it was made for him ♥crimebloggerMay 20 2013, 18:48:03 UTC
John was in actual hell. For the past two years of his life, he had given everything for the rebellion, had tried so hard to free as many slaves as possible and offer them the chance of a better life somewhere far removed from the Commonwealth and its disgusting, inhuman practices. He had disappeared from his former life as an army doctor, wanting to use his qualifications for something more worthy, despite the fact that he could have lived out his life in relative comfort and safety... perhaps with a household slave or two of his own, if the surgery really took off. But no. Not him. He couldn't. He simply couldn't. And so he had joined the cause, freed slaves, built bombs, killed men of the imperialist guard, and for what? To have them ratted out by one of their own, their safe house raided, men John considered friends killed or taken away, like he had been... to this. A bloody slave auction. For sale. John felt sick to his gut. He supposed it was a fitting punishment; sell the rebel troublemaker, and sell him cheap, make him take the place of his beloved liberated slaves.
His expression gave away nothing as he was led into the viewing area. To his surprise, they had dressed him quite decently, in trousers and a sweater; not of the best quality, but certainly better than what he had expected. His face was held carefully expressionless, but he could not help the fire in his eyes. Whoever decided to buy John, for whatever purpose, better be prepared to work very hard at breaking their new slave into submission. This was his last fight, the only fight that was left; he would not lose himself. He would not.
It was shocking, and slightly nauseating, how quickly it was over. Before he knew it, he was led to the lobby by two guards, to the man who he would have to refer to as 'sir' or, worse yet, 'master', from this forward. Glancing up carefully, John did not know what to make of the man. He was tall, had dark hair and shockingly blue eyes, and he seemed like a statue among the crowd. Cold. Calculating. This was to be his enemy. John steeled himself, nodding mentally. Right, then. Let it begin.
Sherlock waited for his new purchase to arrive, not looking forward to putting on the master and slave show so as not to draw attention to them. There was a certain procedure to this kind of thing, a way a master acted with their slave that they'd have to adhere to in public, despite how much it disgusted Sherlock.
When his purchase was brought in, he glanced over him, nodding approvingly in satisfaction of his purchase. "You'll do nicely, slave." he said, pushing back the disgust of that word on his tongue. He had to keep up appearances, at least until they got upstairs to his hotel room. "Come along." he said, putting a hand on the back of his neck to lead him along, as was customary for masters to start 'breaking in' their new slaves, even though he had no intention of doing so. He led him to the elevator, waiting for the doors to close with them alone to drop his hand and take his mobile out of his pocket.
"How long have you been in the rebellion and what have you accomplished thus far?" he asked nonchalantly without looking up from his mobile, tapping furiously away at the buttons.
At his new master's first touch, John could not help but tense up. It was both a very demeaning and intimate gesture, and not one John suffered easily... but he would have to. They were in the middle of the lobby, with potential buyers and guards all around. This was not the place, nor the time. Biting the inside of his cheek, John let himself be led into the elevator... only to have his world turn on its head once again.
Snapping up his head, he regarded the other man with a startled expression. Instead of lowering his eyes and offering apology for daring to look straight at his master, John kept staring at the dark-haired stranger. For some part, it was simply because he had not ever received the proper training; he wasn't actually prepared to be any sort of slave. Mostly, however, he was shaken. Was there some sort of information new masters received with their purchase? A file of sorts? It seemed likely. But no, no, who would include the part of John's life in which he had been a rebel? Nobody would buy such a slave, and if they did, well, said slave would not be alive for much longer, would they...? John paled. "How did you--"
Sherlock could certainly feel the tensity in his new companion, wishing only that he could tell him right away that this was all for show, and that he didn't have to worry about being treated like a slave unless they were in public. He was grateful when they were finally alone and he could relax, glad he could finally broach the important issues with someone he hoped could be an asset to him. Not a slave, an equal companion. He hadn't had one of those before.
He's pulled out of his introspection when his companion looks up, smirking a little to himself at the way he obviously had never been taught anything about being a slave. He was glad for that, he never liked the way his family's slaves refused to meet his eyes. He pocketed his mobile to regard the blonde, gazing at him almost fondly at his question.
"I observed, that's all. It's obvious that you're a military man from your gait, which would have meant that you would have had your pick of slaves when you returned. The fact that you're here means you must have rebelled, and you must have really made them angry being that they didn't bother to train you at all before throwing you into an auction. They were counting on your new owner to break you instead, though I have no intention of doing so because I believe I can use you as you are. Now, answer my question." he said quickly, raising an eyebrow at him to encourage him to speak.
It was a trick. It had to be. A way to get John talking, get him to say things he should not, so that he might be punished accordingly, and more severely than a regular slave would. He was a traitor of the Commonwealth, and a newly bought slave who had no idea of how to behave properly so as not to bring insult to their master... Really, if his new master had been so inclined, he could have struck him the moment John dared to look up. But he had not. Instead, he had recounted exactly why John was here... Had he just said he could use John as he was? What, a rebel? The internal struggle to tell or not tell was evident in John's eyes, as well as the lines of his body. Would he risk it? What else could happen, really? How much worse could it get? But then, he had no idea what to expect, not really. It might all just be a game, and oh, how desperately he wanted it not to be. Could he trust this man?
"Two years," John answered at last, with some reluctance. He clenched his hands, closed and open and closed again, back straight and chin lifted a touch. Pride, as well as a challenge. Yes, I am a proud rebel, you want to do something about it? "As far as my - our - accomplishments, read the papers. You'll have to look past the villainizing, but other than that, it's all there. If you want specifics, you won't get them from me. I'm no traitor to my own people. Never will be. So if that's what this is, you can stop right now. Sir."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he could see that the other man was struggling with whether to tell him the truth or not. "Don't bore me by trying to lie to me. It won't work." he said, nodding when he finally answered. "Good. See, that wasn't so difficult." Two years was a good amount of time, glad that he picked someone clever enough to avoid capture for so long. He shook his head when John mentioned not being a traitor. "Nor am I asking you to be. I want to assist in your cause. I promise you, I am not your enemy." he said, making a face when John added in that 'sir'.
"Ugh, no. That's unacceptable. You're only to call me 'sir' in public, so we can keep up appearances. When we're alone, you're to call me Sherlock." he said, not wanting any such argument on the matter because he hated all the formalities of master-slave relationships. "They only gave me a number for you, so tell me what I'm to call you. 24601 is quite the mouthful. Wait, hold on, this is our floor." he said, giving the blonde a look akin to apologetic as he put a hand on his neck again to lead him out to his hotel room. He sighed when he'd shut the door behind them, moving away from the blonde to search through his bags for his pocketknife.
"I want to explain myself, and then I'm going to unbind your hands, alright?" he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective. I'm here to investigate the murders of slaves under the guise of being a normal buyer. This weekend is like a slaver's convention, and as such is the best time to get concrete evidence on slavers who aren't treating their slaves like they're supposed to." He took a step or two towards him, remaining slow in his movements so as not to alarm him.
"Please, don't attack me. It'd be so inconvenient to have to find another slave with any spirit left." he added, moving carefully over to him to begin cutting through the rope tying his hands together. "Tell me your name, please." he asked again, meeting John's eyes and remaining liberal with the word 'please' in the hopes of making him realize he was not a typical slave owner.
John still did not know what to think; he was tired. Actually, he was bloody exhausted. He had barely gotten any sleep since the raid, and any attempt at it had left him with nightmares of his comrades killed or brutally tortured in front of him. In the few days it took his capturers to get him to this slave auction, his waking hours were filled with interrogations of varying kinds, and once he'd been told where they were sending him, the thought alone had left him feeling too horrified to even contemplate sleep. And now here he was, in a hotel room, fancy as could be, with a man telling him he was no slaver, not a slaver at all, but a consulting detective (what the hell was that even supposed to be?). A man who needed a slave for... what, exactly, John wasn't sure of, yet, but he was making it perfectly clear how he felt about slavery. More than that, he wanted to assist in the cause. John's cause, the one he thought he'd never return to again...
When the man - Sherlock, his mind whispered to him, treacherous thing - began to cut his bonds, all John could do for the longest time was watch him. Cold, he had thought, in the lobby downstairs. Calculating. Not entirely wrong... but not entirely right, either. He was on their side. The side of the angels. What he was himself, who he was, John did not know. But it seemed Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was to be his only way out. His only hope. John might be stubborn, but he was no fool. "My name is John," he murmured, though his tone of voice was firm. God, even after a few days, it felt like such a relief to lay claim again to his own name. His name. "I still don't quite understand... Sherlock." He moved a little, rubbing a hand across a sore wrist as he continued to watch the other man. "What is it you need me for, exactly?"
Sherlock kept his eyes focused on his task of cutting the other man free, trusting that John wouldn't attack him after hearing his explanation. He glanced up when John spoke his name, his lips quirking a half-smile. "It's nice to meet you, John." he said, checking over John's wrists before moving away from him to put away his knife and gather a bottle of water and a pack of biscuits so he could bring them back to John.
"Here. I can order more food if you need it, I know there's a marketable difference between what slavers feed slaves and what could be considered an actual meal." he said, gesturing for John to sit if he wanted as he made his way to sit on the edge of the hotel bed.
"I need a cover. It would be strange for me to be at a slavers convention without a slave to speak of, as much as I abhor the idea. This entire weekend I'm going to be attending all of the events with you so we can gather evidence against those who don't treat their slaves like they should. I thought you'd be eager to help, given that your views on the matter align with my own." He paused to give John a considering look, hoping that he would assist him with this so slaves would stop getting senselessly murdered.
"If you assist me, I guarantee your freedom. I'll file all the proper paperwork to free you as soon as this case is over, and you never have to associate with me again if you'd rather not. I have connections that would grant you amnesty from any of your supposed crimes against slaving if you assist me. What do you say?"
As soon as John sat down on a nearby chair and bit into the first biscuit, he realised just how hungry he was. He worked his way through the pack in record time (not very dignified, but sod it), all the while listening to Sherlock with suspicion and faint wonder in his eyes. Freedom? Not to mention the chance to actually do something good, something right, something that would have fallen right in line with the morals and principles of the Cause, except they would never have access to this kind of convention. John was proud of the organisation, and what it had achieved, but he was not delusional; they still had a long way to go. Being able to infiltrate a slavers' convention, work from the inside, maybe even get a few of the bastards locked up for murder, which would result in indirectly saving slave lives? God yes.
John's entire body felt like it was set on fire, his dangerlust likely shining through in his eyes as he regarded the other man. Not wanting to seem too eager, he took a moment to drink from his water, eyes never leaving Sherlock. "If we get caught, it'll mean my death," he pointed out to Sherlock, unnecessarily as it was so obvious. Still. It needed saying. "You'll have to tell me how I would be assisting you. We'd have to at least practice our master-slave dynamic for a little before venturing out there, I've absolutely no training. I need to know what's expected of me, both my cover and what I'm supposed to be looking for out there." Negotiating, asking questions. He had never said yes, not once, but he didn't have to. He would do this. Anything to fuck up the system and gain back his freedom.
Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smirk at how John devoured the biscuits, moving to the phone without needing to be asked because it was obvious John was starving. He ordered meal service and hung up, turning his attention back to John. He already knew John would say yes, as it was very apparent in his eyes. He chalked it up to his always being good at reading people, never imagining for a moment that he could have some special connection with this man because he didn't have special connections with people, and they certainly didn't have special connections with him.
"Not necessarily. I have government contacts that can pardon you being that you're assisting in a police investigation." he said, not allowing John any excuse to try to talk himself out of it. He nodded to John's questions, taking a moment to consider what he was asking. "There are a few key rules to the master-slave dynamic that can help us avoid suspicion. You're not to speak unless spoken to, and you're to follow every order I give, as well as calling me 'sir' after every sentence. At least you're somewhat used to that part already. Don't make eye contact with anyone. As far as what to look for, I want you observing the peripherals. Not making eye contact gives you a good excuse to watch everyone we're not directly interacting with. Look for warning signs, evidence of physical abuse, excessive flinching when disciplined, that sort of thing. You're to stay at my side the entire time, and I want you to discreetly nudge me if you see any of that, especially if you see a slaver take their slave out of the room after disciplining them, that's usually an indication that the true punishment will be given privately, which is never a good sign." he said, pressing his hands together under his chin as he regarded John. "Oh, and go and get the door." he added, room service knocking a moment later with the food he'd ordered for John.
John had been watching and listening to his new master with equal parts suspicion and excitement, stubbornly ignoring the low rumble of his starved stomach (you've just had a whole roll of biscuits, food is on its way, hush up, I'm trying to focus). It sounded... Well, it sounded exciting, and dangerous, which only added to John's excitement, if he was being entirely honest with himself. Which he was, most of the time. He was an adrenaline junkie, living on the edge, which was exactly why he'd gotten caught and put up for sale in the first place. He still didn't consider himself reckless, but he never stepped down from a fight or challenge, either. And this, oh, this was a fight he could get behind.
Before he could form a reply or come up with more questions, Sherlock (sir) instructed him to open the door, and indeed, a knock followed a moment later. Extraordinary. Shaking his head, John got up and opened the door, making sure to keep his eyes lowered as the hotel employee rolled in the food. God, this might actually be harder than he thought, John thought as he stared pointedly at a spot on the carpet. Once the employee had left, John wasted no time in walking over and lifting all the cloches...
He stared. There, right in front of him, were all his favorite foods, absolutely all of them: roast beef, bangers and mash, Shepherd's Pie, an actual plate with a full English breakfast, Yorkshire Pudding with gravy and veggies... Traditional, solid, British foods. "How did you--" John asked, shocked and amazed, as he looked up at Sherlock, cloche still in hand.
Sherlock leaned back to sit against the headboard of the bed, stretching his long legs in front of him and pressing his hands together beneath his chin. He watched John intently, practically able to see the gears turning in his new companion's head. He knew he wouldn't be able to refuse him, seeing very clearly that John had a penchant for danger and intrigue considering his years of service in the military and subsequently for the anti-slave movement.
He smiled to himself when John shook his head like that, already finding himself somewhat endeared to him. He was pleased when John took to his instructions so well, glad that he already learned to avoid eye contact per the norm for slaves. He made no move to get up from the bed when the food arrived, playing idly with his mobile while glancing up occasionally at John. He made an amused sound at John's half-question, setting aside his mobile to regard him fully.
"Call it a hunch that you were the traditional sort." he replied, waving a hand to gesture John to go ahead and eat. "Have all you like. We have a bit of time before the first event we're attending." he added, placing his fingers under his chin again and staring at the ceiling, already thinking away about all they could accomplish just as soon as John finally agreed to assist him.
John tried his best not to attack the food like some sort of ravenous caveman, but he was hungry, so hungry, and this was proper British food, and it was warm and smelled so good... For the longest time, John ate, and ate, well past the point of what his stomach could consider sated, but he had no idea when he would get a meal like this again, did he? Despite all the reassurances and explanations, despite even the feeling of John somehow strangely deciding to trust this unusual man, he was still suspicious, and would be for some time to come.
"Alright," he eventually said, sitting back in his chair (God, he was full, and tired, Jesus, when was the last time he slept?), regarding the man on the bed with watchful eyes. "This first event, tell me about it." Brief me, give me my orders, but as a soldier, an equal, a human being, not a slave.
Beyond his staring intently at the ceiling, there were occasional moments when Sherlock couldn't help but cast amused glances at John. He knew that John had had a rough go of it, and something inside him was proud at the fact that he could provide for him a much better life than any other slaver could. One slave at a time, he kept telling himself, and someday maybe slavery itself would all be a thing of the past.
He sat up when John addressed him, crossing his legs while keeping his fingers pressed together under his chin. He was glad to see the man looking a bit better off now that he'd eaten, wanting him in top form for what they were going to do.
"There's going to be a private party in the reception room of the hotel thrown by a political figure who's voted against any sort of regulations on slaving. If he had his way, slaves would basically be treated no better than cattle, though probably a lot worse. The party is his way of showing off his new toys, it's basically an excuse for slavers to get sloshed and show what obedient little slaves they have by demeaning them for laughs. It's quite disgusting and I'd much rather avoid it at all costs, but it's got too much potential for slavers to go too far." he explained, really not looking forward to the party, but needing to go so the slaves could have some sort of protection from their awful owners.
John's blood ran cold at Sherlock's description of the event they were to attend that evening. He had heard of these private parties, though he had never attended one himself (obviously). They were infamous, and intensely hated in his circles. Though there were many different kinds of resistance groups to be found in the Commonwealth, they were all equally disgusted by the way most of the upper-class saw slavery as it was today; too soft, too kind, treating the slaves too much like humans and not enough like possession, like things to use and abuse until it was too broken and you had to throw it out... only to buy another one, new and shiny and uncorrupted. John had to briefly close his eyes to repress the hot spike of rage he felt; he was going to have to be more than collected tonight. He would need to be submissive, subdued, next to invisible. He would be useless to Sherlock if he attracted too much attention to himself, and he would ruin this chance for himself. He had to do well. He had to do better than that; this would have to be his best undercover assignment so far.
Slowly opening his eyes, John rested his gaze on the other man. There was a sort of quiet resolve about him now, in his eyes and the lines of his body. He was ready. He was a soldier of the Resistance. He was trained for this. He burned for this. He nodded, once. "Whatever you need me to do, I'll do. Just be clear in your commands, and I will be your perfect little slave for the evening." He wondered, briefly, why he had decided to trust this man, this man of all men, but pushed the thought down for later consideration. For now, he needed all his focus, if he was to pull this off successfully. He stood, holding Sherlock's eyes. "Ready when you are... Sir."
Sherlock could certainly see just how the idea of the party they were attending bothered John, wishing himself that they didn't have to go at all. He met John's eyes when he opened them, his lip twitching as he suppressed all the meaningless apologies he wished he could say. He didn't understand this urge at all, having never apologized for his actions before, and especially not for anything he did involving casework. Part of him wanted to let John stay here even though it wasn't feasible, unsure where this feeling came from regarding someone who was still a stranger. He stood and shook his head, trying to rid himself of these distracting and disconcerting thoughts because there was a strong likelihood that John would take his offer to leave him after this case. He wasn't sure why it bothered him, he'd never craved anyone's presence before and certainly didn't mean to start with someone he'd bought.
"Yes, fine." he said with a satisfied nod when John agreed, moving to close the distance between them, making a face at his words. "It's Sherlock when we're in here, remember?" he said, wanting to limit his exposure to that word as much as he could. He wasn't a 'sir', and he certainly didn't want to be one considering the implications surrounding that word. He moved to the loo to change into the required black tie attire, still talking to John as he did. "There are clothes for you in the bag by the window if you want to change. Slave attire doesn't matter at these functions, I simply thought you may want to." What John was wearing now were his slave clothes, and Sherlock wanted rid of that association at all by giving him new clothes, clothes that would be associated with their being equal partners rather than a slave and master.
His expression gave away nothing as he was led into the viewing area. To his surprise, they had dressed him quite decently, in trousers and a sweater; not of the best quality, but certainly better than what he had expected. His face was held carefully expressionless, but he could not help the fire in his eyes. Whoever decided to buy John, for whatever purpose, better be prepared to work very hard at breaking their new slave into submission. This was his last fight, the only fight that was left; he would not lose himself. He would not.
It was shocking, and slightly nauseating, how quickly it was over. Before he knew it, he was led to the lobby by two guards, to the man who he would have to refer to as 'sir' or, worse yet, 'master', from this forward. Glancing up carefully, John did not know what to make of the man. He was tall, had dark hair and shockingly blue eyes, and he seemed like a statue among the crowd. Cold. Calculating. This was to be his enemy. John steeled himself, nodding mentally. Right, then. Let it begin.
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When his purchase was brought in, he glanced over him, nodding approvingly in satisfaction of his purchase. "You'll do nicely, slave." he said, pushing back the disgust of that word on his tongue. He had to keep up appearances, at least until they got upstairs to his hotel room. "Come along." he said, putting a hand on the back of his neck to lead him along, as was customary for masters to start 'breaking in' their new slaves, even though he had no intention of doing so. He led him to the elevator, waiting for the doors to close with them alone to drop his hand and take his mobile out of his pocket.
"How long have you been in the rebellion and what have you accomplished thus far?" he asked nonchalantly without looking up from his mobile, tapping furiously away at the buttons.
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Snapping up his head, he regarded the other man with a startled expression. Instead of lowering his eyes and offering apology for daring to look straight at his master, John kept staring at the dark-haired stranger. For some part, it was simply because he had not ever received the proper training; he wasn't actually prepared to be any sort of slave. Mostly, however, he was shaken. Was there some sort of information new masters received with their purchase? A file of sorts? It seemed likely. But no, no, who would include the part of John's life in which he had been a rebel? Nobody would buy such a slave, and if they did, well, said slave would not be alive for much longer, would they...? John paled. "How did you--"
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He's pulled out of his introspection when his companion looks up, smirking a little to himself at the way he obviously had never been taught anything about being a slave. He was glad for that, he never liked the way his family's slaves refused to meet his eyes. He pocketed his mobile to regard the blonde, gazing at him almost fondly at his question.
"I observed, that's all. It's obvious that you're a military man from your gait, which would have meant that you would have had your pick of slaves when you returned. The fact that you're here means you must have rebelled, and you must have really made them angry being that they didn't bother to train you at all before throwing you into an auction. They were counting on your new owner to break you instead, though I have no intention of doing so because I believe I can use you as you are. Now, answer my question." he said quickly, raising an eyebrow at him to encourage him to speak.
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"Two years," John answered at last, with some reluctance. He clenched his hands, closed and open and closed again, back straight and chin lifted a touch. Pride, as well as a challenge. Yes, I am a proud rebel, you want to do something about it? "As far as my - our - accomplishments, read the papers. You'll have to look past the villainizing, but other than that, it's all there. If you want specifics, you won't get them from me. I'm no traitor to my own people. Never will be. So if that's what this is, you can stop right now. Sir."
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"Ugh, no. That's unacceptable. You're only to call me 'sir' in public, so we can keep up appearances. When we're alone, you're to call me Sherlock." he said, not wanting any such argument on the matter because he hated all the formalities of master-slave relationships. "They only gave me a number for you, so tell me what I'm to call you. 24601 is quite the mouthful. Wait, hold on, this is our floor." he said, giving the blonde a look akin to apologetic as he put a hand on his neck again to lead him out to his hotel room. He sighed when he'd shut the door behind them, moving away from the blonde to search through his bags for his pocketknife.
"I want to explain myself, and then I'm going to unbind your hands, alright?" he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective. I'm here to investigate the murders of slaves under the guise of being a normal buyer. This weekend is like a slaver's convention, and as such is the best time to get concrete evidence on slavers who aren't treating their slaves like they're supposed to." He took a step or two towards him, remaining slow in his movements so as not to alarm him.
"Please, don't attack me. It'd be so inconvenient to have to find another slave with any spirit left." he added, moving carefully over to him to begin cutting through the rope tying his hands together. "Tell me your name, please." he asked again, meeting John's eyes and remaining liberal with the word 'please' in the hopes of making him realize he was not a typical slave owner.
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When the man - Sherlock, his mind whispered to him, treacherous thing - began to cut his bonds, all John could do for the longest time was watch him. Cold, he had thought, in the lobby downstairs. Calculating. Not entirely wrong... but not entirely right, either. He was on their side. The side of the angels. What he was himself, who he was, John did not know. But it seemed Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was to be his only way out. His only hope. John might be stubborn, but he was no fool. "My name is John," he murmured, though his tone of voice was firm. God, even after a few days, it felt like such a relief to lay claim again to his own name. His name. "I still don't quite understand... Sherlock." He moved a little, rubbing a hand across a sore wrist as he continued to watch the other man. "What is it you need me for, exactly?"
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"Here. I can order more food if you need it, I know there's a marketable difference between what slavers feed slaves and what could be considered an actual meal." he said, gesturing for John to sit if he wanted as he made his way to sit on the edge of the hotel bed.
"I need a cover. It would be strange for me to be at a slavers convention without a slave to speak of, as much as I abhor the idea. This entire weekend I'm going to be attending all of the events with you so we can gather evidence against those who don't treat their slaves like they should. I thought you'd be eager to help, given that your views on the matter align with my own." He paused to give John a considering look, hoping that he would assist him with this so slaves would stop getting senselessly murdered.
"If you assist me, I guarantee your freedom. I'll file all the proper paperwork to free you as soon as this case is over, and you never have to associate with me again if you'd rather not. I have connections that would grant you amnesty from any of your supposed crimes against slaving if you assist me. What do you say?"
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John's entire body felt like it was set on fire, his dangerlust likely shining through in his eyes as he regarded the other man. Not wanting to seem too eager, he took a moment to drink from his water, eyes never leaving Sherlock. "If we get caught, it'll mean my death," he pointed out to Sherlock, unnecessarily as it was so obvious. Still. It needed saying. "You'll have to tell me how I would be assisting you. We'd have to at least practice our master-slave dynamic for a little before venturing out there, I've absolutely no training. I need to know what's expected of me, both my cover and what I'm supposed to be looking for out there." Negotiating, asking questions. He had never said yes, not once, but he didn't have to. He would do this. Anything to fuck up the system and gain back his freedom.
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"Not necessarily. I have government contacts that can pardon you being that you're assisting in a police investigation." he said, not allowing John any excuse to try to talk himself out of it. He nodded to John's questions, taking a moment to consider what he was asking. "There are a few key rules to the master-slave dynamic that can help us avoid suspicion. You're not to speak unless spoken to, and you're to follow every order I give, as well as calling me 'sir' after every sentence. At least you're somewhat used to that part already. Don't make eye contact with anyone. As far as what to look for, I want you observing the peripherals. Not making eye contact gives you a good excuse to watch everyone we're not directly interacting with. Look for warning signs, evidence of physical abuse, excessive flinching when disciplined, that sort of thing. You're to stay at my side the entire time, and I want you to discreetly nudge me if you see any of that, especially if you see a slaver take their slave out of the room after disciplining them, that's usually an indication that the true punishment will be given privately, which is never a good sign." he said, pressing his hands together under his chin as he regarded John. "Oh, and go and get the door." he added, room service knocking a moment later with the food he'd ordered for John.
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Before he could form a reply or come up with more questions, Sherlock (sir) instructed him to open the door, and indeed, a knock followed a moment later. Extraordinary. Shaking his head, John got up and opened the door, making sure to keep his eyes lowered as the hotel employee rolled in the food. God, this might actually be harder than he thought, John thought as he stared pointedly at a spot on the carpet. Once the employee had left, John wasted no time in walking over and lifting all the cloches...
He stared. There, right in front of him, were all his favorite foods, absolutely all of them: roast beef, bangers and mash, Shepherd's Pie, an actual plate with a full English breakfast, Yorkshire Pudding with gravy and veggies... Traditional, solid, British foods. "How did you--" John asked, shocked and amazed, as he looked up at Sherlock, cloche still in hand.
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He smiled to himself when John shook his head like that, already finding himself somewhat endeared to him. He was pleased when John took to his instructions so well, glad that he already learned to avoid eye contact per the norm for slaves. He made no move to get up from the bed when the food arrived, playing idly with his mobile while glancing up occasionally at John. He made an amused sound at John's half-question, setting aside his mobile to regard him fully.
"Call it a hunch that you were the traditional sort." he replied, waving a hand to gesture John to go ahead and eat. "Have all you like. We have a bit of time before the first event we're attending." he added, placing his fingers under his chin again and staring at the ceiling, already thinking away about all they could accomplish just as soon as John finally agreed to assist him.
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"Alright," he eventually said, sitting back in his chair (God, he was full, and tired, Jesus, when was the last time he slept?), regarding the man on the bed with watchful eyes. "This first event, tell me about it." Brief me, give me my orders, but as a soldier, an equal, a human being, not a slave.
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He sat up when John addressed him, crossing his legs while keeping his fingers pressed together under his chin. He was glad to see the man looking a bit better off now that he'd eaten, wanting him in top form for what they were going to do.
"There's going to be a private party in the reception room of the hotel thrown by a political figure who's voted against any sort of regulations on slaving. If he had his way, slaves would basically be treated no better than cattle, though probably a lot worse. The party is his way of showing off his new toys, it's basically an excuse for slavers to get sloshed and show what obedient little slaves they have by demeaning them for laughs. It's quite disgusting and I'd much rather avoid it at all costs, but it's got too much potential for slavers to go too far." he explained, really not looking forward to the party, but needing to go so the slaves could have some sort of protection from their awful owners.
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Slowly opening his eyes, John rested his gaze on the other man. There was a sort of quiet resolve about him now, in his eyes and the lines of his body. He was ready. He was a soldier of the Resistance. He was trained for this. He burned for this. He nodded, once. "Whatever you need me to do, I'll do. Just be clear in your commands, and I will be your perfect little slave for the evening." He wondered, briefly, why he had decided to trust this man, this man of all men, but pushed the thought down for later consideration. For now, he needed all his focus, if he was to pull this off successfully. He stood, holding Sherlock's eyes. "Ready when you are... Sir."
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"Yes, fine." he said with a satisfied nod when John agreed, moving to close the distance between them, making a face at his words. "It's Sherlock when we're in here, remember?" he said, wanting to limit his exposure to that word as much as he could. He wasn't a 'sir', and he certainly didn't want to be one considering the implications surrounding that word. He moved to the loo to change into the required black tie attire, still talking to John as he did. "There are clothes for you in the bag by the window if you want to change. Slave attire doesn't matter at these functions, I simply thought you may want to." What John was wearing now were his slave clothes, and Sherlock wanted rid of that association at all by giving him new clothes, clothes that would be associated with their being equal partners rather than a slave and master.
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