It took nearly two weeks until Sherlock saw Mrs Hudson again. She didn't see him, and he had no way of getting to her.
Three days later from that, he was finally able to approach her for the second time. Head bowed and eyes cast down he thanked her for saving him from the keepers wrath. She was happy to see him, and invited him to walk with her, but Sherlock had to decline. He wanted nothing more than to take an advantage of her charitable offer, but he couldn't. He had duties to perform, and even if he had her invitation, he still would have to get his load of work done by the end of his shift.
She understood. Even if their exchange had been brief, even if she hadn't truly done anything, just being talked to like a real human being was the greatest piece of kindness he had received in months. Seeing her, getting to talk to her, even if it was just greeting her to have her look at him became like drug to him. And oddly enough, she seemed to equally seek him out. She wanted to talk to him, she found excuses to have him removed from his post to attend to her. Other slaves noticed of course and grew jealous of him quickly. It was devastating to have his fellow slaves treat him the same his keepers did, but Sherlock ignored it the best he could. It didn't matter. He wouldn't stay here forever.
Six weeks went by, and talking to her confirmed everything he already knew. Mrs Hudson was stuck in an unhappy marriage with an abusive, unfaithful man. Mr Hudson was unpredictable and often violent. At this point he didn't even bother trying to hide his younger lovers from her. Or the true nature of his work. She knew too much to get away. Her husband's company, while perfectly legal and reasonably profitable, was a mere cover for the cartel working behind the scenes. Marijuana, mostly, but also weapons and slaves.
An idea began to form in Sherlock's mind. A plan to get them both away. Dangerous, of course, but his life was already dangerous. Even just suggesting it was potentially dangerous. If he was wrong about Mrs Hudson and the lengths she'd be willing to go, she could have him killed for disloyalty. Even if she agreed, standing up against a drug cartel could easily get them both killed, him especially since Mr Hudson had every legal right to kill him should he want to.
She was sceptical at first, as expected. Like a slave would look at its master and think the master had all the power in the world and nothing could be done about it, she would think the same about her husband and the cartel. She had lived for years in the fear of them. But she was not a coward. Anything but.
A week later Sherlock had himself successfully moved into the cartel's service. And they were going to take it down.
The scene of crime was easy to spot as soon as the cab pulled to the street. Sherlock waited impatiently for John to pay and strode far before him to the police cars with their flashing lights. They were just secluding the area with tape. Lestrade's back was easy to recognise.
"Holmes, wait up!" his master shouted, trying to keep up with him with his limp. He stopped, but reluctantly. Several heads turned to their direction and Lestrade noticed him.
"Sherl–!"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Sherlock hurried to interrupt the man's greeting. "So good to see you again," he said with a bow. "It's Holmes now," he stressed, just audibly enough for him to hear it.
"Bloody hell, it really is you," Lestrade marvelled. "Where on earth have you been?"
"InS sold me to Florida," he explained, but before he could say anything more, John caught up.
"You know each other?" he demanded, irritated by his slave talking to a stranger and ignoring his master.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, turning around upon noticing his mistake. "Detective Inspector, this is my current owner Doctor John Watson. Master, this is DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard."
John wanted to wince, but the Detective Inspector didn't seem to care or notice how the slave should have introduced them the other way around. He offered his hand to the man, and although Lestrade shook it, his attention remained on the slave.
"It's good to see you again. There've been a few cases you would've cracked a lot quicker than we did. How long have you been back?" he wanted to know.
"Undoubtedly," Sherlock agreed. "Almost fourteen months. But just little over a week with master Watson."
"Really? I tried to get the department to buy you back then, you know. After that last case, and when they refused I figured I'd just buy you myself, but you'd already been sold by the time I got there."
"And shipped to Florida, yes, thank god for that. I would've made a terrible slave for you," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Your wife would've hated me."
"Yeah, probably," Lestrade agreed, grimacing at the mental image of Sherlock at his home.
"Er, excuse me," John interrupted, "but what do you mean "cases"?"
"Your slave's been helpful with a few police cases in the past," Lestrade explained. "He used to be owned by the Yard –sort of. Hasn't he told you?"
"No, never. He doesn't talk much about his previous owners."
"Oh." Lestrade shrugged. "Apparently there's something he can do right."
Sherlock cleared his throat annoyedly. "I wasn't owned by the Yard, I was evidence. Anyway, what do we have?" he prompted tetchily.
Lestrade turned his attention back to the slave. "Well, you've probably read the news, it's been all over for a while now. Three identical suicides, but no connection between the victims. And now a fourth."
"They're not suicides," Sherlock immediately contradicted. "They are murders."
"How can you be sure of it?"
"Like you said, it's all over the news." He raised his eyebrow. "You know they're murders."
"Well, yes, my gut says they are, but the evidence..." He looked desperate, and explained how absolutely nothing seemed to point towards a killer. Holmes disagreed, then made a little happy dance and a joyous declaration of how he loved serial killers.
"Holmes," John chided. "I'm sorry, he's–"
"Don't worry, Doctor Watson, we're used to him," Lestrade waved him off.
"So what's different with this one?" Holmes wanted to know.
"Why do you think something's different?"
"I texted you just to let you know I'm available again and told you not to contact me on that number unless absolutely necessary. Clearly something's changed. What is it?"
"Well, I think you'll like this," the DI said smugly. "There's a note."
"A note? Three identical suicides and a note, oh, it's Christmas!" the slave rejoiced.
"Holmes..." John cringed, but no one seemed to care. Holmes wanted to know where the victim was and Lestrade was all too keen to show him upstairs to it.
Holmes's expression turned uneasy. "Is Anderson on forensics?"
"Of course he is."
His uneasiness changed into something of agony. "Anderson doesn't like me."
"Holmes, no one here likes you. What does it matter, it's never stopped you before."
"But I need an assistant," Holmes insisted. "Someone who understands about forensics, a cleanup slave won't do. But not Anderson."
"You don't need one, you just want one," Lestrade sighed. "I'll see what I can do. But I'm not promising anything. Don't pick up a fight with Anderson. Are you coming?"
For the first time since their arrival Holmes turned his full attention to John. "Master?"
"If it's alright with you," he responded to Lestrade, but Holmes didn't wait for them to exchange more words.
"Excellent. Come along, master." The slave strode to the blue and white tape, Lestrade following close behind. It was unsettling to see a slave walk with such confidence, as if he owned the place. Neither men paid attention to John trying to keep up with them.
"Oh. I see the freak is back," he heard the woman guarding the tape comment with distaste as they approached. She was a slim, tall woman with a beautiful take-no-nonsense face and lots of curly, black hair framing her features. If it weren't for the setting, John would have considered saying something flirtatious.
"Always good to see you, Sergeant Donovan," Holmes greeted with a proper bow.
"Why is he here?" she demanded the Detective Inspector, completely ignoring the slave.
"I invited him," Lestrade explained, lifting the tape. Holmes slipped to the other side and kept the tape up for both of the men.
"Well you know what I think of that," she stated, but let them pass.
"We need him," Lestrade reminded her. She didn't reply. Instead, her eyes shot on John.
"Hold it. Who's this?" she asked, pointing her walkie-talkie's antenna at him.
"I-er, I own him," he answered, pointing Holmes with his cane.
"Really?" she questioned. "Did someone trick you into buying him? Did you pay actual money for him?"
For a moment, John was at loss of words. What did she know about his slave? How did Holmes know these people? He tucked the questions away for later and corrected her: "No. InS gave him."
The Sergeant gave him a pitying look. "Poor sod, I hope you can still have him changed," she muttered, then continued to her walkie-talkie: "Lestrade's found the freak, I'm bringing them in."
A bearded man wearing light blue coveralls met them at the door. He didn't look pleased in the slightest at the sight of John's slave.
"Hello, Anderson. Long time no see," Holmes greeted mockingly, with only a slight inclination of his head. John pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. As far as he could tell, Anderson wasn't a slave, but neither him nor Lestrade were bothered by Holmes's lack of respect.
"I don't want the scene contaminated," the man called Anderson sneered at Holmes. "Do you understand? You aren't allowed to touch anything."
"Quite clear," Holmes replied with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Is your wife away for long? Did she take the slave with her?"
"Well someone's been gossiping," the forensics officer scoffed. "Was it Sally?"
"No, but she's wearing your deodorant," Holmes replied without batting an eye. "Can I go, sir?"
Donovan's jaw dropped and Anderson turned to look at her over his shoulder. They exchanged a quick look before Anderson turned back to Holmes. "Look, whatever you're implying–"
"I'm not implying anything," Holmes assured innocently, walking past him and up the stairs to the front door. "Surely she just was in the area and offered to substitute."
He gave an exaggerated, judging look to Donovan's legs. "And scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees. Doesn't your slave usually do that for you?"
"Well you would know that, wouldn't you?" she sneered under her breath.
John nearly choked on his own tongue at the exchange. Holmes's behaviour was outrageous, and thus technically it meant John's was, too, since he was the owner. Holmes was just his extension, and what Holmes said or did were his responsibility.
"Enough, all of you," Lestrade commanded before John could tell Holmes to apologise and shut up, or before either Anderson or Donovan could add another word. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes. Donovan, return to your post. Holmes, you follow me."
"Hang on," John interrupted. "Do I have any say in this? He's my property, in case you hadn't noticed. And in case you" he added, pointing at Holmes, "had forgotten."
Holmes's face fell as if he only now remembered his position. His entire posture changed from that of full confidence into a submissive one that made him look smaller than he really was, and reluctantly he returned from the doorway to John's side.
"Apologies," he muttered silently, head bowed down. Sherlock could feel Lestrade's eyes on him.
"With all due respect, Doctor," Lestrade started. "Your slave's worked for the Yard in the past. He's been great help. There's been several arrests we couldn't have made without him."
"Yes, well technically it shouldn't even be allowed here," Anderson complained.
"We don't need him," Donovan echoed.
"Shut it, both of you," Lestrade barked. "Doctor Watson," he continued with more calm, "I would really greatly appreciate your slave's opinion of the scene."
"Why?" John questioned despite knowing why. Though he had no idea what exactly they expected Holmes to do for them. Sure his demonstration in the taxi had been impressive, but fairly simple after the explanation. This was a murder scene, not a scratched mobile phone.
"You have your own forensics team here. Why would you need my slave? He's dragged me here against my wishes. I've never given him a permission to even talk to any of you. Let alone to send you texts on my phone! He's not a witness, he has absolutely nothing to do with any–"
"Oh for god's sake!" Holmes interrupted loudly. "Four people have been murdered and it's only a matter of time until the fifth victim turns up! I can stop the fifth from happening. It's pure idiocy from your part if you won't let me help them!"
Several jaws dropped and it was suddenly so quiet one could have heard a needle drop in the stunned silence followed by Holmes's outburst. John clenched his teeth in a mixture of humiliation and anger. His left hand, curled in a tight fist, was shaking. His right hand gripped the cane, knuckles gone white. He wasn't a man easily enraged, but it wasn't everyday he was humiliated like this in front of a dozen police officials. No slave should ever speak like that to his owner, and absolutely not in front of other people. Even the people he hadn't been introduced to had heard Holmes and were staring. Several slaves looked at them with such alarmed expressions one would've assumed they were expecting to be beaten themselves.
"Floor, now," he managed to growl between grit teeth. If Holmes apologised immediately they could leave it at that, but of course he didn't. John could hear a concurrent, shocked gasps of disbelief around him when the slave kept standing tall, his chin held high and eyes fixed at his owner in a silent challenge. John really didn't want to resort in violence, but if he would not take immediate action to discipline his property, this already exceedingly embarrassing situation would turn into a complete and utter mortifying humiliation.
"Floor, Holmes," he ordered again, but this time emphasising his point by hitting Holmes's midriff, the back of his knees and finally his back with the cane. The slave groaned in pain, collapsed on his knees and nearly hit his head to the pavement at the last blow. And still he would not properly obey the order. Instead he held his stomach and glared at John under his unruly black hair.
More shocked gasps followed. Lestrade was openly staring at him, wide-eyed, gulping when Holmes still refused to comply. Sergeant Donovan next to him had paled and covered her mouth with her hand. Anderson's face was a mixture of loath and outrage.
John glared back at the slave. If he were to bend now, he would lose all his credibility in the eyes of everyone at the scene. He used the cane to push between Holmes's shoulder blades and when the slave bowed a little deeper he moved it to push the back of Holmes's neck. Seconds seemed to drag by like hours, but finally there was one last shaky rebellious breath drawn before Holmes lowered his eyes and kowtowed to everyone's relief.
"I apologise, master," he said reluctantly, but loud enough for everyone present to definitely hear it. "Forgive me. I deserve to be disciplined."
"I'm going to flog you for this later," John fumed.
Making his master lose his face was one of the worst things a slave could do. Thirty years back it would have been legal for John to kill Holmes on the spot. Eighty years back it would have been expected of him.
John drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. His left hand was still shaking, so he kept it curled in a fist, willing the tremor to stop.
He cleared his throat. "Alright. Let's see that crime scene. I'll deal with him later. I'm not having him waste any more of your time than he already has."
It was like everyone around them sighed of relief collectively and then returned to do whatever they'd been doing, pretending nothing had happened at all.
"Right... Anderson, keep everyone away, Donovan return to your post," Lestrade repeated. "Doctor Watson, this way, please."
John nodded his acknowledgment and tapped Holmes's arm with the cane. The man stood up instantly, dusting his coat utterly unprepared for his master slapping his face. John grabbed the lapel of his coat and pulled him closer.
"I am not done with you," he hissed at the slave. Holmes stared back at his angry smile. For a moment John feared the slave would defy him again, but Holmes cast down his eyes.
"I'm at your mercy, master," he pledged quietly, before turning away.
"What do we know?" he wanted to know as they followed Lestrade inside. This time, however, Holmes walked behind him, head bowed down a little. Even his voice was softer and much less demanding than it had been outside.
After Holmes had refused to wear proper coveralls and the Detective Inspector had shrugged it off, Lestrade explained the victim was a woman in her late thirties, called Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. The body had been discovered by local kids.
John listened in silence, dreading a little what they'd find. And while he didn't want to admit it, he was a bit excited and curious. He thought of the kids (actual children?) who'd come to this clearly abandoned house and ended up finding a body. Lestrade led them into an empty second floor room. Well, empty apart from a rocking horse in the corner and a woman dressed in a bright pink overcoat lying unmoving on the floor. John stayed by the wall with the Detective Inspector, but Holmes was immediately all business and alert. He took a step forward, arm extended to the room and stopped. For long seconds none of them moved or said a thing until Holmes beelined to the corpse and started slowly circling it.
The DI was completely unfazed by Holmes's extremely unslave-like behaviour. John couldn't help but to wonder. Holmes had been a slave for nearly his entire life, hadn't he? Why were the police treating him like...well, almost like a person. His hand tried to unconsciously reach the jacket pocket under the coveralls at least he had had the sense to wear when offered. He didn't want Holmes to see the strange business card, so he kept it with himself. Someone badly wanted his slave, but why? His skill set was certainly impressive, but he was also ill-tempered and a bloody bad slave at most of the time. Why would someone be so interested in buying him so suddenly? If someone wanted him so badly, why hadn't they bought him sooner? There had been plenty of opportunities.
John watched as Holmes crouched down next to the woman. His hands trailed under her coat's collar, he leant closer to sniff, emptied her pockets, examined her hands and jewellery. Was this, whatever he was doing, why someone wanted to own him? Enough to offer nearly anything in exchange. No slave was worth what he'd been offered, surely.
After some impatient prompting from Lestrade, Holmes said he'd share his findings after he could borrow Lestrade's smartphone. He then concluded the same the DI had already told them, but added that she probably worked in the media sector, had come from Cardiff only hours earlier to stay one night in London, and that she had multiple lovers.
"Ask the family slaves about the lovers, they ought to know," he advised. Lestrade immediately questioned him, so irritably, but hastily Holmes explained how he'd reached the conclusion about Cardiff with a little help from the weather maps.
"What about the message on the floor? Anderson reckons she's German."
"Revenge?" Holmes laughed mockingly. "Why would she write an angry message in German while she's dying? She scratched that with her nails while she was dying. Have you seen her fingers? It hurt. No, whatever it is, it's important. Probably Rachel. Find out who she is. Again, if the husband doesn't know, ask the slaves in private. Better yet, have another slave talk to them, it's often easier that way."
"Slaves?" Lestrade prompted.
"Successful career, unhappy marriage. Chances are they have at least two slaves. What do you think, master?"
"Of what?" John startled. He had been watching and listening carefully, but was unprepared to be asked for an opinion. His slave smirked and pointed out he was doctor, so obviously the body.
Lestrade, however, objected, protesting that he already had a forensic team and that he couldn't possibly have more people touch the body. But he gave in when Holmes claimed not even the slaves of Anderson's team would agree to work with him. Now that they were just the three of them, Holmes's earlier self-confidence had returned. Had John not known, he would have never assumed the man challenging the DI into a silent staring competition was a slave. He really ought to buy the man collar.
"Excellent," Holmes smiled. "Master?"
John glanced at the woman in pink, then Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had his hands to his face, fingers pressed on his temples. "Go ahead."
Holmes crouched down to the body again, so John lowered himself down as well.
"This is fucking ridiculous," he whispered irritably. "You're a house slave, you're supposed to be cooking my dinner."
"Yes, but this is more fun. So what do you think?"
"Fun? I'd like to know if you'll still consider this fun when I'm done with you."
Holmes smirked. "I reckon this'll be worth it."
"I'm flogging you the moment we're back home," John vowed, but despite himself did exactly what Holmes wanted him to do. He examined the body, noticed the mysterious "rache" on the floor while doing so and explained what undoubtedly Lestrade's team already knew. Asphyxiation, passed out and choked in her own vomit.
Holmes in turn shared everything he knew with Lestrade. John still knelt by body when Holmes started demanding to see the woman's suitcase, which he insisted the woman must have had, despite Lestrade firmly stating there had never been a suitcase on the property. And before John managed to get up, his slave had already dashed out of the room, still going on about a suitcase. Lestrade followed, yelling again that there had never been a suitcase.
Both had disappeared by the time John made it out of the room. He passed the man named Anderson, who stood outside the room, stroking his beard. Anderson shrugged and rolled his eyes, then entered the room with his team. John limped down the stairs as quickly as he could. Neither his slave nor DI Lestrade was anywhere to be seen. In fact, the only person at the grounds floor was a slave, and she had no idea of either's location. But she stayed to help John out of the coveralls.
There were still police officers and cars with their lights flashing everywhere. Not really knowing what to do, John made his way to the only familiar figure he could spot. Sergeant Donovan stood in watch at the same place where he'd first met her.
"Er, sorry, have you seen my slave?"
"Holmes?" She didn't look in the least surprised by the knowledge that a slave had possibly gone missing. "He ran off a while ago. He does that."
"So I've gathered," John sighed. "Do you know if he's coming back?"
The Sergeant shook her head. "I don't think so. Don't worry, he's got GPS."
"Yeah, I know." Though he wondered how she did. He looked around in the unfamiliar neighbourhood. He couldn't even remember the name of the bloody place. "Sorry, where am I?"
She told him they were in Brixton, and advised him to how to get to the main road where he'd have better luck finding a taxi. She lifted the tape for him, and John ducked under it.
"You'd better give him back, you know," she called unexpectedly.
"Why'd you say that?" he questioned, turning back at her.
"You saw him. You saw how he's like," she said with distaste. "He enjoys it. The weirder the crime, the more he likes it. He gets off on it. He gets off on seeing dead, murdered people."
John swallowed involuntarily. It was clear from the tone of her voice she meant real people. People that excluded slaves.
She shook her head before continuing: "And you know what? One day he'll snap. One day we'll find a body of some poor guy who had the misfortune of owning him."
"You think he'd murder his owner? Why?"
"Because he thinks being clever is enough to make him human. Because he will never accept what he is and submit to it like he should. And that makes him dangerous," she told, entirely serious. "I'd be very careful if I were you, or the body we'll find will be yours after he's killed you in your sleep."
"Donovan!"
Both of them turned to look at the caller. It was Lestrade at the front door.
She called back that she'd be there in a second, but before leaving she turned to look at John for one last time. "Get rid of that slave while you still can."
John watched her go and disappear inside. Having no other choice, he started walking towards the road she had pointed him and tried to brush of the things she'd just said. Holmes was difficult, not dangerous.
And yet...he had attacked his owner. It was not a light accusation. Even if the said owner had been the abusive one.
Deep in his thoughts, hand in his pocket touching the card yet again, he didn't notice the black car until it drove past him and pulled to the kerb. It wasn't the same car as yesterday, but it might as well have been. Like the previous one, the windows were tinted and if one was powerful enough to control the CCTV, they might as well have two or more black vehicles.
John straightened his back and gripped the cane, again ready use it as a weapon should need arise. As the door opened, he realised none of the cameras in the area were pointed at them.
"Doctor John Watson," the man stepping out of the car greeted. He was tall, considerably taller than John was, dressed in what was perhaps the most well-tailored piece of clothing he'd ever seen on anyone. In his hand the man held a black umbrella and for a moment he leant on it very much in the same fashion John often leant on his cane. The man's face wore a pleasant smile, but despite of it something about him was exceedingly off-putting.
"Yes, that's me," John blinked in surprise. He'd been half expecting to see the same woman or some shady, sinister figure, not a civilised looking man. He was about to offer his hand for shaking when he noticed the large slave collar the man was wearing and quickly pulled his hand back. The slave smartly paid no attention to this, as though John hadn't just been about to make a huge, embarrassing mistake.
"You recently acquired a slave" the man stated instead, stepping closer and looking down to him. John would have been offended hadn't it dawned to him that with such an enormous collar the man probably wasn't even able to bow down his head very much. The slave noticed him staring the collar and tilted his head so that the metal around his throat was jabbing his chin while he spoke: "Have you found him satisfactory?"
John had to drag his eyes away from the heavy looking dark, polished metal collar that disappeared under the white shirt's collar and look at the slave in the eyes instead. "How...do you know that?"
A sly smile unlike anything John had ever seen on a slave appeared on his face and the man swung the umbrella twice. "It's my business to know."
"You're a slave."
"Indeed I am."
"Well, excuse me, but you really don't look or act like a slave. At all."
"Which is precisely why I wear such an exaggerated collar," the man patiently explained, frowning slightly as he spoke. He glanced meaningfully at John's hand. "To avoid someone losing their face by making an embarrassing mistake. My mistress would be most displeased if that were to ever happen again..."
He smiled. "Well, you don't need to know about that."
John glanced at the black car behind him, not quite sure of what to think of it. "Right…"
"It belongs to my owner," the slave said. "I've asked to be able to meet you, Dr Watson. I have my mistress's permission."
"You know my name," he stated, stepping away from the slave despite himself. The man made no move to get closer again.
"Of course. I told you: it's my business to know."
"Why do you want to know about my slave?" John questioned. The woman had told him to sleep over it. He had, but he'd understood it was him who was expected to make contact. Surely they wouldn't try bothering him again this soon? Had she or her enigmatic employer changed their mind? John certainly hadn't changed his mind, he was not selling his slave and he hadn't contacted the mysterious M, whoever that was.
"Let's just say he holds some interest to me."
"And to your owner, I suppose?"
"Oh no, my mistress is not interested in him," the strange slave assured, examining the tip of his umbrella. "This is purely between myself and him."
He pointed the umbrella at John. "And you of course, master Watson, should you want to be involved. He is your property, after all. All I am asking is that you let me meet him."
John wasn't so easily convinced, nor would this slave gain anything by flattery. John wasn't his master.
"Who are you, exactly? How do you know my slave?"
"We share some common history."
"Oh…" He remembered Holmes's explanation about the e-mails. Perhaps this slave had nothing to do with the earlier meeting after all.
"So you're friends?" he asked, feeling slightly relieved. "Previous shared owner?"
The umbrella man chuckled, sounding far too amused for John's liking. "No, nothing like that, I assure you. I don't think he would ever choose to use the word "friend"."
"What would he use, then?"
"An enemy. Perhaps even "archenemy"," the slave mused before tilting his head sideways and adopting a more serious look. "Tad dramatic, don't you agree, master Watson?"
"And you aren't?" John muttered before repeating: "Archenemy? That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all day. Besides, if that's true, why would Holmes want to meet you? Why doyou want to meet him, anyway?"
The man smiled briefly before turning completely serious. "Because a short while ago I was under the impression that he was dead."
"Because of Florida?" John asked, but the slave had no chance to reply as at the same moment the car's door opened again and a woman stepped outside. Still not the one from before. She had long, dark brown hair, beautiful tanned skin, brown eyes, full lips... She was absolutely stunning in a word.
"Mycroft," she called, extending her hand.
The slave –Mycroft, his name appeared to be, was at her side instantly, handing her a Black Berry that apparently had been kept in his inner chest pocket. She started typing, clutching the phone with her well manicured fingers.
"Done, are we?" she asked, not looking away from her mobile.
"Yes, mistress. Quite done for now."
"Hang on a second," John exclaimed, still having absolutely no idea of what their exchange had been about. The woman met his eyes briefly and handed the phone back to her slave.
"I…" John had forgotten what he'd been about to say, momentarily lost in her eyes. Maybe if he introduced himself..? One never knew, he might get lucky. She already had some interest towards his slave, or at least her slave had. A convenient excuse. A bit like using a dog to ask a girl out, actually.
"John Watson," he finally said, stepping closer and extending his hand. She looked at him, face passive apart from a tiniest smirk at the corner of her mouth.
"Yes, I know." She didn't take the offered handshake and John let his hand drop awkwardly.
"Oh. Well, I don't think I caught your name yet."
"Anthea," she stated carefully with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Anthea? That's an unusual name. Very beautiful."
She smirked amusedly. "It's not my real name."
"Er, sorry?"
But the not-Anthea turned around without another word, beckoning Mycroft to follow her back into the car.
"I'm glad to have met you, master Watson. Goodbye."
The slave smiled politely, bowed at John from the waist and disappeared into the black vehicle that immediately steered away. The odd encounter hadn't taken even five minutes, and he could still see the lights of the police cars. Whoever they had been, they were gone now. John was left with yet more questions about the mysterious inquiries after his slave, and zero answers.