Thanks for the response to the first chapter, things should start getting a little more interesting from here on in.

Make Me

So that was it then, apparently all it had taken was a few lines which for all he knew could have been Goddamn luck and he had a male slave with no idea what to do with him. It was luck then that the suited man tugged hard at the leash and drew the man on his knees from the room. He was quickly replaced by another, holding all of the paperwork, John was damned if he even read half of it, eyes straining from the dim light and the fact that he wasn't exactly twenty two anymore. One messy scrawl and he was now the owner of a life, an actual human life. A weight rested uncomfortably on his chest, memories of young afghan men and women, captured and drawn into the British slave trade. Bruised, beaten beyond recognition, and now he had become a part of it. The real joke was, even as he stood there in polite time passing conversation with auction house worker some dark part of his mind was already considering what use he would get out of his 'gift'. The straight lean lines of his body, the way his marble skin would eventually be spotless and pale as the bruises faded. The soft full lips, the smooth curve of his spine. John blinked a few times, constricting and concealing a part of himself he would happily never let reach the surface.

He must have been waiting another half an hour at least until he was escorted from the building and shuffled into the passenger seat of a car with blacked out windows, his eyes flicked up to the mirror and saw his new possession now clean, clothed and sitting in the back, eyes still fixed downward. The driver had to ask twice before John had retrieved enough concentration to splutter out his address. The dark, two sizes too small t shirt Sherlock had been put in to had obviously been chosen to be provocative, the collar of it a deep triangle stopping a few inches past the hollow of his throat. Well aware that the clothing was more for his benefit than the slaves, he would hardly have appreciated having to drag a filthy, basically naked man up the stairs of his flat in central London. Jesus, what were his neighbours going to say when he appeared with a slave? His cheeks flushed red at the very thought of it, praying to God that he could just get Sherlock into the flat and then attempt to try and make him look less...owned. Of course there were legal requirements. The new collar which sat on the slave's throat, plan black leather and expected to be replaced as soon as John had found one to his liking. The fact that Sherlock would have to keep his eyes averted when speaking to strangers, a few steps behind John as they walked, eating on his knees. Christ. John released a small, pleading moan, wishing himself so far from this situation that he would of quite liked to be back on the field with his arms elbow deep in some poor blokes half blown up stomach.

Though they were hardly far from where he lived, the congestion and slow pace of London traffic had the journey taking twice as long as it would have if he had taken the tube. But that was another thing he doubted he could handle just yet. Every so often his eyes would flash back up to the mirror and onto the man curled over himself on the back seat, dark ratty hair falling over his eyes and John could paint a picture perfect image of how it would feel to wind his hair in it and pull until...The car stopped and he couldn't get out of it quick enough, hoping rather than believing he could just leave that part of himself there to be taken away back to that hell hole of an auction room. Without really thinking he limped over to the back door, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand and opening the door with the other. He heard the driver clear his throat and almost jumped away, stuttering some kind of apology as Sherlock stumbled out of the car. It was only then that John noticed that his legs were shackled and that the driver was exciting the vehicle with a small key. Something about in transit escape attempts, the usual spiel about making sure to get him tagged in case he tried to run. It was usually the first thing a master would do but John really despised the idea, as if this man was a pet - when in reality he suppose that Sherlock was less than that now.

He offered small thanks to the driver, awkwardly inclining his head to the younger man and leading the way into his building, taking the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow.

"I'm...Well this is a little awkward isn't it,"

He chuckled but it sounded so off and lame in the silent hallway with a man who had to be ordered to bloody respond.

"I...Well it's probably going to be easier if you just talk to me when I'm trying to have a conversation. Otherwise I end up sounding like an..."

John was interrupted.

"Wrong."

He blinked, turning his head to Sherlock who still looked determinedly at the floor as John unlocked the front door to his tiny dingy bedsit.

"I'm sorry, what do you mean, wrong?"

The slave looked up from beneath his wild tangled curls, that same challenging smirk plastered across his face.

"It would be impossible for you to end up sounding like an idiot when by nature you already are one." He paused. "I wouldn't take it personally, almost everyone is."

Well. That was...rude. For a good while he was speechless, head tilted in genuine curiosity.

"Everyone except you I assume?" John asked quietly, not quite angry just yet.

"It's good to see you're catching on..."

Good to see he was...Well this was nice, wasn't it? Apparently he had acquired a slave with a pain kink or a death wish because anyone else wouldn't have thought twice before knocking him out as soon as he had opened his mouth let alone said something like that.

"Oh don't be like that." He drawled. "You asked for conversation and I supplied it now are we going to stand here all day. I'm sure you have some menial task for me to perform."

John stood away from the door and let the slave step in before him, mistake after bloody mistake. The cheeky git was never going to respect him, he had been int he arms for God sake. A Captain. And now he couldn't so much as walk through a door first. And he couldn't for the life of him work out what was so intimidating about the whole process, the fact of the matter was that Sherlock belonged to him and John had every right to do and ask whatever he wished of him.

"Apologise." He said bluntly, pushing the door shut with a bang. "Now."

The slave remained turned away for a moment, eyes zooming back and forth over the small apartment and each one of his possessions.

"I would. I mean really, I would..."

Sherlock turned, still smiling, head still slightly bowed but now John was sure it was for no other purpose but to mock him.

"If I had any belief in your sincerity or that you had the slightest intention of punishing me for disobeying. But as it is..."

He shrugged and then, then the bastard gave a low bow and offered the word 'Captain' drenched in as much sarcasm as he could muster. That was the precise moment when John snapped, cane clattering to the floor as he took what should have been two or three steps in one stride and back handed the ungrateful brat right across the face with enough force to send him to the floor. If nothing it was worth it to see the moment of surprise and hear the threatening snarl that came from the floor as Sherlock hit it.

"I said. Apologise."

With a hand passing across his face to stem the blood coming from his nose, Sherlock looked up. Eyes darker, smile wider.

"Make me."