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.
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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