I didn't mean to take this long to update, but apart from not being very happy with what I've written, I've also been a bit busier than I usually am. Thank you again so much for the nice comments. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well. :)
John went out on Sunday night. He had reluctantly agreed on meeting some old rugby mates at a pub, but it turned out being more fun than he had expected. It was surprisingly nice to get to spend time with old acquaintances, even if it did remind him of things he was not proud of, and he absolutely detested the pitying looks he injury granted him. But no one mentioned it, so he was quickly able to forget all about it. Beer probably helped, too. It was a good night, all in all, and he returned home late. Holmes, who had been silent all day and speaking only when spoken to, had stayed up waiting for his master to return like a faithful slave was expected to.
His attitude remained the same on Monday when John woke up with a minor hangover. Soft spoken and polite. Slightly bowed head and little to no eye contact.
"You missed your appointment with your therapist, master", Holmes informed him as he served the breakfast. "She tried calling you several times."
"It's John", John reminded. "I didn't notice."
"You were still sleeping and your phone is on silent", Holmes told. His eyes were cast down and he stood by the table with his hands folded above his crotch, for once actually looking like a slave.
"Get yourself something to eat and sit down", John snapped. Maybe it was the headache, but Holmes's sudden obedience felt incredibly annoying. "Did you answer the phone?"
"No, master. John. I didn't think it was my place to do so without your consent." He bowed subtly before obeying his order to join him at the table.
John hummed in agreement and decided not to correct him. Even though John was still a little uncomfortable with the idea of being a master, he was one. And it would do no harm for Holmes to speak more like his kind.
"But you didn't feel like waking me up?" he questioned.
"I'm sorry, John, but in my experience it's rarely a good idea to wake up your drunken master."
John scoffed. "I wasn't that drunk."
"Forgive me, master, but yes you were." The slave drew a breath and exhaled before adding: "I mean no disrespect. Your therapy is going nowhere. You benefit more from sleeping."
"You're not the judge of that", John grunted.
"No I'm not", Holmes agreed calmly, still choosing to keep his eyes cast down like he was expected to. Only he hadn't done it to this extent so far, not when he was first shown to his new master, not when John had actually been angry with him. Maybe duct taping his mouth had been enough to show him who was in charge after all. John's instincts insisted it was too good to be true, but the more rational side of him reassured that this man was a slave, enslaved as a child. Whatever the rebelliousness almost free man like behaviour had been, this, this was the natural way for Holmes to behave.
Pretend or not, Holmes remained obedient and silent, so John decided to use his time by starting to arrange his slave a commuting pass, and a right to carry and earn money. Though naturally any money he might earn would belong to John.
The blanket and pillow he had purchased for Holmes on Friday were still in a bag under his bed, but because the slave had been behaving so well all day, it felt like a good moment to finally actually give them to Holmes that night. No law required John to give his slave either of them, although most people did present their slaves with more than the necessary space to sleep. Said space didn't need to be private. When it came to the slave's sleep and well-being, the law dictated several things: the space had to be large enough for the slave to sleep in fetal position. It had to be warm enough and undisturbed enough during the period of sleep for the slave to be able to rest, although all the details were vague as John had come to notice was the case with all the laws concerning any rights the slaves had. They could be bent easily.
Most house slaves, especially personal slaves and bed slaves slept in the same room with their master or mistress. Under the bed was a popular spot if the room didn't have slave cupboard, but John's bed didn't have a slave space, and was thus too low for Holmes to sleep under it. Quite frankly, he didn't want a slave sleeping under his bed. Just having him in the same room felt odd enough. Holmes seemed happy enough with the floor, or at least he hadn't complained. John was fairly certain Holmes was the kind of slave who would make it known if he thought his meagre rights were neglected.
Holmes bowed deeply, thanked him profoundly and kissed his left hand as a sign of formal gratitude. The left because it was his dominant hand that granted these luxury items.
Perhaps rewarding him for good behaviour was actually working. At least the manageable behaviour continued. John still left him unattended for several hours each day, unable to spend all day within four walls with him. There were no new escape attempts, he had checked. In fact, his slave behaved so well that when on Thursday night John walked out of the bathroom, he couldn't help but to gape at his slave for a moment before picking up his jaw.
"Are you on my computer?" he blurted out in disbelief.
Holmes didn't turn to look at him and his eyes never left the screen. "Brilliant deduction, John."
"Who told you you could use my computer?"
"You didn't say I couldn't", the slave countered, still not looking at him.
"But it's password protected!"
His exclamation finally had some effect on the man. Holmes sighed irritably and steepled his hands under his chin. He hummed.
"Yes, took me less than five minutes to guess yours." His eyebrows shot up mockingly. "Not exactly the Fort Knox."
"Oh for– Give it to me." John pushed the lid down and snatched the laptop away from Holmes's reach. When the slave said nothing, he prompted: "Well?"
"I'm not sorry, but I apologise."
"I should've known it was too good to be true. What's the point if you can't even be arsed to pretend?"
Holmes merely shrugged, bringing the tips of his fingers closer to his chin.
"I should discipline you", John said in hopes to intimidate him. It sounded weak even to his own ears.
"Then do", Holmes replied nonchalantly.
"Alright, I will", John promised, though he had no idea what he would do. He hadn't yet physically disciplined Holmes, not properly, and he hadn't bought any kind of tools for such purpose, although perhaps he ought to buy a rattan cane. Maybe even a shocker. He didn't approve collar shockers, those things were inhumane, but a wristband or an anklet would probably come in hand if Holmes truly was anything like his official papers described him to be. Stupid, stupid to be lulled into believing Holmes's good behaviour would last. He should have realised the slave was toying with him. He wanted to know what his slave had been hoping to achieve by logging onto his laptop, but almost dreaded to ask.
"What were you even doing with it?"
"Nothing. Maybe I just enjoy watching silly cat videos, too."
"No you don't, you called them stupid."
"And you made me watch that video of a cat falling off a shelf twelve times."
"Because it was funny!"
Holmes grimaced. "No, it wasn't."
"Exactly. So what were you doing? Or should I just check the browsing history?"
"Nothing of importance", Holmes assured annoyedly. "I just checked my e-mail."
John blinked dubiously. "E-mail?"
"There's no law that'd prohibit a slave from having a free e-mail account", Holmes said defensively.
John had no idea whether it was true or not. He was pretty sure the terms and conditions usually said you had to be a natural person, which Holmes certainly wasn't. Not that he really cared if Holmes wanted to have an e-mail account. Little harm could be done with it, surely.
"What would you need an e-mail account for?"
"Just to keep in touch with peop–", Holmes snapped, then quickly cut himself off. He finished with a correction: "other slaves."
He was visibly irritated, but so was John. Probably not as much as the slave hopefully imagined, but a little nevertheless. Hacking into his master's laptop wasn't exactly the kind of thing a slave should expect to get away with. Holmes wasn't unaware of his dissatisfaction, so after a moment of silence he sighed and dropped on his knees from the chair. "I said apologies. Forgive me, master."
John wasn't sure what to say. He still needed to discipline Holmes, he'd said he would. When it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything, Holmes held out his hand and tugged at his trousers, looking up at him pleadingly.
"I'm sorry, but please, master. Allow me this privilege and a small amount of privacy. Please."
"Fine", John sighed and held the laptop at him. Holmes took it, signed in effortlessly and continued whatever it was he'd been doing without getting up from the floor. Or thanking him. John shrugged it off and made himself a cup of tea while Holmes typed at furious speed. Perhaps he should make Holmes type for him from now on. He was clearly much faster at it than his master was.
Behind his back the slave smirked. Sherlock rubbed his fingers and returned his attention to the laptop.
Simple. Gullible. Easily manipulated. John Watson wasn't any different from his previous masters. Feign submission, act eager to please, beg a little. Really, it was easy. To John's credit, he had caught Sherlock sneaking out on the second day, but that had merely been a stroke of bad luck. Now that he had been nothing but a perfect slave ever since, almost at least, he was certain John would soon let his guard down and eventually allow him more privileges. It wouldn't take long for John to decide to allow him move more freely, he was certain of it.
He typed the end of his email quickly, sent it, logged off and made sure to erase all his traces from the browser's history. John didn't need to know about his website or how he'd been doing research on Austrian chocolates and poisons. That would only lead to unwanted questions. Better his "hobby" would still stay a secret.
"Just so that you know, master", he started, "During the times I've used your computer, I've also removed a trojan and several viruses. I also updated the antivirus. For safer surfing on those porn sites."
John nearly choked on his tea.
"Oh, don't be so prude. There's nothing wrong with it. You are not my first owner to enjoy pornography", he dismissed. Better they watched porn than made him perform. "And likely not the last."
"You don't think I'll keep you?" John asked, clearly wanting to avoid any further discussion of his browsing history.
"You'd be the first", he told bluntly.
John looked him silently for several seconds, then shook his head. "Are you done?"
"Yes."
"Good. Put it away and come here. On your knees."
"Why?" Sherlock questioned, although he knew.
"I said I would discipline you."
"Ah."
Sherlock closed the laptop into the drawer with the gun. John appeared to like to pretend it wasn't there, so he had not touched nor commented on it. He stepped away from the desk and lowered himself back on his knees. Nothing would be gained by refusal, after all, and he knew which fights to pick. Even if he didn't always act accordingly. But now was not the time. Anything he had to say would likely lead to more severe consequences, and he had seen the stupid slave magazine with its creative ideas for punishments on the table earlier. He would have known it had been read even if he hadn't seen John do so. Preferably his owner didn't remember or care. He would rather have the belt than chilli powder in his arse.
John left his tea mug on the table and undid his belt. "No need to take your shirt off, just pull it up and lower your head", he instructed.
Sherlock did as he was told to. He grit his teeth when the belt smacked his back one, two, three times, each of them hard, precise and painful. A military man indeed. And it clearly wasn't John's first time doing this either. Sherlock exhaled slowly, still holding his shirt up and keeping his head down while his master redid his belt.
"You can get up now."
Sherlock pulled down the shirt to cover the red marks on his back where the sharp pain was already turning into a dull ache. It was his pride rather than his back that suffered the worst. John didn't seem to expect him to thank him for the punishment, so Sherlock saw no reason to open his mouth or even bow.
"For the record", John started, settling on the edge of the bed with his tea, "you could've just asked for permission for using the computer."
"You would've let me?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised. So far he had scheduled all his computer time for when John was out or taking a shower, because he would have never assumed John to allow him to use it. People in general were not encouraged to let slaves use computers on their own. Who knew, the slaves might even learn about slave right movements that way. Or try to book a trip to Norway.
"I just did", John reminded. "Even after you had done it on your own. You may be my first personal slave, but you aren't the first slave I've dealt with. I'm a fair owner, I promise you. Act well and I have nothing against rewarding you. Switch on the TV.""
Sherlock obeyed silently. There were things he would have wanted to voice, things he didn't agree with his master, but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shut. Better not to cause any more conflicts between them tonight, even if he had miscalculated and let the mask of dutiful slave slip again. He would lose any argument just as he had lost nearly all the arguments so far, just for the fact that he had no right to have an opinion.
He sat next to John without an invitation, but his master didn't seem to mind. They watched the news in silence and Sherlock didn't pay much attention to it until unexpectedly, a familiar face filled the screen. Sherlock hadn't seen Lestrade for nearly four years save on the newspapers, but the man hadn't changed much. Even Donovan was there. It was replay of a press conference about the serial suicides, he'd already read about those and had known Lestrade was on the case.
"Wrong..." he muttered as Lestrade told the cameras how the "suicides were clearly linked".
"What?"
"Wrong", Sherlock repeated more forcefully, even though he hadn't meant to say anything out loud. "He's wrong. The victims are not linked and they are not suicides."
"How would you know?"
"Even an idiot should see that", he spat out when the Detective Inspector reassured that people would be as safe as they wanted to be. The clip ended and the news anchor moved on to the next topic.
"Enlighten me then", John requested mockingly. "Why do you think they weren't suicides? All the news say they killed themselves in the same way."
"The victims didn't know each other, they were all found in random, empty places they had no reason to go to. None of them had a reason to commit suicide and all of them were taken from crowded places and/or only moments after having talked with someone they knew."
"How does that prove anything? We don't know anything about their lives, only what's been said on the papers. Most suicides come as a shock."
"None of them left notes."
"Not everyone leaves one", John countered.
Sherlock growled frustratedly. Why was everyone so thick? What use was it to be a free man when they never used their brains? When they never, ever thought?
"Don't you see? Each of them died exactly the same way, no links between the victims and there won't be any. If I could just–"
He cut himself off.
"If you could what?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me", John prompted.
"It doesn't matter" he said, stood up and walked to the wall opposite that had become his bedroom. "I'm just a slave, after all."
It came out far more bitter than he had intended. He lay down and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, facing the wall. "If you don't need me, I'd like to rest. Goodnight, John."
John didn't say anything. The man stayed up for another hour or so before Sherlock heard him get up and walk to the kitchenette and back. The lights went off and he heard John make his way to the bed, his breathing soon turning into deep and steady rhythm Sherlock had by now learnt meant the man had fallen asleep.
He got up quietly, took John's mobile and let himself into the bathroom. He opened a new messaged and typed quickly.
Back in London.
I'll let you know
how to contact me
as soon as I can.
Please reply before
6AM or not at all.
Do not contact me
on this number
otherwise.
SH
He sent the message to the last number he knew Lestrade to have used. His personal phone number hadn't been available online and Lestrade did not know of his email address or website, so he could only hope. He erased the message from the sent file, turned the mobile off vibrate and on silent mode before returning to his bed on the floor. He kept the phone on his stomach, under the blanket and settled to wait.
Like his master, Sherlock was no stranger to nightmares. Scarce were the slave who never dreamt of the abuse they had suffered. It was not the first and unlikely the last time Sherlock woke up gasping for breath, half expecting to drown for several harrowing seconds before his brains caught up with the reality.
Stupid, stupid..! He had never been about to drown, yet it always happened in the dream.
For a moment he had no idea where he was. His eyes darted to search for anything familiar and he swallowed the lump in his throat as the disorientation started to fade. John Watson's flat. His latest master slept peacefully and comfortably in his bed on the other side of the room.
Just a familiar nightmare, he told himself, but it did nothing to silence the voice in his head that still cried desperately for her child.
"Oh my god, my baby! Please, oh god, my baby, my baby my babymybabymybabymybaby!"
The miserable chant rang in his ears, haunting him from the dream. From the past.
A part of him still wished he had never accepted the buoys that saved his life like some had done. Perhaps it would have been a kinder fate for him as well to drown after hypothermia took over. It certainly would have been for her.
He never learnt her name. Before becoming a permanent addition to his nightmares, she had been just another slave seeking for freedom. She had sat behind him on the boat and all he remembered was the baby crying almost constantly.
Seventeen, most likely. Judging by the size of the baby and by the fact that sixteen was the legal age for slaves to start having sex with their owners. At the time he had only recently passed the said milestone himself.
Sherlock closed his eyes, drawing a deep deliberate breath to calm his pounding heart. Shit. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Despite the warm blanket, he was shivering. Shivering like he had back then, wet to the skin, huddling together with the other escapees saved from the freezing water. Even now he could recall the desperate and utter feel of failure hanging heavily above him. Unlike the majority, he had failed before. He had known what would await him back in England. The previous wounds hadn't even been fully healed yet.
He didn't want to go through the events of that night, he never did, but the fleeting memories both form the dream and reality would tangle up in his head until he acknowledged them.
Blinding floodlights against the pitch black sea. That annoying baby crying and crying non-stop so loudly behind him he had heard it clearly above the engine's noise. It had been a small boat. Definitely not made for almost thirty people and not meant for crossing the North Sea. But he had thought it would have been enough.
Naïve, so naïve.
There was no need to cross the entire sea, they'd been told. Not in that boat. They would rendezvous with a proper ship at the international waters. Norwegian. Safe for soon former slaves.
Only it never happened. They did come across a ship, but it was British, not Norwegian. It had been foolish to try to outrun them, but they had tried anyway. It, all of it –the escape and any hopes for freedom ended when the boat capsized. Too much speed, too much load, too sharp of a turn. One moment the icy wind had been beating against his face and the man next to him had been squeezing his arm –the next it felt like all air had been knocked out from his lungs when he was thrown into the freezing water. For a moment there'd been no up or down, but before full panic had had time to settle in he'd found the surface. And up there it had been chaos.
"Oh my god, my baby! Please, oh god, my baby! Where is he, where is he?"
The floodlights blinded him and when he'd turned to look away, he'd seen the someone swim away alone to the open sea while the others tried to cling onto the boat. Lifebuoys had been thrown to them, and one by one each slave who accepted the buoys had been pulled to safety. Back to captivity.
And all that time the mother kept screaming hysterically for her unnamed son. Had still been crying and chanting the same words over and over again when she'd been dragged away by laughing fishermen.
"Hush, let's make you a new one."
"You should all just be fucked to death, you're a disgrace to your owners."
Yelling, shoving, threats and violence. And nothing else to do but to submit to it, to beg for forgiveness.
Sherlock swallowed and slowly unclenched his jaw. All in the past now. He couldn't forget it, but he could look at it, accept it and push it back to the furtherest corner of his mind where it had come form.
He the clutched the phone still lying on his stomach and risked checking it to get something else to think of. There were no new messages. On the other side of the room, John grunted in his sleep. Sherlock hid the phone quickly. Clearly his owner had a set of past horrors of his own haunting him in his sleep.
Slaves rarely talked of nightmares, but they all had them. Most of them practically grew up with them. He couldn't recall having them before the death of his parents, but he must have had them occasionally. Children normally did.
But what would normal human children even have nightmares about? Sherlock's nightmares were made of the accident that led into his enslavement, of his four failed escape attempts that went into records (and he would never admit the third one was an escape), the slave club in which he had been illegally kept for three years, the violence under his seventh legal owner, being sold to Florida...
Florida especially, still far too recent and fresh in his mind. It felt like a miracle to be back in London. Compared to Florida, this was freedom and he shuddered at the memories. How he'd sat in the filthy toilet cubicle, biting into his fist so that the keeper would not hear his sobs, skin still burning from the completely unnecessary smack across his back. He hadn't done anything, he'd had the proper pass to go to the toilet, but that's just how the keepers and paid free men workers were. He was a slave and as long as it didn't stop him from working, they could do whatever they wanted to him.
Looking back now, he felt sick of how he'd been. Sick at the fact that they'd been right at InS. It had broken him.
He had quickly learnt to shut away those two and a half years of his life, learnt to treat it like a large hall in his mind palace and securely lock the doors. It was probably partially because he was still building those doors and locks that his previous owners had not wanted to keep him. And to know he'd been nearly put on the death row because of that...
Sherlock looked at John across the darkness. John was...interesting. He couldn't quite tell why. His master was just a plain, depressed soldier, yet there was something intriguing about him. It wasn't the way John treated him, not entirely. True, so far John had been far less violent and far more forgiving than some of his former owners, but John still drew a thick line between them. John was the master, he was a person. Sherlock was the slave, he was an object. Yet there was something about him that...fit.
And there was a part of him, a part that frightened him, whispering him to forget about fighting. Telling him it'd be so much easier to submit and finally, finally just accept that this was how he would live the rest of his life. There would be no better master than John Watson had already proven to be.
It was the voice of reason and logic he so often listened without question, without hesitation. And it hurt to have his reasoning betray him, yet he could not deny the rationality of it. He knew his situation, in and out. He knew what he was and he knew there was no way out of it. Not for him. He just refused to believe it.
But the fact remained he had technically already been put on the death row once. There would be no second chances. Should John give him back and should no one buy him...InS would deem him waste of money to feed until the next big auction day. It would be entirely possible they'd decide he wasn't even worth the paper work for one more auction. In that case he'd be lucky to be killed in the InS basement. He'd rather a quick death by lethal injection than be subjected to medical research. And even if someone did buy him, he knew it would not last. With nine past owners, no it'd be ten past owners, and the record he had he knew it would only give him a year or two more at best. Just seeing the scars on his back turned away most potential buyers. He'd known it when mistress Summers decided to sell him, and knowing how hard it would be for him to be sold, he had begged for her not to do it.
"Mistress please, please don't sell me. You're my ninth owner. No one will buy me."
She'd shook her head and fondled his curls. "Sorry, Ravenhair. You're entertaining and I've had fun with you. But you're also really difficult at times and you don't get along with the kids. I'm bored of you."
Even faked tears and promises to be better hadn't changed her mind. "Don't worry, I'll recommend you. InS will find a you nice new owner."
Whether that would've helped or not remained a mystery. He'd been given to John before InS even tried to sell him. Seemed unlikely they'd bother trying if John returned him.
John Watson was a fair owner who treated him with as much respect as it was possible for a free man to respect a slave. He was a man of strong morals, unlikely to start abusing his property. So far his new master hadn't even shown any sexual interest towards him. The most logical thing for him to do was to do all in his power to make sure this man would never have him changed or sold. He would never get another owner like this. He'd been branded a difficult slave ever since his second owner. No ordinary family would buy him. And John wasn't just a fair owner. He actually talked to him like to another human being and seemed to genuinely like his company. Hadn't even slept with him yet. Could a slave wish for more?
He stroked the inner side of his left wrist where he knew the tattoos to be. 99OR-79/3J3A. Such an innocent series of numbers and letters, yet they had the power to rob away his humanity.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes, he repeated as a silent reminder.
He glanced at his sleeping owner again. There was no more sleep for Sherlock that night.
Holmes had been completely impossible ever since getting up. He had performed all his daily morning tasks, but as if each of them had personally offended him. He'd paced the small flat frustratedly, groaned in irritation when John had ordered the man to sit down and eat his damn breakfast. Holmes had obeyed, but soon started drumming the table with his fingers. He'd told him to stop which had led in Holmes ranting how being closed within four walls was slowly killing him mentally and how John as free man couldn't possibly understand what it was like for him, being a slave and having a brain in which the thoughts raced liked F1 cars, having a mind like an engine that would explode if not used properly. At this point John had ordered him to shut up unless he wanted John to discipline him again. It was disturbing how eager Holmes had looked for a second.
Holmes was like string that could snap any moment and resumed into pacing around the room despite John's numerous attempts to make him sit down and relax.
"I can't relax! This room is driving me mad, I can feel my braincells die, one by one! I need to get out!" he'd groaned.
"If you have so much energy you can use it to clean the oven!" John had yelled back at him before leaving the flat entirely, but not before reminding Holmes that there'd be severe consequences if he attempted to leave the flat without his consent. It remained a mystery why Holmes hadn't simply asked to be let out. John had thought they had reached some kind of an understanding over the matter after he'd caught him, but evidently not.
He was still on bad mood while limping through Russell Square Gardens when someone called his name: "John! John Watson!"
John turned around to see a smiling stranger get up from a bench he'd just passed. The man looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn't quite–
"Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together", the stranger said and suddenly the pieces fell into place in John's head. Of course. He extended his hand.
"Mike. Yeah, sorry, of course."
"I know, I got fat", Mike joked good-humouredly.
"No, no", John denied as they shook hands, despite it was true. The Mike Stamford he remembered had been...considerably thinner.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at", Mike laughed. "What happened?"
John bit back all the immediate responses that came to his mind and fought back the impulse to hit the man's jaw. Instead he pursed his lips a little before responding: "I got shot."
Mike was too shocked for a second to start apologising and John cut him off when he did, but agreed to the offered coffee. Ten minutes later they sat down on the bench, sipping their take-aways.
"So, you're still at Bart's then?" he inquired more out of politeness than actual interest.
"Yeah, teaching. Brilliant lads like we used to be", Mike told before shaking his head in amusement. "God, I hate them."
He laughed, so John laughed with him.
"Still, it pays well", he mused. "I can afford a slave now, it's a great help."
"Really?" Well, there was something they had in common then. Something he might be able to discuss about. Ella would be so proud of him, socialising like this. "I actually just got myself a slave last week."
"You did?" Mike sounded surprised and John couldn't blame him. He probably didn't strike as the type to buy a slave. He'd always taken pride in the fact that he could be arsed to do things himself.
"Part of the pension" he explained. "I've got an army pension now."
"Oh, alright. Is she any good?"
"He's bit of a troublemaker", he grunted.
"He?" Mike sounded almost appalled. "They gave you a male?"
For reasons unknown, John felt defensive. "What's wrong with a male?"
"Nothing, nothing", Mike assured. "I just thought they'd, you know, give you a female. Care and comfort and all that. Or did you–?"
"No", he snapped, perhaps a little too quickly. "I didn't get to choose."
"That's unfortunate." Mike shrugged. "And strange. An army guy like you, one would think they'd provide you with a nice girl to take care of you."
"Well, they didn't." He sounded bitter even to his own ears. Damn Holmes. "Instead they gave me a rebellious, arrogant one."
"Arrogant, really? Recently enslaved then?" Mike wanted to know.
"See, that's the strange thing, because he isn't", John said, finger lingering near to his face for emphasis. "He's been a slave most of his life. I've never met a slave like him. It started out alright, he was really obedient and helpful, if a bit odd, but a good slave nevertheless. I did read his papers and I guess I should have taken what was written a bit more seriously, but he seemed like a real bargain..! Then I found out he had sneaked out of the house while I was away. And he used my computer. Now he's been completely impossible all morning. He does what he's told, but he talks back and argues, and behaves like I've insulted him."
Mike look dumbfounded. "Can you have him changed?"
"I can, but I'm not sure if I want to…" He was surprised the thought slipped between his lips. Did he really mean that? "It's like he's playing some sort of a game, trying to see how fast he can make me get rid of him."
"Sounds a bit odd. Maybe you should just remind him of his place?"
"That's what his papers suggest. It doesn't seem to have had much of an effect so far. I'm his tenth legal owner. And there's a three year gap where he was listed as lost property."
"Did he escape?"
"According to his own words, no." Holmes had been reluctant to talk about it or any of his previous escape attempts. Who knew how many there had been in reality? He was willing to bet there had been more than the recorded ones with police involvement.
"He's done it at least four times, though, but he kept saying the third one wasn't an escape attempt."
"Four escape attempts?"
"Three times before the missing episode and once after it. He's lost his rights for an emancipation contract because of it."
"Well, I wouldn't have signed a contract for a slave like him anyway", Mike said somewhat disgustedly. "My slave behaves like a proper slave, but I wouldn't sign her a contract."
"I'm not sure I'd sign any kind of a contract at all, either", John muttered.
"No one should", Mike mused. "It's a ridiculous thing to do, not to mention completely irresponsible. Slaves don't know how to function as people. They have their purpose in life. It's thoughtless to take them that away, even if it might sound like mercy. Humans are not equal. That's just a fact."
John made an agreeing sound and sipped his coffee. He wondered if Holmes had ever asked for the contract before his rights for one had been stripped away. He certainly seemed eager to have himself freed. Or had been, at least.
The conversation moved on. He learnt that Mike was now a married man with children. They exchanged phone numbers and John agreed to see him again some time over a pint. Mike promised to ask around Bart's if there were any vacancies or need for a substitute.
John started to make his way back home, stopping only to buy some essentials. More shopping would require Holmes to carry the bags. As he was paying, something very strange happened. He could swear that for a moment, instead of his total, the cash register read HELLO JOHN.
"That's nice", he commented. Must be some kind of new hospitality thing he reasoned. Probably got his name from the card.
"What is?" the bloke behind the counter asked.
"The name thing."
"What name thing?"
But the text was gone already, so he brushed it off. Maybe the guy was new. Then a second odd thing happened when he stepped to the street. The phone in the phone box across the street was ringing. It stopped though when a group of teenagers approached it. Now that he thought of it, he was fairly certain it had been ringing when he got here as well.
Strange.
He decided to ignore it and limped away. He was only two streets away from home when it happened again. He paused briefly, but walked on. The ringing stopped when it became clear he wasn't answering it.
Street away from home and there it was again. The sound of a ringing phone. It didn't stop even though he walked past it.
John turned to look over his shoulder. The phone in the telephone box kept ringing, and if possible, it sounded even more demanding. Sighing John steeled himself, turned around and limped to the box, half expecting the ringing to stop any moment.
It didn't.
The box smelled of chips and there was someone's number scribbled on the window with words "for hot wet pussy" over it. And the phone kept ringing as he tentatively reached for it.
"Hello..?"
"Turn to your left. There's a camera at the top of the building across the street. Can you see it?"
"Who's this?" John asked. He didn't fully turn, just glanced to his left.
"Doctor Watson, answer me. Can you see it?"
A shiver ran through him as the distorted voice called him by his name. It was impossible to determine whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. He straightened his back. "Who are you?"
"Can you see the camera?" the voice demanded.
John turned. It took him a few seconds, but he located it. It was like an eye staring right at him. He nodded.
"Good", the voice acknowledged and to John's astonishment, the camera turned away. "There's another one to the right, a little higher. Do you see it?"
"Yes", John gasped, gripping the shopping bag. His heart was pounding and the blood was rushing in his ears, yet he was calm and his senses were alert. The second camera turned away.
"The third one is located behind you."
John spun around. "I see it."
"And finally, to the right, half behind that tree."
"What do you want? Who are you?" John asked, though dreading the answer as he saw a black car pull next to the phone box and its door opening.
"Go inside. There is much to talk. I'm sure you understand your position."
John hung up the phone and collected his cane. Seeing no other option, he did as he'd been told.
"Don't you have a slave to carry that for you?" a female voice asked him as he scrambled himself and his bag into the car.
"Yes, but he's not here now." The car moved immediately after the door closed. A click of the locks made it painfully obvious that he was trapped. The wall between the back of the car and the driver had been risen, and John realised there was a camera in each corner of it.
"Shame."
The woman was well-dressed in black and looked tall even sitting down. She had a round, playful face all business, long blonde hair and manicured fingernails that typed something on the phone she was carrying. She didn't look dangerous, but it was clear which one of them had the control.
"You've acquired him quite recently, haven't you?" the woman continued, putting away the mobile. "99OR-79/3J3A."
"I believe that's none of your business."
"It might be."
John's knuckles curled over the cane. He could use it as a weapon should the need arise. It didn't sit well with him to hit a woman, but he would if he had to. "No, it really isn't."
The woman smiled humourlessly. "Nevertheless, your slave is the reason I'm here."
"He's just a normal slave. Since you know my name and that I have him, you should know that, too. I got him with my pension."
"Yes, I'm aware. It's unfortunate that we learnt he'd been brought back to the country just recently."
"We? What do you want with my slave?"
"My employer would be willing to pay a considerable sum of money for your new slave."
"He's not for sale", John said immediately. He surprised even himself by the confidence in his statement.
"I haven't mentioned the figure."
"It really wouldn't make any difference. I don't have the rights to sell him." It was true, after all, but even if it wasn't, he had a strong feeling he would not sell Holmes to this lady for any amount of money. Something was off about her.
"Yes, but you could still return him. My employer would be happy to pay you for doing that."
"No."
"Doctor Watson", she stressed, "you're not a wealthy man. I am talking of the kind of sums you could live in relative comfort with for the rest of your life."
"I'm not selling him."
"You have no job. My employer can arrange you one anywhere you'd like", she told. Her tone reminded him of a school teacher.
She went on: "How about your living arrangements? You don't live well. Just a word and a penthouse by the Thames can be arranged. A job at any of the hospitals in London? It can be done. Or if this island is too small for you, just name your favourite country. A beach house in Thailand? How about New York? All of that? And of course, the Institute will give you a new slave, but if one isn't enough... What's your favourite brand?" She paused to think for a second.
"How about a Rose's, do you like Rose's?" she suggested. "They're famed for their appearance and performance. How about a set of twins from Rose's? Just return the slave, and any of this could be yours. Name your price."
"I'm not interested."
"You do not understand what you're dealing with, Doctor Watson."
"No, and I don't want to. Stop this car and let me out. This isn't negotiable, the slave's not for sale!"
For a moment there was such anger in her eyes that John prepared for being slapped. But as quickly as the anger had appeared, as soon it was gone. She smiled, completely calm and handed him a business card.
"Take it. Have a good night's sleep and think it over. You might change your mind."
"I don't think so", he grunted, but took the card. There was only a single letter M printed on the white, glossy surface with a phone number under it.
"M? What's M?"
"An interested party", she smirked. The car stopped and the locks unlocked. John gathered his cane and shopping bag.
"We've arrived. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."
"I bloody well hope so", John spat, slamming the door behind him. The car took off and he watched it until it turned away from the street. He'd been left neatly at his own front door, driven a circle around the neighbouring blocks. What on earth had that been about?
On the other side of London, a man sat in front of a laptop. A video feed of Doctor John Hamish Watson collecting his items and exiting the car played on its screen.
His hand reached to pause the footage as the car's door slammed closed, and his employee turned to look at one of the cameras.
He leant back on his seat, pondering the situation for a moment before closing the lid.
"Interesting."