Sherlock Fic: Assistance (1/3), R
Title: Assistance (1/3)
Author: dak
Word Count: 19,960
Rating: R
Warnings: physical and mental abuse, vaguely implied dub-con. minor character death
Summary: AU. Slavery exists in the modern world. John belongs to Moriarty, that is until events beyond his control thrust him into the life of the world's only consulting detective.
A/N: For culf , as so many things are. She requested this prompt. I didn't mean for it to get this long. She owes me two fics in return. Dearest flatmate, I'm waiting...
Dull.
Dull. Dull. Dull.
He hated these events. They were absolutely pointless. A deplorable waste of time. He didn’t want to be here. Not in the slightest.
But Mycroft had insisted. Mycroft had promised he could investigate the Wapping bombings if only he showed his face at this utterly boring party.
Lestrade had had nothing interesting to send his way. Nothing for weeks. His mind was stagnating. The only thing for it was the bombing case. He had to have it. If that meant standing in a room with a bunch of self-important strangers who were painfully easy to deduce while pretending to drink over-priced champagne, well, so be it.
It was only for a few hours. In the past, he’d sacrificed more for less.
The crowd chattered, waiters passed by with trays of appetizers, (a poor name if he ever heard one, there was nothing appetizing about them at all), and the well-dressed slaves stood at the edge of the room, waiting for their masters’ beck and call.
Sherlock had disposed of his last slave weeks ago. Another mindless drone Mycroft had acquired for him, insisting he needed looking after.
The man had been utterly useless. Sherlock had given him to an elderly couple in Sheffield who he’d taken a case for some years back. They needed help tending their garden and cleaning their house, and the man had been well suited for that, as opposed to visiting crime scenes and cleaning various corpse parts from the refrigerator.
Sherlock didn’t even remember his name.
Somewhere a clock chimed. Sherlock checked his watch. He had one more hour to withstand before he could leave. Part of Mycroft’s deal. Damn the man. Sherlock gave a fake smile to a passing guest then followed her with his eyes as she went to conspire with her - no, her other - lover.
As he turned his head to find someone at least mildly more interesting, his eyes fell on a lone slave at the far wall.
Unlike the other slaves who used these occasions to mingle and gossip with their kind (as much as they were permitted) this one remained by himself. He held a cane in front of him, fingers clasped on the top handle. His head was bent forward in the customary submissive position. However, his back and shoulders were straight. Military straight.
Sherlock was intrigued.
He crossed the room, depositing his champagne glass on a random tray, and stopped directly in front of the slave.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
The slave blinked rapidly but did not raise his head. Quite obedient. Interesting.
“Did your master serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan,” he replied after some hesitation. “How did you know?”
“You can see the tan lines on your wrists and neck, and your posture and haircut suggest military, as slaves must also condone to military regulations when following their owners into the service. That cane is relatively new and hardly used. That, and the fact you’re holding it while your master is out cavorting, suggests he keeps it for decorative purposes, rather than necessity. A common trait in ex-military officers. You’re also avoiding socialising with the other slaves here, but you’re on guard. Paying attention to everything around you. In just the time I’ve been speaking to you, you’ve mapped out all exit points and determined the best course of action should your master’s sudden departure be required.”
“That’s...amazing.”
Sherlock gave an amused chuckle.
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
“Piss off. But knowing your position, you probably have to be polite.”
“No I don’t. You’re not my master.” The man glanced up then looked back down quickly.
“No. You’re correct,” Sherlock agreed.
“You did get one thing wrong, though.”
“I always do. What is it?”
“The cane. It is new. But only because the old one...broke.”
“Johnny-boy!” A lilting voice echoed through the din of the crowd. The slave flinched. Sherlock saw a young man in a perfectly tailored Westwood suit waiting by the main doors. He looked from his slave to Sherlock then grinned and threw Sherlock a little wave. “Come along, John,” he called again.
Sherlock stepped aside to give the slave room.
“And it’s not for him,” John whispered, now leaning heavily on the cane as he passed. “It’s for me.”
Sherlock watched as John hobbled after his master. He didn’t look away until they had both disappeared from the ballroom. Who would keep a damaged slave? One with a limp - a psychosomatic limp - at that? Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
This had turned out to be a very interesting night indeed.
*
John unlocked the door to the flat, stepped aside, then followed Moriarty inside. He took his master’s coat, hung it neatly in the closet, and immediately went to the kitchen to prepare tea.
“Indian chai,” Moriarty called out as he sat in the living room and turned on his laptop. John nodded. He was not to speak to his master unless asked. Five minutes later, John limped into the room and placed the steaming cup by Moriarty’s elbow.
“How’s the new cane?” Moriarty asked, typing and not looking at John.
“Wonderful, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He sing-songed. “By the way, who was that gentleman you were speaking to, my dear?”
“No one, sir. That is, I don’t know. He never said his name.” John began to sweat. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He was allowed to make casual conversation with others, wasn’t he? He had before with no punishment.
“And you didn’t ask?”
“Of course not. Sir.”
“Good boy,” Moriarty smiled, still looking at his laptop.
John felt his heart calm. There may not be a punishment tonight, he thought.
“I don’t need you for anything else. Go sit in your corner until I tell you to go to bed.” Moriarty shooed him away. “And not a sound, Johnny. Daddy needs to think. One peep, and it’ll be the Room for you.”
John settled quietly into the furthest corner of the flat, clutching the cane tightly in his hands. He would not fail. He would not make a sound. He would not go to the Room.
“This has been an interesting night, wouldn’t you say?”
John knew better than to answer. He did, however, look up and glanced a picture of the man he’d spoken to tonight on Moriarty’s laptop.
“Yes, very interesting.”
John hated when Moriarty smiled like that. It meant something bad was on the horizon.
*
“This is everything we’ve collected on the bombings.” Mycroft handed over a thin file. Sherlock, reclining in his chair, scanned through it, disinterested.
“There’s not much here,” he said.
“There wasn’t much to find,” Mycroft replied, glancing around the flat. “Really, Sherlock. This place is an...is that a finger on the mantle?”
“Possibly.”
“This place is an abomination.”
“Were the types of explosives identified?”
“It’s been quite the downhill slope since Matthew left,” Mycroft sighed.
“Couldn’t they at least have recognized if the same type of explosive was used for each attack? Who’s Matthew?”
“Your last slave.”
“You should’ve given this to me sooner. Any possible evidence is likely to have been washed away by this week’s rain. And he didn’t leave. I sent him away.”
“Well, obviously, Sherlock. He couldn’t have left on his own. Why do you insist on getting rid of every single thing I buy for you?”
“I keep thinking you’ll get the hint.”
“You need assistance.”
“I’m fine. Is there a solid connection between any of the crime scenes, besides the fact that some type of unidentified bomb was used?”
“You are completely incapable of looking after yourself. You don’t sleep. You forget to eat. You never clean or do any sort of shopping. It’s a miracle you remember to bathe. If you don’t want a slave, I’d say get married - to anyone - but I don’t think that’s in the cards, is it?”
Sherlock snapped the file shut and tossed it on the floor. He leapt from his chair and went straight for the door.
“I’m going to visit the crime scenes,” he said, grabbing his coat and scarf. “I’m confident you can see yourself out. Oh, and don’t touch anything. Especially the finger.”
*
John couldn’t breathe. He stared at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor and willed them back together. He wondered what had happened to his once strong will. What had happened to the strong, brave man he used to be?
He was gone. Replaced by this cowering, weak excuse for a human being. A pathetic, little slave who hated himself. Hated that he could be terrified over something as insignificant as a broken mug.
“Well, look what’s happened here.”
All thoughts left John’s mind as he heard Moran’s voice.
“What have you done, Watson?”
“Mr. Moran. Don’t. Please.” Whatever self-respect John Watson had left, vanished. Moran smiled. “I’ll clean it up. I will. And find another. Please, don’t...”
“Oi, Jim! Come see the trouble your dog’s caused! See you later, Johnny,” Moran winked and walked out of the kitchen just as Moriarty arrived.
“John,” he said, disappointed. “What have you done?”
“It...my hand. The tremors. I tried, but it slipped when I...”
Moriarty shook his head then grabbed John’s arm and twisted it behind his back. His bad shoulder ached as Moriarty yanked it further and pushed John’s face towards the ground, towards the sharp shards. John instinctively closed his eyes and was rewarded with a knee to his lower back.
“Look at it, pet. Look what you’ve done.”
“It was an accident.”
Moriarty yanked him up then kneed him in the stomach.
“Who said you could speak? Did I say you could speak? No, I don’t think so. Looks like something’s forgotten its training.”
John, out of breath, could do nothing as Moriarty dragged him out of the kitchen and towards the Room. It was instinct to beg, but it would only do him more harm. He kept his mouth shut. Moriarty opened the door, threw John into the darkness, and locked him inside.
“Sebastian will be in to sort you out, my dear,” Moriarty called through the door. “We have a few things to discuss first. Be a good boy and wait patiently.”
John listened to Moriarty’s footsteps as he walked away then curled into himself, preparing mentally for the pain. Even that was becoming more difficult. He wouldn’t last much longer. This he knew.
It was the only comforting thought he had left.
*
Timer.
The bombs must have been on a timer. Halfway through his second day of examining the three bombsites and so far it was all he could deduce. It was beyond frustrating.
Sherlock walked round site number three - the Tobacco Docks. The shops here had been ahead of their time for the old shipping district and had closed just as the wealthy, young professionals they had been targeting began moving full force into the nearby converted warehouse flats. They had now been vacant for years.
Other than the buildings themselves, there was nothing here to bomb. No bodies had been found in the rubble, and there had been only minor injuries caused by debris.
At the first site - an empty building just below Shadwell station - only a night watchman had been killed. At the second - a modern art gallery near the Prospect of Whitby pub - some atrocious art had been destroyed and an assistant curator severely injured.
Deaths had not been motives for the bombings. That was obvious. But then what was?
Sherlock looked at the small canal that ran in front of the shops. The fake sailing ship that docked there was chipped and charred from the explosion, leaning precariously to one side.
“There has to be a reason,” Sherlock hissed. He would need to get back to Baker Street. Research who owned each of the buildings. See if there were any outlandish insurance policies in play. Boring, yes, but still a possibility until he could rule it out.
Sherlock turned to the gates which led back to the main street. As he took a step forward, a shot rang out. It grazed his arm. He stumbled off the main concourse onto the platform below, where the ship was tied.
He tried to be as graceful as possible but still managed to hit his head when he fell. For a moment, everything went black.
*
John leaned on his cane as he walked up the high street. There was a chip shop nearby. He could smell the fat and grease. His stomach ached. Moriarty had let him have some tea that morning, but it had been two days since he’d been allowed any food.
John knew there were laws. After the near-uprising of ‘84, every slave owning country was meant to adhere to the conditions set forth by the Shanghai Convention. He remembered reading it in the paper. He remembered being allowed to read it in the paper. He hadn’t been a slave then.
John stopped, cleared his head, and continued walking. It did him no good, thinking on the past. Thinking on before. There was no past for him. Only his life now. Whatever slave protection laws existed, Moriarty did not, nor would not, follow them. And who would John to complain to? Moriarty would order him to say it was all lies, and any case against him would be dismissed.
John kept walking. One day he’d be free. Moriarty couldn’t keep him alive forever.
He reached the Wapping Overground station only to see that it was still closed. His mood grew darker.
“Typical,” he sighed. He knew the next closest station - Shadwell - was also closed because of an explosion. The hourly slave bus he’d arrived on had just passed him on its way back to Central.
He’d have to walk to Tower Hill. It would be hell on his leg but faster overall, and Moriarty had ordered him to return as fast as possible.
He turned up Wapping Lane and began the slow, uphill trudge to the highway. He tried to take comfort in the nice weather, but it only depressed him more knowing he couldn’t go to the park, play some football, sit on a bench.
He was just coming up on Tobacco Dock when he saw a man slip off the edge of the pavement. All self-awareness left him as he leapt into action. He ran up and through the gates as fast as his injuries allowed then carefully went down the steps to the lower platform where the man lay. He was just trying to sit up when John reached him.
“Here. Stay still. Are you alright? Does anything feel broken?”
“Where is he?” The man asked, clearly trying to ignore any pain he had.
“Where’s who? Careful. Let me see your eyes. Did you hit your head?”
“The shooter! Did you see the shooter?” The man kept fighting against John, looking at rooftops and trying to stand.
“I didn’t see anyone but you. And you’re injured.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m the doctor. I’ll say when you’re fine. Now, can I please look you over?”
The man’s eyes finally settled on John’s face, alighting with recognition.
“I thought you were a slave.”
John suddenly remembered who he was - the strange man from that boring party last week. He felt himself blushing and looked away. If it had been a complete stranger, they needn’t know John’s true position.
“Yes, well, slaves can be doctors, too,” he muttered, no longer feeling the small bit of confidence he’d had before.
“Not often.”
“It’s a long story.” John rose, wanting to get away, get home. At least there he was on familiar territory. Unfortunately, with his adrenaline gone, his fatigue coupled with his own, hidden injuries took hold. He collapsed.
Nearly collapsed.
The man had caught him and was holding him upright.
“It appears you need a doctor yourself.”
“If I was allowed. I mean, no. No, I’m fine. I’m looked after.”
“Clearly.”
“I just need my cane. I’ll be fine. I am fine.”
The man held onto John with one hand while he bent down to retrieve the cane for him. As soon as it was in John’s hand, he transferred all his weight onto it and tried to get a handle on his breathing.
“Not entirely psychosomatic today, is it?”
“What?”
“Your limp.”
John froze. No one could know about his injuries. He wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. If he did, Moriarty would...
“I’m taken care of,” he said. “And if you’re fine then I really should...”
“There’s an Indian restaurant just down the road. The owner owes me a favour.” The man walked to the steps.
“That’s...nice.”
“You could do with a meal, and I have some questions.”
“Hang on. You want me to...”
“For a doctor, you’re quite slow. Though perhaps that’s your conditioning.”
“I can’t...I’m not allowed...”
“I’m sure your master has better things to do than persecute you for eating.”
John felt his stomach drop. This man did not know Moriarty.
“I don’t even know who you are,” John said.
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. And I’m a consulting detective - the only one in the world. Now, doctor, are you coming or not?”
*
Sherlock knew he would follow. All he’d had to do was call him doctor rather than slave and the man would latch onto the bit of humanity Sherlock had given. Manipulative, yes, but he didn’t do it out of cruelty. He genuinely found this man interesting.
That happened so rarely to Sherlock - to find an actual person interesting - he had to pursue it further. And running into this man twice in such a short period of time? Well, it was hardly a coincidence. Sherlock needed to know why.
It had taken the doctor an additional five minutes to reach the restaurant, but here he was now, sitting in front of Sherlock, waiting. Waiting for orders, most likely.
“I took the liberty of ordering for you. I’d rather not waste any time. Their curry is excellent. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
The man nodded.
“Since I’ve been polite enough to give you my name, perhaps you could give me yours.” Sherlock knew the owner had called him something at the party, but he had deleted whatever it was.
“John. Dr. John Watson. Slave. One of millions in the world.”
Sherlock grinned. The man had a sense of humour after all.
“But you haven’t always been a slave, have you, John?”
The man - John - hesitated but answered.
“No.”
“Do you mind telling me how it came about?”
John stared at his glass of water but didn’t touch.
“You may drink, John.”
With a shaking left hand, John took the glass and drank half of it in one go.
“I was sold,” he said, staring at the quivering glass. “Just before my seventeenth birthday. My father...needed to settle some debts, and my sister was already a legal adult, no longer his property.”
“But you were permitted to train as a doctor?” Sherlock continued his questioning. Once the food arrived, John would be too busy eating to respond.
“The family - the Stamford’s - had a son about my age. I had been educated well up to that point and helped him study when he went to university. Around the time he decided to go into medicine, they decided they didn’t need a slave for much longer. Thought they could get more money for me if I had qualifications. Since Mike was going into medicine, so did I. They sold me for a profit as soon as I received my licence.”
“But you also served in the military?”
John drank the other half of his water before answering. He was nowhere near at ease but had seemed to relax. It had clearly been awhile since he’d been permitted to speak freely.
“My next owner, Bill Murray, was an army nurse. Took me along when he went to Afghanistan. They’re not a slave owning country and even though I was Bill’s...” John trailed off. He was unable to finish his sentence.
“You experienced more freedom there than you had since you were sixteen.”
“I could go into any shop, as few as there were. People would look me in the eye when they spoke to me. They asked...” He stammered again but continued on. “They would ask me if I needed anything.” John ran his hands over his face and composed himself.
“Bill Murray was not the man you were with at the party.”
“Bill was killed our last week on tour. I was shot in the shoulder. Same attack. They sent me back immediately. No after care for a slave, not here. I was in a shop for a month before he...he bought me.”
“And who is he?”
The food arrived. John stared at his plate, transfixed. He blinked rapidly and looked over at Sherlock.
“You’re not eating?”
“I never eat on a case. Who is he?”
John looked back at his plate.
“I’m not allowed to say his name.”
Sherlock didn’t press the issue.
“You can eat,” he said instead.
John grabbed his fork and attacked the curry. Sherlock watched him eat. John must have been used to being watched. If it bothered him, he gave no sign.
“So,” John spoke when half his plate was gone. “What about you? You don’t have a slave, then? I didn’t see one at that party.”
“Slave, no.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No. Not really my area.”
“Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”
“I know it’s fine.”
“So, you’ve got a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Right. Okay. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve...”
“I consider myself married to my work.”
“Consulting detective, right. Well, that’s fine. It’s all fine.” John looked at his watch. “Shit. Sorry. I mean, the time, I have to...I’m sorry.” With great effort, John used his cane and rose from his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for...”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, well, thank you for the meal. Good luck with your...detecting.”
“The address is 221B Baker Street. Should you, or your master, ever require my assistance.”
John only nodded. He avoided eye contact and kept his head low as he hurried out onto the street.
“He’s going to walk all the way to Tower Hill,” Sherlock noted, taking in John’s weakened gait and difficult movements as he observed him from the window. “He’ll be dead in a month, the way he’s being treated.” Sherlock momentarily felt pity for the doctor. Shame to waste such a well-trained slave, he thought.
Then his mind was back on the case and he could think of nothing else.
*
John let himself into the flat and immediately went to Moriarty. He pulled the thin envelope from his jacket and waited silently until he was addressed. He was spoken to ten minutes later.
“Is that from the architect?” Moriarty asked.
John nodded and handed it over. Moriarty took a quick look at the contents then smiled.
“Wonderful, Johnny. Thank you.”
John said nothing.
“But what took you so long?”
“The trains. Wapping and Shadwell were closed. And the bus...I had to walk...”
Moriarty looked him up and down. John knew he saw the way he was leaning heavily on his cane.
“Oh you poor dear. Did you walk all that way for me? Must have been at an atrocious pace, too, as invalided as you are.” Moriarty ran a hand through John’s hair, petting him. “Why don’t you get yourself a little something to eat then go upstairs and rest. Can’t have you at less than a hundred per cent, can we?”
“What if you...” John stopped as Moriarty’s hand tugged hard on his hair. Even though he was expressing concern for his master, he had still spoken out of turn. He was an idiot. He waited for further punishment, but Moriarty released his hair and resumed stroking him.
“Oh I’ll be fine. Sebastian and I are going out this evening and won’t require your assistance. Now run along. You look positively awful.”
John nodded and turned towards the kitchen. Moriarty grabbed him by the arm and held him back.
“Ah ah,” he tsked. “Where’s my kiss?”
John leaned in and allowed Moriarty to violate his mouth with his tongue. A kiss was easy, he’d decided long ago, especially compared to what else Moriarty could, and would, do to him. He was released quickly and ignored, leaving him free to fetch his food and retire to his small room.
After the meal with Sherlock Holmes, John wasn’t terribly hungry, but if he didn’t eat something, Moriarty would be suspicious. So, he fixed himself a sandwich and headed upstairs to the walk-in closet in Moriarty’s bedroom that had been turned into a room for John.
All it held was a low single bed and a small dresser that contained John’s clothes. Extra clothes were the only possessions he had now. Most of what he’d owned had been divvied up by the army after Bill had died. Everything else, Moriarty had thrown away.
He closed the door to the closet and set the sandwich aside as he removed his clothes to inspect his injuries. Two ribs on his right side were certainly broken, but the cuts and bruises from his last session in the Room appeared to be healing. He hadn’t needed stitches this time. The thought was a minor relief.
John removed his shoes and stretched his tired body out on the bed. His leg was screaming at him, the pain pulsing in beat with his heart, and his hand was trembling so badly he stuffed it under his back in a vain effort to stop it.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to that unusual lunch with that unusual man. Why had he given him his address? It hadn’t been for his master’s benefit, John knew, which meant it had been for his own.
But how could a slave benefit from a consulting detective? He couldn’t afford to pay him and, even if he did go to him to report the abuse, what could this Sherlock Holmes possibly do?
James Moriarty always got what he wanted in the end. There was no one in the world who could match him, let alone beat him.
With these thoughts still churning in his mind, John gave way to exhaustion and slipped into a fitful sleep.
*
Three separate owners. Three separate insurance companies. No unusual claims. Good. He hated for it to be something so simple. And now that warning shot earlier today. Clearly someone didn’t want him investigating this case. Even better.
Sherlock smiled as he typed frantically on his laptop. He hadn’t had a decent case in quite awhile. He set the computer aside to go and check on his latest experiment when the motion caused his arm to twinge in pain.
He’d examined the wound when he returned home. Barely a scratch and no second attempt by the shooter. Interesting. And then there had been that slave. That doctor.
Sherlock paused for the briefest moment then pulled the computer back onto his lap. He hacked into the government’s slave registry via Mycroft’s account and searched for John Watson.
There was a photo taken for each time he’d changed hands. In the first, he was sixteen and, unlike the depressed, grim features of so many sold into slavery, this boy appeared fierce. Angry. Determined. There was no a glint of shame in his eyes.
The next photo, age twenty-five. A newly qualified doctor. Well past puberty, his features had filled out and settled. Here he was a confident, caring man. Accepting of his lot in life but grateful for the opportunities his kind owners had given him.
Then there was the last photo, taken only a few months ago when he was purchased from the Camden Market stalls. Shoulders slouched. Dark circles under wrinkled eyes. No hidden smirk in the mouth. No defiant life in his features. A slave broken, at long last.
And he’d looked even worse this afternoon.
Sherlock read his history. It was all as the doctor had told him. The only interesting bit was the information on his current owner. John Watson wasn’t permitted say his master’s name. Here it was listed as “George Shaw.”
Sherlock snorted. Clearly an alias. It only took thirty minutes of browsing to realise that John Watson had been purchased using funds from a dummy organisation. He tried to dig deeper but couldn’t find any further information. A Google Map search of this George Shaw’s registered address returned a vacant lot near Clapham Junction.
Sherlock wasn’t surprised. He knew the government didn’t genuinely care about who slaves were or who owned them. The registry was simply a way to appease sympathisers, and Sherlock was not one of those. He had no empathy for any person - slave or citizen.
But this Watson fellow - Sherlock couldn’t help it. He found him interesting. This had only happened once previously with Victor Trevor from uni. And Victor was very much not a slave.
A brief thought passed through Sherlock’s mind, so brief, he nearly failed to recognise it had existed at all - you could buy him. Mycroft would pay.
Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and tossed it beside him on the sofa. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He had never had the need nor desire for a slave, not since he’d left home, and he was not considering purchasing one now.
His phone chimed. Thank god. A distraction. It was Lestrade.
Dead body. Upside down from a lamp post. Interested? -GL
Sherlock replied in the affirmative and rushed out of the flat, once again forgetting everything else.
*
He was tired. So very tired. He’d slept for twelve hours yesterday, but the rest seemed to have done nothing. If anything, he felt worse. Still, he had duties to perform. Moriarty expected the flat to be spotless when he returned from work.
And he needed to prepare dinner for tonight. And the laundry needed to be done. And Moriarty’s suits taken to the dry cleaners.
John tried to focus on one chore at a time. He made his way through the mental list at a slow pace, conserving his energy and allowing his body to run on autopilot. The thought that things had never been this bad with the Stamford’s or Bill flitted in and out of his mind, but he tried to ignore it. This was his life now.
This was his life now.
It was Thursday which meant he had to dust and wipe down Moriarty’s computer. Everything had to be perfect, always. His master expected nothing less. John was about to shut down the computer, in order to dust it properly, when he noticed a new file on the desktop. It was not neatly aligned with all the other icons.
John was only going to move it. Move it so it was neat and orderly along with everything else. His constantly trembling hand accidentally double-clicked the folder and opened it.
The file was encrypted, whatever it was, and John went to close it straight away.
“What are you doing?”
Moriarty was in the doorway, eyes dark and cold. John stammered but could not come up with an acceptable excuse. He was never supposed to use Moriarty’s laptop, only clean it. It had been one of the first rules he’d learnt.
“You know I don’t like to get my hands dirty, pet, but this time I think I’ll make an exception.”
*
The lamp post murder had turned out to be much less interesting than he’d hoped. Sherlock was disappointed. A whole day wasted and worse yet, the experiment he’d neglected still sat in the kitchen, no doubt ruined.
He felt himself falling into a sulk as the cab approached Baker Street. He already knew that he would not be leaving the flat at any point tomorrow. He probably wouldn’t even speak to anyone. All the better.
The cab had barely stopped in front of 221B when Sherlock noticed a man hunched in his doorway. His mood lightened. Perhaps it was the homeless network coming through with information about the bombings.
Brilliant. Although he’d have to have a discussion about waiting in his doorway. It made it too obvious who they were looking for.
He paid the cabbie and leapt out of the car. The body was covered in shadow, but Sherlock could see the man was curled in on himself, breathing lightly. He also recognised the jacket and realised this had nothing at all to do with the homeless network.
“John?” Sherlock crouched in front of him.
The man barely stirred. Sherlock placed one hand on his shoulder and used the other to lift his head. John was barely conscious. One eye was dark purple and swollen shut. He’d been bleeding from his nose, and there was a deep gash along his bottom lip. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that there were more injuries he couldn’t see.
“John,” he repeated with more force.
With his good eye, John tried to focus on Sherlock’s face.
“Mr. Holmes?...I...” He slurred. “Please.”
Sherlock felt something inside him harden. It wasn’t because of empathy or sympathy. Nothing like that, of course not. There was just something wrong - something inherently wrong - about the man before him begging, slave or not.
It twisted Sherlock’s stomach. Made him want to hurt something, for making him feel. High-functioning sociopaths weren’t supposed to feel.
All this passed through his mind in approximately one second. John Watson did not notice any of it. All he heard was Sherlock’s voice asking, “Can you manage some stairs?”
*
This was not his bed. The mattress was too soft. And he was too high off the floor. And he had a blanket. This was definitely not his bed.
John opened his eyes, or rather, he opened one eye. His right eye was swollen shut. A thin glimmer of light peaked through the eyelid but that was all. He lifted his hand to prod the injury then winced as he aggravated something in his side.
Gently, he propped himself into a sitting position and tried to establish where he was. It was a decent-sized room but very plain and nearly empty of furniture. Beside him was a small table with a jug of water and a glass.
John had no idea where he was. He removed the blanket and reached for his cane then realised his cane wasn’t there.
“Bugger,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He planted both feet on the floor and noticed the clothes he was wearing weren’t his. They were simple, definitely issued for a slave, but they were nice. Softer.
John pushed himself up with both hands then used the nearby wall for support as he made his way out of the door. In the hall, his stomach dropped when he saw the only to go was down via a narrow staircase.
“Bugger,” he said again and clung to the railing as he manoeuvered his aching body down the steps. He was out of breath by the time he reached the bottom and could therefore say nothing when the consulting detective addressed him from the sofa.
“Ah, good. You’re alive. Sit down before you fall over.”
John had no intention of disobeying that order and limped to the nearest chair.
“I would have put your cane upstairs with you, but you didn’t arrive with it, and I have none of my own. Are you in a great deal of pain? I may have some paracetomal lying around. Or possibly morphine. Would like some morphine? As a doctor, I’m sure I could trust you to administer an appropriate dose.”
“Mr. Holmes...?”
“I told you to call me Sherlock. Do I need to make it an order? Fine. I order you to address me only as Sherlock unless I indicate otherwise. Do you need food? I can’t cook, and there’s nothing fit for human consumption in that kitchen anyhow. But we could do take away or ask Mrs. Hudson to make us something. She’ll complain she’s not the housekeeper, but she’ll be glad to do it nonetheless. Are you alright, John?”
“I’m a bit...dizzy,” he sighed, squeezing his good eye shut, trying to slow his brain.
“Well you do appear to have a head injury. I probably shouldn’t have let you sleep, but you appeared to need it...”
“No. It’s you. You’re talking too fast.”
“Oh. Yes. I do that. Often.”
John reopened his eye to see Sherlock staring at him. He was in a dressing grown, a plain t-shirt and trousers underneath. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin and the sleeves of his gown had fallen to his elbows, revealing multiple nicotine patches on his left forearm.
“How did I get here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I found you on my doorstep when I returned home last evening. You have multiple injuries but none which are life threatening. I would have taken you to hospital, except your location would be recorded and your master alerted to your whereabouts. I assumed that was the last thing you needed. I do know basic first aid, but you’ll want to check yourself over when you’re capable. Tea?”
“Sorry?”
“Would you like a cup of tea? I am capable, and I believe there are clean mugs here. Somewhere.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. Thank you.”
“You seem much slower than before.”
“Sorry. Multiple injuries.”
Sherlock stared at him a moment longer then leapt from the sofa. John closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair as he listened to Sherlock prepare tea. He must have dozed off because suddenly a steaming mug was being thrust in his face.
“Milk and one sugar.” Sherlock grinned as John took the mug.
“How...did you know that?”
“I deduced it. It’s what I do.”
“That’s...brilliant.”
“You realise you keep saying those things out loud?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, no. It’s quite alright.” Sherlock threw himself back onto the couch. John noticed he had taken no tea for himself. As Sherlock had stopped talking, John took a moment to sniff his tea and take a slow sip.
“It’s delicious. Thank you.”
“Please, John. There’s no need to lie.”
“Alright. It’s a bit weak. Probably could have let it stew a little longer. But still, thank you. No one’s...I’ve been making my own tea since I was sixteen.”
He thought he saw Sherlock smile again, but if he had, the expression disappeared quickly.
“Did your master do this to you, John?”
Any good feeling John had accumulated evaporated.
“Why don’t you deduce it?”
“I already have. There are laws against this, you know.”
“Making tea?”
“Beating one’s slaves. Torturing them, if I’m not mistaken which, of course, I’m not.”
“So what if there are?” John replied, staring into his tea, letting it grow cold. “He’d be fined. That’s all. Or order me to testify that he wasn’t the one that did it. No one would care. Not really.”
“You’ll just allow yourself to be mistreated?”
“I’m a slave, Mr...Sherlock. It’s part of the job description.”
“Fascinating.”
“What is?”
“You’ve been a slave for over twenty years and it’s taken this long to break you.”
“It could have happened earlier.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. It didn’t.”
“Tell me about George Shaw.”
“Who?”
“You’re registered to a George Shaw.”
“That’s not his name,” John said.
“Then what is?”
“I can’t. I’m under orders.”
“Are you under orders to not tell me what happened last night?”
John thought.
“No,” he answered.
“What happened last night?”
“I’m not sure I can remember.”
“Yes you can.”
John paused. He tried to retrace his steps. He had no recollection of how he’d ended up on Sherlock’s doorstep, but he could remember being at the flat. Moriarty being angry. So very angry.
“I was cleaning.”
“Where?”
“His flat.”
“Where is that?”
“I can’t say. I was cleaning. I needed...I had to dust his computer. He likes a clean computer.”
“You have permission to touch his computer?”
“Yes. But only to clean. I’m not allowed...I accidentally....my hand.” He lifted his trembling left hand.
“From the war?”
“I was shot in the shoulder. Nerve damage.”
“And you accidentally what?”
“Opened a file.”
“What was in the file?”
“I don’t know. It was encrypted. I’m not good with computers. I’ve never been allowed to have one. I tried to close it, but he saw me and...and he was very angry.”
“And he beat you.”
“He made me go to the...the Room.” John closed his eye and felt his body shudder.
“What room?”
“I can’t say.” John waited for another question. There was none. Sherlock was staring at him again. He thought he should find it disturbing, but he didn’t. Sherlock spoke to him like he was a person. Spoke to him like Bill had, and Mike.
“Encrypted files. Dummy corporations. Aliases. Your master is an interesting man,” Sherlock smiled briefly then leapt up and grabbed his mobile from the coffee table.
“I think you should stay here, John Watson.”
“What? No. I can’t. I have...”
“You’ve been missing for over twelve hours. If he beats you this badly for opening a file, I can only imagine what he’ll do to you for running away.”
“But I didn’t...”
“Kill you, probably. And we can’t have that.”
“What are you going to do? Steal me?”
“I don’t have to.” Sherlock called someone on his phone. “Lestrade, I need to report gross abuse of a slave. Number 81760539-S.”
“How do you know my registration?”
“Nearly had to be hospitalized, that’s how bad. And he’s a priority registration. A trained doctor...No I’ll explain later...No he’ll be in my care.” Sherlock hung up without a goodbye then immediately began texting someone.
“You’re going to look out for me?”
“I’m going to have your ownership transferred to me. Such extensive abuse should require forfeit of any previous claims.”
“Only after a trial.” John felt his heart rate rising.
“Not if you know my brother.”
John decided not to comment on that. Instead, he found himself thinking on Moriarty’s rage. When he found out, dear god, when he found out...
“He’s going to kill me,” he whispered. “Doesn’t matter what you do, he’s going to track me down and kill me.”
“Well let’s see if we can put that off as long as possible. There.” Sherlock threw his phone aside and typed something on his laptop then turned the screen to show John. “There. You’re mine. And as my first order, I think I’ll send you back to bed for further rest.”
John stared at his government registry page. “George Shaw” was now listed as a previous owner. His current registration belonged to one Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street.
*
John Watson slept for the next twenty-four hours. Sherlock would have thought he was in a coma except for the nightmares he heard every few hours. He made sure there was food and water by his bed and checked on him periodically.
He informed Mrs. Hudson of his new flatmate and asked her to make an extra set of keys. His landlady seemed thrilled that Sherlock had found someone to look after him. Sherlock knew she was even more pleased to have someone to watch daytime telly with.
When he wasn’t looking into the Wapping case, he researched John’s family. Both parents - citizens - were deceased. He had only one living immediate family member, also a citizen. A sister named Harriet who appeared to have the same inclination towards alcohol as their father.
Sherlock also looked deeper into the relationship between John and Bill Murray. As a born citizen, John could earn credit towards buying back his freedom. Being sent to a war zone had earned him nearly enough points to regain his citizenship status. Then when Murray was killed, John lost any credit he had accumulated.
To be so close to freedom and lose it so suddenly, John Watson would have been depressed even if his next master hadn’t been a sadist.
Sherlock had never taken much interest in the lives of slaves when he was a child. They were simply there, like bits of furniture. Used and discarded.
It had been on one of his first paid cases, when he was still in university, that a slave had provided a key clue in resolving the matter. After that, Sherlock had begun to see their potential.
When John stumbled into the living room the next afternoon, he appeared well-rested but lost. He had stood there for several minutes before Sherlock realised he was waiting for an order.
So, Sherlock ordered him to shower and change. He had purchased John some new clothes while the man had been sleeping. After the shower, Sherlock had to order him to eat and make tea for himself. John made tea for the both of them.
Fed, rested and bathed, John went back to staring at the flat, looking for something to do.
“I suppose you could straighten up the place,” Sherlock sighed. “But don’t touch those books. Or that stack of papers there. Or the violin, if you find it. And it would be best if you didn’t touch anything on the kitchen table. For your own safety.”
John nodded, remembering everything, and went about organising the place as best he could. He was efficient, Sherlock noted. He even managed to find Sherlock’s previous mobile, his book on thermodynamics, and his handgun.
“Part of a case,” Sherlock had mumbled, securing the gun in a drawer.
It was an hour later when Sherlock saw John freeze. He’d been picking up some papers by the fireplace when he just stopped in mid-crouch. The position must have been incredibly painful for his leg, but the man did not move. After two minutes, Sherlock went over.
“John?”
Sherlock now saw how John’s fingers were just brushing the neck of his violin.
“Ah. You found it. Good.” Sherlock picked it up himself, but John still did not move. “It’s alright, John.”
“You said not to touch it and I touched it.”
“And?”
“I disobeyed a direct order.”
“Hardly the end of the world. It’s fine, John.” Sherlock reached out to rest his hand on John’s shoulder and the man flinched violently. Sherlock pulled back his hand.
Interesting.
His mobile beeped.
“Ah. Inspector Lestrade may have something of interest for me. Care to see Scotland Yard?”
John, regaining control of himself, nodded and straightened up.
“Oh, here. Since you lost your other...”
Sherlock went and got the new cane he’d purchased, handing it to John. John seemed to draw strength from the simple piece of metal and plastic. As a doctor, Sherlock thought John would appreciate a simple medical cane as opposed to the ornate wooden one he’d seen him with previously. By the look on John’s face, Sherlock had deduced correctly.
“Thank you,” he said.
Sherlock nodded then ran towards the door.
“Come along, John. I’ll get us a cab.”
*
John kept quiet during the ride to the Yard. Sherlock was busy with his mobile and paid him no mind. John’s mind was swimming. There was always a period of transition between owners, needing to learn new habits and forget old ones, but the way this change had come about, John couldn’t keep up.
Switching from the ownership of a man like Moriarty to one like Sherlock, John felt like he had when he was first sold all those years ago. The fact he had changed hands would not register. There was too strong an attachment to his old life to allow him to accept his new one, even though it was a change for the better.
“John.”
He turned his head away from the window to see Sherlock standing outside the cab. He hadn’t even realised they’d stopped.
“Sorry,” he replied and hurried out after Sherlock.
Inside the Yard, the desk officer seemed to know exactly who Sherlock was and nodded for them both to come through. As they entered CID, John was sure he could hear several audible groans coming from various desks. As he followed Sherlock through the office, he heard those groans become whispers as one by one the officers noticed John.
Uncomfortable with the attention, John was grateful for Sherlock’s quick pace and the fact they seemed to be heading for a private office at the back. Behind that desk sat a weary, grey-haired detective with a mountain of paperwork.
“’Bout time,” he said as Sherlock swept in, John in tow, without looking up from his desk. John instinctively closed the door as Sherlock took a seat. “I was just...” The detective looked up, noticing John. “Who’s that?”
“He’s mine. Now, what...”
“I hope it wasn’t you that did that to his face.”
“Of course not. He came that way. Now...”
“Well if you’re going to start bringing a slave again, he can wait in the pen with the others.”
“Is that where Anderson is?”
“Yes. Until I need him.”
“Then absolutely not. Your slave lowers the IQ of every living thing around him. I’ll not have John sullied by such association. He is a doctor after all.”
“It’s alright,” John spoke up. “If he wants...”
“John, you belong to me and I’m ordering you to stay. Now sit before your leg gives out.”
John took the chair next to Sherlock without further complaint.
“So this is the one you told me about over the phone?” The detective asked.
“Always one to announce the obvious, our Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock told John.
“The bastard who did this let you buy him?”
“Sort of.”
“Will you be pressing charges?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.
“My brother is handling it. Now, since you didn’t ask me here to discuss my new property could we get to the matter at hand?”
“Right. Here.” Lestrade picked up a stack of folders, leaned over the desk and dropped them in Sherlock’s lap.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Your statements for the last several cases.”
“And?”
“And I need you to sign off on them.”
“You told me you had a case. It’s the only reason I came down here.”
“Yeah, it’s called the case of the missing signatures. I don’t even care if you read them. Just put pen to paper and be done with it.”
Sherlock dropped the files back on Lestrade’s desk and stood. John followed suit, albeit more slowly.
“If I wanted to deal with paperwork I would’ve become a police officer.” Sherlock headed for the door.
“Holmes, you’re already here! Just...”
“Could he take them home?” John didn’t know where his voice came from. He hadn’t been spoken to. He should’ve kept silent. He knew better. He clamped his mouth shut and averted his eyes, preparing for the verbal abuse.
“Elaborate.” It was all Sherlock said. He was waiting for John to continue. John coughed and cleared his throat then spoke while keeping his eyes on the floor.
“If...if you took them home, it might, well, it could be more comfortable there than the police station. To read them. You could take your time. And I could make sure they don’t get lost.”
He closed his eyes and waited.
“Excellent idea, John. Grab the files and we’ll be off.” Sherlock opened the door and strode off, leaving John alone with the detective. John approached the desk.
“Uhm, that is, if it’s alright with you, sir.”
Lestrade was already focussed on his computer screen.
“I don’t care if he takes them to a gay bar and signs them in his skivvies so long as it gets done.”
John nodded, scooped up the files then went to find his owner.
Part 2
Author: dak
Word Count: 19,960
Rating: R
Warnings: physical and mental abuse, vaguely implied dub-con. minor character death
Summary: AU. Slavery exists in the modern world. John belongs to Moriarty, that is until events beyond his control thrust him into the life of the world's only consulting detective.
A/N: For culf , as so many things are. She requested this prompt. I didn't mean for it to get this long. She owes me two fics in return. Dearest flatmate, I'm waiting...
Dull.
Dull. Dull. Dull.
He hated these events. They were absolutely pointless. A deplorable waste of time. He didn’t want to be here. Not in the slightest.
But Mycroft had insisted. Mycroft had promised he could investigate the Wapping bombings if only he showed his face at this utterly boring party.
Lestrade had had nothing interesting to send his way. Nothing for weeks. His mind was stagnating. The only thing for it was the bombing case. He had to have it. If that meant standing in a room with a bunch of self-important strangers who were painfully easy to deduce while pretending to drink over-priced champagne, well, so be it.
It was only for a few hours. In the past, he’d sacrificed more for less.
The crowd chattered, waiters passed by with trays of appetizers, (a poor name if he ever heard one, there was nothing appetizing about them at all), and the well-dressed slaves stood at the edge of the room, waiting for their masters’ beck and call.
Sherlock had disposed of his last slave weeks ago. Another mindless drone Mycroft had acquired for him, insisting he needed looking after.
The man had been utterly useless. Sherlock had given him to an elderly couple in Sheffield who he’d taken a case for some years back. They needed help tending their garden and cleaning their house, and the man had been well suited for that, as opposed to visiting crime scenes and cleaning various corpse parts from the refrigerator.
Sherlock didn’t even remember his name.
Somewhere a clock chimed. Sherlock checked his watch. He had one more hour to withstand before he could leave. Part of Mycroft’s deal. Damn the man. Sherlock gave a fake smile to a passing guest then followed her with his eyes as she went to conspire with her - no, her other - lover.
As he turned his head to find someone at least mildly more interesting, his eyes fell on a lone slave at the far wall.
Unlike the other slaves who used these occasions to mingle and gossip with their kind (as much as they were permitted) this one remained by himself. He held a cane in front of him, fingers clasped on the top handle. His head was bent forward in the customary submissive position. However, his back and shoulders were straight. Military straight.
Sherlock was intrigued.
He crossed the room, depositing his champagne glass on a random tray, and stopped directly in front of the slave.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
The slave blinked rapidly but did not raise his head. Quite obedient. Interesting.
“Did your master serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan,” he replied after some hesitation. “How did you know?”
“You can see the tan lines on your wrists and neck, and your posture and haircut suggest military, as slaves must also condone to military regulations when following their owners into the service. That cane is relatively new and hardly used. That, and the fact you’re holding it while your master is out cavorting, suggests he keeps it for decorative purposes, rather than necessity. A common trait in ex-military officers. You’re also avoiding socialising with the other slaves here, but you’re on guard. Paying attention to everything around you. In just the time I’ve been speaking to you, you’ve mapped out all exit points and determined the best course of action should your master’s sudden departure be required.”
“That’s...amazing.”
Sherlock gave an amused chuckle.
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
“Piss off. But knowing your position, you probably have to be polite.”
“No I don’t. You’re not my master.” The man glanced up then looked back down quickly.
“No. You’re correct,” Sherlock agreed.
“You did get one thing wrong, though.”
“I always do. What is it?”
“The cane. It is new. But only because the old one...broke.”
“Johnny-boy!” A lilting voice echoed through the din of the crowd. The slave flinched. Sherlock saw a young man in a perfectly tailored Westwood suit waiting by the main doors. He looked from his slave to Sherlock then grinned and threw Sherlock a little wave. “Come along, John,” he called again.
Sherlock stepped aside to give the slave room.
“And it’s not for him,” John whispered, now leaning heavily on the cane as he passed. “It’s for me.”
Sherlock watched as John hobbled after his master. He didn’t look away until they had both disappeared from the ballroom. Who would keep a damaged slave? One with a limp - a psychosomatic limp - at that? Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
This had turned out to be a very interesting night indeed.
*
John unlocked the door to the flat, stepped aside, then followed Moriarty inside. He took his master’s coat, hung it neatly in the closet, and immediately went to the kitchen to prepare tea.
“Indian chai,” Moriarty called out as he sat in the living room and turned on his laptop. John nodded. He was not to speak to his master unless asked. Five minutes later, John limped into the room and placed the steaming cup by Moriarty’s elbow.
“How’s the new cane?” Moriarty asked, typing and not looking at John.
“Wonderful, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He sing-songed. “By the way, who was that gentleman you were speaking to, my dear?”
“No one, sir. That is, I don’t know. He never said his name.” John began to sweat. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He was allowed to make casual conversation with others, wasn’t he? He had before with no punishment.
“And you didn’t ask?”
“Of course not. Sir.”
“Good boy,” Moriarty smiled, still looking at his laptop.
John felt his heart calm. There may not be a punishment tonight, he thought.
“I don’t need you for anything else. Go sit in your corner until I tell you to go to bed.” Moriarty shooed him away. “And not a sound, Johnny. Daddy needs to think. One peep, and it’ll be the Room for you.”
John settled quietly into the furthest corner of the flat, clutching the cane tightly in his hands. He would not fail. He would not make a sound. He would not go to the Room.
“This has been an interesting night, wouldn’t you say?”
John knew better than to answer. He did, however, look up and glanced a picture of the man he’d spoken to tonight on Moriarty’s laptop.
“Yes, very interesting.”
John hated when Moriarty smiled like that. It meant something bad was on the horizon.
*
“This is everything we’ve collected on the bombings.” Mycroft handed over a thin file. Sherlock, reclining in his chair, scanned through it, disinterested.
“There’s not much here,” he said.
“There wasn’t much to find,” Mycroft replied, glancing around the flat. “Really, Sherlock. This place is an...is that a finger on the mantle?”
“Possibly.”
“This place is an abomination.”
“Were the types of explosives identified?”
“It’s been quite the downhill slope since Matthew left,” Mycroft sighed.
“Couldn’t they at least have recognized if the same type of explosive was used for each attack? Who’s Matthew?”
“Your last slave.”
“You should’ve given this to me sooner. Any possible evidence is likely to have been washed away by this week’s rain. And he didn’t leave. I sent him away.”
“Well, obviously, Sherlock. He couldn’t have left on his own. Why do you insist on getting rid of every single thing I buy for you?”
“I keep thinking you’ll get the hint.”
“You need assistance.”
“I’m fine. Is there a solid connection between any of the crime scenes, besides the fact that some type of unidentified bomb was used?”
“You are completely incapable of looking after yourself. You don’t sleep. You forget to eat. You never clean or do any sort of shopping. It’s a miracle you remember to bathe. If you don’t want a slave, I’d say get married - to anyone - but I don’t think that’s in the cards, is it?”
Sherlock snapped the file shut and tossed it on the floor. He leapt from his chair and went straight for the door.
“I’m going to visit the crime scenes,” he said, grabbing his coat and scarf. “I’m confident you can see yourself out. Oh, and don’t touch anything. Especially the finger.”
*
John couldn’t breathe. He stared at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor and willed them back together. He wondered what had happened to his once strong will. What had happened to the strong, brave man he used to be?
He was gone. Replaced by this cowering, weak excuse for a human being. A pathetic, little slave who hated himself. Hated that he could be terrified over something as insignificant as a broken mug.
“Well, look what’s happened here.”
All thoughts left John’s mind as he heard Moran’s voice.
“What have you done, Watson?”
“Mr. Moran. Don’t. Please.” Whatever self-respect John Watson had left, vanished. Moran smiled. “I’ll clean it up. I will. And find another. Please, don’t...”
“Oi, Jim! Come see the trouble your dog’s caused! See you later, Johnny,” Moran winked and walked out of the kitchen just as Moriarty arrived.
“John,” he said, disappointed. “What have you done?”
“It...my hand. The tremors. I tried, but it slipped when I...”
Moriarty shook his head then grabbed John’s arm and twisted it behind his back. His bad shoulder ached as Moriarty yanked it further and pushed John’s face towards the ground, towards the sharp shards. John instinctively closed his eyes and was rewarded with a knee to his lower back.
“Look at it, pet. Look what you’ve done.”
“It was an accident.”
Moriarty yanked him up then kneed him in the stomach.
“Who said you could speak? Did I say you could speak? No, I don’t think so. Looks like something’s forgotten its training.”
John, out of breath, could do nothing as Moriarty dragged him out of the kitchen and towards the Room. It was instinct to beg, but it would only do him more harm. He kept his mouth shut. Moriarty opened the door, threw John into the darkness, and locked him inside.
“Sebastian will be in to sort you out, my dear,” Moriarty called through the door. “We have a few things to discuss first. Be a good boy and wait patiently.”
John listened to Moriarty’s footsteps as he walked away then curled into himself, preparing mentally for the pain. Even that was becoming more difficult. He wouldn’t last much longer. This he knew.
It was the only comforting thought he had left.
*
Timer.
The bombs must have been on a timer. Halfway through his second day of examining the three bombsites and so far it was all he could deduce. It was beyond frustrating.
Sherlock walked round site number three - the Tobacco Docks. The shops here had been ahead of their time for the old shipping district and had closed just as the wealthy, young professionals they had been targeting began moving full force into the nearby converted warehouse flats. They had now been vacant for years.
Other than the buildings themselves, there was nothing here to bomb. No bodies had been found in the rubble, and there had been only minor injuries caused by debris.
At the first site - an empty building just below Shadwell station - only a night watchman had been killed. At the second - a modern art gallery near the Prospect of Whitby pub - some atrocious art had been destroyed and an assistant curator severely injured.
Deaths had not been motives for the bombings. That was obvious. But then what was?
Sherlock looked at the small canal that ran in front of the shops. The fake sailing ship that docked there was chipped and charred from the explosion, leaning precariously to one side.
“There has to be a reason,” Sherlock hissed. He would need to get back to Baker Street. Research who owned each of the buildings. See if there were any outlandish insurance policies in play. Boring, yes, but still a possibility until he could rule it out.
Sherlock turned to the gates which led back to the main street. As he took a step forward, a shot rang out. It grazed his arm. He stumbled off the main concourse onto the platform below, where the ship was tied.
He tried to be as graceful as possible but still managed to hit his head when he fell. For a moment, everything went black.
*
John leaned on his cane as he walked up the high street. There was a chip shop nearby. He could smell the fat and grease. His stomach ached. Moriarty had let him have some tea that morning, but it had been two days since he’d been allowed any food.
John knew there were laws. After the near-uprising of ‘84, every slave owning country was meant to adhere to the conditions set forth by the Shanghai Convention. He remembered reading it in the paper. He remembered being allowed to read it in the paper. He hadn’t been a slave then.
John stopped, cleared his head, and continued walking. It did him no good, thinking on the past. Thinking on before. There was no past for him. Only his life now. Whatever slave protection laws existed, Moriarty did not, nor would not, follow them. And who would John to complain to? Moriarty would order him to say it was all lies, and any case against him would be dismissed.
John kept walking. One day he’d be free. Moriarty couldn’t keep him alive forever.
He reached the Wapping Overground station only to see that it was still closed. His mood grew darker.
“Typical,” he sighed. He knew the next closest station - Shadwell - was also closed because of an explosion. The hourly slave bus he’d arrived on had just passed him on its way back to Central.
He’d have to walk to Tower Hill. It would be hell on his leg but faster overall, and Moriarty had ordered him to return as fast as possible.
He turned up Wapping Lane and began the slow, uphill trudge to the highway. He tried to take comfort in the nice weather, but it only depressed him more knowing he couldn’t go to the park, play some football, sit on a bench.
He was just coming up on Tobacco Dock when he saw a man slip off the edge of the pavement. All self-awareness left him as he leapt into action. He ran up and through the gates as fast as his injuries allowed then carefully went down the steps to the lower platform where the man lay. He was just trying to sit up when John reached him.
“Here. Stay still. Are you alright? Does anything feel broken?”
“Where is he?” The man asked, clearly trying to ignore any pain he had.
“Where’s who? Careful. Let me see your eyes. Did you hit your head?”
“The shooter! Did you see the shooter?” The man kept fighting against John, looking at rooftops and trying to stand.
“I didn’t see anyone but you. And you’re injured.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m the doctor. I’ll say when you’re fine. Now, can I please look you over?”
The man’s eyes finally settled on John’s face, alighting with recognition.
“I thought you were a slave.”
John suddenly remembered who he was - the strange man from that boring party last week. He felt himself blushing and looked away. If it had been a complete stranger, they needn’t know John’s true position.
“Yes, well, slaves can be doctors, too,” he muttered, no longer feeling the small bit of confidence he’d had before.
“Not often.”
“It’s a long story.” John rose, wanting to get away, get home. At least there he was on familiar territory. Unfortunately, with his adrenaline gone, his fatigue coupled with his own, hidden injuries took hold. He collapsed.
Nearly collapsed.
The man had caught him and was holding him upright.
“It appears you need a doctor yourself.”
“If I was allowed. I mean, no. No, I’m fine. I’m looked after.”
“Clearly.”
“I just need my cane. I’ll be fine. I am fine.”
The man held onto John with one hand while he bent down to retrieve the cane for him. As soon as it was in John’s hand, he transferred all his weight onto it and tried to get a handle on his breathing.
“Not entirely psychosomatic today, is it?”
“What?”
“Your limp.”
John froze. No one could know about his injuries. He wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. If he did, Moriarty would...
“I’m taken care of,” he said. “And if you’re fine then I really should...”
“There’s an Indian restaurant just down the road. The owner owes me a favour.” The man walked to the steps.
“That’s...nice.”
“You could do with a meal, and I have some questions.”
“Hang on. You want me to...”
“For a doctor, you’re quite slow. Though perhaps that’s your conditioning.”
“I can’t...I’m not allowed...”
“I’m sure your master has better things to do than persecute you for eating.”
John felt his stomach drop. This man did not know Moriarty.
“I don’t even know who you are,” John said.
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. And I’m a consulting detective - the only one in the world. Now, doctor, are you coming or not?”
*
Sherlock knew he would follow. All he’d had to do was call him doctor rather than slave and the man would latch onto the bit of humanity Sherlock had given. Manipulative, yes, but he didn’t do it out of cruelty. He genuinely found this man interesting.
That happened so rarely to Sherlock - to find an actual person interesting - he had to pursue it further. And running into this man twice in such a short period of time? Well, it was hardly a coincidence. Sherlock needed to know why.
It had taken the doctor an additional five minutes to reach the restaurant, but here he was now, sitting in front of Sherlock, waiting. Waiting for orders, most likely.
“I took the liberty of ordering for you. I’d rather not waste any time. Their curry is excellent. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
The man nodded.
“Since I’ve been polite enough to give you my name, perhaps you could give me yours.” Sherlock knew the owner had called him something at the party, but he had deleted whatever it was.
“John. Dr. John Watson. Slave. One of millions in the world.”
Sherlock grinned. The man had a sense of humour after all.
“But you haven’t always been a slave, have you, John?”
The man - John - hesitated but answered.
“No.”
“Do you mind telling me how it came about?”
John stared at his glass of water but didn’t touch.
“You may drink, John.”
With a shaking left hand, John took the glass and drank half of it in one go.
“I was sold,” he said, staring at the quivering glass. “Just before my seventeenth birthday. My father...needed to settle some debts, and my sister was already a legal adult, no longer his property.”
“But you were permitted to train as a doctor?” Sherlock continued his questioning. Once the food arrived, John would be too busy eating to respond.
“The family - the Stamford’s - had a son about my age. I had been educated well up to that point and helped him study when he went to university. Around the time he decided to go into medicine, they decided they didn’t need a slave for much longer. Thought they could get more money for me if I had qualifications. Since Mike was going into medicine, so did I. They sold me for a profit as soon as I received my licence.”
“But you also served in the military?”
John drank the other half of his water before answering. He was nowhere near at ease but had seemed to relax. It had clearly been awhile since he’d been permitted to speak freely.
“My next owner, Bill Murray, was an army nurse. Took me along when he went to Afghanistan. They’re not a slave owning country and even though I was Bill’s...” John trailed off. He was unable to finish his sentence.
“You experienced more freedom there than you had since you were sixteen.”
“I could go into any shop, as few as there were. People would look me in the eye when they spoke to me. They asked...” He stammered again but continued on. “They would ask me if I needed anything.” John ran his hands over his face and composed himself.
“Bill Murray was not the man you were with at the party.”
“Bill was killed our last week on tour. I was shot in the shoulder. Same attack. They sent me back immediately. No after care for a slave, not here. I was in a shop for a month before he...he bought me.”
“And who is he?”
The food arrived. John stared at his plate, transfixed. He blinked rapidly and looked over at Sherlock.
“You’re not eating?”
“I never eat on a case. Who is he?”
John looked back at his plate.
“I’m not allowed to say his name.”
Sherlock didn’t press the issue.
“You can eat,” he said instead.
John grabbed his fork and attacked the curry. Sherlock watched him eat. John must have been used to being watched. If it bothered him, he gave no sign.
“So,” John spoke when half his plate was gone. “What about you? You don’t have a slave, then? I didn’t see one at that party.”
“Slave, no.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No. Not really my area.”
“Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”
“I know it’s fine.”
“So, you’ve got a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Right. Okay. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve...”
“I consider myself married to my work.”
“Consulting detective, right. Well, that’s fine. It’s all fine.” John looked at his watch. “Shit. Sorry. I mean, the time, I have to...I’m sorry.” With great effort, John used his cane and rose from his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for...”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, well, thank you for the meal. Good luck with your...detecting.”
“The address is 221B Baker Street. Should you, or your master, ever require my assistance.”
John only nodded. He avoided eye contact and kept his head low as he hurried out onto the street.
“He’s going to walk all the way to Tower Hill,” Sherlock noted, taking in John’s weakened gait and difficult movements as he observed him from the window. “He’ll be dead in a month, the way he’s being treated.” Sherlock momentarily felt pity for the doctor. Shame to waste such a well-trained slave, he thought.
Then his mind was back on the case and he could think of nothing else.
*
John let himself into the flat and immediately went to Moriarty. He pulled the thin envelope from his jacket and waited silently until he was addressed. He was spoken to ten minutes later.
“Is that from the architect?” Moriarty asked.
John nodded and handed it over. Moriarty took a quick look at the contents then smiled.
“Wonderful, Johnny. Thank you.”
John said nothing.
“But what took you so long?”
“The trains. Wapping and Shadwell were closed. And the bus...I had to walk...”
Moriarty looked him up and down. John knew he saw the way he was leaning heavily on his cane.
“Oh you poor dear. Did you walk all that way for me? Must have been at an atrocious pace, too, as invalided as you are.” Moriarty ran a hand through John’s hair, petting him. “Why don’t you get yourself a little something to eat then go upstairs and rest. Can’t have you at less than a hundred per cent, can we?”
“What if you...” John stopped as Moriarty’s hand tugged hard on his hair. Even though he was expressing concern for his master, he had still spoken out of turn. He was an idiot. He waited for further punishment, but Moriarty released his hair and resumed stroking him.
“Oh I’ll be fine. Sebastian and I are going out this evening and won’t require your assistance. Now run along. You look positively awful.”
John nodded and turned towards the kitchen. Moriarty grabbed him by the arm and held him back.
“Ah ah,” he tsked. “Where’s my kiss?”
John leaned in and allowed Moriarty to violate his mouth with his tongue. A kiss was easy, he’d decided long ago, especially compared to what else Moriarty could, and would, do to him. He was released quickly and ignored, leaving him free to fetch his food and retire to his small room.
After the meal with Sherlock Holmes, John wasn’t terribly hungry, but if he didn’t eat something, Moriarty would be suspicious. So, he fixed himself a sandwich and headed upstairs to the walk-in closet in Moriarty’s bedroom that had been turned into a room for John.
All it held was a low single bed and a small dresser that contained John’s clothes. Extra clothes were the only possessions he had now. Most of what he’d owned had been divvied up by the army after Bill had died. Everything else, Moriarty had thrown away.
He closed the door to the closet and set the sandwich aside as he removed his clothes to inspect his injuries. Two ribs on his right side were certainly broken, but the cuts and bruises from his last session in the Room appeared to be healing. He hadn’t needed stitches this time. The thought was a minor relief.
John removed his shoes and stretched his tired body out on the bed. His leg was screaming at him, the pain pulsing in beat with his heart, and his hand was trembling so badly he stuffed it under his back in a vain effort to stop it.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to that unusual lunch with that unusual man. Why had he given him his address? It hadn’t been for his master’s benefit, John knew, which meant it had been for his own.
But how could a slave benefit from a consulting detective? He couldn’t afford to pay him and, even if he did go to him to report the abuse, what could this Sherlock Holmes possibly do?
James Moriarty always got what he wanted in the end. There was no one in the world who could match him, let alone beat him.
With these thoughts still churning in his mind, John gave way to exhaustion and slipped into a fitful sleep.
*
Three separate owners. Three separate insurance companies. No unusual claims. Good. He hated for it to be something so simple. And now that warning shot earlier today. Clearly someone didn’t want him investigating this case. Even better.
Sherlock smiled as he typed frantically on his laptop. He hadn’t had a decent case in quite awhile. He set the computer aside to go and check on his latest experiment when the motion caused his arm to twinge in pain.
He’d examined the wound when he returned home. Barely a scratch and no second attempt by the shooter. Interesting. And then there had been that slave. That doctor.
Sherlock paused for the briefest moment then pulled the computer back onto his lap. He hacked into the government’s slave registry via Mycroft’s account and searched for John Watson.
There was a photo taken for each time he’d changed hands. In the first, he was sixteen and, unlike the depressed, grim features of so many sold into slavery, this boy appeared fierce. Angry. Determined. There was no a glint of shame in his eyes.
The next photo, age twenty-five. A newly qualified doctor. Well past puberty, his features had filled out and settled. Here he was a confident, caring man. Accepting of his lot in life but grateful for the opportunities his kind owners had given him.
Then there was the last photo, taken only a few months ago when he was purchased from the Camden Market stalls. Shoulders slouched. Dark circles under wrinkled eyes. No hidden smirk in the mouth. No defiant life in his features. A slave broken, at long last.
And he’d looked even worse this afternoon.
Sherlock read his history. It was all as the doctor had told him. The only interesting bit was the information on his current owner. John Watson wasn’t permitted say his master’s name. Here it was listed as “George Shaw.”
Sherlock snorted. Clearly an alias. It only took thirty minutes of browsing to realise that John Watson had been purchased using funds from a dummy organisation. He tried to dig deeper but couldn’t find any further information. A Google Map search of this George Shaw’s registered address returned a vacant lot near Clapham Junction.
Sherlock wasn’t surprised. He knew the government didn’t genuinely care about who slaves were or who owned them. The registry was simply a way to appease sympathisers, and Sherlock was not one of those. He had no empathy for any person - slave or citizen.
But this Watson fellow - Sherlock couldn’t help it. He found him interesting. This had only happened once previously with Victor Trevor from uni. And Victor was very much not a slave.
A brief thought passed through Sherlock’s mind, so brief, he nearly failed to recognise it had existed at all - you could buy him. Mycroft would pay.
Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and tossed it beside him on the sofa. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He had never had the need nor desire for a slave, not since he’d left home, and he was not considering purchasing one now.
His phone chimed. Thank god. A distraction. It was Lestrade.
Dead body. Upside down from a lamp post. Interested? -GL
Sherlock replied in the affirmative and rushed out of the flat, once again forgetting everything else.
*
He was tired. So very tired. He’d slept for twelve hours yesterday, but the rest seemed to have done nothing. If anything, he felt worse. Still, he had duties to perform. Moriarty expected the flat to be spotless when he returned from work.
And he needed to prepare dinner for tonight. And the laundry needed to be done. And Moriarty’s suits taken to the dry cleaners.
John tried to focus on one chore at a time. He made his way through the mental list at a slow pace, conserving his energy and allowing his body to run on autopilot. The thought that things had never been this bad with the Stamford’s or Bill flitted in and out of his mind, but he tried to ignore it. This was his life now.
This was his life now.
It was Thursday which meant he had to dust and wipe down Moriarty’s computer. Everything had to be perfect, always. His master expected nothing less. John was about to shut down the computer, in order to dust it properly, when he noticed a new file on the desktop. It was not neatly aligned with all the other icons.
John was only going to move it. Move it so it was neat and orderly along with everything else. His constantly trembling hand accidentally double-clicked the folder and opened it.
The file was encrypted, whatever it was, and John went to close it straight away.
“What are you doing?”
Moriarty was in the doorway, eyes dark and cold. John stammered but could not come up with an acceptable excuse. He was never supposed to use Moriarty’s laptop, only clean it. It had been one of the first rules he’d learnt.
“You know I don’t like to get my hands dirty, pet, but this time I think I’ll make an exception.”
*
The lamp post murder had turned out to be much less interesting than he’d hoped. Sherlock was disappointed. A whole day wasted and worse yet, the experiment he’d neglected still sat in the kitchen, no doubt ruined.
He felt himself falling into a sulk as the cab approached Baker Street. He already knew that he would not be leaving the flat at any point tomorrow. He probably wouldn’t even speak to anyone. All the better.
The cab had barely stopped in front of 221B when Sherlock noticed a man hunched in his doorway. His mood lightened. Perhaps it was the homeless network coming through with information about the bombings.
Brilliant. Although he’d have to have a discussion about waiting in his doorway. It made it too obvious who they were looking for.
He paid the cabbie and leapt out of the car. The body was covered in shadow, but Sherlock could see the man was curled in on himself, breathing lightly. He also recognised the jacket and realised this had nothing at all to do with the homeless network.
“John?” Sherlock crouched in front of him.
The man barely stirred. Sherlock placed one hand on his shoulder and used the other to lift his head. John was barely conscious. One eye was dark purple and swollen shut. He’d been bleeding from his nose, and there was a deep gash along his bottom lip. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that there were more injuries he couldn’t see.
“John,” he repeated with more force.
With his good eye, John tried to focus on Sherlock’s face.
“Mr. Holmes?...I...” He slurred. “Please.”
Sherlock felt something inside him harden. It wasn’t because of empathy or sympathy. Nothing like that, of course not. There was just something wrong - something inherently wrong - about the man before him begging, slave or not.
It twisted Sherlock’s stomach. Made him want to hurt something, for making him feel. High-functioning sociopaths weren’t supposed to feel.
All this passed through his mind in approximately one second. John Watson did not notice any of it. All he heard was Sherlock’s voice asking, “Can you manage some stairs?”
*
This was not his bed. The mattress was too soft. And he was too high off the floor. And he had a blanket. This was definitely not his bed.
John opened his eyes, or rather, he opened one eye. His right eye was swollen shut. A thin glimmer of light peaked through the eyelid but that was all. He lifted his hand to prod the injury then winced as he aggravated something in his side.
Gently, he propped himself into a sitting position and tried to establish where he was. It was a decent-sized room but very plain and nearly empty of furniture. Beside him was a small table with a jug of water and a glass.
John had no idea where he was. He removed the blanket and reached for his cane then realised his cane wasn’t there.
“Bugger,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He planted both feet on the floor and noticed the clothes he was wearing weren’t his. They were simple, definitely issued for a slave, but they were nice. Softer.
John pushed himself up with both hands then used the nearby wall for support as he made his way out of the door. In the hall, his stomach dropped when he saw the only to go was down via a narrow staircase.
“Bugger,” he said again and clung to the railing as he manoeuvered his aching body down the steps. He was out of breath by the time he reached the bottom and could therefore say nothing when the consulting detective addressed him from the sofa.
“Ah, good. You’re alive. Sit down before you fall over.”
John had no intention of disobeying that order and limped to the nearest chair.
“I would have put your cane upstairs with you, but you didn’t arrive with it, and I have none of my own. Are you in a great deal of pain? I may have some paracetomal lying around. Or possibly morphine. Would like some morphine? As a doctor, I’m sure I could trust you to administer an appropriate dose.”
“Mr. Holmes...?”
“I told you to call me Sherlock. Do I need to make it an order? Fine. I order you to address me only as Sherlock unless I indicate otherwise. Do you need food? I can’t cook, and there’s nothing fit for human consumption in that kitchen anyhow. But we could do take away or ask Mrs. Hudson to make us something. She’ll complain she’s not the housekeeper, but she’ll be glad to do it nonetheless. Are you alright, John?”
“I’m a bit...dizzy,” he sighed, squeezing his good eye shut, trying to slow his brain.
“Well you do appear to have a head injury. I probably shouldn’t have let you sleep, but you appeared to need it...”
“No. It’s you. You’re talking too fast.”
“Oh. Yes. I do that. Often.”
John reopened his eye to see Sherlock staring at him. He was in a dressing grown, a plain t-shirt and trousers underneath. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin and the sleeves of his gown had fallen to his elbows, revealing multiple nicotine patches on his left forearm.
“How did I get here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I found you on my doorstep when I returned home last evening. You have multiple injuries but none which are life threatening. I would have taken you to hospital, except your location would be recorded and your master alerted to your whereabouts. I assumed that was the last thing you needed. I do know basic first aid, but you’ll want to check yourself over when you’re capable. Tea?”
“Sorry?”
“Would you like a cup of tea? I am capable, and I believe there are clean mugs here. Somewhere.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. Thank you.”
“You seem much slower than before.”
“Sorry. Multiple injuries.”
Sherlock stared at him a moment longer then leapt from the sofa. John closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair as he listened to Sherlock prepare tea. He must have dozed off because suddenly a steaming mug was being thrust in his face.
“Milk and one sugar.” Sherlock grinned as John took the mug.
“How...did you know that?”
“I deduced it. It’s what I do.”
“That’s...brilliant.”
“You realise you keep saying those things out loud?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, no. It’s quite alright.” Sherlock threw himself back onto the couch. John noticed he had taken no tea for himself. As Sherlock had stopped talking, John took a moment to sniff his tea and take a slow sip.
“It’s delicious. Thank you.”
“Please, John. There’s no need to lie.”
“Alright. It’s a bit weak. Probably could have let it stew a little longer. But still, thank you. No one’s...I’ve been making my own tea since I was sixteen.”
He thought he saw Sherlock smile again, but if he had, the expression disappeared quickly.
“Did your master do this to you, John?”
Any good feeling John had accumulated evaporated.
“Why don’t you deduce it?”
“I already have. There are laws against this, you know.”
“Making tea?”
“Beating one’s slaves. Torturing them, if I’m not mistaken which, of course, I’m not.”
“So what if there are?” John replied, staring into his tea, letting it grow cold. “He’d be fined. That’s all. Or order me to testify that he wasn’t the one that did it. No one would care. Not really.”
“You’ll just allow yourself to be mistreated?”
“I’m a slave, Mr...Sherlock. It’s part of the job description.”
“Fascinating.”
“What is?”
“You’ve been a slave for over twenty years and it’s taken this long to break you.”
“It could have happened earlier.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. It didn’t.”
“Tell me about George Shaw.”
“Who?”
“You’re registered to a George Shaw.”
“That’s not his name,” John said.
“Then what is?”
“I can’t. I’m under orders.”
“Are you under orders to not tell me what happened last night?”
John thought.
“No,” he answered.
“What happened last night?”
“I’m not sure I can remember.”
“Yes you can.”
John paused. He tried to retrace his steps. He had no recollection of how he’d ended up on Sherlock’s doorstep, but he could remember being at the flat. Moriarty being angry. So very angry.
“I was cleaning.”
“Where?”
“His flat.”
“Where is that?”
“I can’t say. I was cleaning. I needed...I had to dust his computer. He likes a clean computer.”
“You have permission to touch his computer?”
“Yes. But only to clean. I’m not allowed...I accidentally....my hand.” He lifted his trembling left hand.
“From the war?”
“I was shot in the shoulder. Nerve damage.”
“And you accidentally what?”
“Opened a file.”
“What was in the file?”
“I don’t know. It was encrypted. I’m not good with computers. I’ve never been allowed to have one. I tried to close it, but he saw me and...and he was very angry.”
“And he beat you.”
“He made me go to the...the Room.” John closed his eye and felt his body shudder.
“What room?”
“I can’t say.” John waited for another question. There was none. Sherlock was staring at him again. He thought he should find it disturbing, but he didn’t. Sherlock spoke to him like he was a person. Spoke to him like Bill had, and Mike.
“Encrypted files. Dummy corporations. Aliases. Your master is an interesting man,” Sherlock smiled briefly then leapt up and grabbed his mobile from the coffee table.
“I think you should stay here, John Watson.”
“What? No. I can’t. I have...”
“You’ve been missing for over twelve hours. If he beats you this badly for opening a file, I can only imagine what he’ll do to you for running away.”
“But I didn’t...”
“Kill you, probably. And we can’t have that.”
“What are you going to do? Steal me?”
“I don’t have to.” Sherlock called someone on his phone. “Lestrade, I need to report gross abuse of a slave. Number 81760539-S.”
“How do you know my registration?”
“Nearly had to be hospitalized, that’s how bad. And he’s a priority registration. A trained doctor...No I’ll explain later...No he’ll be in my care.” Sherlock hung up without a goodbye then immediately began texting someone.
“You’re going to look out for me?”
“I’m going to have your ownership transferred to me. Such extensive abuse should require forfeit of any previous claims.”
“Only after a trial.” John felt his heart rate rising.
“Not if you know my brother.”
John decided not to comment on that. Instead, he found himself thinking on Moriarty’s rage. When he found out, dear god, when he found out...
“He’s going to kill me,” he whispered. “Doesn’t matter what you do, he’s going to track me down and kill me.”
“Well let’s see if we can put that off as long as possible. There.” Sherlock threw his phone aside and typed something on his laptop then turned the screen to show John. “There. You’re mine. And as my first order, I think I’ll send you back to bed for further rest.”
John stared at his government registry page. “George Shaw” was now listed as a previous owner. His current registration belonged to one Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street.
*
John Watson slept for the next twenty-four hours. Sherlock would have thought he was in a coma except for the nightmares he heard every few hours. He made sure there was food and water by his bed and checked on him periodically.
He informed Mrs. Hudson of his new flatmate and asked her to make an extra set of keys. His landlady seemed thrilled that Sherlock had found someone to look after him. Sherlock knew she was even more pleased to have someone to watch daytime telly with.
When he wasn’t looking into the Wapping case, he researched John’s family. Both parents - citizens - were deceased. He had only one living immediate family member, also a citizen. A sister named Harriet who appeared to have the same inclination towards alcohol as their father.
Sherlock also looked deeper into the relationship between John and Bill Murray. As a born citizen, John could earn credit towards buying back his freedom. Being sent to a war zone had earned him nearly enough points to regain his citizenship status. Then when Murray was killed, John lost any credit he had accumulated.
To be so close to freedom and lose it so suddenly, John Watson would have been depressed even if his next master hadn’t been a sadist.
Sherlock had never taken much interest in the lives of slaves when he was a child. They were simply there, like bits of furniture. Used and discarded.
It had been on one of his first paid cases, when he was still in university, that a slave had provided a key clue in resolving the matter. After that, Sherlock had begun to see their potential.
When John stumbled into the living room the next afternoon, he appeared well-rested but lost. He had stood there for several minutes before Sherlock realised he was waiting for an order.
So, Sherlock ordered him to shower and change. He had purchased John some new clothes while the man had been sleeping. After the shower, Sherlock had to order him to eat and make tea for himself. John made tea for the both of them.
Fed, rested and bathed, John went back to staring at the flat, looking for something to do.
“I suppose you could straighten up the place,” Sherlock sighed. “But don’t touch those books. Or that stack of papers there. Or the violin, if you find it. And it would be best if you didn’t touch anything on the kitchen table. For your own safety.”
John nodded, remembering everything, and went about organising the place as best he could. He was efficient, Sherlock noted. He even managed to find Sherlock’s previous mobile, his book on thermodynamics, and his handgun.
“Part of a case,” Sherlock had mumbled, securing the gun in a drawer.
It was an hour later when Sherlock saw John freeze. He’d been picking up some papers by the fireplace when he just stopped in mid-crouch. The position must have been incredibly painful for his leg, but the man did not move. After two minutes, Sherlock went over.
“John?”
Sherlock now saw how John’s fingers were just brushing the neck of his violin.
“Ah. You found it. Good.” Sherlock picked it up himself, but John still did not move. “It’s alright, John.”
“You said not to touch it and I touched it.”
“And?”
“I disobeyed a direct order.”
“Hardly the end of the world. It’s fine, John.” Sherlock reached out to rest his hand on John’s shoulder and the man flinched violently. Sherlock pulled back his hand.
Interesting.
His mobile beeped.
“Ah. Inspector Lestrade may have something of interest for me. Care to see Scotland Yard?”
John, regaining control of himself, nodded and straightened up.
“Oh, here. Since you lost your other...”
Sherlock went and got the new cane he’d purchased, handing it to John. John seemed to draw strength from the simple piece of metal and plastic. As a doctor, Sherlock thought John would appreciate a simple medical cane as opposed to the ornate wooden one he’d seen him with previously. By the look on John’s face, Sherlock had deduced correctly.
“Thank you,” he said.
Sherlock nodded then ran towards the door.
“Come along, John. I’ll get us a cab.”
*
John kept quiet during the ride to the Yard. Sherlock was busy with his mobile and paid him no mind. John’s mind was swimming. There was always a period of transition between owners, needing to learn new habits and forget old ones, but the way this change had come about, John couldn’t keep up.
Switching from the ownership of a man like Moriarty to one like Sherlock, John felt like he had when he was first sold all those years ago. The fact he had changed hands would not register. There was too strong an attachment to his old life to allow him to accept his new one, even though it was a change for the better.
“John.”
He turned his head away from the window to see Sherlock standing outside the cab. He hadn’t even realised they’d stopped.
“Sorry,” he replied and hurried out after Sherlock.
Inside the Yard, the desk officer seemed to know exactly who Sherlock was and nodded for them both to come through. As they entered CID, John was sure he could hear several audible groans coming from various desks. As he followed Sherlock through the office, he heard those groans become whispers as one by one the officers noticed John.
Uncomfortable with the attention, John was grateful for Sherlock’s quick pace and the fact they seemed to be heading for a private office at the back. Behind that desk sat a weary, grey-haired detective with a mountain of paperwork.
“’Bout time,” he said as Sherlock swept in, John in tow, without looking up from his desk. John instinctively closed the door as Sherlock took a seat. “I was just...” The detective looked up, noticing John. “Who’s that?”
“He’s mine. Now, what...”
“I hope it wasn’t you that did that to his face.”
“Of course not. He came that way. Now...”
“Well if you’re going to start bringing a slave again, he can wait in the pen with the others.”
“Is that where Anderson is?”
“Yes. Until I need him.”
“Then absolutely not. Your slave lowers the IQ of every living thing around him. I’ll not have John sullied by such association. He is a doctor after all.”
“It’s alright,” John spoke up. “If he wants...”
“John, you belong to me and I’m ordering you to stay. Now sit before your leg gives out.”
John took the chair next to Sherlock without further complaint.
“So this is the one you told me about over the phone?” The detective asked.
“Always one to announce the obvious, our Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock told John.
“The bastard who did this let you buy him?”
“Sort of.”
“Will you be pressing charges?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.
“My brother is handling it. Now, since you didn’t ask me here to discuss my new property could we get to the matter at hand?”
“Right. Here.” Lestrade picked up a stack of folders, leaned over the desk and dropped them in Sherlock’s lap.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Your statements for the last several cases.”
“And?”
“And I need you to sign off on them.”
“You told me you had a case. It’s the only reason I came down here.”
“Yeah, it’s called the case of the missing signatures. I don’t even care if you read them. Just put pen to paper and be done with it.”
Sherlock dropped the files back on Lestrade’s desk and stood. John followed suit, albeit more slowly.
“If I wanted to deal with paperwork I would’ve become a police officer.” Sherlock headed for the door.
“Holmes, you’re already here! Just...”
“Could he take them home?” John didn’t know where his voice came from. He hadn’t been spoken to. He should’ve kept silent. He knew better. He clamped his mouth shut and averted his eyes, preparing for the verbal abuse.
“Elaborate.” It was all Sherlock said. He was waiting for John to continue. John coughed and cleared his throat then spoke while keeping his eyes on the floor.
“If...if you took them home, it might, well, it could be more comfortable there than the police station. To read them. You could take your time. And I could make sure they don’t get lost.”
He closed his eyes and waited.
“Excellent idea, John. Grab the files and we’ll be off.” Sherlock opened the door and strode off, leaving John alone with the detective. John approached the desk.
“Uhm, that is, if it’s alright with you, sir.”
Lestrade was already focussed on his computer screen.
“I don’t care if he takes them to a gay bar and signs them in his skivvies so long as it gets done.”
John nodded, scooped up the files then went to find his owner.
Part 2