Prompting Part XXXV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Comments

FILL 1b/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

He scanned the crowd. Sure enough, far left side, but close enough to the front for a detailed view. Aldebert "The Baron" Gruner. No one knew precisely what he looked like, and that was why Sherlock was here. The man was impeccably dressed, and presently looking through a small book, making quick notes with a Mont Blanc pen. He shut it and waved the writing utensil slightly in the air to bid on the girl. If he was interested, she would be his.

There was no talking here, no rambling of the auctioneer, just a man with a marker and a whiteboard who silently adjusted prices, wiping old figures off with a dirty white cloth and writing new ones, smearing the ink. Eventually, The Baron nodded. The board was carefully wiped clean, the girl led off stage. She tried to catch a glimpse of who had purchased her. Of her fate. He looked straight at her, unblinking. This would not be her final destination; he had a profit to make, after all.

Most of them were drugged. Some of them would have been high when they were first brought into homes by runners and had made a somewhat voluntary exchange of goods for services in order to be simply kept that way. Others were just taken, off the street. Sherlock had gotten a good look at Gruner when he defiantly eyed the girl. Now he could follow him. Track him down. Gruner got up and moved toward the exit, stopping briefly to talk to the cashier, and Sherlock turned to follow when the auctioneer brought forward three more people. These would be the adults.

How they got here he hadn't a clue. Ageing women who had served their purpose and were being discarded? But the men? This must be punishment for someone who broke an unbreakable rule. Turned someone into the police in exchange for their own freedom, perhaps? He glanced at them, idly curious to read how they achieved such a fate by observing their bearing and their faces, and caught sight of a man, standing impeccably straight, being led forward.

No. No. He was seeing things. He moved closer to the stage anyway, to get a better look at this man with the bearing of a soldier, standing at Parade Rest. As he got a clearer view, the man no longer looked like John.

The man was John.

FILL 2/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

No time. No time to think about how or why John was here, the fact that he very nearly turned and left and would never have seen him... though all these facts and more rushed into his head at once, competing for space in his already short-circuited brain. Must buy John. All that matters.How to actually do this would have to come later. For now, his single goal was to be the high bidder, so John did not go home with anyone else. It was the end of the auction. Many had already left with their prizes. Gruner was gone. Sherlock signed his intent, but he did so too quickly... someone noticed his haste. The other man stepped up closer to look at John, who was staring into the distance. The man abruptly brought his fingers close to John's eyes, but John didn't react. The man smiled and touched the brim of his hat. He saw something. It's the military training he is interested in, Sherlock thought. Or... or the lack of response would be...helpful... for whatever purpose the bidder had in mind. He needed no additional motivation to win any bidding war, but the thought steeled his resolve nonetheless. He would tap into the full faith and credit of the British Government if need be.

Mycroft was responsible for this whole mess anyway, a plan which required him to play dead for years. That kept him from contacting John, even when he had found out the snipers had been neutralised ( a fact he had not been informed of until after he had been whisked away). "Better everyone thinks you dead, Sherlock. Dead men have considerably more freedom. At least until they inevitably realise you are not among the ranks of the deceased." No discussions. No explanations. Just, go. Six months, and then you can have a lovely reunion with your army doctor.

Six months was infuriating. Twelve was intolerable. By the time it neared the two year mark, he felt a strange peace about the plan. As if it was too far gone now to do anything to change the momentum. As if, given the opportunity to explain himself, he would have no idea what to say. The isolation had become a relief. A part of Sherlock wondered if this was what hopelessness, what depression, felt like. It was only when his task was so close to completion that he began allowing himself to feel again. To permit anything resembling hope to reemerge. He had hoped somehow John would be waiting for him, though he suspected he would have moved on with his life. Occasionally, he tried to convince himself John would not look too longingly at his service weapon. He was not entirely convinced Mycroft would inform him if John was slipping.

Apparently, Mycroft had chosen not to inform him that John had left London to search for him. That Sherlock's desperate attempt to leave John some sort of clue this was just a magic trick had somehow worked. A part of him filed this away, so he could smile about how his John had fooled them all, suspecting he was alive all this time and making plans to track him down. No time. Must win.

Sherlock stayed out of John's line of sight. As much as he wished to let him know he would be safe, any recognition on his part could yet prove disastrous... and looking at the broken man whose eyes barely took in anything of his surroundings, he had no confidence in John's being aware enough of the situation to react judiciously. He flicked his fingers across the bridge of his nose as casually as he could manage.

Re: FILL 2/? (John in slave auction)

[kingtyrell.livejournal.com]

This is utterly fantastic. You have a brilliant writing style. I'm so excited about this, and hope there's more soon!

Re: FILL 2/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you!!!
Yup! I'm writing at this very moment, actually

FILL 3/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

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 4/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock walked toward the area where he had last seen Gruner. He had no idea how to finalise the purchase; he hadn't concerned himself with this aspect of the operation at all. A burly man placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the payment area near the door. Something was off. Maybe it was simply because he was a new face at such an event.

"Right this way, Mr....?"

"Sigerson. Problem?"

"Mr Sigerson. I apologise for the inconvenience, sir, but you do not appear to have an established line of credit at this time."

Sherlock was shown to a comfortable leather armchair in a small private office. He quickly assessed the room, noting everything he could without leaving his seat-- security was highly likely in a holding area for new clientele. Cameras. Recorders. From what he was able to assess, this was not a payment area. Nor was it merely an office. The walls were thick. The door heavy. It had all indications of being soundproof. To his left was a rather large index file which took up the entire wall. It resembled a card catalogue. The door opened slowly and silently, and a more slender man in a pinstriped suit entered the room.

"Mr... Sigerson. Apologies. Of course every regular customer at one point must have made an initial purchase. Since we occasionally deal in rather large sums, immediate payment isn't always convenient. One does not simply provide a corporate charge card." He smiled.

Oh. He thinks he's clever. Sherlock nodded. "I was told that there would be some qualifying measures."

"Yes. Told by... whom.... Mr... Sigerson."

"Ah. I was under the impression that one's sponsor was to remain a confidential matter."

"Can be, yes. If you choose. There are other methods of verification. So, tell me, Mr. Sigerson, are you stocking for resale, or for personal use?"

"Personal use." Stocking. Interesting.

"And is your primary residence within the United Kingdom, Mr Sigerson?"

"Yes." Sherlock was trying hard not to wince every time the representative used his "name". It was beyond obvious that they both knew it was false and the pretence was highly annoying.

He rose and removed a card from the filing system, made a few quick notes, and replaced it... then sat back down and pressed a button on a speaker system. "Bring in 138."

Re: FILL 4/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

This is super interesting so far! Very well written. Poor John D:

Re: FILL 4/? (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

Glad you are enjoying it! At least John will be back with Sherlock soon...

FILL 5/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

Whatever means they used to establish credit, Sherlock knew he would be considered an acceptable risk. He could easily wire money into an overseas account, use another name, falsify whatever documents would be required. He could probably even give them a few tips, though he suspected there were some rather capable minds behind the organization who, thankfully, wouldn't require his assistance. In any case, once this business was over and done with, he would simply send The Baron's description to the proper authorities and focus on getting John back home. He wasn't sure how much damage he would have to contend with. Careful assessment would be required.

There was a polite knock on the door, Pinstriped Suit gave permission to enter, and John stepped in... unaccompanied. Sherlock couldn't help but look surprised.

To see John was completely expected, but there was no escort, no guard. He had come of his own accord, much like a small child headed to the principal's office. Even if John had somehow seen Sherlock, was completely aware that he was to be the one purchasing him, the men running the auction couldn't have known... could they? They'd be banking on John simply arriving to his fate without a struggle. Sherlock's heart sank. John had come here simply because he was asked to. Worse still, even though Sherlock's eyes were on John from the second the door opened, John hadn't given him so much as a passing glance. As if he were not yet permitted to do so. John looked in the general direction of the man at the desk, but Sherlock couldn't say he was actually looking at him either. His eyes were focused downward, though he was clearly alert. When the man said, "138, attention," John raised his head, but he retained a certain haze about him which, even for a consummate actor, would have been hard to fake, and John never was a particularly good liar. He continued. "This is your new master."

John looked disappointed, and turned his gaze downward yet again. "Do not be alarmed. I'm certain you were told this time would come, and it does not indicate poor performance. Be proud you served your previous master well enough to be permitted to move on to this stage." John seemed perhaps slightly less... hurt, that was the expression. Hurt that he was being discarded. He was making an attempt to appear less so, but it was only partially accomplished. So. Broken. Terribly broken. Sherlock would have to show no signs of recognizing this, or caring in the least.

Sherlock turned to John. "I'm sure you served your other master well. You belong to me now." As much as it pained him to think about whatever John had been through, speaking the words, saying that John was his now, was surprisingly comforting-- and came with sense of relief. The man simply said, "The transfer is complete. Go to him."

John walked over to Sherlock and sat to his left, kneeling carefully, siting down on his heels and resting his hands in his lap.

"Excellent, " Sherlock said, with as strong and steady a voice as he could muster. "Now rise." John rose at a steady, even pace. Nothing too abrupt or too eager. Carefully measured for reverence.

"Mr Sigerson, I do need you to order him to sit back down."

"Sit," Sherlock commanded, and John obeyed.

"There is the completion of your vetting to attend to, before you are permitted to leave."

"I will be able to provide you with whatever documents you might require once I return to my Central London residence."

"That will not be necessary. As I mentioned, we have other methods of verification."



{Captcha Mycroft once again proves to be the master of foreshadowing. He says "they are watching".}

FILL 6/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con next two chapters

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock poured all his focus into remaining calm. He was doing nothing out of the ordinary, was well within the parameters of how this organization operated, yet the sense of foreboding was palpable.

"Order him to perform a service, Mr Sigerson."

"That won't be necessary."

"As you have previously stated your intent was for personal use, as opposed to resale, would you please clarify the reason for your refusal to allow us to ensure your satisfaction?" He smiled. "For the record."

"I'm confident he has been adequately trained." Sherlock was particularly skilled at turning creeping fear into defiance. Into contempt. This simple man in his fancy suit was trying his best to be intimidating, but it made no difference. John was his, and he was still the smartest person in the room. He smiled back.

"Indeed he has. Six months at minimum to ensure full compliance and to meet our clients' high expectations."

Christ. "Personal use is rather... personal. I am not an exhibitionist. I have agreed to pay my fee, and I have no desire to cater to the whims of an intransigent voyeur."

"Sir, I'm afraid you misunderstand our organization's position on the matter. While I understand your desire for privacy, in lieu of a formal recommendation from a member in good standing, we require assurance that you are not affiliated with any law enforcement agency. A demonstration of good faith and support is required in such circumstances." Again the polite smile, but with a telling gleam in the eyes this time.

Sherlock's mind raced. He could have swiped a wallet at the auction and deduced some club membership or other connection to sham, given enough foresight, but it was far too late for that and it would likely not have been enough in any case. Now John was to perform some sort of sexual act on his person. Or he upon John's. Which would be the more moral path-- to distress John the least, should he come to find out at some future date-- or would it even matter? The right choice is whatever would be the least conspicuous. To be serviced, likely. What would be appropriate for a quick demonstration? The answer was obvious and he forced the words out before he could give himself any chance to think about them.

"Very well then. Suck me."

FILL 7/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter Text

John pivoted and made for Sherlock's belt without a moment's hesitation. He was immensely grateful John didn't appear to know who he was, and the secondary realisation-- that John not knowing who he was had somehow been twisted into a source of gratitude-- was like a knife in the gut. It made him want to weep, but... that's not the reaction you should show when someone is already unzipping your trousers and about to... oh god, how do I react to this? John was already tugging down his pants.

It was all too much. Too much to maintain his cover, to gauge the reactions of the man watching them both, to try and discern exactly what type of "training" John had gone through to better construct the deprogramming he would have to undergo later and... and... and fingers, tongue. He closed his eyes to block out the competing priorities and was hit with a pure wave of physical sensation as an awkward reward. It didn't feel, good, exactly, but he was certainly responding to what he reminded himself was nothing more than physical stimuli. Simple neurological wiring... and he fought every second of it.

He often closed his eyes when focusing his mind and eliminating distractions, but this time it only served to make him more aware of his own sped up breathing. Faster than mere nerves could account for. Sherlock couldn't help but catalogue the new sensations. Mouth. Warm. Yes. Of course it's warm... body temperature is considerably higher than the surrounding air. Cold. Air hitting... wet skin as John slowly slid down to release him, only to return once again, with even heightened sensation, to the warmth of John's mouth and his own increased blood flow, as John engulfed him a second time. Leaning forward to push himself further into Sherlock's hips. Deeper. It could be pleasant... even ... even very good... if he wanted this. If they wanted this. He opened his eyes abruptly. "I don't relish the... thought of being observed. This is certainly sufficient proof. Jo... just stop. Enough."

John stopped abruptly. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's face, then quickly away. To the man in the suit. To the card catalogue. To the door. Sherlock watched John's every move. Took in his confusion. His fear. How profoundly stupid he had been-- an attempt to preserve his own dignity at what he now saw as John's expense. He quickly made himself as presentable as possible as he heard a sharp click and the door opened yet again.

"Welcome to The Bagatelle, Mr Sigerson. We members go by code names here. I do find it a tad melodramatic, but ...well, so be it. They are generally related to our particular area of interest, not our profession, though they have been known to coincide. The Minister. The Doctor. The Baron. I'm The Colonel." He shrugged. "What can I say? Quite a few of us with military titles. And though it may sound like it, they are not related to any sort of rank. We are all equals here, without judgment. I'm sure you will uncover a suitable name for yourself." He gave Sherlock a quick wink.

"Apologies for the vetting process, I suspect your... sponsor... neglected to mention that it can be a bit intrusive for some-- and probably enjoyable for others-- but it's a necessity and a one time occurrence. The recording -- that should come as no surprise to you-- is our security. Our protection against buyer's remorse, you see. Everyone's purchase is final. Good day."

The man touched the edge of his hat and flared his hand out in mock salute and Sherlock was left with the uneasy feeling that he had just been bid on and bought. Number 139.

Corrections ( missing italics) FILL 7/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

John pivoted and made for Sherlock's belt without a moment's hesitation. He was immensely grateful John didn't appear to know who he was, and the secondary realisation-- that John not knowing who he was had somehow been twisted into a source of gratitude-- was like a knife in the gut. It made him want to weep, but... that's not the reaction you should show when someone is already unzipping your trousers and about to... oh god, how do I react to this? John was already tugging down his pants.

It was all too much. Too much to maintain his cover, to gauge the reactions of the man watching them both, to try and discern exactly what type of "training" John had gone through to better construct the deprogramming he would have to undergo later and... and... and fingers, tongue. He closed his eyes to block out the competing priorities and was hit with a pure wave of physical sensation as an awkward reward. It didn't feel, good, exactly, but he was certainly responding to what he reminded himself was nothing more than physical stimuli. Simple neurological wiring... and he fought every second of it.

He often closed his eyes when focusing his mind and eliminating distractions, but this time it only served to make him more aware of his own sped up breathing. Faster than mere nerves could account for. Sherlock couldn't help but classify the new sensations. Mouth. Warm. Yes. Of course it's warm... body temperature is considerably higher than the surrounding air. Cold. Air hitting... wet skin as John slowly slid down to release him, only to return once again, with even heightened sensation, to the warmth of John's mouth and his own increased blood flow, as John engulfed him a second time. Leaning forward to push himself further down into Sherlock's hips. Deeper. It could be pleasant... even ... even very good... if he wanted this. If they wanted this. He opened his eyes abruptly. "I don't relish the... thought of being observed. This is certainly sufficient proof. Jo... just stop. Enough."

John stopped abruptly. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's face, then quickly away. To the man in the suit. To the card catalogue. To the door. Sherlock watched John's every move. Took in his confusion. His fear. How profoundly stupid he had been-- an attempt to preserve his own dignity at what he now saw as John's expense. He quickly made himself as presentable as possible as he heard a sharp click and the door opened yet again.

"Welcome to The Bagatelle, Mr Sigerson. We members go by code names here. I do find it a tad melodramatic, but ...well, so be it. They are generally related to our particular area of interest, not our profession, though they have been known to coincide. The Minister. The Doctor. The Baron. I'm The Colonel." He shrugged. "What can I say? Quite a few of us with military titles. And though it may sound like it, they are not related to any sort of rank. We are all equals here, without judgment. I'm sure you will uncover a suitable name for yourself." He gave Sherlock a quick wink.

"Apologies for the vetting process, I suspect your... sponsor... neglected to mention that it can be a bit intrusive for some-- and probably enjoyable for others-- but it's a necessity and a one time occurrence. The recording -- that should come as no surprise to you-- is our security. Our protection against buyer's remorse, you see. Everyone's purchase is final. Good day."

The man touched the edge of his hat and flared his hand out in mock salute and Sherlock was left with the uneasy feeling that he had just been bid on and bought. Number 139.

FILL 8/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock remembers everything... unless he specifically chooses not to. He remembered things from long ago, from before Mycroft taught him how to create a Mind Palace (an attempt to make his poor, slow brother function at a more acceptable clip). He did not remember what he said to the man in the hat... or if he even said anything at all. He did not remember walking out of that room, or getting a hotel.

He has a sort of backup file, for deleted information. And it wasn't in there. And he wouldn't have deleted any of this anyway, difficult as it was to face, because anything that helped bring that ring down would become dearly protected information. He could only assume he didn't...record... it properly as it was happening.

A nondescript, tourist-level hotel. He glanced at his shoes for more data. Must have asked to be taken to the nearest one and the cabbie obliged. He found only large bills in his pocket-- apparently he had tipped him well. The last thing he could remember clearly was the grim look on John's face as they entered the smallish room, with its two beds with polyester coverlets that hadn't been washed since the remodel three years ago, a mini-fridge and a fairly new television.

John was on the second bed, facing away from him. He was wearing only a vest and pants, and staring intently at the sheet. Sherlock used the moment to clandestinely examine John's back, his arms, whatever exposed skin he could spot, for any scarring. There was none. He could only assume they preserved his body and tortured his mind. John was strong. John knew pain, knew suffering. He wished there were physical scars to read, so he could know, so he could plan... repair. Six months. More, he can only assume. John wouldn't be so easy to break, and if that was their minimum...

Mycroft warned him. Damned omniscient git. He had said not to try anything... just go, come back and handle the mess later-- let the chips fall where they may. But he hadn't wanted to be forgotten. He had tried to let John know he was alive. Tried to plant a clue here and there. Selfish again. Selfish to want to see scars and know what to do next. Always selfish. And what had happened? John followed him. He would have had no idea what he was getting into, he probably just grabbed his gun and took off. Mycroft knew Sherlock would have backtracked and found him, so he said absolutely nothing. It was difficult to blame Mycroft. After all, it's what he would have done if he knew someone was jeopardizing the outcome of a case.

Probably.

Maybe.

But blaming him was worth a try.

He looked at John again. This time he must have sensed he was being watched, because John turned around and faced Sherlock. The haze he had observed before was gone, but he wasn't able to read much before John turned away again. He looked weaker than before. Even more lost. Sherlock had to remind himself that this was a one-sided rescue. John hadn't made any connection as to who Sherlock was. Just another man who would want something from him. At least that would no longer be a requirement.

FILL 8b/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

"Your name is John. John Hamish Watson."

John looked at him again, but wasn't entirely connecting. It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps he had dissociated from being John. Maybe he had formed a new personality, a schism? Maybe the person he was talking to simply was not John and 'John' was buried somewhere within him.

John nodded and repeated, "John Hamish Watson." Some of that utter despair which John carried with him seemed to have lifted. Just the tiniest bit, but any steps in that direction were filled with hope and promise. Sherlock was so pleased to hear him speak that he almost missed what he was conveying beneath the repeated words.

"No. No, I'm... I'm not giving you that name. It's your actual name. From... before."

John looked puzzled, but nodded. Sherlock suspected that for the man in front of him (whomever he might be), there was no 'before'.

Sherlock sat cross-legged in the bed and closed his eyes. He needed to think. What danger were they truly in? Simply paying until Mycroft's team took care of things seemed a reasonable option. If he provided them with information about The Baron and his network, could it be traced back to him? If so, how? The more he considered it, the more he thought the filming was just an intimidation tactic which served no actual purpose. Yes, yes, he was as guilty as anyone else. Fine. That wasn't enough for honour among thieves. If his reputation was destroyed along with the organisation, so be it. He was already dead. Already discredited. Why should he care?

He called Mycroft. Before he knew it he was on the floor pacing, reminding himself again of one of the many reasons he preferred to text. When his brother answered it was straight to the point, without so much as a greeting.

"Was he there?"

"Send me your possibles. I'll spot him."

"Excellent. He didn't send a representative? Surprising."

"No. There in the flesh. Apparently he... likes to make some decisions personally."

"Ah. Much obliged. So, did you find any good deals? Holiday season's right around the corner and I've no ideas for Mummy."


Sherlock pushed the button and threw the phone down on the carpet in a single motion. It infuriated him that there was no receiver to slam.

Moments later came the text. Sherlock glanced at the mobile, still lying on the floor.

Apologies. I agree it is a thoroughly distasteful way to spend one's afternoon. Your assistance, however, was invaluable.

He fought the urge to ask Mycroft if he'd seen John lately and tell him that he, in fact, had.

First things first. Get John safely home.

FILL 9a/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

"Am I a gift?"

"A gift? No. Did you... why do you think you are a gift?"

"You haven't asked anything of me. I was transferred to you. You said you wanted privacy, but we have privacy now and you still haven't asked anything of me. Even to finish. You're not selling me again... that part I think is true, since there was no reason to lie, so... you're giving me to someone. Are you avoiding a transfer fee?"

Sherlock's expression was too horrified to be comical, but it came close.

"I don't know if there is one, but I thought maybe there was some sort of fee, or paperwork, or something and you wouldn't have to pay it if you just said I was for you. To be honest, it would also explain why you bought someone who would cost less, if you didn't have much to spend."

Sherlock stared.

"Oh, I'm not offended. It doesn't mean I'm not good. Over 30 is a bargain. Though, you did throw me when you wanted me to stop-- when you said you wanted privacy. No one really cares about privacy. At first, I did think I wasn't doing a good enough job, but I played it back in my head, and I knew that wasn't the case."

Sherlock turned away, to look at anything but John, embarrassed. The less Sherlock spoke, the more John seemed to fill in the dead spaces. It was John, but it wasn't. Nerves masked by bravado. Entirely too many words.

John smiled devilishly. "Yeah, I was right. That wasn't the case. So. It would also make sense that you were taking me to someone and didn't want to use any services yourself. Someone it would upset you to think you shared me with. A sibling? A parent? You can finish, though. If you really think they'd mind, I'll do whatever you want, of course, but... hell, even if I wasn't purchased, it's not like I'd be a virgin, so it wouldn't matter anyway. They wouldn't expect me to not have had a past. If you already know what they're into, that'd be great, so I can be ready. I'm well prepared, but it would help me out if...."

"I'm not giving you to someone." Sherlock finally found his voice. Hearing John aggressively marketing himself was too surreal. "I bought you to free you."

"Oh." John was silent.

"We need to go. Quickly."

Outside the hotel, Sherlock hailed a cab to the station as he was approaching the kerb. When one came, John side-stepped Sherlock, who was busy scrutinizing the cabbie, to ensure he could open the door for him.

After a few minutes' drive, John turned to Sherlock and spoke quietly, "Are we on the run?"

The question startled him. He'd been trying to file away details about the organization and to plan the next stop on their journey. He hoped John hadn't asked him anything he didn't hear, didn't respond to. It was unlikely, but the thought worried him nonetheless. He turned to John, and was about to answer, when John spoke again.

"From them. Did we escape?"

"We haven't done... you haven't done anything wrong. They aren't following us. We did what we needed to do and we are free to go now. I'm taking you back home."

FILL 9b/? "138" (John in slave auction)--TW for Non Con

[(Anonymous)]

There was more silence. Sherlock had made a quick study of memory. Older memories, those formed in youth, are more tenacious. That may be John's path back. But he didn't know the details of John's life. He didn't know stories... only generalities he had been able to deduce. Useless.

"You don't like your middle name. Hamish."

"I don't?"

The little things made all the difference in the world now. Sherlock felt buoyant simply because John had interpreted this as a statement of fact about his past, not a present-day command to not like part of his own name.

"You wouldn't tell me what it was."

"What is your name?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I don't like my name either. I go by Sherlock."

"Should I call you that? Sherlock?"

"Yes... John."

When they arrived at the station, Sherlock purchased tickets to London. To have a private compartment would require leaving the next morning. Sherlock weighed the options. Being back home was the best thing for John, but so many things remained potential triggers. The enclosed space of a vehicle hadn't been a problem, but being around other people may yet be. He opted for a private car tomorrow morning. Which meant a ride to yet another hotel tonight.

Sherlock chose one as close to the station as possible. Odd how all hotel interiors are essentially the same. Again, John anxiously eyed him before heading to the bed closest to the door.

"You are a doctor," Sherlock said quietly, as John disrobed. "And a soldier."

"I know I'm a soldier," said John. He watched as Sherlock looked over his body from a distance. He seemed to relax.

Sherlock managed a weak smile. Yes. That he would remember. "You were a soldier. A captain. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You were injured in the line of duty and are retired."

"What are you?"

"I'm a detective."

John frowned. "I thought..." His voice trailed off.

"Go on. It's fine. Nothing you ask will ever offend me."

"You rescued me. I thought for a moment that you knew me. But it's your job. Saving people."

"Oh, I most definitely knew you. Know you. The people who took you... we were both working to stop them. It's what we do. It's what you do, anyway. You are the one who saves people, John. I mostly solve puzzles. You've saved lots of people. You were trying to save me when they took you. There is much to tell, but right now I need to get you home. It's our home. Baker Street, in London."

FILL 10a/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

"We lived... we live together?"

"Flatmates. And partners. In the business sense."

John gazed up at Sherlock with a disarming intensity, and more than a bit of charm, and smiled slowly. "Still are. Partners. In the business sense."

Sherlock shook his head and stumbled through the discussion. "John. Perhaps it wasn't... entirely clear given my... recent actions, but... you are free. You have no obligation to me in any... sexual sense."

John teased, "Try again. You might be able to make that sound even less convincing."

"I've said it before, though I'm sure you wouldn't remember. It's not my area."

"It's everyone's area." John added, "Sherlock," as an afterthought, as if testing out the name. "And helping people get their needs met is myarea."

John. You're... I knew you before and believe me, this is not you. You've been through something I can't even conceive of, but you are here and that is what matters most... and I don't need you to turn up the volume on whatever bit of sexuality I might actually have. I'd rather prefer you didn't, actually. "

John nodded and looked distressed, frightened, even. "Forgive me. Please," he said just shy of a whisper.

Sherlock realised what he had said just a little too late. That was a command. A weak one, but a command nonetheless. John had pushed a line and Sherlock, secretly relishing every second of what had momentarily *felt* like the real John-- even if the words were still utterly wrong-- failed to consider the potential consequences.

"It's fine." Sherlock reached out his hand to gently touch John's shoulder, to reassure him he would not harm him, and felt his whole frame relax. "I know you want to understand. You can even ask me questions without actually stating them. As I said, I won't be offended." Sherlock took a breath. This was not something he had ever pictured himself discussing... with anyone, let alone John. The man who threatened to wreck the balance...the grit in the lens.

"Sexual desire, for me, is like a circuit with a loose wire. Sometimes I feel it connect, and I can feel the flow of sexual electricity, but most of the time it doesn't. It's not something I've encouraged. It intrudes on my thoughts. I used to be able to push it aside, it happened so rarely. Like everything else... if I'm working and I'm hungry, I just keep working, and I will be so absorbed in a case that I will forget about the hunger. Well, eventually I do have to eat. And eventually, my body provides its own release. But at least it doesn't distract me, or cloud my judgment. I prefer to have my blood stay in my brain."

"That must be terribly difficult, to not think about sex. I would find it impossible."

"Not for me. Usually."

"And when it's... connected, you feel it? You want it?"

"Briefly. I can choose to stoke the flame or let it die out."

John scrunched his face and gave Sherlock a long, assessing look, as if trying to make sense of Sherlock all in one moment and finding it an impossible task. "If you aren't on a case, why let it die out? If it feels good why not do it?"

"Because it is an unnecessary indulgence, and it only serves to exacerbate an already hopeless situation."

"So you don't seek it out consciously."

Sherlock curtailed a sigh. It was important, crucial, in fact, to get John comfortable with asking questions and treating him as an equal instead of a superior. And he would be honest. "No. The person of interest was unobtainable. I was not about to set myself up for a lifetime of pining. If any other should happen to come along, I will reassess the situation, but as it took me twenty years to find someone I found fascinating enough to capture my interest, I don't think it likely I'll stumble across another any time soon."

John made a pained expression. "You had it bad." His expression gradually became more pensive. "Being in a relationship, matters that much to you?"

"It's safe to say that that happened first. The sexual element caught me off guard."

FILL 10b/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

"So, that's why you refuse my offers. Quaint, that. Old-fashioned. It can't be because you don't know me well enough... is it because we were friends, flatmates, and that would make it somehow awkward?"

"John. I'm not going to take advantage of the situation we find ourselves in at the moment."

John smirked.

"Perhaps I should dig up the parade of girlfriends you've had as eyewitnesses. You are straight. You will get past this sense of obligation to me, and you will probably find yourself a nice blonde girl with a nice figure who is suitably domestic. Maybe she'll enjoy gong to the cinema, knitting and baking her own bread and you'll have a baby and a white picket fence in no time." That came out a bit more hostile than expected. Not good.

John's expression softened. "You're right. Of course you're right."

John broke the silence. "It doesn't need to be sexual. I mean, if you aren't comfortable with that, I could... do other things."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"I mean, I'm... it... never mind. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Go ahead. You were saying you could do other things." There was something almost endearing about John fumbling for words and Sherlock tried to look amiable. He gave John one of his best fake smiles.

"Maybe. When we get... home."

"Fine. We will discuss it then. Goodnight, John."

John gave a weak smile. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Re: FILL 10b/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[kingtyrell.livejournal.com]

Sorry I haven't commented in ages, but I had three major reports due this week (I'm free now!!). This is amazing. Thank you so much for writing it!

Re: FILL 10b/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

I remembered you had papers due. I just figured I'd keep on going and you'd come back around when things got less chaotic and it'd be waiting for you as a nice little "you finished the papers! Yippee!" Present
( it was getting a tad echo-ey, but that's just my own insecurity at work)

FILL 11/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock firmly believed neither of them had slept more than a few hours, but John was up and fully dressed before Sherlock woke, and busy checking the room for any personal items, even though they had brought none. Sherlock continued to observe whilst feigning sleep, glancing at John's reflection in the hotel mirror, directly across from the bed.

A few minutes later, Sherlock yawned conspicuously, and John immediately turned and handed him his neatly-folded shirt and trousers. After they were both dressed, John went to open the door, but instead doubled back and checked the bathroom one last time. Sherlock considered mentioning they had nothing more than the clothes on their back and the mobile and wallet which remained in his jacket pocket, but decided against saying anything which could influence John's behaviour, in favour of pure observation. As they exited the room, John walked a few steps behind Sherlock until they reached the front door, when he moved ahead to hold it open. As Sherlock muttered a thank you, John surged forward and rushed to the kerb to hail a cab.

Sherlock forced himself not to continue looking at John, closing his eyes during the ride. Something had shifted today. John had stopped making furtive, expectant glances at him. He initially considered that to be a positive sign, but realised it was far too early to tell if it was for the better. He debated the merits and consequences of letting John open the cab door for him once they arrived at the train station, and decided he would permit it for now. Once they were in more familiar surroundings (familiar in theory, anyway) he would try to get him to curtail that sort of behaviour.

He couldn't help but wryly observe that John was rather focused on doors. The other shoe would drop... the next level of servitude, emerge. Sherlock disliked not knowing what to expect. Cooking and cleaning, probably. He wanted to engage John in some sort of conversation, but remained uncertain of what to say. Likely he will take on the role of my housekeeper and I'll have to... oh... His eyes shot open. Mrs Hudson.

Of course, Mycroft had informed her that Sherlock would be returning-- it wouldn't do to show up at her front door and give the elderly woman a heart attack, seeing a dead man-- but she wouldn't be expecting John. Would be delighted to see him. And his non-reaction to her would be... problematic? Maybe if Mycroft... Sherlock shook his head slowly, scarcely believing his own utter stupidity. Had he completely forgotten how to think? Clearly he was focussing on nothing but John's immediate well-being. Did Mycroft think John was still searching for him? Had he already sent someone out to retrieve John? Had he...been...following John? Known where he was?

He thought back to their brief phone conversation. Mycroft had always believed the end justified the means. Even when he taught Sherlock how to play chess, he had committed a rather inelegant queen swap, which Sherlock had protested, but Mycroft only stated rather coldly that the objective was to win and the swap allowed it to occur five, possibly even six, moves earlier.

Sherlock struggled to keep his rising fury in check. It would not help John to see him this agitated.

Outside the station, John hurried out before the cab had fully stopped in order to open the door for Sherlock. This time he nodded and said nothing. John seemed more at ease. They headed toward the platform and waited on a bench for the arrival. A short, heavy-set man with dark hair and a trim beard took a seat on the far side of bench and played with his daughter, who looked to be about three-and-a-half, while his wife fished tickets out of her purse. John grew agitated and shifted his body as close to Sherlock's as possible, away from the man. Sherlock studied the stranger's features carefully before suggesting to John that they move closer to the platform. John nodded quickly and was up and away before Sherlock could rise.

FILL 11B/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

The train arrived shortly thereafter, and they headed to their private berth... Sherlock scanning the crowd for anyone John seemed to pay special attention to. He didn't notice any unusual responses. John opened and closed the door per his usual, and sat. He leaned his head against the glass of the window and closed his eyes.

Sherlock waited until the gentle motion of the train lulled John to sleep before calling Mycroft.

"Yes?"

Sherlock might have been annoyed at his brother's inability to say a simple hello if he hadn't frequently used the same greeting himself. This time the lack of exchange of pleasantries seemed appropriate.

"I need you to inform Mrs Hudson that..."

"Oh. He found you. Good. We knew he was a few steps behind, but the business in Kandahar took longer than expected, so I was fairly confident he would catch up. Would have hurt his pride to tip him off. And yes, you are entitled to one of your little fits owing to my not telling you he was on your trail, but, ultimately, it was far more fitting for he to be the Stanley to your Livingston. What is it? Something's... he did find you, yes?"

"No. I found him. To inform Mrs Hudson that neither John nor myself will be seeing any visitors, so to please politely, or impolitely, decline all offers... though I suspect there will be few, with me still dead and John... slightly less so. Yourself excepted. I willhave a great deal to discuss with you when I am back in Baker Street again."

"Sherlock, do you mean to say he..."

"Good day, Mycroft."

"Sher..."

Yes, whoever invents a way to slam a mobile will make a fortune.

Re: FILL 12a/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

"Two twenty one Baker Street," Sherlock announced before turning from the cabbie back to John. "When we first met, we were both looking for a flatshare and I gave you this address. 221 B, to be precise. We were at St Bartholomews Hospital, a mutual acquaintance-- friend, perhaps-- introduced us. You met me here later that evening... took a cab, came inside, and..." He waited for a moment, hoping to hear John's voice continue the narrative. "And you thought it was a terrible mess. We had our first case that very evening."

"There was..." John smiled and shook his head. "No."

"There was what?"

"I was just was going to say there was a head in the fridge. But there couldn't have been a ..."

"No, John, there was!" Sherlock beamed and grabbed both John's shoulders. He cocked his head to the side. "Well, not at that time, actually, but that scarcely matters because there was a head in the fridge-- I was examining the rate of the coagulation of-- yes. As odd as it sounds, that is absolutely correct."

John smiled, and his eyes softened as they travelled to the corners, in search of memories. "It smelled like formaldehyde. So did the butter. I bought new butter, because I couldn't stomach the toast." He smiled again, pleased at Sherlock's animated reaction.

Sherlock was still seated in the cab, but everything about him was a flurry of activity. "A head in the fridge and thumbs in the crisper, and, Chinese takeout, and this...thing... you made with peas... sometimes and..."

"Well, I suppose I'll have my work cut out for me when we get home."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. That part could be dealt with later. John remembered something. It was possible. John could discover who he was, he just needed to be in familiar surroundings. They needed a case.

When they arrived, John looked at the doorway, but showed no signs of recognition. Sherlock reminded himself that everything was not likely to come streaming back all at once like some horrible film. These things took time. He scarcely reigned in his joy as he began to ascend the stairs, savoring the reunion with his own small part of the greatness that was London, until it occurred to him that he would likely meet with Mycroft, sitting in his chair.

Re: FILL 12b/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

{note...the Bacha Bazi are a group of men in Afghanistan who use boys as sex slaves. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacha_bazi}


John stayed precisely two steps behind. When they reached the top of the stairs, it was John who spoke.

"The man with the violin."

Both Holmeses turned to face John, who had turned his gaze towards the violin on the sofa.

"He came to pack up things. He wanted to take the vioiln-- it was lying on the sofa. And I said not to take it. That you might need it when you came back. To help you think." John looked at Mycroft who was sure enough, sitting in Sherlock's chair. "And I expected you would say something condescending, like I needed some rest. Or say I was crazy. But instead, you didn't say I was wrong. You didn't say anything at all... just smiled a tiny smile, like someone who knows something, and turned and left it on the sofa, untouched."

"And there it remains, John. Do you know who I am?"

"No. No, I don't."

Sherlock scowled. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to begin.

"John, go check the fridge for heads."

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Well, that was said with quite a bit less sarcasm than expected."

"Shut up, Mycroft. this is not a game."

"Indeed not. You were saying you found him. Where?"

Mycroft looked like he wanted to make a gesture with a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock took pleasure in not offering him one. "Where did you say you lost track of him?"

"South of Kandahar. we caught up with him and were going to provide him with information as to your last point of contact, but the agent said he went into a tent and disappeared. he assumed he intended to raid a camp nearby."

"Of Bacha Bazi."

"So he was out to liberate some dancing boys along the way?" Mycroft glanced at John, who had emptied the contents of the fridge onto the counter and was busy wiping down the shelves. "Noble, your soldier. Whatever brought you back to Afghanistan?"

"We didn't meet in Afghanistan. We met in Chisinau."

"Moldova? Before or after your..."

Sherlock cut off the line of questioning with a look. Mycroft observed John again, far more subtly this time.

"I see no injuries."

"Some injuries are not visible."

Mycroft leaned forward. "How did you get him out? We've been trying to infiltrate that camp for over a decade. With good men."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, then at his chair. "I'll send you the bill."

"You purchased him?"

"I happened to be staking out an auction at the time. It was expedient."

"Do you realize how easily you could have been spotted, Sherlock? Maybe you were. Maybe they knew it was you from the moment you walked through the door. The Underworld knows you are alive. The Yard has its suspicions, always a step or two behind the criminal element. One member of the force-- Anderson, I believe-- has made tracking you across the Continent his personal obsession. You should have noted where John went and we would have gotten him out."

"The same way you got him in? No." Sherlock picked up his violin, and started on a discordant arpeggio. Mycroft only spoke louder.

"You are letting your heart rule your head, Sherlock. I'll admit it wasn't easy, given the circumstances, but you are entirely too close to this to be objective. He will need specialised care."

Sherlock stopped the cacophony. "And some debriefing, perhaps?"

"Why must you always be so cynical? I am merely trying to help."

"Why must your actions always inspire cynicism? And I accept your acknowledgement of responsibility."

Sherlock turned back toward John, who was thoroughly absorbed in cleaning the bottom vent with a cotton bud and rubbing alcohol.

Mycroft looked uncharacteristically grave. "The very best care, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Outpatient only."

FILL 13a/? "138" (John in slave auction)

[(Anonymous)]

"The appointment is in three days' time. Nine o'clock, with Mary Morstan."

"Very well. And where is Doctor Morstan's office?"

"Ms Mary Morstan... is a psychiatric nurse."

"Surely someone more qualified would be better suited to..."

"Oh, Mary is uniquely qualified. She is an expert at this type of deprogramming. Need I remind you that you do not possess a single degree in criminology, nor could you add formal police training to your personal CV?"

"Point taken." Sherlock still felt uneasy, but perhaps he would with anyone. This was, after all, John's mental well-being at stake. "Where is her office?"

"She would prefer to meet John at Baker Street, on his own 'home turf', so to speak. She wants to observe how he interacts when he is most at ease, and requests you not be present, but that you give him formal leave to speak with her about anything he wishes to-- including you-- in your absence."

Sherlock's response was swift. "I would like to meet with her first."

"I anticipated that possibility. Noon today."

"I can't leave John alone."

"Surely a man dedicated to catering to your... every whim... is capable of taking care of himself for a few hours."

Sherlock started pacing the room. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Where is her office?"

The office, just off Leinster Gardens, was completely lacking in personality, and appeared to have been set up fairly recently by a rather soulless interior decorator afraid to offend clients by showing something as crass as an actual personality. It was precisely what Sherlock had hoped not to see. White walls, two white leather chairs, fake white flowers on a (not white! quelle suprise!) antique pedestal.

Mary Morstan arrived promptly and extended her hand in greeting. Sherlock took her hand, though his focus remained the bookcase, eyeing the volumes for a clue as to her methodology.

"Some of them are gifts from my professor, a mentor to me. He'd be insulted if I didn't at least display them, although I admit I've strayed quite a bit from the original training I received. You are welcome to ask me anything you'd like about my approach."

Sherlock smiled. She was quicker than he had expected. "Unnecessary. Besides, in the softer sciences, what we think we do, according to our grasp of theory, and what we do in actuality can often be at odds. Theory can only get you so far; after that, puzzles are solved with instinct and adaptation as additional facts are uncovered."

"Mr Holmes reviewed John's file with me." Hearing her call him 'John' with such ease made Sherlock vaguely uncomfortable. "It seems we are both in the business of uncovering mysteries, Mr Holmes. It's odd, referring to both of you as Mr Holmes. Might I call you Sherlock, seeing as you are my patient's friend, and... not my boss?"

"Whatever you wish."

"Good. It would help if we could show John we have a friendly rapport. But, let's be more direct. Even at the risk of being blunt. You're not exactly his friend, are you? Please, have a seat, Sherlock."

"I prefer to stand, Mary." He expected to see some indication of discomfort now that they were on equal footing, nominally, at least, but she appeared to take no offense. "Yes, he calls me his master. Right now, he has no other experiences from which to draw to determine if another label might be more appropriate. But I am still his friend, no matter what he chooses to call me. On my end, it has never changed."

Mary sat in one of the white chairs and crossed her legs. "Yet you purchased him?"

"Why is this made to be such an issue? Yes. Yes I did. Of course I did. I got him out of there and kept him safe." Sherlock momentarily eyed the door as an escape, but instead, took a chair and slid it closer, to better observe Mary. "Do you have a better alternative to suggest with your glorious hindsight? One that wouldn't have risked losing track of him as he was transferred to whatever vile creature would purchase him, use him..."

"Certainly not. It was expedient, straight-forward, and precisely what I would have done-- given I had the cash."

"A minor detail." Sherlock smiled and relaxed, but no sooner had he done so than he realised he had let his guard down terribly. This woman was interesting.