His head ached, his brain too sluggish to function properly, and he felt like nausea was almost on its way. He suppressed the revulsion and instinctively tried to rise up, but an obstacle hit his back and blocked his movement. Stretching himself didn´t work either, as a wire web blocked his way.
He shook his head, struggling to clear his head, to make some sense of where he was and how.
The drug had been injected to keep him unconscious during the drive to wherever their destiny might be, but its effect had started to fade by the time they had prepared him for his new status.
Despite being inexperienced with the common procedure of new slaves´ treatment, he supposed that this would prepare him for meeting his new owner. He was not a typical slave but a free man´s son, sold as an expensive toy for a man who could afford such a rarity for himself. It was kinkiness in its own class, fun like killing protected species- the hint of wrongness in it provided extra enjoyment for the man behind this.
He had been pushed into a tiny wire cage, like a chicken in its torturously small battery coop, where he was unable to lie down or stand straight. A restricted place for a man of his size – for a man of any size - to spend for any prolonged period of time. His only options were to crouch, doglike, or try to get some rest by bringing his knees almost up to his jaw. There wasn´t much space to do anything else. His every attempt to move made the cage swing above the floor, where a strong cable connected it to the roof. The feel of steel wire was pressing into his bare skin, and suddenly he became aware that his clothes had been changed: instead of his fitted black jeans and expensive white shirt, he wore a sleeveless grey t-shirt and thin cotton shorts. He didn´t have anything else to protect him against the thin metal wires, which pressed against his delicate skin, leaving their marks. The room around him was bare, cold and dull-colored, with no other furniture there than his cage. The closed door reminded him that there was still an outside world somewhere behind it.
It was all meant to make him aware that he shouldn´t have any grand illusions of status in the hierarchy of the new household, despite the fact that he was to become the partner for the master of the house. He was on the bottom, not even allowed a proper space to get some real rest or to stand, straight or crooked. So tiny a space… Concentrate, he ordered himself firmly. They're just trying to scare you, to make you more amenable to your fate. You are above whatever they do to you. After all, this is just the start, a welcome.
He started to realize that it was possible he would spend a considerably long time in this little cage, with no other shelter than his sparse clothing and his own skin.
When there was nothing else to do, he fell into a restless sleep, which was interrupted abruptly when someone harshly shook the cage until he opened his eyes. A bold man with colorless eyes had a hold on his cage, letting go when he saw Sherlock was awake, holding his gaze silently.
"Is it dinner time?" Sherlock asked mockingly, curious about the mark of the slave tattooed on the man´s forehead. This unknown man was a slave, too, and still he came to taunt a new slave. So much for solidarity amongst the ones at the bottom of the hierarchy.
"I would consume you, sweetie." The voice sounded as toneless as the whole man was featureless. "The beauty of this cage is how practical it is. You are neatly inside, and I could, for example, drown you in it. Keep it there until you aren´t sure if you are still alive or already drowned. Or…" The man mused over the many possibilities one tiny cage filled with a human being offered. "Or I could electrify your cage. How many jolts could you take before you screamed?… Screamed like a girl… How much would it need to roast you alive? How would you look if your pretty white skin was red and burnt?"
"Are you wasting my time or do you have something important to say?" Sherlock sounded self-confident, although he didn´t feel like it. He hoped to find out if the man was under an order to scare him, or if he had come to taunt him for his own fun. "You just talk."
"Don´t be so sure about it, free boy. Oh, but you're not so free anymore." The man shook his cage fiercely again, making him hit against the wires. He laughed at his prisoner. He had a dagger with him, its blade thin enough that he could get it between the metal wires. He struck the blade forcefully into Sherlock´s hand, pinning the hand against the metal web, turning it in the wound as he continued. "What a lovely girl we have this time… Do you wait for your master eagerly, sweetie? You're counting on him to protect you, aren´t you, honey? Don´t be so sure about that. He will love to play with you, I can tell you that much. I can hear your heart beating from excitement. Oh, do you shiver in anticipation?" The man blabbered on with this nonsense, poking him with his knife everywhere he could reach. He left bleeding wounds on Sherlock's skin, the young man unable to defend himself.
A girl? What was this man talking about?
He continued until Sherlock was sure he couldn´t take it any longer, that he would say something which he would regret if he continued.
Eventually the man left, satisfied. To Sherlock, being alone again felt like bliss.
The dull ache of his wounds faded, leaving him thirsty, his stomach empty. But how could he fulfill its demands? Should he shout for someone to come? Likely no-one would come if he did. It probably wouldn´t do him any good. He had to wait.
And he did.
Nothing new happened for a time, though his hunger began to be more difficult to ignore.
Everything was possible, even the notion that there had been a mistake and they had forgotten him, or that this Moriarty had changed his mind and decided to let him rot in his prison.
The door stayed closed. The door stayed closed. Nothing changed. Only the hunger, and yes, he dreamt about water, running water and waterfalls. Then he woke, but the door still didn´t open. Not yet.
Until, finally, the door of his forgotten room fell open. Three men stepped in, slave brands on their foreheads. They wore black loose trousers and black t-shirts. Slaves came to prepare him to meet his master. Interesting. James Moriarty uses his old slaves to prepare a new one.
They told him to be still, that he needed to be cleaned. It was wash time then, but wouldn´t they help him out of the cage first? One of them aimed the hose at him. There had to be a faucet near, in the corridor? It was wash time, but please, not like that… No, he had to get out… But then the man sprayed the hose and water hit him in a blast. He was sprayed everywhere until he was wet and shivering from the cold water, yet he was still thirsty.
He was dragged out of the cage, though they didn't need to have done that. He was more than eager to get out from the prison. His clothes were taken from him and he was toweled dry, given new clothes, and at last a glass of water. He wouldn´t have believed a week ago that he would be so thankful for a glass of water, but he was. And it was pathetic. How quickly they had done this to him, Sherlock Holmes, who had been so proud of his stoic self-control.
They told him, to their amusement, that he was going to meet his husband, the man who bought him, mysterious Mr. Moriarty.
This new room did not differentiate from the first one. So far, he had only been allowed to see featureless, grey rooms, full of nothingness.
He was forced onto his knees, a firm grip on his hair to keep his head up. A thin leather strip tied his wrists together behind his back. This time, he was only allowed to wear shorts; his torso was bare for his master´s eyes to appraise him. They told him to behave, not to upset or insult his master if he didn´t want any troubles. In his mind he already was, the memory of chill water remaining on his still-damp skin, in his bones, his hunger eating away at him inside.
He just didn´t understand what they meant about behaving in his situation. They promptly explained- he had to be polite, not to turn his eyes away from his master´s face. He had to pay full attention to the man who owned him, to listen to his words and agree with all he said, not to upset him.
He was meant to meet his new husband… How comic. He was being treated like a beast or an animal. A trophy, perhaps?
He had hoped that his future owner – he refused to think of him as his husband, as he probably should - would be a decent man, against all the odds. A man with a righteous mind, and maybe even with compassion, although he understood that if he had been such a character, he wouldn´t treat his so-called wife like this. He wouldn´t treat people like possessions. At the very least, he wouldn´t accquire his alleged bride through a gambling debt. He wouldn´t get his enjoyment from humiliating and breaking people.
"So, what have we got here! Such a lovely sight!" The man´s accent could be clearly heard in the silence of the room. When he saw him, he observed him, and yet how little it revealed, how unreadable this man was… His instincts told him to stay away, but the hands of the trusted house slaves – the same hands which had stripped him, washed him in that humiliating way – didn´t even let him turn his head. This surprising little man in his ridiculous, expensive tailored suit came as near enough to touch him, his mouth full of sharp, whitened teeth. And a realization struck the young man that there was no hope behind these dead eyes, just a valley of death, guarded by a demon of lies.
Now the man stood, his cold gaze evaluated him. He didn´t flinch under the scrutiny.
"Perfect… A virgin, I see, inexperienced. He needs proper training for his future duties. We´ll start with him at once, to get the desired results. He has so much to learn! So exciting! It always is with a new one." The little man petted his cheek.
"You have stalked me. Why?" Sherlock needed to know. That was his most fundamental question. Why did this man choose him?
"Clever boy! Yes, I have observed you already, for some time. Oh, who wouldn´t? I knew that our paths would cross one day. I have waited for some time already to get my chance. The day has finally come, but it is just the beginning of our shared story. I have a lot of work to do with you before you are ready for me. The day will come when you confess, 'You are everything to me. I owe you all.' You don´t believe it now, my dear, but that day will come. Then your body and soul will be mine, completely, and your reckless mind will have only one problem to solve- how to fulfill my wishes."
Sherlock´s expression turned from curious to incredulous, and then finally to loathing, whilst the man in front of him laughed, softly but humorlessly. But Sherlock was sure that there was more, that something had been unsaid.
"I won´t. I am not like the others." There had been other young men before him, he wasn´t the first one.
"Oh, yesss, you will," He hissed. "They all did, finally, when I was done with them. You are not an exception. You will adjust." The man stroke his curls, then gently petted his cheek with his thumb, and Sherlock flinched as though the touch burnt him. In some sense, it did. The unwanted touch was the first of so many he would receive. He yanked his head away, squirming in the grip, but the hand in his hair dragged his head backwards with considerable force, arching his back.
"Be still!" The command came from behind him. The man who had spoken immediately apologized to Moriarty, whose good mood had only increased with this tiny act of disobedience.
"Of course, he needs the brand!" He spoke to the other men. "Ready?"
"Yes, sir." Sherlock knew the man from his voice; he was the featureless figure who had come to taunt him when he was in his cage. Now he gave something to Moriarty, and Sherlock tried instinctively to move back, away from this object. Its surface was so hot that it glowed red. It was so close to him now that he could feel its heat. Wriggling was all he managed to do, he had to break the hold… He had to... Moriarty kept the brand near his skin, enjoying the distress he was so unable to hide, before he thrust the branding iron to his chest. It hissed against him, leaving the initials J. M. burning on his skin. He could smell his skin burning, but he managed not to scream aloud. A tiny victory- his new owner didn´t get that joy from him. Not yet, not here.
Moriarty marked a new slave with his initials above his heart. Not a common place for a slave mark, where it wasn´t visible if a slave wore a shirt, but Moriarty likely thought that he didn´t need a mark on his forehead. His status would be clear to all, and he probably wouldn´t leave Moriarty´s house.
Nowadays, a slave mark was tattooed on slave´s skin. True, that was painful too, but it was nothing compared to the ancient method of burning a mark onto the skin that Moriarty used on him.
Sherlock had no idea how much pain this barbarous act would cause before the hot iron touched his skin. He decided at this moment that he would never call this cruel, pitiful little man his husband.
"By the way, these men, who are going to take care of you when I am busy with my business," Moriarty nodded towards his underlings around Sherlock, the featureless one and the two who kept him in his place, "are slaves too, as you have surely already noticed. But don´t expect them to show any compassion towards you, or to help you. They were born into slavery and have had thorough training to serve owners like me. What they hate most are arrogant, spoiled rich kids like you, born in freedom, who've had everything. What they've never had. Whose fathers are slave-owners themselves. Now they have you in their hands. They can't wait for their turn to teach you a lesson, to pay you back. They are the most capable trainers I can find for you. I trust them enough to leave you in their hands. And he is in charge." Moriarty pointed the featureless man, who had given the branding iron to his owner.
Moriarty checked his mobile. "I am sorry, but I have to leave you. Work, work, always work! Bye bye, Sherlie!"
When the door of the room closed after Mr Moriarty, the man stepped in his place and introduced himself to Sherlock: "Hello. We have already met. If you want to know my name, you can call me Chameleon. Master has ordered me personally to take care your familiarization. He is used to give his new toys for a trusty person. I am helping him to look after you, softening you a bit for him. He is a busy man and doesn´t have time for everything."
The guy was not much older than Sherlock. Moriarty´s initials were clearly visible on his forehead. Tattooed, not burnt like on him. Burning the mark on the skin was clearly a method, which was used for the chosen ones.
The guy crouched a bit, whispering to Sherlock´s ear: "The best part of the job is, that I enjoy an every second of it." His breathing smelt aniseed as if he had swallowed disinfectant. Moriarty´s underlings were as creepy as the man himself.
"You smell. Go further." Sherlock told him.
"What did you say, little princess? Say it again!"
"You heard me well."
"Colonel Moran was right about you. You are looking for troubles, sweetie."
When Moriarty´s underlings surrounded Sherlock, dragging him to stand and Chameleon pushed his finger onto Sherlock´s fresh burn wound, causing him to yelp and watering his eyes, Sherlock started his own work. He started to strengthen himself by building a mental wall around his still beating, bloody, capable heart, hardening it against what was coming.
.
