Chapter Text
John Watson's feet burned and his neck was sore and his wounded left shoulder blazed, but in the slave auction he stood as still as he could. Ahead of him across the wooden stage were a hundred people or maybe more who were currently bidding on the girl to John's right. She was twenty something and beautiful with blonde hair and full lips that matched her exposed pink sex. John couldn't focus on any of this, however. If he did he would remember his own nakedness and shame and his panic would turn to anger, and he would give in to the desire at the back of his mind:
“The handler behind me is looking the other way,” he thought. “Even with my hands cuffed behind me I could take the knife from his waist and stab him before someone stopped me. I bet I could stab him twice. It only takes one good slice to the gut and then no one would be able to stop the blood.”
But John already had welt marks all over the soles of his feet, and he didn't want more. His feet were caned...many times... after he had punched a handler in the throat three days ago. So instead of adding more bruises, he focused his mind on the pains he already had, including the dull ache in his stomach and the dizziness in his head from having eaten nothing but water for five days. A quiet red filled his mind and he blocked out everything else.
But he was being shoved forward now. It was his turn. The auctioneer was talking about him, and now bright lights were in his eyes and for a moment he forgot who and where he was.
“...quite rare indeed! A relatively new slave with four years medical training and a year of domestic duties....well-suited for a variety of tasks including medical work, security, domestic services....”
“I didn't spend a year doing domestic duties,” John thought. “I just sold myself into slavery two weeks ago.”
Maybe they were counting the time he lived by himself spending all his money and sinking into depression as domestic duties. Still, that was only eight months...
“we will start the bidding at $2,000.”
The room was quiet and John could hear some muttering and coughing and maybe some arguing in the back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please. Granted he's a little old, but he's well-trained already and adaptable for all kinds of....”
“$2,000” a woman's voice called in the front. John couldn't see her past the lights but she sounded old.
“$2,000 it is. Can I get $2,500? No? Going once, going twice....”
“$5,000” a man's voice called. John could just catch a glimpse of his suit.
“$5,000! A flair for the dramatic I see!” Apparently that was much more than he had anticipated John selling for. “Going once, going twice.....sold! To a... Mr. Holmes!”
John had no time to think. He was taken to the back to be collected. Every step put pressure on his welts, but John hardly noticed. He had barely survived being a slave for two weeks and all he had to do was stand around. If he was bought for some factory to be worked to death...well, he would make sure Mr. Holmes regretted his purchase.
Mr. Holmes arrived within an hour. He had thin hair and a polished silver suit, a red tie, a large black umbrella, and a silent young woman following him around who must be his secretary. He looked John up and down and grimaced, apparently not liking what he saw. John felt his anger rising again. “I shouldn't even be here. Who is this posh prick to judge me?” John thought.
“I haven't bothered to read the government auction's report on you, since they tend to be full of lies anyhow or worse....exaggerations” Mr. Holmes said. “But there are some things I can't help but notice. Your left shoulder is giving you trouble and you unconsciously adjust it several times a minute. One might think it's a wound from a cane or a whip, but this is clearly a wound from a few years ago that healed a long time ago and it's apparently a piercing pain from the way you try to adjust the shoulder blade away from a single point. My hypothesis, Mr. Watson, is you were shot, and the way you stand is so military it must have been in battle. I believe you were medically trained, since that would be quite a large lie for even the government to completely fabricate, but I don't think you've been a slave for more than a month. Everything about you suggests anger at your situation. You have welts on your feet, obviously punished for extreme disobedience but where buyers couldn't see the marks.” Mr. Holmes paused and looked at John and smiled. John was sure that his face gave away his incredulity at how correct this Holmes man was.
“In brief summary, Mr. Watson, I believe you are a dangerous army doctor, naturally submissive—although you haven't come to terms with that yet—recent slave who will be a great and interesting challenge for my brother Sherlock”
How could someone know all this just by looking at him? He must have read some report, despite what he says and he's bluffing...... “I am not submissive” John said defensively.
“Well you're certainly not well-mannered. You may call me Master.”
“Yes....Master” John said, not liking the words at all but too hungry and tired to challenge him right now. Not when he was so close to leaving and living in a real house that might have food and maybe a blanket to sleep on. He'd wait until tomorrow to fight...
“Don't worry, you will adjust quickly and you will become a most loyal dog. That much is plain. Come, come. We've spent too much time here already and the slave market is more crowded and dirty than I remembered.”