The man with the hat wasn't looking at John anymore. He was looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock silently cursed himself for letting his initial panic get the best of him. He could have been done with this by now if he had simply waited a bit, saw that no one was especially interested, then made a last minute offer. Now he must resort to patience. This other man wants John. Why? He doesn't know a thing about him. He just sees a... what does he see? If Sherlock could discern precisely why the man wanted this... purchase... he could more effectively dissuade him.
He looked at John objectively. Tried to. Took everything he knew about him and disregarded it in an attempt to mimic a superficial first impression. Sherlock focused in on John's body. Surprising, that he hadn't observed John's clothing before this moment. Khaki trousers. A white dress shirt. Too small. Deliberately too small. His chest was well-developed. Strong. Able-bodied, solid, masculine in every way Sherlock felt his own long, slender lines were not. Military boots. Sherlock smirked. So that's the angle. What, couldn't find an actual uniform to dress him up in? A perfect Lawrence of Arabia for your little private war games? The weather-beaten tan, so apparent when they first met, had returned to his features. John must have followed him through the desert. Sherlock had to admit, sun-burnished suited John well, and he was finding the way he was put together appealing. The way he was being marketed, his mind quickly corrected itself. He wasn't used to doing this sort of thing... breaking down bodies into components. Objectification.
At first glance, John looked fit. Strong. He felt a moment's reassurance that perhaps he had been treated more humanely than his initial assessment suggested. Physically, at any rate. Or perhaps merely given enough time to have sufficiently healed. John is old. He is far too old to sell well, but they are doing their best, these traders. If they had been truly good at their job, they would have presented him shirtless. The scar would have spoken volumes for his authenticity, though perhaps a fake soldier would be more appealing than the real thing. All right, then. Fetish marketing. "Shame he isn't a real soldier," Sherlock muttered quietly, knowing he would be overheard in the silent room.
The man grinned widely, touched his hat again, then walked toward Sherlock. The two of them stood side by side, both angled slightly away from John's view. Now they were kindred spirits. "Best we can get. He looks the part."
"Mmm. I don't see much left in him though. Might be better to train up a young one. Be worth the expense for the extra fight. You can dress anyone up in the right outfit." He glanced at the whiteboard, trying to seem concerned about the price.
"You underestimate the value of total compliance. Besides, I see something there, in the eyes. And there's really no need to lie to me. I've been doing this long enough to know when I'm up against someone willing to pay whatever it takes, rare as that is. I'm not buying him. Just playing along for a bit. End of the night. Bored. Curious."
Sherlock looked directly at the man this time. He was older than Sherlock, older than John, with the confidence of a dedicated businessman and the detachment of a scientist. Irrelevant. He's not buying John. Sherlock found himself fighting his emotions. Might as well use them. "He reminds me of someone."
The man nodded. The auctioneer updated the board, assuming the nod signified a new bid, but he shook his head and gestured at Sherlock.
"We all have someone we wish we could see on their knees, don't we? He's all yours." The man walked away.
The auctioneer circled Sherlock's final bid in red marker.
FILL 3/? (John in slave auction)
Sherlock silently cursed himself for letting his initial panic get the best of him. He could have been done with this by now if he had simply waited a bit, saw that no one was especially interested, then made a last minute offer. Now he must resort to patience. This other man wants John. Why? He doesn't know a thing about him. He just sees a... what does he see? If Sherlock could discern precisely why the man wanted this... purchase... he could more effectively dissuade him.
He looked at John objectively. Tried to. Took everything he knew about him and disregarded it in an attempt to mimic a superficial first impression. Sherlock focused in on John's body. Surprising, that he hadn't observed John's clothing before this moment. Khaki trousers. A white dress shirt. Too small. Deliberately too small. His chest was well-developed. Strong. Able-bodied, solid, masculine in every way Sherlock felt his own long, slender lines were not. Military boots. Sherlock smirked. So that's the angle. What, couldn't find an actual uniform to dress him up in? A perfect Lawrence of Arabia for your little private war games? The weather-beaten tan, so apparent when they first met, had returned to his features. John must have followed him through the desert. Sherlock had to admit, sun-burnished suited John well, and he was finding the way he was put together appealing. The way he was being marketed, his mind quickly corrected itself. He wasn't used to doing this sort of thing... breaking down bodies into components. Objectification.
At first glance, John looked fit. Strong. He felt a moment's reassurance that perhaps he had been treated more humanely than his initial assessment suggested. Physically, at any rate. Or perhaps merely given enough time to have sufficiently healed. John is old. He is far too old to sell well, but they are doing their best, these traders. If they had been truly good at their job, they would have presented him shirtless. The scar would have spoken volumes for his authenticity, though perhaps a fake soldier would be more appealing than the real thing. All right, then. Fetish marketing. "Shame he isn't a real soldier," Sherlock muttered quietly, knowing he would be overheard in the silent room.
The man grinned widely, touched his hat again, then walked toward Sherlock. The two of them stood side by side, both angled slightly away from John's view. Now they were kindred spirits. "Best we can get. He looks the part."
"Mmm. I don't see much left in him though. Might be better to train up a young one. Be worth the expense for the extra fight. You can dress anyone up in the right outfit." He glanced at the whiteboard, trying to seem concerned about the price.
"You underestimate the value of total compliance. Besides, I see something there, in the eyes. And there's really no need to lie to me. I've been doing this long enough to know when I'm up against someone willing to pay whatever it takes, rare as that is. I'm not buying him. Just playing along for a bit. End of the night. Bored. Curious."
Sherlock looked directly at the man this time. He was older than Sherlock, older than John, with the confidence of a dedicated businessman and the detachment of a scientist. Irrelevant. He's not buying John. Sherlock found himself fighting his emotions. Might as well use them. "He reminds me of someone."
The man nodded. The auctioneer updated the board, assuming the nod signified a new bid, but he shook his head and gestured at Sherlock.
"We all have someone we wish we could see on their knees, don't we? He's all yours." The man walked away.
The auctioneer circled Sherlock's final bid in red marker.