"Got yourself an eager one there." Edmund chuckles from the front passanger seat while his chaffeur drives.
John smiles half-heartedly but then coaxes you off his lap and to the seat beside him, buckling up your seat belt.
He pats your hand; "You can show me your gratitude later. Not safe in the car...Wouldn't want you damged this early now, would we?"
Of course he says what Edmund wants to hear.
He links his fingers with yours and doesn't say another word until Edmund takes him to his hotel.
"I suppose you want my number if you want to get hold of me for this...favour." John says, his voice lowering.
Edmund gives a careless waves; "No need, my dear Doctor. If I need you, I come find you. Hopefully I no need you and if I do then job won't be too big. We more or less even."
Apparently his son's life was worth just a little less than fifteen thousand.
"Go. Enjoy your purchase. Farewell for now, Doctor."
And John knows full well it won't be the last he sees of that guy. Unfortunately.
He links his arm with you as the car door is opened.
He keeps a tight grip on your hand, squeezing it a little now and then. You're far too cold.
How can you be so cold in a country as hot as this?
John swiftly leads you up into his hotel room and sits you down on the bed. He kneels down in front of you and takes both of your hands as his eyes look up at you.
"Oh my god...I can't believe it." He whispers, in awe, "I...Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I thought you were dead. I saw your body, I watched...Oh, this is just insane."
He starts laughing, tears of joy forming in his eyes at the miracle sat before him.
For a brief moment, your condition fazes him.
John wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, breathing you in, letting out a dry sob against the side of your head.
At your comfort, he can't help but let out another short wave of sobs.
"No, I...I'm okay." He says, smiling, wiping his cheeks as he pulls back; "You don't need to do any of that anymore, Sherlock. They're not here anymore. It's just the two of us. You're safe."
At the baffled look on your lost, gaunt face he cups your chin with his hand.
He bites his lip; "Sherlock? You...you do remember me? Right?"
He can see the recognition on your face, however painful. It's something and John grabs at it.
"No. You do remember, Sherlock." He holds your hands with his; "That's your name. Sherlock Holmes. And I'm John Watson, I'm your...I'm your friend. Your flatmate. We lived together in 221b Baker Street, London until three years ago."
His eyes scan you over again.
What have they been doing to you?
"Please try to remember, Sherlock. Please..." Say it wasn't just all some dream in his head, as much as he's certain it wasn't. It may as well be if that's all it was to you.
"Sherlock, what..." He shuffles back a little at your gesture.
Oh. Of course.
He feels so stupid. This is what you're used to now, isn't it? If, God knows how, this is where you were all this time. It's the only life you've been forced to believe you ever had. Beaten and pounded into you each and every day.
Christ. He gently places his hands under your arms and lifts you back up.
"No, no, c'mon." He whispers softly, guiding you back onto the bed; "Whatever they doped you up with is still in your system. Just sleep it off, okay."
John sees that your...costume wasn't really designed with comfort for the wearer in mind.
"I'm going to help you get undressed, all right? And then you can have a lay down." He says softly, squeezing your hand in his; "I promise I'm not going to...'do' anything to you. Just best you're out of this thing."
He slowly sees to unzipping the back of the black leather getup.
He lets you take off the thing he's dressed in. Hell, he was lucky to have anything at all, really - it meant he could work even while being half-ensconced in leather.
Underneath, it's probably further evidence of what he is.
There's a tatoo on his hip that had been half lasered off, a design of a dragon. There's scars - old, ones, also on his legs. As though someone had cut him or beat him severely. Not really new wounds other than scratches down his back.
He swallows when you touch his skin. His Master before you had never really liked the scars - said it made it clear the Slut had many many Owners.
He's not nervous really. He's trained to accept - to go with whatever you want to do to him.
As long as you get off - it's how he earns some of his keep.
It's never enough. Diazepam cost twice as much as a morsel.
He peels off the leather until you're left sitting naked as the day you were born on the bed.
At the sight of your scars and 'brands', he nearly gags, holding his hand over his mouth as his eyes scan over you. Bloody Hell. As old as most of them are, each one is more evident than the other. His fingertips trail down each one and a barely-controllable fury boils inside of him.
"Oh God..." He gasps, eyes widening in horror, "What have they done to you?"
He dreads to think and is almost thankful for your lack of speech right now.
John moves to the wardrobe and gets out one of the hotels complementary white, fluffy dressing gowns. He slips your arms through each one and does it up, encasing you in the soft and cosy material, well worth the 5 star price in itself.
"Lie down now, okay." He guides, pulling back the covers; "Close your eyes and try to sleep. I know you're confused and hurting...your head will feel better after a good rest. Everything will be a bit clearer."
Costume's not that comfortable anyway. He almost prefers to go without it. But his preference hardly matters unless he's rented by someone that gets off on "kindness".
Then you slip him in the robe and tell him to sleep.
"Mas-master ver-very kind," he murmurs. Yes. You are. You deserve the best skills he could possibly offer at your demand.
It's not much. And then he'll have to work double in order to eat.
So tired. Eyes slip closed, a shudder wracking his thin frame.
His ribs aren't prominent but it's clear he's neither fed nor rested much.
Just before he's almost asleep, a wracking cough shakes him.
You might not have noticed the patches of rough skin - you might think them raw or simply a rash.
"John. Call me John." He says softly, rubbing your shoulder.
At your wracking cough, he dashes to the sink and pours a glass of water, returning and holding it to your lips for you to sip before you go completely under.
He doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening. He sits on the floor, back to the wall, watching you, hands over his mouth.
Oh, Sherlock...
He has a million questions but he doubts you could answer any of them in this state.
John smiles half-heartedly but then coaxes you off his lap and to the seat beside him, buckling up your seat belt.
He pats your hand; "You can show me your gratitude later. Not safe in the car...Wouldn't want you damged this early now, would we?"
Of course he says what Edmund wants to hear.
He links his fingers with yours and doesn't say another word until Edmund takes him to his hotel.
"I suppose you want my number if you want to get hold of me for this...favour." John says, his voice lowering.
Edmund gives a careless waves; "No need, my dear Doctor. If I need you, I come find you. Hopefully I no need you and if I do then job won't be too big. We more or less even."
Apparently his son's life was worth just a little less than fifteen thousand.
"Go. Enjoy your purchase. Farewell for now, Doctor."
And John knows full well it won't be the last he sees of that guy. Unfortunately.
He links his arm with you as the car door is opened.
"C'mon."
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But he says nothing, just sits quietly, hands in his lap.
Impatient little Slut. Wait. Wait til Master is ready.
When the car door opens, he follows you out, trembling slightly from the come-down.
Please. Take me. Properly.
Prove that he is yours. He lets you lead him wherever you like. He is yours, after all, isn't he?
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How can you be so cold in a country as hot as this?
John swiftly leads you up into his hotel room and sits you down on the bed. He kneels down in front of you and takes both of your hands as his eyes look up at you.
"Oh my god...I can't believe it." He whispers, in awe, "I...Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I thought you were dead. I saw your body, I watched...Oh, this is just insane."
He starts laughing, tears of joy forming in his eyes at the miracle sat before him.
For a brief moment, your condition fazes him.
John wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, breathing you in, letting out a dry sob against the side of your head.
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Is this that lost-and-found sort of thing?
He's not really had much practice in this department.
And what is that you call him...his brain feels fogged - Sher. Sherlock.
What a strange name.
He's not sure why you're laughing...or why you're crying either, just his arms wrap automatically around you.
You must be mad.
Well.
He's had a mad master before.
It wasn't pleasant at all, but he'll. He'll manage.
Somehow he always does.
He pats the side of your head with his thin hand.
"S'alright, Master, don't cry. 'L make it better."
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"No, I...I'm okay." He says, smiling, wiping his cheeks as he pulls back; "You don't need to do any of that anymore, Sherlock. They're not here anymore. It's just the two of us. You're safe."
At the baffled look on your lost, gaunt face he cups your chin with his hand.
He bites his lip; "Sherlock? You...you do remember me? Right?"
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"I-I think so, Master."
No. He. Well. You're dead. And the person - yes, person - your lover most likely - proper lover - not him. Worthless. Wretch.
You lost someone.
It makes sense now.
"I-I don't remember everything. Sorry."
You're familiar enough maybe even he believes it.
So tired. Please.
Just take him, and let him sleep.
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"Sherlock, it...It's me. It's John. J-John Watson, remember?" He tries, eyes still watering; "We lived together. In London. Don't you remember? Baker Street? Mrs. Hudson? L-Lestrade?"
Something.
Anthing. Please.
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Why to they h-hurt?.
He begins to shake.
"I don't-I don't remember anything. M-my name i-is N-norman, I've-I've on'ly been to L-london once..."
Please. Not this. Not again.
They don't exist. CRACK!
They are all in your head, Norman, just some stupid little boy's dream. CRACK!
You hear me?
Yes, Master, sorry.
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"No. You do remember, Sherlock." He holds your hands with his; "That's your name. Sherlock Holmes. And I'm John Watson, I'm your...I'm your friend. Your flatmate. We lived together in 221b Baker Street, London until three years ago."
His eyes scan you over again.
What have they been doing to you?
"Please try to remember, Sherlock. Please..." Say it wasn't just all some dream in his head, as much as he's certain it wasn't. It may as well be if that's all it was to you.
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"Please, Master, don't." John - whoever John had been to him, is dead. Isn't he? Dead or a dream, and with his life - it was all the same.
Don't make it hurt again. Please. Don't leave it empty and void and useless.
He kneels on the floor his head nearly touching the carpets.
Please. Take me instead. Don't make me think anymore.
It's a submissive gesture, offering you to either flog or take. Either will do.
He's still shivering. Tangled, matted hair hangs in his face.
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Oh. Of course.
He feels so stupid. This is what you're used to now, isn't it? If, God knows how, this is where you were all this time. It's the only life you've been forced to believe you ever had. Beaten and pounded into you each and every day.
Christ. He gently places his hands under your arms and lifts you back up.
"No, no, c'mon." He whispers softly, guiding you back onto the bed; "Whatever they doped you up with is still in your system. Just sleep it off, okay."
John sees that your...costume wasn't really designed with comfort for the wearer in mind.
"I'm going to help you get undressed, all right? And then you can have a lay down." He says softly, squeezing your hand in his; "I promise I'm not going to...'do' anything to you. Just best you're out of this thing."
He slowly sees to unzipping the back of the black leather getup.
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Hell, he was lucky to have anything at all, really - it meant he could work even while being half-ensconced in leather.
Underneath, it's probably further evidence of what he is.
There's a tatoo on his hip that had been half lasered off, a design of a dragon. There's scars - old, ones, also on his legs. As though someone had cut him or beat him severely. Not really new wounds other than scratches down his back.
He swallows when you touch his skin. His Master before you had never really liked the scars - said it made it clear the Slut had many many Owners.
He's not nervous really.
He's trained to accept - to go with whatever you want to do to him.
As long as you get off - it's how he earns some of his keep.
It's never enough.
Diazepam cost twice as much as a morsel.
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At the sight of your scars and 'brands', he nearly gags, holding his hand over his mouth as his eyes scan over you. Bloody Hell. As old as most of them are, each one is more evident than the other. His fingertips trail down each one and a barely-controllable fury boils inside of him.
"Oh God..." He gasps, eyes widening in horror, "What have they done to you?"
He dreads to think and is almost thankful for your lack of speech right now.
John moves to the wardrobe and gets out one of the hotels complementary white, fluffy dressing gowns. He slips your arms through each one and does it up, encasing you in the soft and cosy material, well worth the 5 star price in itself.
"Lie down now, okay." He guides, pulling back the covers; "Close your eyes and try to sleep. I know you're confused and hurting...your head will feel better after a good rest. Everything will be a bit clearer."
He hopes, tucking you in.
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Costume's not that comfortable anyway. He almost prefers to go without it. But his preference hardly matters unless he's rented by someone that gets off on "kindness".
Then you slip him in the robe and tell him to sleep.
"Mas-master ver-very kind," he murmurs.
Yes. You are. You deserve the best skills he could possibly offer at your demand.
It's not much.
And then he'll have to work double in order to eat.
So tired.
Eyes slip closed, a shudder wracking his thin frame.
His ribs aren't prominent but it's clear he's neither fed nor rested much.
Just before he's almost asleep, a wracking cough shakes him.
You might not have noticed the patches of rough skin - you might think them raw or simply a rash.
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At your wracking cough, he dashes to the sink and pours a glass of water, returning and holding it to your lips for you to sip before you go completely under.
He doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening. He sits on the floor, back to the wall, watching you, hands over his mouth.
Oh, Sherlock...
He has a million questions but he doubts you could answer any of them in this state.
How are you still alive?
How did you end up like this?
...Can he still save you?
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He could have kept it up, but it's so rare he's given permission to sleep, he takes it while he can.
He doesn't dream anymore. He is far too tired, body to exhausted to handle it.
[[ooc: back in about an hour.]]
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