FIC: SELLING WATSON, IN FOUR PARTS (PART II)
Title: Selling Watson, in Four Parts
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 13,000 words (Overall)
Summary: In order to solve a case, Holmes must temporarily sell Watson into slavery.
Originally posted for the Sherlockkink Meme
Links to Other Parts: PART I PART II PART III PART IV
II. Afternoon
I am thankful once Holmes and I are ensconced in the train in our own compartment. After the shaving ordeal, Holmes was terribly withdrawn and could not be coaxed into conversation, no matter how I tried so as to prove that nothing had changed between us. I can only imagine what he thinks of me now. To compound the matter, on the way to the station, I could not help but fear that every person we passed knew that, underneath my clothes, I am utterly hairless. It is such a small, incidental thing, and yet I feel as if newly redefined by a definition not of my choosing. But it is a far better thing to focus on than the alternative, which is that I now cannot seem to cease entertaining the idea of Holmes in a sexual context - cannot seem to cease recalling the feel of his gentle hands across my skin. And to further wonder at what his hands would feel like were they filled with a more pointed purpose. I am no sodomite, but if one were to take a glimpse at my inner thoughts as Holmes and I headed towards the station, I fear such a statement could only beg the response, 'By what definition aren't you one?'
Holmes himself acted as if nothing were amiss, if distant towards me; but Holmes is often distant, and the only aspect of his behavior amiss is what I fear is the cause of it. He carried with him a single, small suitcase, which he would only say contains his disguise and mine. He was unforthcoming in any more details about what character he would wear; all I know is that my own disguise cannot possibly consist of more than a collar, since it was made abundantly clear to me that it involves neither trousers nor a shirt.
Now I sit silently, watching the scenery pass swiftly by. Every time I shift, I am unusually aware of material directly against my skin, and the constancy of it is causing my stomach to roil unpleasantly. I doubt my stomach has settled since this whole affair began, to be honest. I remember Bowen's tear-stricken sister Hannah explaining to us, amidst hiccups and despairing gasps, that Richard had simply disappeared and she could find not a single trace of him. She described him to us in great detail, and as the days of the investigation wore on, it was a description Holmes and I would encounter many more times: a fair-haired man, late twenties and of good constitution; of a poor background, either estranged from any family or associates or a man who would only be missed by a nameless few. Richard in particular has only his sister to call family and no friends of which to speak - and Hannah, Holmes would soon find, had been committed as a child to an asylum and released under dubious circumstances. Scotland Yard had laughed her away, unwilling to take her ravings with even a hint of seriousness, which is why she sought out the eccentric Sherlock Holmes.
I can still see in my mind the young man we'd found only days later, chained in a basement, bruises scattered across his bare body, a thick layer of blood and semen forming a dried trail down his thighs. His empty eyes and his lips curved upwards in a fixed, false smile. The way he'd said, upon seeing us, “How may I serve you?” His description was so exactly Bowen's I assumed we had closed the case, but it was Holmes who knew instantly that this was not our missing man and that the case was significantly more complicated than we had thus far presumed.
It was soon thereafter that Holmes made the connection to a white slavery organization, and he began finding rumors of other missing, fair-haired men. The man we'd found we'd no choice but to leave at a hospital. I take only minute comfort in our having rescued him from that nightmare, knowing that he has no family willing to aid him through any sort of recovery, as doubtful as recovery is. All together, this is turning into one of the more unsettling cases in which I've ever been involved.
I shift again in my seat, terribly uncomfortable. I would say I envy Holmes his role in our impending act, if there is anything at all to envy about such a distasteful situation, but we are both aware how utterly incapable of the role I am. He never offered me the choice, and I cannot help but feel grateful for his doing so. I merely must play a man forced into servitude, resigned to such an awful fate; Holmes, on the other hand, must play a man who actually approves of the transaction. He must look at me, and pretend to sell me, and see not a man but a thing with no purpose but another's pleasure.
It is almost strange, for my career is based on my ability to separate a man from his illness. When I sawed off ruined limbs in the war, I never thought, 'This man has a wife.' When depressing a syringe full of morphine into an arm, I see the needle penetrating the skin and do not think, 'This man is a father or a son.' I listen to heartbeats, and take temperatures, and feel along the curvatures of a spine or a leg or a neck, and do not even think that the body to whom these features belong has a name. I had a duty to perform in all cases, and no presence of mind left to entertain the idea of subjectivity. Even when Holmes injures himself, as he does all too frequently, I am able to think, 'This arm is broken,' without ever mentally connecting the appendage to my dearest friend. It is why I can withstand his ravaging himself with his cocaine and boxing fights; I can think: such was done to this body, and experience only the slightest ache when I do not further think: this body belongs to my Holmes.
But to do the same in this situation? I could never hide my disgust. I would betray myself - and Holmes - in every movement, in every inflection in my speech.
“You're troubling yourself over nothing,” Holmes says suddenly.
Startled, I turn to face him. He has not spoken to me since we left 221b. “Troubling myself?”
“I would never ask you to do something of which you are incapable,” he says. “I respect your limits.”
After so many years, still his ability to all but read my mind astounds me. “How could you know I was thinking that?”
“You've been thinking it since this morning,” Holmes says, his eyes on my face.
“And if I have?”
“Then you have been troubling yourself for far too long over a trifle.”
Holmes, ever the arrogant man! As if he can dictate the very patterns of my mind. “I may trouble myself over whatever I'd like.”
“Not when your worries are so detrimental to yourself. You find yourself somehow lacking, that you could not don the coat of a slaver even for such a noble purpose as ours.” He turns towards the window, now, and the absence of his gaze on me is more noticeable than its presence; I realize that for all he has been silent, he has likely been staring at me for the entire train ride so far. “You are incorrect to think so. I am lacking, because I can.”
Before I've a chance to respond to so extraordinary a statement, Holmes says, “Are you sure you won't shave your mustache? There's still time.”
“I will not. And I'd thank you to stop asking me to. I thought you respected my limits.”
“I respect the limits I know you have; not the ones you make up.” Holmes's lips thin, and yet he concedes, “But very well! Keep your mustache. In any event, once we have changed trains there will be no more opportunity for preparation. We must discuss a few last details before then.” I think perhaps Holmes has decided to ignore my slight transgression in the washroom this morning. I wish I could so easily do the same.
“Such as?” I ask; I must remained focused. No good has come today of my wandering thoughts.
“You will have to call me 'sir,' for instance.” I had guessed as much already, although anticipation of this does not lessen the embarrassment. “And I will refer to you, I believe, as 'boy.' ”
“Boy,” I repeat, to ensure that I've heard him correctly.
“Boy,” Holmes affirms. “I have been researching this market quite heavily, as I'm sure you're aware, and that is, from what I've ascertained, an acceptable and expected title for the a man of your current position.”
My current position. Holmes does not even have the courtesy to blink when he says it. “You'll call me boy.”
“It's possible I won't need to address you at all,” Holmes says, as if this is consolation. “But we must consider all alternatives.”
“Fine,” I say shortly. “What else?”
“As we've already discussed, you mustn't say anything unless spoken to,” Holmes says. “And you must keep your gaze on the floor. I do not believe, unless our man asks specifically to see your eyes, that there is ever a reason for you to look up. I believe you would usually be expected to kneel beside me during this transaction, but-” Holmes holds up a hand to stall my protest. “As that would be quite impossible for you, it will be acceptable for you to stand beside me instead. Though not as prevalent, it will not be looked upon strangely.”
“Fine,” I say again.
“A particular way, of course. We should practice, while we've the opportunity.”
“Practice how to stand?”
“If you'd stand right now, Watson?”
“Just tell me how,” I say, in no mood to prolong this discussion.
But Holmes is not to be swayed once he's decided on a course of action. “To have our ruse crumble because of so small a detail? No, I insist we practice, Watson. It won't take but a moment.”
I reluctantly rise, feeling foolish and naked - it is the hairlessness, I'm positive! How else could a fully clothed man feel so exposed? No - not entirely hairless. I have my mustache. I fought for it, and I still have it. I mustn't forget.
“Good, now please have your legs apart, shoulder-width should do. Slightly more. Excellent. And your hands behind your back, if you would, lightly clasping one another? Good. And chin up.”
“Chin up? But I thought I was to be looking at the floor.”
“Indeed. But nevertheless, chin high and eyes downcast.”
I move myself to do as he orders; though my back is military-straight, and though I am towering over the seated Holmes, the combination of these orders is creating in me the most peculiar sense of submission - which is of course nonsense. It is the downcast eyes, perhaps. Or perhaps it is nothing of my own stance, and more that Holmes - be he lecturing Lestrade at his most tall or crawling around on the floor at his most casual - has always the impression of dominance to him.
“Like this?” I ask softly, my eyes on the compartment carpeting right near his shoes, since he hasn't voiced any corrections.
“Hmmm?” he says, his tone absent-minded. I flick a quick glance at him, but his gaze is unfocused; I am unsure what has distracted him. “Oh. Yes. You should - you may be seated now, Watson. That will be sufficient.”
I am thankful to be seated again. We discuss a few more details - how I must walk behind him, how he will tug on the leash to gain my attention, how I mustn't react to whatever unsavory things I might hear; and other more mundane points, such as by what means we will arrive at our location and who we might expect to meet.
Holmes falls silent until we are almost to the station, when he says, “Your expression. I meant to say. You should look more ... sultry.”
“Sultry?”
“Sultry,” he confirms.
How anything of this affair is still surprising me I have no idea. “I am pretending at being a slave! I can understand the stance and the behavior - such things would have been mercilessly taught to me. But to participate so? Would that not seem bizarre?”
Holmes sighs, as he does when I am being frightfully dull-witted. “Have you been paying no attention, Watson? These men have been conditioned mentally as well as physically.”
“But if I am being sold as a slave, surely I haven't yet been conditioned so thoroughly?” I protest. Look sultry! Good lord, Holmes, what you ask of me...
Holmes actually shifts just the slightest bit. “Ah. Yes, I hadn't said. You are not playing the part of a recently abducted man, I'm afraid.”
“Than what on earth am I?”
“My information was quite specific; the man we're meeting was only interested in those who had already been ... conditioned. As such, your expression needs to be more sultry. It would be bizarre to look otherwise.”
“Sultry,” I repeat again, feeling that Holmes has managed to come full circle in our conversation while I remained absolutely still.
Holmes has recovered himself entirely and looks not a whit uncomfortable. “Think of any whore you've ever seen and imitate the expression. As I've just explained, your usual expression won't be sufficiently convincing for our purposes. You will have to overcome still wearing your mustache,” he adds.
That he asks me such things with the same casual tone of voice in which, just yesterday, he may have asked me to pass him the paper when I finished, is continually astounding. Imitate a whore's expression! I forcibly remind myself that this is not some game nor the request one of Holmes's whims; as much as I protested shaving my mustache, and as much as I have argued near every one of Holmes's stipulations, I am aware of how grave a failure would be for the lives of so many men and not just our Richard Bowen.
I close my eyes and imagine an appropriate expression. Whores are plenty in London, and it is little difficulty imagining one. It is more challenging to try to dissect how the individual features work to create the overall effect. When I have as clear an image in mind as I believe I'm capable, I open my eyes and attempt to rearrange my features appropriately.
Trying not to blush too terribly, I glance at Holmes. His gaze is riveted on my face, his mouth dropped open just enough to see a slight gleam of white tooth. Good lord! I can only wonder how absurd I look to produce such a reaction! I am about to begin babbling apologies when Holmes gathers himself and snaps, “No! That is not - I was mistaken. Disregard me entirely and look yourself.”
“But I thought my 'usual expression won't be sufficiently convincing for our purposes,' ” I protest, enjoying throwing Holmes's words back in his face more than I disliked the proposition to begin with.
“And I just said I was mistaken. Watson, your usual expression will do!”
I relax my features and avoid Holmes's eyes for the remainder of our trip, feeling a fool. Peculiarly, I cannot escape the feeling that Holmes does the same.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 13,000 words (Overall)
Summary: In order to solve a case, Holmes must temporarily sell Watson into slavery.
Originally posted for the Sherlockkink Meme
Links to Other Parts: PART I PART II PART III PART IV
II. Afternoon
I am thankful once Holmes and I are ensconced in the train in our own compartment. After the shaving ordeal, Holmes was terribly withdrawn and could not be coaxed into conversation, no matter how I tried so as to prove that nothing had changed between us. I can only imagine what he thinks of me now. To compound the matter, on the way to the station, I could not help but fear that every person we passed knew that, underneath my clothes, I am utterly hairless. It is such a small, incidental thing, and yet I feel as if newly redefined by a definition not of my choosing. But it is a far better thing to focus on than the alternative, which is that I now cannot seem to cease entertaining the idea of Holmes in a sexual context - cannot seem to cease recalling the feel of his gentle hands across my skin. And to further wonder at what his hands would feel like were they filled with a more pointed purpose. I am no sodomite, but if one were to take a glimpse at my inner thoughts as Holmes and I headed towards the station, I fear such a statement could only beg the response, 'By what definition aren't you one?'
Holmes himself acted as if nothing were amiss, if distant towards me; but Holmes is often distant, and the only aspect of his behavior amiss is what I fear is the cause of it. He carried with him a single, small suitcase, which he would only say contains his disguise and mine. He was unforthcoming in any more details about what character he would wear; all I know is that my own disguise cannot possibly consist of more than a collar, since it was made abundantly clear to me that it involves neither trousers nor a shirt.
Now I sit silently, watching the scenery pass swiftly by. Every time I shift, I am unusually aware of material directly against my skin, and the constancy of it is causing my stomach to roil unpleasantly. I doubt my stomach has settled since this whole affair began, to be honest. I remember Bowen's tear-stricken sister Hannah explaining to us, amidst hiccups and despairing gasps, that Richard had simply disappeared and she could find not a single trace of him. She described him to us in great detail, and as the days of the investigation wore on, it was a description Holmes and I would encounter many more times: a fair-haired man, late twenties and of good constitution; of a poor background, either estranged from any family or associates or a man who would only be missed by a nameless few. Richard in particular has only his sister to call family and no friends of which to speak - and Hannah, Holmes would soon find, had been committed as a child to an asylum and released under dubious circumstances. Scotland Yard had laughed her away, unwilling to take her ravings with even a hint of seriousness, which is why she sought out the eccentric Sherlock Holmes.
I can still see in my mind the young man we'd found only days later, chained in a basement, bruises scattered across his bare body, a thick layer of blood and semen forming a dried trail down his thighs. His empty eyes and his lips curved upwards in a fixed, false smile. The way he'd said, upon seeing us, “How may I serve you?” His description was so exactly Bowen's I assumed we had closed the case, but it was Holmes who knew instantly that this was not our missing man and that the case was significantly more complicated than we had thus far presumed.
It was soon thereafter that Holmes made the connection to a white slavery organization, and he began finding rumors of other missing, fair-haired men. The man we'd found we'd no choice but to leave at a hospital. I take only minute comfort in our having rescued him from that nightmare, knowing that he has no family willing to aid him through any sort of recovery, as doubtful as recovery is. All together, this is turning into one of the more unsettling cases in which I've ever been involved.
I shift again in my seat, terribly uncomfortable. I would say I envy Holmes his role in our impending act, if there is anything at all to envy about such a distasteful situation, but we are both aware how utterly incapable of the role I am. He never offered me the choice, and I cannot help but feel grateful for his doing so. I merely must play a man forced into servitude, resigned to such an awful fate; Holmes, on the other hand, must play a man who actually approves of the transaction. He must look at me, and pretend to sell me, and see not a man but a thing with no purpose but another's pleasure.
It is almost strange, for my career is based on my ability to separate a man from his illness. When I sawed off ruined limbs in the war, I never thought, 'This man has a wife.' When depressing a syringe full of morphine into an arm, I see the needle penetrating the skin and do not think, 'This man is a father or a son.' I listen to heartbeats, and take temperatures, and feel along the curvatures of a spine or a leg or a neck, and do not even think that the body to whom these features belong has a name. I had a duty to perform in all cases, and no presence of mind left to entertain the idea of subjectivity. Even when Holmes injures himself, as he does all too frequently, I am able to think, 'This arm is broken,' without ever mentally connecting the appendage to my dearest friend. It is why I can withstand his ravaging himself with his cocaine and boxing fights; I can think: such was done to this body, and experience only the slightest ache when I do not further think: this body belongs to my Holmes.
But to do the same in this situation? I could never hide my disgust. I would betray myself - and Holmes - in every movement, in every inflection in my speech.
“You're troubling yourself over nothing,” Holmes says suddenly.
Startled, I turn to face him. He has not spoken to me since we left 221b. “Troubling myself?”
“I would never ask you to do something of which you are incapable,” he says. “I respect your limits.”
After so many years, still his ability to all but read my mind astounds me. “How could you know I was thinking that?”
“You've been thinking it since this morning,” Holmes says, his eyes on my face.
“And if I have?”
“Then you have been troubling yourself for far too long over a trifle.”
Holmes, ever the arrogant man! As if he can dictate the very patterns of my mind. “I may trouble myself over whatever I'd like.”
“Not when your worries are so detrimental to yourself. You find yourself somehow lacking, that you could not don the coat of a slaver even for such a noble purpose as ours.” He turns towards the window, now, and the absence of his gaze on me is more noticeable than its presence; I realize that for all he has been silent, he has likely been staring at me for the entire train ride so far. “You are incorrect to think so. I am lacking, because I can.”
Before I've a chance to respond to so extraordinary a statement, Holmes says, “Are you sure you won't shave your mustache? There's still time.”
“I will not. And I'd thank you to stop asking me to. I thought you respected my limits.”
“I respect the limits I know you have; not the ones you make up.” Holmes's lips thin, and yet he concedes, “But very well! Keep your mustache. In any event, once we have changed trains there will be no more opportunity for preparation. We must discuss a few last details before then.” I think perhaps Holmes has decided to ignore my slight transgression in the washroom this morning. I wish I could so easily do the same.
“Such as?” I ask; I must remained focused. No good has come today of my wandering thoughts.
“You will have to call me 'sir,' for instance.” I had guessed as much already, although anticipation of this does not lessen the embarrassment. “And I will refer to you, I believe, as 'boy.' ”
“Boy,” I repeat, to ensure that I've heard him correctly.
“Boy,” Holmes affirms. “I have been researching this market quite heavily, as I'm sure you're aware, and that is, from what I've ascertained, an acceptable and expected title for the a man of your current position.”
My current position. Holmes does not even have the courtesy to blink when he says it. “You'll call me boy.”
“It's possible I won't need to address you at all,” Holmes says, as if this is consolation. “But we must consider all alternatives.”
“Fine,” I say shortly. “What else?”
“As we've already discussed, you mustn't say anything unless spoken to,” Holmes says. “And you must keep your gaze on the floor. I do not believe, unless our man asks specifically to see your eyes, that there is ever a reason for you to look up. I believe you would usually be expected to kneel beside me during this transaction, but-” Holmes holds up a hand to stall my protest. “As that would be quite impossible for you, it will be acceptable for you to stand beside me instead. Though not as prevalent, it will not be looked upon strangely.”
“Fine,” I say again.
“A particular way, of course. We should practice, while we've the opportunity.”
“Practice how to stand?”
“If you'd stand right now, Watson?”
“Just tell me how,” I say, in no mood to prolong this discussion.
But Holmes is not to be swayed once he's decided on a course of action. “To have our ruse crumble because of so small a detail? No, I insist we practice, Watson. It won't take but a moment.”
I reluctantly rise, feeling foolish and naked - it is the hairlessness, I'm positive! How else could a fully clothed man feel so exposed? No - not entirely hairless. I have my mustache. I fought for it, and I still have it. I mustn't forget.
“Good, now please have your legs apart, shoulder-width should do. Slightly more. Excellent. And your hands behind your back, if you would, lightly clasping one another? Good. And chin up.”
“Chin up? But I thought I was to be looking at the floor.”
“Indeed. But nevertheless, chin high and eyes downcast.”
I move myself to do as he orders; though my back is military-straight, and though I am towering over the seated Holmes, the combination of these orders is creating in me the most peculiar sense of submission - which is of course nonsense. It is the downcast eyes, perhaps. Or perhaps it is nothing of my own stance, and more that Holmes - be he lecturing Lestrade at his most tall or crawling around on the floor at his most casual - has always the impression of dominance to him.
“Like this?” I ask softly, my eyes on the compartment carpeting right near his shoes, since he hasn't voiced any corrections.
“Hmmm?” he says, his tone absent-minded. I flick a quick glance at him, but his gaze is unfocused; I am unsure what has distracted him. “Oh. Yes. You should - you may be seated now, Watson. That will be sufficient.”
I am thankful to be seated again. We discuss a few more details - how I must walk behind him, how he will tug on the leash to gain my attention, how I mustn't react to whatever unsavory things I might hear; and other more mundane points, such as by what means we will arrive at our location and who we might expect to meet.
Holmes falls silent until we are almost to the station, when he says, “Your expression. I meant to say. You should look more ... sultry.”
“Sultry?”
“Sultry,” he confirms.
How anything of this affair is still surprising me I have no idea. “I am pretending at being a slave! I can understand the stance and the behavior - such things would have been mercilessly taught to me. But to participate so? Would that not seem bizarre?”
Holmes sighs, as he does when I am being frightfully dull-witted. “Have you been paying no attention, Watson? These men have been conditioned mentally as well as physically.”
“But if I am being sold as a slave, surely I haven't yet been conditioned so thoroughly?” I protest. Look sultry! Good lord, Holmes, what you ask of me...
Holmes actually shifts just the slightest bit. “Ah. Yes, I hadn't said. You are not playing the part of a recently abducted man, I'm afraid.”
“Than what on earth am I?”
“My information was quite specific; the man we're meeting was only interested in those who had already been ... conditioned. As such, your expression needs to be more sultry. It would be bizarre to look otherwise.”
“Sultry,” I repeat again, feeling that Holmes has managed to come full circle in our conversation while I remained absolutely still.
Holmes has recovered himself entirely and looks not a whit uncomfortable. “Think of any whore you've ever seen and imitate the expression. As I've just explained, your usual expression won't be sufficiently convincing for our purposes. You will have to overcome still wearing your mustache,” he adds.
That he asks me such things with the same casual tone of voice in which, just yesterday, he may have asked me to pass him the paper when I finished, is continually astounding. Imitate a whore's expression! I forcibly remind myself that this is not some game nor the request one of Holmes's whims; as much as I protested shaving my mustache, and as much as I have argued near every one of Holmes's stipulations, I am aware of how grave a failure would be for the lives of so many men and not just our Richard Bowen.
I close my eyes and imagine an appropriate expression. Whores are plenty in London, and it is little difficulty imagining one. It is more challenging to try to dissect how the individual features work to create the overall effect. When I have as clear an image in mind as I believe I'm capable, I open my eyes and attempt to rearrange my features appropriately.
Trying not to blush too terribly, I glance at Holmes. His gaze is riveted on my face, his mouth dropped open just enough to see a slight gleam of white tooth. Good lord! I can only wonder how absurd I look to produce such a reaction! I am about to begin babbling apologies when Holmes gathers himself and snaps, “No! That is not - I was mistaken. Disregard me entirely and look yourself.”
“But I thought my 'usual expression won't be sufficiently convincing for our purposes,' ” I protest, enjoying throwing Holmes's words back in his face more than I disliked the proposition to begin with.
“And I just said I was mistaken. Watson, your usual expression will do!”
I relax my features and avoid Holmes's eyes for the remainder of our trip, feeling a fool. Peculiarly, I cannot escape the feeling that Holmes does the same.