A few hours later, after he had found some clothing and had been given a bowl of broth and a cup of tea by Mrs Hudson, John found himself washing several dishes in the sink. He was working reluctantly, still utterly dismayed at his punishment. Housework was almost normal - the fact that it was not his house, nor his mess was still alien to him. He was still in a daze, the full consequence of his situation not quite hitting home.

The kitchen was odd, more odd than the rest of the flat. Chemicals and bits of organ floated in jars on the countertops. It smelled faintly of formaldehyde. It was rather unsettling but John assumed Sherlock had some work or hobby to do with - he glanced at the nearest jar - pickled bulls eyeballs.

He began wiping the counter and the jars, bits of flesh and organ floating in preserving fluids. Maybe he was a scientist working on animals or something, John pondered over Sherlock, every oddity he examined made him more curious about the man who now owned him.

John was scrubbing the counters and cabinets, and decided to clean out the fridge as well. The work was good, it kept his mind off of his immediate situation. He had already decided he would escape this punishment, it was only a matter of time. He just had to get on with it, bide his time and formulate a plan while staying out of trouble.

He opened the fridge, cleaning fluid in hand, and shrieked. He dropped the bottle and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing on his back. 'Oof' went the air from his lungs as he tried to scramble backwards, away from the glazed eyes locked onto his from the severed head within.

He was a madman, this Sherlock, mad. A murderer. He had a mans head in the fridge, he was keeping bits of his victims all over the kitchen in full view. John was hyperventilating as he scooted backward, hellbent on running out of this flat, of running as far away from this man as he could. He bumped into something firm and warm in his panicked scramble away from the gory scene and felt his throat close.

'What are you doing?' the deep, cool voice of his captor came from above his head. John was sitting on the man's feet. He looked up and saw his master looking down at him, confusion across his face.

'Get away from me! Don't touch me - I'll kill you I have have to. Get away!' John yelled, stumbling to his feet and across the kitchen, putting distance between himself and Sherlock.

'Why?' came the response. John did not see the calm collection of a killer closing in on prey in the man's eyes, nor the anger of a slaver who had just been yelled at, threatened, by a mere slave. He only saw confusion, even interest gazing back at him from startling blue eyes.

'You're a psychopath!' John replied, pointing into the open fridge. The head stared mournfully out into the kitchen, and Sherlock stared back at it. The tall, pale man sighed and pressed his fingertips against his temples.

'I'm a highly functioning sociopath, not a psychopath, please get it right,' he grumbled out, tone verging on condescending, 'and no, I did not kill that man in the fridge. I have contacts at St Bartholomew Hospital Morgue. I perform experiments, I get bored, I like to find things out. The jars, the head, all experiments.'

John began to feel foolish, the panic beginning to leave his body. He would not relax, however. He had no way of knowing that this man, who physically owned the rights to do whatever he wanted to John because he was his property, did not mean him harm.

'John, I do not underestimate you. You are a soldier, serving more than a decade by the slight trembling in your hands - beginnings of shell shock. You are a trained killer, both with weapons and your bare hands - you can tell by the way you carry yourself especially when you feel threatened, like now. I'm a fit, strong man with a height advantage, yes - but you could easily overcome me with your training. I would not have picked you of all the sorry samples at that market to bring home to cut up into pieces. The risk would be too high. There. You can relax now, I can tell by your pupils and breathing that you are still in the instinctive fight or flight reflex,' Sherlock intoned this almost as if in a trance, eyes darting around John's person as he spoke. John nodded and let his tense muscles relax, deciding that from a sociopath the blunt explanation of why John wouldn't be his choice of victim was as good a reason to take Sherlock's word as any.

'Yes, sorry, master,' the word slipped past his teeth before he could stop it, and John hated the way it tasted. Bitter and metallic, like a chain, keeping him captive.

Sherlock recoiled slightly, 'Please don't call me that. The occasional 'sir' will do, you just have to acknowledge my wishes, a nod will do.' The man seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of being reminded he actually owned another human being. Lucky for John, who wanted to spit after letting the word slip out of him.

Sherlock began again, seeming to want to clarify, 'I do not support slavery.'

John frowned, 'And yet here I am.' His retort out past his lips before he could stop himself.

'You remember you were being viciously beaten when I stepped in and helped you,' came the reply, irritation creeping into the taller man's tone. John dropped his gaze.

'Forgive me, sir' Sherlock nodded and waved his apology away. After a second, John spoke again, 'If you don't support it, and you seem to be implying you bought me as a kindness to help me... Why don't you just let me go?'

Sherlock smiled faintly, 'Because you could be useful. Once I no longer have need of your services, John, you will have your freedom.'