John collapsed down onto the mattress of his bed, head in his palms, the guilt rising so harshly that he felt nauseous from it. His cock still hung out from the open fly of his trouser, limp, useless – God, he hated himself. He had been so certain that he was one of the good men, fighting for freedom, even for the end of this – treating other human beings like animals. Then what? As soon as he gets the chance he has Sherlock on his knees, puppy eyes wide and mouth full of soap. Even then the image is stronger than the guilt, something he desperately wants to banish, Come stained, drooling, reddened eyes. Gorgeous. No. John curses aloud, pushing up to his feet, staring across the room into the full length mirror with darkened eyes. There was only one option, Sherlock had to go, to be freed or sold – just to not…Be here because that, whatever had happened in there to John, it couldn't happen again. For the sake of his own morals and sanity. The thought of sending Sherlock back to the auction house was unsavoury to him, it left a rotten taste flat on his tongue. Freedom then, he'd of course have to apply for the proper paperwork, keep Sherlock close at least until he had received everything back from the appropriate parties but a week or two would be fine. Wouldn't it? How much harm could he do in a week or two?
It came down to telling himself he was stronger than that which he did over and over again as he booted up his laptop and searched through the government application sites, returns, defections, applications for the freeing or renting of a slave. His eyes travelled over the different sections and numbered rules and regulations before starting at the top and working his way through it. What really bothered him was the absence of any need for personal information. They didn't even require Sherlock's name – he was nothing but a number and John knew that even after his release it would be impossible for him to find work or any real standard of existence. Even as he continued he pondered over whether this was possibly the most selfish thing he could do, releasing the slave out into a world that would do nothing but judge him, leave it a month, two if he was lucky and Sherlock would be forced back into the industry because he would be on the streets, selling his body, taking drugs. John sat back against the head board of his bed, minimising the form page for now and pushing the laptop from his lap onto the side of the mattress, hands rubbing at his tired eyes.
He'd been avoiding the inevitable fact that eventually he was going to have to go back into the living room and face the mess he had made, the poor fucker he had left in there covered in his come and filthy rags. The first things he does once he's risen from the bed is to collect an old army training t shirt from his wardrobe and a pair of comfortable grey tracksuit bottoms, both a little on the small side now which might even be baggy on Sherlock but at least it was something – some odd kind of peace offering.
When he renters the room Sherlock is still on his knees, looking over at the door with wide, curious eyes which travel up and down John's frame a few times before settling on his face.
"You can get up."
He murmurs under his breath, cheeks pink under the slaves scrutiny and the silence that makes it all a little bit worse.
"These may not fit very well but…"
John holds out the old clothing, his other hand pointing vague to a room just down the corridor off to the right.
"The bathroom is just down there, you should clean up. Get dressed – I'll get you something to eat…"
It was a little easier like this, being the doctor rather than the captain, seeing the weight loss and the pale skin, the ribs that were a little too visible beneath skin.
The slave nods, still silent as he follows each direction, taking the clothes and disappearing from sight, though the sound of the water spray falling on the shower floor let's John's shoulder relax a little before he steps into the kitchen to prepare something. The whole process is a failure, within ten minutes he's given up and ordered a few different things from the takeaway down the street in favour of sitting himself on the couch with his eyes plastered to the spot where Sherlock had been on his knees, oh so pliant for him. He groans, head falling back against the couch, listening to the soft movements coming from the bathroom as he imagines Sherlock drying himself and changing. The timings off though because Sherlock takes a little longer that he would have expected, returning at the same time John is paying the delivery boy for bringing their food. He thanks him, head turning over his shoulder to get a look at a damp haired statue in ill-fitting clothing. It's almost hard not to laugh.
"Better?"
Sherlock blinks at him, takes a moment and nods.
"I can't remember the last time I was given the opportunity to wash with warm water let alone do so in my own company."
John's eyes widened, shocked by that, but then he supposes it's normal, isn't it? That lack of privacy, the cruel punishing treatment.
"And although the clothes are a little…"
The man pulls the loose material of the tshirt from his skin body, letting it fall back again with a huff.
"Distasteful, the cotton is soft and I believe I had almost forgotten the pleasure of being warm – wrapped up as it were…"
For a moment John see's a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes which had been absent until now but it's gone before he can work out exactly what it is. He holds out the bag of food, smiling, sitting down and placing each container out on the coffee table along with the two pairs of complimentary chop sticks.
"Eat, it will do you good."
For a moment John's sure the slave is going to fight him, disagree and walk away but he follows the order with nothing more than a compliant nod, sitting down cross legged on the floor, opposite John's place on the couch and eats from the cartons. The well sculptured face twists with joy as he pops a small wanton past his plump luscious lips and John lets out a small laugh which is met by a smile.
"Been a while huh?"
He asks, mouthful of noodle hovering a little way from his lips.
"You've no idea."