bad sign. There were only so many reasons for a slave to be legally caused such wounds.
"So, why the deadline?" he asked instead, turning his attention back to the woman.
She grimaced slightly. "There was some trouble with it in the past, apparently. An escapee and foul-mouthed. I suppose that's why they picked it an owner like you. It needs more discipline than an average slave to stay in line."
"Oh." John couldn't figure out anything more to say. He wasn't sure if he was that kind of an owner or if he even knew how to be a slave owner in general. Perhaps it was a silly way to think about it, but it felt like an enormous responsibility to have a slave. This man would belong to him within minutes and John would then almost literally hold his life in his hands. He had certain duties towards his property enforced by the law, but otherwise he could do whatever he wanted to this man.
He could have him scrub the floors, cook for him, give him a massage, wash his clothes, do the shopping, have sex with him. Initially, it was up to John when and where the slave would sleep, when he could use the bathroom, where he could sit or stand and when he could talk or whether he'd be allowed to have his own opinions. Every word the slave said and every talent he might possess would belong to John. It was a strange and slightly terrifying thought.
"Well, if you don't have any questions..." Ms Bruce prompted. Last chance to get the slave switched.
I would really rather have another one, please he was meant to say, but instead he found entirely different set of words coming out of his mouth: "Right, no. No, I think that pretty much covered it."
"Good!" She nudged the man on the floor with her shoe. "Up. Get dressed."
The slave sat on his legs and started pulling out clothes from the bag he had with him, while the woman beckoned John to the desk. "If you would then just sign here and here, please?"
John eyed the documents, still not really caring enough to fully read them, still thinking he ought to cancel this and scribbled his name at the bottom. She signed them as well, added an official looking purple InS stamp on them and enclosed the other one to the archives at the back wall, and the other together with the slave's file.
Behind him, the slave had got up and was pulling a shirt over his head, silently eying at his new master. Just when John got the newly acquired papers safely closed to his bag the slave slipped into a surprisingly expensive looking dark coat and bent over to pick up the duffle bag and the dressing gown. Without a word he placed the latter one on the desk and bowed to his handler. She didn't acknowledge the gesture in slightest and kept her eyes fixed on John, who smiled for the lack of better response.
"Please read the file carefully. And I can't stress enough how important it is that you read the slave rights and laws that concern you as a private slave owner. You can always give a call to our service number in case something comes up."
"Alright. Thanks. It's...going to be handy to have a slave around, I guess."
"I should hope so", she said, giving a meaningful glance at the man in question. The younger man turned to John, bowing deeply for a several seconds to acknowledge him as his new master, before throwing the bag over his shoulder and striding to open the door.
"Goodbye, Mr Watson. Enjoy your new property."
He still thought he ought to turn around and return the slave when they stepped out of the building. The slave followed John in silence to the bus stop, only a few paces behind him. The previous bus had just left, John could see it waiting at the traffic lights, but the next one pulled to the stop within a minute. They climbed in and just when John swiped his brand new Oyster card, an alarm went off at the doors behind him.
"No slaves on the bus", the driver called, his voice dull and monotone, as if it was something he had to repeat at every second stop.
"What?" John blurted. Behind him the slave stepped out and the alarm silenced. Of course, he'd forgotten that most buses didn't take slaves. In his defense, it wasn't something he had ever needed to think about before. And he hadn't been in London for a long time. Too bad the slave had an ID chip, otherwise they might have got away with this as long as the slave had kept his left wrist hidden.
"You've got to wait for the next bus that takes slaves", the driver explained. "Or your slave can follow you later. But this is non-slave turn."
"I can't do that, I just got him. He doesn't even know where I live."
"Then get off the bus, please, and wait for the next bus that accepts slaves."
"When's the next one?"
The driver sighed. "There are several on this route, there's one driving right before me, you just missed it."
"But this is InS!" John exclaimed. Of course there would be people wanting to come and go with slaves!
The driver merely sighed again. "Are you getting on or are you getting off?"
"Fine", John sighed and stepped out to accompany his new property. The doors hissed closed in front of him and the bus took off. Just my luck, he thought while checking his watch. Knowing the buses, there was no guarantee of when the next one that accepted slaves would come. He wouldn't have time to wait if he wanted to make it home and have some time before his job interview. He still needed to fix some parts of his CV. Waiting at InS had taken considerably more time than he had thought and Ella had practically forced him to look for a job.
There were two reasons for why he didn't want to use the tube. First was that the nearest station to his flat wasn't exactly near, not when you had to use a cane with a sometimes painful limp. The second was the slave.
He'd just been told the man had a history of attempted escapes. What wouldn't be a better chance to try again than the tube? They would need to go to separate cars and all the slave would have to do would be to get off at a wrong station. When (and it was definitely when) he'd get caught, he could just say he hadn't tried to escape. That he just mistook the station because he had just been given to a new owner.
"I guess we'll just need to get a cab", he admitted his defeat, already silently counting how much it would cost him and then realised he had forgotten to ask for refund for the bus drive he hadn't taken. Several cabs drove by, but none of them stopped.
The slave lifted his eyebrow, but still said nothing. Instead he stepped to the roadside and like a miracle, a taxi stopped at his hail. He smirked at John's astonished face and swung the door open.
John got in and while he advised the driver of his address, the slave walked around the car to get in as well. He placed his bag on the empty middle seat, eying at his new owner curiously.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he suddenly asked when the cab pulled back into the forenoon traffic.
It was the first time John heard the slave speak and he was startled by the sudden, odd question. "What?"
The slave's jaw tightened and he repeated: "Afghanistan or Iraq, master?"
"No, that's not what I– Afghanistan..."
The slave nodded and there was a moment of silence before John turned to look at him. "How did you–"
"Obvious", the slave interrupted. "I know I wasn't bought, so either I'm a prize or part of your pension. Your conversation while I knelt on the floor confirmed the pension, but I had already picked up you were a soldier. You are very tanned, so clearly you've spent time abroad recently, but the tan line ends at your wrists and neck, so you weren't there for the sun. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. So there, a soldier. Now, not everyone receives a slave with their pension. You are young, clearly you were forced to leave the army. Something must have happened and you must have committed some heroic act to be awarded like this. You were injured, but perhaps you saved someone.
Your limp is bad when you walk, but you had no problem with it while standing when you weren't paying attention to it. Your therapist says it's psychosomatic, which I'm afraid is true, but you were injured nevertheless and relieved, thus pension it indeed is. Now, where can a military man get himself injured these days? Simple: Afghanistan or Iraq."
John's first reaction was irritation for being interrupted, but as the slave kept speaking in an endless flow of words, seemingly without stopping to breathe at all, John couldn't helped but to listen in awe. Once he stopped, John stared at him and he stared back with unwavering blue eyes.
"That…" John started when he felt like being able to make a complete, coherent sentence again, "was amazing."
It was the slave's turn to look shocked. "Really..?"
"Yes. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people usually say…" the slave muttered, still looking a bit stunned by John's reaction and burrowing his brows deeply as if he couldn't comprehend the logic behind his words.
"What do people usually say?" John inquired, genuinely curious.
The slave smirked, but the faked smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shut your mouth or I'll find better use for it."
John laughed nervously. "Oh…"
He felt like saying sorry, but honestly, who apologised to a slave? So this slave had been used to perform oral sex, so what? Plenty of people had sex with their slaves. In fact, all people with slaves had sex with their slave. He shouldn't feel bad or uneasy about it. He'd known this one had had more than one previous owner, of course he had been made to have sex at some point. He had been shaved clean just a few weeks ago, he'd clearly been someone's bed slave. None of that should matter as far as the slave was healthy, and he was, they all went through extensive health checks before being sold.
John bit the inside of his lip, feeling ridiculous. Hell, he had had sex with slaves in Afghanistan. Why did he care about this slave's sexual history? It's wasn't like he had planned on having sex with his new property, anyway. Not now that it was a man instead of a woman. Besides, like many people from families who couldn't afford a slave, he had always thought that an actual loving and willing person would make much better company in the bed. The "real men don't need slaves to get laid" attitude. In the army there really hadn't been other choices to have sex, and the bed slaves had been quite willing partners indeed.
Uh...
Why were his thoughts even going down this trail? He glanced at the slave from the corner of his eye, but the man was facing the window. John concentrated on the advertisements at the back of the front seats in silence, letting their exchange play through his head again. Everything the slave said was true and it seemed logical now that it was explained, but he couldn't see how anyone could notice all that and put it together like this. Except...
"How did you know I have a therapist?"
The slave didn't turn to look at him. "You have a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist."
"Of course..." John muttered, regarding the man silently. After a while he spoke again: "So... I don't think I caught your name yet?"
The slaves official papers only mentioned his ID-number, which John couldn't recall, not that it was a proper name anyway. Though naturally, a master could call their slave whatever they wished, but most people gave slaves actual names that stuck with them even if they changed owners. Some named them like pets and apparently many named their bed slaves by actors or characters they fancied. Some even gave names that were insults and not for children's ears. John had no interest in making up names if the slave already had a name he preferred.
"Nine-nine-oh-ar-hyphen-seven-nine-slash-three-jay-three-a", the slave recited quickly from memory, without needing to check his wrist where the ID was permanently tattooed, like a half of some kind of a bizarre wristband. His stigma, as the tattoo was commonly called.
"Uh, no, I meant like a proper name. Anything you prefer?"
"You're my master now, it's within your rights to name me as you please", the slave countered, still talking to the window rather than him.
"Well I don't feel like naming you. You weren't born a slave, you definitely have a name."
The younger man shrugged his narrow shoulders. "My previous mistress chose to call me Ravenhair. She was into books about pale, sparkling vampires", he explained with distaste. "I had to read them to be able to get in character for her. I've deleted it now. Master initially just referred to me as "the pale one". Probably an insult to mistress's...hobby. "Darling, get the pale one to warm the bed." "Pale one, do the dishes." "Pale one, clean the cat's litter box"", he imitated. "Her version was the one to stick, eventually."
John snorted. "I'm not calling you that..! Come on, I'm ordering you to give me a proper name."
The slave sighed silently, finally turning to face him. "Holmes", he said like it was the last thing he wanted to say out loud. Strange, one would imagine that normally a slave would have been happy to have decent name instead of something like Strawberry, Cocklicker or...Ravenhair.
"My name is Holmes."
"That's not a bad name at all. Alright, Holmes it is. I'm John."
Holmes's face was unimpressed. There was something about his piercing eyes that made even a soldier like John feel a little uneasy. Not that he was planning on letting Holmes know that, so he held his gaze until the slave shrugged and turned to the window again. It was about power balance, he could tell. For some reason years in enslavement hadn't made him submissive and John had seen it immediately when the man had been brought in to the office. The way he'd stood and stared at the wall, enduring the humiliating process without batting an eye, even mildly defying the handler. Most slaves on sale kept their head bowed down and were uneasy unless they were primarily bed slaves or even actual sex slaves, used to the nakedness even in public. Holmes, on the other hand, was clearly already testing his new master, trying to intimidate him with his unslave-like behaviour.
John huffed at the thought. He was the master and Holmes would need to remember his place. Surely the man couldn't be as difficult as the Ms Bruce the handler had seemed to suggest. He'd been a slave since he was a child. He must have had adjusted to his role in the society by now.
They sat in silence for the rest of the drive. Holmes followed him patiently while he limped the stairs painfully slowly to reach his flat.
"Right, here we are. Bathroom's here, kitchen's over there", John explained with a wave of his free left hand. "Just leave your stuff somewhere where it's not in the way. I'll figure out where you can put it later", he planned, handing his coat to the slave. "Brew me a cup of tea for starters, I have to print out some CVs."
"Yes, master."
Sherlock hanged the coat, watching his new owner limp to a desk and then gently lowered his bag on the floor, next to the wall. The flat was small, void of almost all personal items. The furniture was cheap and kept to minimum. His master sat down and pulled a laptop from the drawer.
Right, off to work then. The kettle was easy enough to spot, but he needed to rummage the cupboards to find a cup and the tea (bags, no loose leaves, but Dr Watson didn't seem to own proper tea, so there was little actual brewing involved). There was milk in the fridge, but he couldn't locate any sugar cubes, just regular sugar.
"How do you take your tea, master?" he asked, just to be sure, as the printer went off. The man turned to look at him like he'd forgotten Sherlock was there. Which wasn't an unusual situation –he was a slave, after all.
"Milk, no sugar."
Sherlock faked a smile and nodded with equally faked enthusiasm. Well, at least he wanted to tell himself it was fake. His sudden eagerness to serve wasn't entirely an act. After the weeks spent within the same four walls, where only meal a day and a shower three times a week had distracted his routine of absolutely nothing happening, nearly anything to do was welcome. Even if it was to serve a new master.
Besides, he reasoned, it was just another new owner, another new idiot to serve. If he'd just play his cards well now, then who knows, life might be interesting for a little while. So he smiled, fished out the teabag, threw it away, poured the milk and stirred the hot beverage while walking. He put it down on the desk to his new master's left-hand side and eyed at the computer screen over his shoulder. The browser was opened on a blogging site. Dr. John H. Watson… The latest entry was from yesterday: How? said the title. How do I delete this? The task bar showed one opened document titled 'CV'.
"Thanks", Dr Watson muttered. After sipping the tea and a while of silence he added: "I guess you could do the dishes next."
Sherlock's lips twitched, but none of his dislike towards the task was audible in his dutiful "yes, master". There weren't a lot of them anyway. Just a couple of spoons in different sizes, two forks, a knife, three mugs and a plate. His master seemed to prefer take away straight from the package. He took his time nevertheless. He'd much rather wash cutlery than a toilet on his first day in his new home.
He'd been on his new task for several minutes when Dr Watson put away the laptop and started to get ready to leave, so Sherlock temporarily abandoned the dishes to help the jacket on the ex-army doctor.
"I'll be back by half five. Just…" John shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, make yourself familiar with the room and do…whatever it is you do. And, um… Have me something to eat by the time I'm back."
"Yes, master."
Sherlock waited for the door to close behind his owner and listened in silence for a while. A genuine smile crept on his face and he couldn't help but to make a little victorious jump out of excitement. He was alone and unsupervised. Time to get some fresh air.
Apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language.
(no, I absolutely do not find slavery acceptable in the real world)