Collared Chapter 2
Title: Collared
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (You'll have to be patient), this chapter hard R.
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 5200
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.
Chapter 1
A/N: This is a tiny thing, but I used vicodin in this. I'm aware that it's illegal in the UK, but then so is slavery. :D Anyway, my reasoning is that this British Empire is not the business of trying to save people from themselves. They double-dog-dare you to become an addict. Dog.
Chapter 2
John froze. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
“I--” said John, then shut up because really, what was there to say?
Sherlock walked slowly into the classroom. His eyes were intense, scanning everything, then settling on John with cold detachment.
“I see your collar just fell off into a rubbish bin. Let me guess - the men's room at the Baker Street station.” John winced at the sarcasm. “That was the excuse you were going to give me, isn't it? That you were looking for jammies and just happened to walk into Bart's by mistake. You mistook the X-ray for a deli?”
“God,” said John. “No, I - no.”
“No excuse, then?” Sherlock's lips twitched. “In any case, I won the bet. Mycroft thought you'd make a bee-line to the Continent and put as much distance between you and me as possible. It would be the logical course of action. You have compatriots scattered in many countries; the latest raid hardly made a dent in their numbers. They'd be more than willing to shelter a slave. So long as I wasn't around to order you about, collar or no, you'd have been free to resume your antisocial behaviour as before.
“I, on the other hand, knew that your body horror would trump your good sense. You'd stick closer to home, attempt to find some way of undoing what was done to you. You graduated from Barts, you might find a sympathetic ear amongst the doctors here, especially old chums. And here you are. As predicted.”
Much as John didn't want to, he felt a rush of admiration. Sherlock had barely met him, and yet he knew him.
Mike looked from Sherlock to John. “Listen, Mr. Holmes - I didn't realise.”
Sherlock glared at him. “Of course you did, Mike. It's not like John here was being reticent about his status. Helping property escape is considered theft.”
Mike blanched. “Mr. Holmes. Please. I didn't know he was yours. It'll cost me my job if you report this.”
Sherlock suddenly beamed out a smile, like he'd been given marvellous news. “Oh, I wouldn't want that to happen, Mike, would I? Who would owe me such a large favour, if I turned you in?”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the X-ray table, hand over his chest.
It was John's turn to look from one to the other. “You know each other?” he asked.
“I'm a regular here,” said Sherlock. “Mike helps me out on occasions. As he has now. Let's see those films. I'm as curious as you to know what they've done to your brain.”
Mike pulled out the developed X-ray and put it up on the light board. John looked at his skull. There, obscenely visible were sixteen threads, kinked up as they followed some convoluted path through the grey matter. At the end of each was a small arrow shaped capsule. John pressed his lips together, not wanting to acknowledge what he was seeing.
“Hmm,” said Sherlock. “See this bit,” he pointed to the capsule. “One way delivery system. It's designed to open up and dig into the grey matter if the thread is pulled back. And this deep into the brain, normal surgery would cause tremendous damage. I'm afraid removing your collar is impossible, John. If you survived the process, which is unlikely, you'd be rendered a vegetable.”
“He's right,” said Mike. “No responsible surgeon will touch that. Holmes, I wasn't aware you could read X-rays.”
“No, but I can read a brochure,” he pulled a glossy tri-fold pamphlet out of his coat pocket. “However, it's one thing to look at a graphic and another to actually see the real thing.” He leaned admiringly in on the X-ray.
John turned away. He thought he was going to throw up.
“So are you satisfied of your status, John? Or are we going to have to do this again tomorrow?”
John clenched his fists. “What choice do I have?”
“None at all,” replied Sherlock. “Except the choice to be stupid. And for some reason Mycroft thinks you are misguided rather than mentally ill. I'm rather inclined to accept his judgment on that score, though it might be wishful thinking on my part.” Sherlock glanced at his mobile. “Let's go home. I have actual work to do.” He headed back to the door. “Oh, and you can debit my account for the X-ray, Mike. Wrap up any loose ends. Make it look neat.”
Mike nodded and seemed more than ready to quit the whole matter.
“So, that's it,” said John, following Sherlock out into the hall. “We go back and it's like this never happened?” He felt relieved but also oddly confused. Not that he wanted to be punished, but that Sherlock would be so completely forgiving didn't make any sense to him. “You set me up, I fell into your trap.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, don't play the victim. You could have done exactly what I told you to do, bought yourself a nice shirt and decent lunch and then continued your domestic endeavours until I returned. It was absolutely in your power to be the boring-but-good slave everyone seems to crave. Just because you didn't and I knew you wouldn't doesn't mean you didn't have a choice. Man up to your decisions.”
“I don't know where I stand with you!” said John, frustrated. He stopped in his tracks. “Do you want me to rebel? Does that make me more interesting? Is my life a game to you?”
Sherlock turned on his heel, his coat flying dramatically around him. In two long paces he was an inch from John's face. “Everyone's life is a game to me. My life is a game.” He backed off. “To think of it any other way is to give in to the soul crushing tedium of the ordinary. Do I find your plight entertaining? Yes, I do. I freely admit it. You've given me an afternoon's diversion. Will I become bored of you? I don't know. Probably in time.” He stood up very tall and looked down his nose. “And what do you want of me? You seem to have expectations that I'm not living up to. Would you like me to behave like a typical master? Do you crave more immediate gratification? Easily done. Heel, John!”
John knew what was going to happen a second before it did, but it didn't make the pain any more tolerable. He bit his lip and held his breath and rode out the agony. As the sensation retreated he became acutely aware of two medical students at the far end of the hall looking his way. He threw up a hand to ward them away before they decided their assistance was needed. If there was anything worse than the pain itself, it was the humiliation of being chastised in public.
“Was that enough of that?” asked Sherlock, “Or would you suggest I do it again? After all, running away, no matter how forgone the results, is still a serious breach of my trust.”
“No. It's enough.”
“Predictable. Cab is this way.”
John followed Sherlock in silence for a few minutes. Gradually he worked his way mentally past the shock of being caught and some of the details wormed their way up to his attention.
“How did you know I'd left the collar in the Baker Street Station.”
Sherlock stopped abruptly and tapped his finger against the waist of John's jacket. “See that dark stripe? It looks like it's wet, but it's not. From the particularly pungent odor, it's a smeared drop of commercial grade liquid soap commonly used in the Underground loo. You used the toilet not ten minutes before I left, there is little reason you'd need to go again so soon. Obviously your leaning over the counter wasn't to wash your hands, therefore your goal was the mirror. You would not have bothered looking at yourself, unless you thought it might aid your flight. You are missing the collar you wore when I met you, it would take some effort to remove it. Ergo, that's where you lost it. The Baker Street Station is the closest to my flat. And there we have it: a small matter of connecting the dots.”
“You got all that from this little stain?” John was flabbergasted. “That's … that's amazing.”
“Really?” Sherlock smiled.
“It's like a superpower.”
“I wouldn't go that far. It was simply being observant.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “Also, I cheated a bit.” He turned the screen so that John could see it. There was a map with a star over Bart's hospital. “Your collar includes GPS tracking.”
John blanched. “You mean... if I'd gone straight to my friends on the continent instead of doing the foolish thing and stopping by Bart's --”
“Mycroft would have gathered up another abolitionist cell to add to his collection.” Sherlock checked another message and smiled. “He's rather put out at being wrong. Ha.”
The cab let them off in front of their flat. “Pay him,” said Sherlock dully as he climbed out, then at John's startled expression he went on: “You have a large amount of my money in your pocket, and my card. At least I hope you still have my card.”
John paid the cabbie, then handed Sherlock back his card. He was about to hand back the cash as well, but the other waved him off. “Simpler to just have you hold on to it. Consider it your errand money.”
John sighed. He felt like a thief, which was absurd. He was the wronged party here. Could there be a greater theft than a person's life?
And, oh God, it was his life, wasn't it? It gradually began to dawn on John that his entire future was gone, simply gone. Even though he didn't feel that much different, simple things, like the decision to spend a weekend with Harry and her wife was now no longer his to choose. Last week getting together with a chum for drinks at the bar was as simple a matter as picking up a phone and giving them a ring. Now there was this other person he'd have to go through.
The Cause had consumed the two years of his life, taking his energy, imagination, thought. All those plans, those connections, the network he'd helped build. Dummy corporations to pass money through. Lockers filled with weapons, explosives, cash, documents. The camaraderie of shared belief. The movement had been like his child, his job, and his God all rolled into one. And now even that was gone. He didn't dare go near a contact, didn't dare even think about the strategies or targets, lest it end up being tortured out of him. Who would take over for him? Burgess was crap at planning. Davidson was too green. They needed him, and he couldn't be there for them.
There was no following his bliss or seeking his fortune or making a name for himself in history. This was it: Following behind this lanky fellow whose job he still couldn't fathom, and hope that his orders wouldn't be too repugnant.
John followed Sherlock numbly up to the flat, then went straight to the kitchen to finish up the job he'd started earlier. Sherlock hadn't ordered it, but what else was he supposed to do? He needed some sort of purpose. Something was dying in him. He could feel it, like a tightness is chest. He stared down at a dripping plate and wondered where the hell he was supposed to put it.
“John, come here,” Sherlock's voice drifted in from the rear of the flat. John dropped the sponge back into the sink and headed down the hall.
As soon as he stepped in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom, he was assaulted with two simultaneous and competing emotions. The first was the artificial bliss of his collar which seemed to insist that all was right with the world now that he'd followed this minor command. The second was 100% authentic terror which ran through his body like a punishment shock. His muscles didn't know which way to twitch and he was left gaping and suddenly sweaty.
“There you are, John. Let's get this ugly business over with.”
Sherlock took the riding crop in his hand and smacked it against the mattress of his bed with enough speed and force to make an audible whistle and crack. The bed had been stripped except for the fitted sheet and a bath towel laid flat over the side. Sherlock inspected the crop, then smoothed the towel again.
John swallowed. “You aren't going to punish me with that, are you?”
“Of course, I am.” Sherlock cocked his head in John's direction. “What? Surely you didn't think that you'd get off scott free after stealing my money and running away.”
“But you predicted I'd do that. You wanted me to.”
“That still doesn't make it right.”
“But you already punished me,” said John, taking an involuntary step back out into the hall. “At Bart's.”
“What?” Sherlock looked confused. “Oh, that. That wasn't punishment. That was to keep you from blubbing in fear of what I would do all the ride home. And because you all but demanded it.” Sherlock gently beat the haft of the crop against his palm.
“I did not--”
“This takes my time and attention as much as yours.” Sherlock continued, testily. “Consider that! What do I get out of watching the collar zap you? Nothing. If I am forced to punish you, I might as well get some useful data from the process. Two birds, one stone.”
“Useful data? What possible data can you get from flogging me with that thing?” John began to feel anger rising up in him. “And I know for a fact that beatings have been specifically discouraged since the invention of the collar. Aren't we supposed to be safe and sanitary these days?
“Discouraged, not outlawed. And come now, a one size fits all punishment like a collar zap, while surely unpleasant, can't possibly give you any sense of the magnitude of your trespass. Do you really think it makes sense to punish a slave for running away the same as you might for spilling a cup of tea? If I did that, you'd tell yourself, 'well, I forgot to do the laundry, I might as well commit murder.'”
“You'll injure me.”
“Minor injuries. You'll recover.”
“I will be less efficient. I already have a limp.”
“Thankfully, I don't require you to be efficient. I'm used to living like this, it will hardly upset me to spend another day or two in a less than gleaming flat. Meanwhile, your continued soreness will make a good reminder not to attempt flight again.”
“Don't do this, Sherlock. It's humiliating,” said John.
“Really? Any more than being told to “heel” in a public building? I've given you some privacy, at least. The bed is comfortable enough. I've disinfected the crop. And I'm through arguing with you over the nature of my punishments. Strip and lie down. The worst of it will be over in ten minutes. You can soldier though that much.”
“Strip,” said John faintly.
“Well I can hardly make note of the bruising if your clothes are covering you.”
Tap, tap, tap, the crop went against his palm. Distracting. Upsetting.
“I would also remind you that I'm perfectly capable of making your collar zap you as well. Are you really that much of a glutton for punishment.”
John breathed out. With shaking hands he began to undress. Sherlock put down the crop, opened a lap top computer and began tapping out notes. He really was treating this as an experiment. Who was this man?
“All of it?” asked John, when he was down to his pants. Could he keep some dignity?
“Of course,” said Sherlock, dismissively. He picked up an expensive camera off the top of the dresser, and fiddled with it's settings. “Six strokes. I'll need to put two stripes each across your thigh, buttocks and back. The first will be at half strength, the second at full. I will then compare the rate of bruising on impact and at five minute intervals for the next hour. Then once an hour for the next three.”
“Why do you need to know this?”
Sherlock glanced at him and a small smile quirked up his lips, as if he were happy that John had an interest in what he was doing.
“A case, I determined yesterday that the bruising on a corpse was not post-mortem. The question now is how long prior to death did they occur. I know from the time line that it can be no more than three hours. However, my prime suspect has an iron clad alibi if more than an hour occurred between injury and death.”
“What do you mean case. Are you some sort of investigator? Do you work with the police?” John reluctantly pulled off the last piece of clothing. It was a bit easier having something else to think other than his impending pain. After enduring the collar’s paradoxical approval, he stood awkwardly in the pile of his clothes and thought about corpses.
“Consulting detective,” said Sherlock. “And yes, I work with the police, though I am not part of the department myself.” Sherlock finished his last sentence on the computer and stood up. “Go ahead and lie down on the towel. I'd prefer not to get any blood on the sheets.”
Shaking John stepped over to the bed and lay on his stomach. Trigger. Bliss. Shudder. Goddamn, if there ever a time not to be getting that reward for good behaviour this was it. Every time it kicked in, it derailed his fear and anxiety and messed with his head. It was confusing, appallingly inappropriate. His mind was getting all addled up.
“Excellent. Now relax as much as you can. I'm just going to take a quick 'before' shot.”
John closed his eyes and tried not to flinch as he heard a camera click.
“Good, good. We'll begin with the back and work down. First stroke. Hold perfectly still.”
A powerful snap and a sharp cutting pain lanced the small of his back. John didn't know how it was that he kept still for it, but apparently he had, because immediately on the heels of the stroke his collar rewarded him. John gritted his teeth. The burn of abraded skin mixed with the heady delight of the collar's positive reinforcement. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Next one will be a bit harder. Brace yourself and don't move!”
John didn't know how that was possible to make something hurt more, but it was. He set his teeth, felt the agony mix with a short stab of pleasure before switching back to agony again. John heard his heart pounding, and felt a kind of giddiness that was close to euphoria. He felt a cool trickle that might have been sweat run down his side.
“Good John, good job. One-third done. Next will be buttocks.”
This time something was definitely happening when Sherlock struck him. John's mind was being confused by mixed signals. In addition to the pain of punishment and relief of reward there was a wayward twinge of sexual pleasure. He felt himself thicken and fill out, and was glad that Sherlock had him belly down, so it didn't show.
“That one wasn't so bad, now was it,” said Sherlock. “You're relaxing a bit. Your cheeks are flushed. Get ready, hold still. Here's number four.”
And John was riding a wave of something. His endorphins must have been dumping through his bloodstream, mixed with the sharp tang of his collar, and god, he was high. His hands spasmed and twitched. He alternated yanking up wads of the fitted sheet in his fists and pushing the fabric way with the palms of his hands. It was hard to hold still longer than the second it took for the blow. His prick had fattened up and pressed like a rod against his lower belly. Part of him wanted to rut against the towel. He held still out of shame and was rewarded for his stillness.
“Last stretch,” said Sherlock, running a soothing hand over his side.
That made it worse. And better. John didn't want to be turned on by this. He didn't want to be comforted. More than everything he didn't want Sherlock to realise something funny was going on with him.
“Keep absolutely still,” said Sherlock after a few seconds. “Five.”
This time it was John's thigh. The moan was out of him before he could stop it. He wasn't even sure if what he was feeling was hurt anymore. It was sharp and burning, layer on layer of sensation, his back, his front, his head. He wondered if he should ignore Sherlock's directives and deliberately move in time with the blows, but that would mean that he wouldn't get the reward, and at this point the pleasure was far too tempting to bypass.
“Last one. Don't move.”
John was knocked out of his body. He floated suspended, two feet above himself like a balloon. His brain had more layers of sensation than it could properly sift though. He wasn't even sure if the pleasure was sexual or pain or maybe even religious. It felt cathartic, emptying. There was no rational thought anymore. No worries about Sherlock or the cause, or anything else. Nothing but raw nerve-endings and the moment.
Sherlock was talking to him, but he couldn't make sense of the words. It only came through as a musical rumbling, a rolling cadence, like a kettle drum. Gradually John drifted lower, until he was in his body again.
And suddenly the experience became a whole lot less psychedelic fun. Whatever pleasure trip he had been enjoying vanished the moment John seemed to click back together. He felt every millimetre of the welts that Sherlock had put on his back. The weals felt enormous, hot, throbbing. The skin around a few of them tickled and itched and he was aware of the smell of blood. This - this is what normal people felt.
“Skin broken three times, very similar abrasions. Shallow, two by ten millimetres, each case, minimal bleeding.” Sherlock was saying, apparently to himself. “Redness and swelling pronounced, especially towards the end of the welts. Outline of the leather strap of the crop is raised and clearly delineated. Still very pink. No sign of darker bruising - You with me, John?”
John breathed in. “Where would I go.” His voice was slurred.
“You seemed to lose consciousness for a moment there. I thought perhaps you might have fainted. Never mind, I need to get some photographs. Be a dear and don't move.”
Be a dear, John mulled. What a strange thing to say to a person you just tortured. Be a dear. Be a dear.
Three hours later, Sherlock took his last photograph and told John he could take a shower and dress. With that, he left the bedroom, texting on his mobile as fast as his fingers could fly.
John got up slowly. His muscles had stiffened rigid in the hours since he'd been punished. Even the slightest bending stretched the skin on his welts and brought renewed swift, stinging pain. After a couple of attempts he managed to get his feet on the ground and lever himself up to standing. Tentatively he ran a hand over his thigh. His fingers felt hot tender skin, swollen into palm sized lumps. His limp was exaggerated as he made the few feet down the hall to the bathroom.
John glanced at his back in the mirror. It was black and blue and red. A few small trickles of dried blood clung to his skin.
Gruesome. Though not as gruesome as many other things he'd seen. Not as gruesome as the war by a long shot. Not even as gruesome as some of the ordinary accident cases he'd seen as a doctor. Sherlock was right. He'd heal. He wouldn't even scar.
The bathroom had one of those mirrored cabinets. Though Sherlock had implied that the lingering pain was part of his punishment, he hadn't actually said that John couldn't treat himself. Rummaging through the expired ointments, tweezers, and pills, he found a half-filled prescription for vicodin made out to someone named Astrid Jameson. John popped a pill and swallowed it down with a handful of water from the tap. Then went to take a shower.
He left the bathroom after bandaging himself up. The vicodin had kicked in by then and the world was a bit swimmy, but not so uncomfortable as before. He limped back to the sitting room holding the wall to keep from toppling. Between the swelling on his thigh and the chronic ITBS, he wasn't very swift.
“All cleaned up?” asked Sherlock from the couch. His eyes were closed and he had his fingers laced together across his chest. “Don't bother with the housework. You can do that tomorrow when you feel better.”
“I wasn't planning on doing housework,” said John in a somewhat surly tone. “I was going for an icepack.”
Sherlock's eyes peaked open. “There's also some vicodin in the bathroom, but I see you've already found it.”
“Does that bother you?” asked John.
“No. I've already got my data. Treat yourself as you see best.”
John looked in the freezer. Lodged in the back was a forlorn looking bag of peas, probably long past it's expiration by the state of it's plastic bag. It would do. He wrapped it in a tea towel and then crossed the room to the empty plush chair nearest the window. The vicodin was doing a good job of making sitting bearable, but he had no doubt he'd be sleeping on his stomach tonight. On what? That was the question.
“You should be happy,”said Sherlock. “A man avoided the collar today because of what you just went through,” He made the movement from lying to sitting look fluid and graceful. His eyes were startlingly sharp.
“Did he really?” John asked. The vicodin made his brain a bit foggy as well. “Well that's nice for him.”
“Quite nice,” agreed Sherlock. “It took between two and three hours for your bruises to resemble that of the corpse. Mr. Wilkes, my client, was at work, on security camera until an hour before the victim's death. As airtight an alibi as they come. At 5pm, he finished his shift and walked home - say, 10 minutes as a stroll. He claims that he remained in the sitting room for forty-five minutes before going upstairs to their bedroom and discovering the victim, his wife, trussed up, gagged and beaten, on the bed. He called for help immediately, but she died just after the paramedics showed up.
“Because of the 45 to 50 minutes of opportunity and the lack of evidence of a break in, the police have been unwilling to consider the possibility of a second intruder. Thanks to the photographs, I sent of you to the police, they are now willing to give the case a second look. Mr. Wilkes will be released from custody, not too much worse for wear. Of course, he will always bear the guilt of not checking the bedroom sooner, but such things are beyond my ability to help.”
John whistled. “So, you really did get useful info out of punishing me.” He couldn't stop a smile from his lips. “I actually did save a person from the collar.” He shook his head with amazement.
“Undeniably. He was scheduled to be fitted with one in a week. Even if the trial had later proved his innocence, he'd still have the embarrassing scars and the misery of being treated as property for the intervening months. It is unlikely, had I not done these tests, that a public defender would have found the evidence to save him.”
John felt giddy. “That's marvellous.”
“Was it worth it to you?” Sherlock asked, fascinated. “This pain you are in - does knowing that it saved a man make it worth it?”
“Absolutely,” said John, fervently. He stared at Sherlock as though he couldn't believe he'd ask such a thing. “I'd go through much worse to save a person from this.” He pointed at his head. “But what would you have done if Mycroft hadn't given you a slave to beat this morning?”
Sherlock leaned back with a small, wry smile. “I would have been forced to hire someone to beat me. I wouldn't have been as assured of the forces needed to properly bruise, and it would have been inconvenient relying on someone else to take the photographs. I rather suspected that Mycroft handed you over to me as a way to stave off that necessity.”
John frowned. “So that's the reason for it. He went all the way to Oregon to collect a man who you could beat in good conscience.”
It was Sherlock's turn to frown. “What? No, absurd. If all he wanted was to give me someone I could beat, he'd offer one of his minions.”
John smiled at the thought that Sherlock called them 'minions' as well. “But you just said --”
“Mycroft never does anything for just one reason. He is the model of efficiency. His actions, even the minor ones, all serve two, three, and even more purposes. And he almost never takes a direct hand in anything. He rarely goes anywhere outside of his office, his home or his social club. But, for you, he got on a plane and traveled half way across the world. He dirtied his hands on a raid, which is unheard of.
"No. This isn't about me at all, John. This is about you. You fascinate him for some reason.” Sherlock frowned.
“Why?” John asked, not sure whether to be flattered or not. “I'm not the only abolitionist out there.”
“I don't know,” Sherlock spread his hands. “His mind is brilliant. He scans vast amounts of data every day, and pulls connections from them, clues. Where another would only see white noise and randomness, he sees purpose. He sees aberrations. And he follows them to their sources and divines what they mean. Then he uses them.” Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. “You mean something.”
“I'm just a person.” John shook his head. “I don't know what he expects to learn from me, especially not in this condition.”
Sherlock said nothing, his eyes were glued out the window, but at what, John couldn't figure.
“And what about you, Sherlock?” John asked after a few minutes. “Now that you've gotten the data you were looking for, are you going to hand me back? Seems to me that if you wanted to own a slave, you'd have picked one out for yourself from the market.”
“I have no interest in owning a slave,” said Sherlock gently pulling the curtains down. “But you are a puzzle.” Sherlock smiled gleefully. “And I love puzzles.”
Chapter 3
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (You'll have to be patient), this chapter hard R.
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 5200
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.
Chapter 1
A/N: This is a tiny thing, but I used vicodin in this. I'm aware that it's illegal in the UK, but then so is slavery. :D Anyway, my reasoning is that this British Empire is not the business of trying to save people from themselves. They double-dog-dare you to become an addict. Dog.
Chapter 2
John froze. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
“I--” said John, then shut up because really, what was there to say?
Sherlock walked slowly into the classroom. His eyes were intense, scanning everything, then settling on John with cold detachment.
“I see your collar just fell off into a rubbish bin. Let me guess - the men's room at the Baker Street station.” John winced at the sarcasm. “That was the excuse you were going to give me, isn't it? That you were looking for jammies and just happened to walk into Bart's by mistake. You mistook the X-ray for a deli?”
“God,” said John. “No, I - no.”
“No excuse, then?” Sherlock's lips twitched. “In any case, I won the bet. Mycroft thought you'd make a bee-line to the Continent and put as much distance between you and me as possible. It would be the logical course of action. You have compatriots scattered in many countries; the latest raid hardly made a dent in their numbers. They'd be more than willing to shelter a slave. So long as I wasn't around to order you about, collar or no, you'd have been free to resume your antisocial behaviour as before.
“I, on the other hand, knew that your body horror would trump your good sense. You'd stick closer to home, attempt to find some way of undoing what was done to you. You graduated from Barts, you might find a sympathetic ear amongst the doctors here, especially old chums. And here you are. As predicted.”
Much as John didn't want to, he felt a rush of admiration. Sherlock had barely met him, and yet he knew him.
Mike looked from Sherlock to John. “Listen, Mr. Holmes - I didn't realise.”
Sherlock glared at him. “Of course you did, Mike. It's not like John here was being reticent about his status. Helping property escape is considered theft.”
Mike blanched. “Mr. Holmes. Please. I didn't know he was yours. It'll cost me my job if you report this.”
Sherlock suddenly beamed out a smile, like he'd been given marvellous news. “Oh, I wouldn't want that to happen, Mike, would I? Who would owe me such a large favour, if I turned you in?”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the X-ray table, hand over his chest.
It was John's turn to look from one to the other. “You know each other?” he asked.
“I'm a regular here,” said Sherlock. “Mike helps me out on occasions. As he has now. Let's see those films. I'm as curious as you to know what they've done to your brain.”
Mike pulled out the developed X-ray and put it up on the light board. John looked at his skull. There, obscenely visible were sixteen threads, kinked up as they followed some convoluted path through the grey matter. At the end of each was a small arrow shaped capsule. John pressed his lips together, not wanting to acknowledge what he was seeing.
“Hmm,” said Sherlock. “See this bit,” he pointed to the capsule. “One way delivery system. It's designed to open up and dig into the grey matter if the thread is pulled back. And this deep into the brain, normal surgery would cause tremendous damage. I'm afraid removing your collar is impossible, John. If you survived the process, which is unlikely, you'd be rendered a vegetable.”
“He's right,” said Mike. “No responsible surgeon will touch that. Holmes, I wasn't aware you could read X-rays.”
“No, but I can read a brochure,” he pulled a glossy tri-fold pamphlet out of his coat pocket. “However, it's one thing to look at a graphic and another to actually see the real thing.” He leaned admiringly in on the X-ray.
John turned away. He thought he was going to throw up.
“So are you satisfied of your status, John? Or are we going to have to do this again tomorrow?”
John clenched his fists. “What choice do I have?”
“None at all,” replied Sherlock. “Except the choice to be stupid. And for some reason Mycroft thinks you are misguided rather than mentally ill. I'm rather inclined to accept his judgment on that score, though it might be wishful thinking on my part.” Sherlock glanced at his mobile. “Let's go home. I have actual work to do.” He headed back to the door. “Oh, and you can debit my account for the X-ray, Mike. Wrap up any loose ends. Make it look neat.”
Mike nodded and seemed more than ready to quit the whole matter.
“So, that's it,” said John, following Sherlock out into the hall. “We go back and it's like this never happened?” He felt relieved but also oddly confused. Not that he wanted to be punished, but that Sherlock would be so completely forgiving didn't make any sense to him. “You set me up, I fell into your trap.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, don't play the victim. You could have done exactly what I told you to do, bought yourself a nice shirt and decent lunch and then continued your domestic endeavours until I returned. It was absolutely in your power to be the boring-but-good slave everyone seems to crave. Just because you didn't and I knew you wouldn't doesn't mean you didn't have a choice. Man up to your decisions.”
“I don't know where I stand with you!” said John, frustrated. He stopped in his tracks. “Do you want me to rebel? Does that make me more interesting? Is my life a game to you?”
Sherlock turned on his heel, his coat flying dramatically around him. In two long paces he was an inch from John's face. “Everyone's life is a game to me. My life is a game.” He backed off. “To think of it any other way is to give in to the soul crushing tedium of the ordinary. Do I find your plight entertaining? Yes, I do. I freely admit it. You've given me an afternoon's diversion. Will I become bored of you? I don't know. Probably in time.” He stood up very tall and looked down his nose. “And what do you want of me? You seem to have expectations that I'm not living up to. Would you like me to behave like a typical master? Do you crave more immediate gratification? Easily done. Heel, John!”
John knew what was going to happen a second before it did, but it didn't make the pain any more tolerable. He bit his lip and held his breath and rode out the agony. As the sensation retreated he became acutely aware of two medical students at the far end of the hall looking his way. He threw up a hand to ward them away before they decided their assistance was needed. If there was anything worse than the pain itself, it was the humiliation of being chastised in public.
“Was that enough of that?” asked Sherlock, “Or would you suggest I do it again? After all, running away, no matter how forgone the results, is still a serious breach of my trust.”
“No. It's enough.”
“Predictable. Cab is this way.”
John followed Sherlock in silence for a few minutes. Gradually he worked his way mentally past the shock of being caught and some of the details wormed their way up to his attention.
“How did you know I'd left the collar in the Baker Street Station.”
Sherlock stopped abruptly and tapped his finger against the waist of John's jacket. “See that dark stripe? It looks like it's wet, but it's not. From the particularly pungent odor, it's a smeared drop of commercial grade liquid soap commonly used in the Underground loo. You used the toilet not ten minutes before I left, there is little reason you'd need to go again so soon. Obviously your leaning over the counter wasn't to wash your hands, therefore your goal was the mirror. You would not have bothered looking at yourself, unless you thought it might aid your flight. You are missing the collar you wore when I met you, it would take some effort to remove it. Ergo, that's where you lost it. The Baker Street Station is the closest to my flat. And there we have it: a small matter of connecting the dots.”
“You got all that from this little stain?” John was flabbergasted. “That's … that's amazing.”
“Really?” Sherlock smiled.
“It's like a superpower.”
“I wouldn't go that far. It was simply being observant.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “Also, I cheated a bit.” He turned the screen so that John could see it. There was a map with a star over Bart's hospital. “Your collar includes GPS tracking.”
John blanched. “You mean... if I'd gone straight to my friends on the continent instead of doing the foolish thing and stopping by Bart's --”
“Mycroft would have gathered up another abolitionist cell to add to his collection.” Sherlock checked another message and smiled. “He's rather put out at being wrong. Ha.”
The cab let them off in front of their flat. “Pay him,” said Sherlock dully as he climbed out, then at John's startled expression he went on: “You have a large amount of my money in your pocket, and my card. At least I hope you still have my card.”
John paid the cabbie, then handed Sherlock back his card. He was about to hand back the cash as well, but the other waved him off. “Simpler to just have you hold on to it. Consider it your errand money.”
John sighed. He felt like a thief, which was absurd. He was the wronged party here. Could there be a greater theft than a person's life?
And, oh God, it was his life, wasn't it? It gradually began to dawn on John that his entire future was gone, simply gone. Even though he didn't feel that much different, simple things, like the decision to spend a weekend with Harry and her wife was now no longer his to choose. Last week getting together with a chum for drinks at the bar was as simple a matter as picking up a phone and giving them a ring. Now there was this other person he'd have to go through.
The Cause had consumed the two years of his life, taking his energy, imagination, thought. All those plans, those connections, the network he'd helped build. Dummy corporations to pass money through. Lockers filled with weapons, explosives, cash, documents. The camaraderie of shared belief. The movement had been like his child, his job, and his God all rolled into one. And now even that was gone. He didn't dare go near a contact, didn't dare even think about the strategies or targets, lest it end up being tortured out of him. Who would take over for him? Burgess was crap at planning. Davidson was too green. They needed him, and he couldn't be there for them.
There was no following his bliss or seeking his fortune or making a name for himself in history. This was it: Following behind this lanky fellow whose job he still couldn't fathom, and hope that his orders wouldn't be too repugnant.
John followed Sherlock numbly up to the flat, then went straight to the kitchen to finish up the job he'd started earlier. Sherlock hadn't ordered it, but what else was he supposed to do? He needed some sort of purpose. Something was dying in him. He could feel it, like a tightness is chest. He stared down at a dripping plate and wondered where the hell he was supposed to put it.
“John, come here,” Sherlock's voice drifted in from the rear of the flat. John dropped the sponge back into the sink and headed down the hall.
As soon as he stepped in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom, he was assaulted with two simultaneous and competing emotions. The first was the artificial bliss of his collar which seemed to insist that all was right with the world now that he'd followed this minor command. The second was 100% authentic terror which ran through his body like a punishment shock. His muscles didn't know which way to twitch and he was left gaping and suddenly sweaty.
“There you are, John. Let's get this ugly business over with.”
Sherlock took the riding crop in his hand and smacked it against the mattress of his bed with enough speed and force to make an audible whistle and crack. The bed had been stripped except for the fitted sheet and a bath towel laid flat over the side. Sherlock inspected the crop, then smoothed the towel again.
John swallowed. “You aren't going to punish me with that, are you?”
“Of course, I am.” Sherlock cocked his head in John's direction. “What? Surely you didn't think that you'd get off scott free after stealing my money and running away.”
“But you predicted I'd do that. You wanted me to.”
“That still doesn't make it right.”
“But you already punished me,” said John, taking an involuntary step back out into the hall. “At Bart's.”
“What?” Sherlock looked confused. “Oh, that. That wasn't punishment. That was to keep you from blubbing in fear of what I would do all the ride home. And because you all but demanded it.” Sherlock gently beat the haft of the crop against his palm.
“I did not--”
“This takes my time and attention as much as yours.” Sherlock continued, testily. “Consider that! What do I get out of watching the collar zap you? Nothing. If I am forced to punish you, I might as well get some useful data from the process. Two birds, one stone.”
“Useful data? What possible data can you get from flogging me with that thing?” John began to feel anger rising up in him. “And I know for a fact that beatings have been specifically discouraged since the invention of the collar. Aren't we supposed to be safe and sanitary these days?
“Discouraged, not outlawed. And come now, a one size fits all punishment like a collar zap, while surely unpleasant, can't possibly give you any sense of the magnitude of your trespass. Do you really think it makes sense to punish a slave for running away the same as you might for spilling a cup of tea? If I did that, you'd tell yourself, 'well, I forgot to do the laundry, I might as well commit murder.'”
“You'll injure me.”
“Minor injuries. You'll recover.”
“I will be less efficient. I already have a limp.”
“Thankfully, I don't require you to be efficient. I'm used to living like this, it will hardly upset me to spend another day or two in a less than gleaming flat. Meanwhile, your continued soreness will make a good reminder not to attempt flight again.”
“Don't do this, Sherlock. It's humiliating,” said John.
“Really? Any more than being told to “heel” in a public building? I've given you some privacy, at least. The bed is comfortable enough. I've disinfected the crop. And I'm through arguing with you over the nature of my punishments. Strip and lie down. The worst of it will be over in ten minutes. You can soldier though that much.”
“Strip,” said John faintly.
“Well I can hardly make note of the bruising if your clothes are covering you.”
Tap, tap, tap, the crop went against his palm. Distracting. Upsetting.
“I would also remind you that I'm perfectly capable of making your collar zap you as well. Are you really that much of a glutton for punishment.”
John breathed out. With shaking hands he began to undress. Sherlock put down the crop, opened a lap top computer and began tapping out notes. He really was treating this as an experiment. Who was this man?
“All of it?” asked John, when he was down to his pants. Could he keep some dignity?
“Of course,” said Sherlock, dismissively. He picked up an expensive camera off the top of the dresser, and fiddled with it's settings. “Six strokes. I'll need to put two stripes each across your thigh, buttocks and back. The first will be at half strength, the second at full. I will then compare the rate of bruising on impact and at five minute intervals for the next hour. Then once an hour for the next three.”
“Why do you need to know this?”
Sherlock glanced at him and a small smile quirked up his lips, as if he were happy that John had an interest in what he was doing.
“A case, I determined yesterday that the bruising on a corpse was not post-mortem. The question now is how long prior to death did they occur. I know from the time line that it can be no more than three hours. However, my prime suspect has an iron clad alibi if more than an hour occurred between injury and death.”
“What do you mean case. Are you some sort of investigator? Do you work with the police?” John reluctantly pulled off the last piece of clothing. It was a bit easier having something else to think other than his impending pain. After enduring the collar’s paradoxical approval, he stood awkwardly in the pile of his clothes and thought about corpses.
“Consulting detective,” said Sherlock. “And yes, I work with the police, though I am not part of the department myself.” Sherlock finished his last sentence on the computer and stood up. “Go ahead and lie down on the towel. I'd prefer not to get any blood on the sheets.”
Shaking John stepped over to the bed and lay on his stomach. Trigger. Bliss. Shudder. Goddamn, if there ever a time not to be getting that reward for good behaviour this was it. Every time it kicked in, it derailed his fear and anxiety and messed with his head. It was confusing, appallingly inappropriate. His mind was getting all addled up.
“Excellent. Now relax as much as you can. I'm just going to take a quick 'before' shot.”
John closed his eyes and tried not to flinch as he heard a camera click.
“Good, good. We'll begin with the back and work down. First stroke. Hold perfectly still.”
A powerful snap and a sharp cutting pain lanced the small of his back. John didn't know how it was that he kept still for it, but apparently he had, because immediately on the heels of the stroke his collar rewarded him. John gritted his teeth. The burn of abraded skin mixed with the heady delight of the collar's positive reinforcement. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Next one will be a bit harder. Brace yourself and don't move!”
John didn't know how that was possible to make something hurt more, but it was. He set his teeth, felt the agony mix with a short stab of pleasure before switching back to agony again. John heard his heart pounding, and felt a kind of giddiness that was close to euphoria. He felt a cool trickle that might have been sweat run down his side.
“Good John, good job. One-third done. Next will be buttocks.”
This time something was definitely happening when Sherlock struck him. John's mind was being confused by mixed signals. In addition to the pain of punishment and relief of reward there was a wayward twinge of sexual pleasure. He felt himself thicken and fill out, and was glad that Sherlock had him belly down, so it didn't show.
“That one wasn't so bad, now was it,” said Sherlock. “You're relaxing a bit. Your cheeks are flushed. Get ready, hold still. Here's number four.”
And John was riding a wave of something. His endorphins must have been dumping through his bloodstream, mixed with the sharp tang of his collar, and god, he was high. His hands spasmed and twitched. He alternated yanking up wads of the fitted sheet in his fists and pushing the fabric way with the palms of his hands. It was hard to hold still longer than the second it took for the blow. His prick had fattened up and pressed like a rod against his lower belly. Part of him wanted to rut against the towel. He held still out of shame and was rewarded for his stillness.
“Last stretch,” said Sherlock, running a soothing hand over his side.
That made it worse. And better. John didn't want to be turned on by this. He didn't want to be comforted. More than everything he didn't want Sherlock to realise something funny was going on with him.
“Keep absolutely still,” said Sherlock after a few seconds. “Five.”
This time it was John's thigh. The moan was out of him before he could stop it. He wasn't even sure if what he was feeling was hurt anymore. It was sharp and burning, layer on layer of sensation, his back, his front, his head. He wondered if he should ignore Sherlock's directives and deliberately move in time with the blows, but that would mean that he wouldn't get the reward, and at this point the pleasure was far too tempting to bypass.
“Last one. Don't move.”
John was knocked out of his body. He floated suspended, two feet above himself like a balloon. His brain had more layers of sensation than it could properly sift though. He wasn't even sure if the pleasure was sexual or pain or maybe even religious. It felt cathartic, emptying. There was no rational thought anymore. No worries about Sherlock or the cause, or anything else. Nothing but raw nerve-endings and the moment.
Sherlock was talking to him, but he couldn't make sense of the words. It only came through as a musical rumbling, a rolling cadence, like a kettle drum. Gradually John drifted lower, until he was in his body again.
And suddenly the experience became a whole lot less psychedelic fun. Whatever pleasure trip he had been enjoying vanished the moment John seemed to click back together. He felt every millimetre of the welts that Sherlock had put on his back. The weals felt enormous, hot, throbbing. The skin around a few of them tickled and itched and he was aware of the smell of blood. This - this is what normal people felt.
“Skin broken three times, very similar abrasions. Shallow, two by ten millimetres, each case, minimal bleeding.” Sherlock was saying, apparently to himself. “Redness and swelling pronounced, especially towards the end of the welts. Outline of the leather strap of the crop is raised and clearly delineated. Still very pink. No sign of darker bruising - You with me, John?”
John breathed in. “Where would I go.” His voice was slurred.
“You seemed to lose consciousness for a moment there. I thought perhaps you might have fainted. Never mind, I need to get some photographs. Be a dear and don't move.”
Be a dear, John mulled. What a strange thing to say to a person you just tortured. Be a dear. Be a dear.
Three hours later, Sherlock took his last photograph and told John he could take a shower and dress. With that, he left the bedroom, texting on his mobile as fast as his fingers could fly.
John got up slowly. His muscles had stiffened rigid in the hours since he'd been punished. Even the slightest bending stretched the skin on his welts and brought renewed swift, stinging pain. After a couple of attempts he managed to get his feet on the ground and lever himself up to standing. Tentatively he ran a hand over his thigh. His fingers felt hot tender skin, swollen into palm sized lumps. His limp was exaggerated as he made the few feet down the hall to the bathroom.
John glanced at his back in the mirror. It was black and blue and red. A few small trickles of dried blood clung to his skin.
Gruesome. Though not as gruesome as many other things he'd seen. Not as gruesome as the war by a long shot. Not even as gruesome as some of the ordinary accident cases he'd seen as a doctor. Sherlock was right. He'd heal. He wouldn't even scar.
The bathroom had one of those mirrored cabinets. Though Sherlock had implied that the lingering pain was part of his punishment, he hadn't actually said that John couldn't treat himself. Rummaging through the expired ointments, tweezers, and pills, he found a half-filled prescription for vicodin made out to someone named Astrid Jameson. John popped a pill and swallowed it down with a handful of water from the tap. Then went to take a shower.
He left the bathroom after bandaging himself up. The vicodin had kicked in by then and the world was a bit swimmy, but not so uncomfortable as before. He limped back to the sitting room holding the wall to keep from toppling. Between the swelling on his thigh and the chronic ITBS, he wasn't very swift.
“All cleaned up?” asked Sherlock from the couch. His eyes were closed and he had his fingers laced together across his chest. “Don't bother with the housework. You can do that tomorrow when you feel better.”
“I wasn't planning on doing housework,” said John in a somewhat surly tone. “I was going for an icepack.”
Sherlock's eyes peaked open. “There's also some vicodin in the bathroom, but I see you've already found it.”
“Does that bother you?” asked John.
“No. I've already got my data. Treat yourself as you see best.”
John looked in the freezer. Lodged in the back was a forlorn looking bag of peas, probably long past it's expiration by the state of it's plastic bag. It would do. He wrapped it in a tea towel and then crossed the room to the empty plush chair nearest the window. The vicodin was doing a good job of making sitting bearable, but he had no doubt he'd be sleeping on his stomach tonight. On what? That was the question.
“You should be happy,”said Sherlock. “A man avoided the collar today because of what you just went through,” He made the movement from lying to sitting look fluid and graceful. His eyes were startlingly sharp.
“Did he really?” John asked. The vicodin made his brain a bit foggy as well. “Well that's nice for him.”
“Quite nice,” agreed Sherlock. “It took between two and three hours for your bruises to resemble that of the corpse. Mr. Wilkes, my client, was at work, on security camera until an hour before the victim's death. As airtight an alibi as they come. At 5pm, he finished his shift and walked home - say, 10 minutes as a stroll. He claims that he remained in the sitting room for forty-five minutes before going upstairs to their bedroom and discovering the victim, his wife, trussed up, gagged and beaten, on the bed. He called for help immediately, but she died just after the paramedics showed up.
“Because of the 45 to 50 minutes of opportunity and the lack of evidence of a break in, the police have been unwilling to consider the possibility of a second intruder. Thanks to the photographs, I sent of you to the police, they are now willing to give the case a second look. Mr. Wilkes will be released from custody, not too much worse for wear. Of course, he will always bear the guilt of not checking the bedroom sooner, but such things are beyond my ability to help.”
John whistled. “So, you really did get useful info out of punishing me.” He couldn't stop a smile from his lips. “I actually did save a person from the collar.” He shook his head with amazement.
“Undeniably. He was scheduled to be fitted with one in a week. Even if the trial had later proved his innocence, he'd still have the embarrassing scars and the misery of being treated as property for the intervening months. It is unlikely, had I not done these tests, that a public defender would have found the evidence to save him.”
John felt giddy. “That's marvellous.”
“Was it worth it to you?” Sherlock asked, fascinated. “This pain you are in - does knowing that it saved a man make it worth it?”
“Absolutely,” said John, fervently. He stared at Sherlock as though he couldn't believe he'd ask such a thing. “I'd go through much worse to save a person from this.” He pointed at his head. “But what would you have done if Mycroft hadn't given you a slave to beat this morning?”
Sherlock leaned back with a small, wry smile. “I would have been forced to hire someone to beat me. I wouldn't have been as assured of the forces needed to properly bruise, and it would have been inconvenient relying on someone else to take the photographs. I rather suspected that Mycroft handed you over to me as a way to stave off that necessity.”
John frowned. “So that's the reason for it. He went all the way to Oregon to collect a man who you could beat in good conscience.”
It was Sherlock's turn to frown. “What? No, absurd. If all he wanted was to give me someone I could beat, he'd offer one of his minions.”
John smiled at the thought that Sherlock called them 'minions' as well. “But you just said --”
“Mycroft never does anything for just one reason. He is the model of efficiency. His actions, even the minor ones, all serve two, three, and even more purposes. And he almost never takes a direct hand in anything. He rarely goes anywhere outside of his office, his home or his social club. But, for you, he got on a plane and traveled half way across the world. He dirtied his hands on a raid, which is unheard of.
"No. This isn't about me at all, John. This is about you. You fascinate him for some reason.” Sherlock frowned.
“Why?” John asked, not sure whether to be flattered or not. “I'm not the only abolitionist out there.”
“I don't know,” Sherlock spread his hands. “His mind is brilliant. He scans vast amounts of data every day, and pulls connections from them, clues. Where another would only see white noise and randomness, he sees purpose. He sees aberrations. And he follows them to their sources and divines what they mean. Then he uses them.” Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. “You mean something.”
“I'm just a person.” John shook his head. “I don't know what he expects to learn from me, especially not in this condition.”
Sherlock said nothing, his eyes were glued out the window, but at what, John couldn't figure.
“And what about you, Sherlock?” John asked after a few minutes. “Now that you've gotten the data you were looking for, are you going to hand me back? Seems to me that if you wanted to own a slave, you'd have picked one out for yourself from the market.”
“I have no interest in owning a slave,” said Sherlock gently pulling the curtains down. “But you are a puzzle.” Sherlock smiled gleefully. “And I love puzzles.”
Chapter 3