Collared Epilogue
Title: Collared
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: PG-13 (entire fic NC-17)
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 1350/83,000
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, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
Epilogue
For the next three days, John dreaded leaving the the flat. Laundry was building up, the larder was empty, and they were out of tea. But at least here, in this little oasis, he was treated more or less as if he were a real person and not a piece of property. He tidied and cruised the internet, watched telly and studied Sherlock’s various essays in an attempt to be somewhat useful when Sherlock’s next case came around. Time passed quietly. Hour by hour, day by day, things began to feel normal. John simply couldn’t hold on to the feeling of existential fear under the weight of all this mundanity.
Sherlock was back in his “ignoring” moods. Which meant a whole lot of him dragging about the flat making soft muttering noises, and not a lot of orders. He paced from bedroom to kitchen, his silk robe flapping about his lean body in a way that seemed somehow more dramatic than silly, but John wasn’t entirely sure how.
“We’re out of tea,” he said on one of his passes.
“Yes,” said John, “I know.”
“Are you waiting for me to order you to go get more tea?” Sherlock asked on the next pass.
“If I’m to go out there and get treated like crap, it might be nice of you to make it an order, yes,” said John at his back. If he couldn’t remove the collar, he might as well enjoy what he could of it.
“Why would they treat you like crap?” called Sherlock from their room.
“Oh, perhaps because that’s how slaves are treated!” John called back scathingly to Sherlock’s front this time. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed. You were with me at that party.”
“Mmm. Trying to forget it. Mycroft’s territory.” He paused in his path to check the cupboard were they usually kept their tea, as if it might have somehow magically acquired some in the last few seconds.
John sighed. “Well, I don’t have that luxury, so if you want me to go out and have random people spitting on me, you’ll bloody well have to order it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the muted telly a severe look.
“Oh that that shouldn’t be a problem. You aren’t wearing a collar anymore, how would they even know?” asked Sherlock before disappearing in their room again.
“Oh, maybe because you paraded me around the neighbourhood with a collar on three days ago.” John got his arse off the couch and intercepted Sherlock’s next pass in the hall. “Much as you think everyone around you is a complete imbecile, our neighbours do have memories longer than that. So yes. If you want me leaving this flat and facing all that again, I damn well want an order.”
Sherlock stood looking a little put out that his pacing had been interrupted. Then he seemed at last to register the serious look on John’s face. He paused to consider. “Very well, I’ll get dressed. Let’s go get a coffee.” He turned around and vanished into his room again, this time closing the door behind him.
“What?” John called through the door. Christ. Trust Sherlock to focus on the wrong problem. No tea in the house? Coffee. Obvious.
A few minutes later Sherlock reemerged, looking impeccable in one of his tailored suits. “Off we go,” he said merrily. “I’ll prove to you that it’s not nearly as dire outside as you are imagining.” John followed him down the stairs. Outside the weather was fine and there the usual numbers of people out on the streets. A few lost looking tourists (John’s eye spotted a tourist guide in the coat, those jeans were popular in Germany), a number of people who walked with that purposeful stride that said they were on an errand. John ignored them. a few John’s eyes ranged from one to the next, looking for familiar faces. He spotted one in a window, but between the glare and the darkened interior, he didn’t get any sense of expression.
It seemed there was a coffee shop on every street corner in London, and Baker Street was no exception. Sherlock pushed the door open and strode in. And now here were some people that John knew. That man was a stocking clerk at the Tescos, that woman used the same laundrette. They both abruptly stopped what they were doing to stare at John. He found himself putting his hand up to his bare neck where the collar no longer pressed.
Sherlock noticed his gesture before he noticed the expressions on the people’s faces. He gave a great heaping sigh. “He LOST THE BET!” he shouted. “Dear god, you didn’t think he was a real slave did you? Walking around in that silly get up?”
I did what? John thought stupidly for a second. Then his mind clicked. “And it’s the last bloody time I wager anything with you. You cheat!”
The audience seemed to catch on. Oh, their eyes went on. It was just a dare. Aren’t they a bit old for that.
“I did not,” said Sherlock, rolling his shoulders, and effecting an unhurt look. “I observed. The evidence was entirely there for you to grasp any time. I can hardly be faulted for your obtuseness.”
“Well some of us aren’t brilliant detectives,” said John, feeling his heart lighten up. “Next time we’ll wager with money like normal people.”
“You haven’t any money,” said Sherlock. “So perhaps it’s best we not wager at all.” He reached the head of the queue, “Two tall vanilla lattes, please.” He passed a fiver and waited for his change. The room had returned to its normal activity. Though John could see a few disapproving looks and some giggling in the corner, attention was more on Sherlock than himself.
John was having a hard time not laughing at them, the relief was so great. So this is how it was going to be. He … he could tolerate this. Christ, well, there were some definite advantages to having the worlds smartest and most observant man as your owner.
On the way back from the caffe, John leaned in, “You could have warned me.”
“And miss the expression of relief on your face? Never,” Sherlock grinned. “Besides I needed to know how quickly you could pick up my cues. Never know when we’ll have to do some quick roleplaying. Cases frequently require some dissembling.”
“Hmm. Yes there is that,” said John sipping his drink. It tasted marvellous. He felt marvellous. “Would you like to go to bed,” he asked impulsively.
Sherlock looked oddly at him. “What? Bed? It’s mid-morning. I’m not tired.”
“I’m not tired either,” said John. He took a large swallow.
“Oh!” Sherlock said, finally picking up the cue. “Oh,” and he smiled. “Yes. Are you sure?”
John nodded.
“I’ll order you,” said Sherlock warningly.
“I was rather counting on that,” John responded. Too much so, in fact. The pleasure of sex and the collar together were something that John couldn’t help but be enticed by. Thank goodness they were right at 221B. The neighbours had enough to gossip about without the state of his trousers adding to it.
Just then a police car pulled up to their side. Lestrade leaned out, looking harried, his silver hair spiked up as if it had seen some pulling recently. “Thank goodness I caught you. Hello, John, I hear you are sticking around. Sherlock, how good at you with ciphers?”
“I can be good,” said Sherlock, his eyes darted to John briefly, as if asking for permission.
“Later is fine,” John said softly. He sighed, a little frustrated, but then Sherlock was always happiest on a case, and John did like to see him happy. “Tonight.”
Sherlock grinned widely. “Come upstairs and tell us about it,” said Sherlock to Lestrade, who didn’t seem to make head or tails out of the exchange. John sighed and held the door open for the two of them, then followed them up to the next case.
THE END
A/N: Well, this didn't turn out as satisfying as I hoped it would, but considering how messy the situation was, it was as satisfying as I could reasonably make it, without pulling a true deus ex machina out of my ass. This society is not going to leave John unpunished for his crimes. If the surgery were really possible to undo, John would never have gotten past that. So it's happily dysfunctionally ever after. Bit bleak, but ah well.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John plus Mycroft
Rating: PG-13 (entire fic NC-17)
Genre: Slave!fic AU, drama, angst
Warnings (for entire fic, not just this chapter): non-con, slavery, violence, emotional and physical abuse.
Word count: 1350/83,000
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, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
Epilogue
For the next three days, John dreaded leaving the the flat. Laundry was building up, the larder was empty, and they were out of tea. But at least here, in this little oasis, he was treated more or less as if he were a real person and not a piece of property. He tidied and cruised the internet, watched telly and studied Sherlock’s various essays in an attempt to be somewhat useful when Sherlock’s next case came around. Time passed quietly. Hour by hour, day by day, things began to feel normal. John simply couldn’t hold on to the feeling of existential fear under the weight of all this mundanity.
Sherlock was back in his “ignoring” moods. Which meant a whole lot of him dragging about the flat making soft muttering noises, and not a lot of orders. He paced from bedroom to kitchen, his silk robe flapping about his lean body in a way that seemed somehow more dramatic than silly, but John wasn’t entirely sure how.
“We’re out of tea,” he said on one of his passes.
“Yes,” said John, “I know.”
“Are you waiting for me to order you to go get more tea?” Sherlock asked on the next pass.
“If I’m to go out there and get treated like crap, it might be nice of you to make it an order, yes,” said John at his back. If he couldn’t remove the collar, he might as well enjoy what he could of it.
“Why would they treat you like crap?” called Sherlock from their room.
“Oh, perhaps because that’s how slaves are treated!” John called back scathingly to Sherlock’s front this time. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed. You were with me at that party.”
“Mmm. Trying to forget it. Mycroft’s territory.” He paused in his path to check the cupboard were they usually kept their tea, as if it might have somehow magically acquired some in the last few seconds.
John sighed. “Well, I don’t have that luxury, so if you want me to go out and have random people spitting on me, you’ll bloody well have to order it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the muted telly a severe look.
“Oh that that shouldn’t be a problem. You aren’t wearing a collar anymore, how would they even know?” asked Sherlock before disappearing in their room again.
“Oh, maybe because you paraded me around the neighbourhood with a collar on three days ago.” John got his arse off the couch and intercepted Sherlock’s next pass in the hall. “Much as you think everyone around you is a complete imbecile, our neighbours do have memories longer than that. So yes. If you want me leaving this flat and facing all that again, I damn well want an order.”
Sherlock stood looking a little put out that his pacing had been interrupted. Then he seemed at last to register the serious look on John’s face. He paused to consider. “Very well, I’ll get dressed. Let’s go get a coffee.” He turned around and vanished into his room again, this time closing the door behind him.
“What?” John called through the door. Christ. Trust Sherlock to focus on the wrong problem. No tea in the house? Coffee. Obvious.
A few minutes later Sherlock reemerged, looking impeccable in one of his tailored suits. “Off we go,” he said merrily. “I’ll prove to you that it’s not nearly as dire outside as you are imagining.” John followed him down the stairs. Outside the weather was fine and there the usual numbers of people out on the streets. A few lost looking tourists (John’s eye spotted a tourist guide in the coat, those jeans were popular in Germany), a number of people who walked with that purposeful stride that said they were on an errand. John ignored them. a few John’s eyes ranged from one to the next, looking for familiar faces. He spotted one in a window, but between the glare and the darkened interior, he didn’t get any sense of expression.
It seemed there was a coffee shop on every street corner in London, and Baker Street was no exception. Sherlock pushed the door open and strode in. And now here were some people that John knew. That man was a stocking clerk at the Tescos, that woman used the same laundrette. They both abruptly stopped what they were doing to stare at John. He found himself putting his hand up to his bare neck where the collar no longer pressed.
Sherlock noticed his gesture before he noticed the expressions on the people’s faces. He gave a great heaping sigh. “He LOST THE BET!” he shouted. “Dear god, you didn’t think he was a real slave did you? Walking around in that silly get up?”
I did what? John thought stupidly for a second. Then his mind clicked. “And it’s the last bloody time I wager anything with you. You cheat!”
The audience seemed to catch on. Oh, their eyes went on. It was just a dare. Aren’t they a bit old for that.
“I did not,” said Sherlock, rolling his shoulders, and effecting an unhurt look. “I observed. The evidence was entirely there for you to grasp any time. I can hardly be faulted for your obtuseness.”
“Well some of us aren’t brilliant detectives,” said John, feeling his heart lighten up. “Next time we’ll wager with money like normal people.”
“You haven’t any money,” said Sherlock. “So perhaps it’s best we not wager at all.” He reached the head of the queue, “Two tall vanilla lattes, please.” He passed a fiver and waited for his change. The room had returned to its normal activity. Though John could see a few disapproving looks and some giggling in the corner, attention was more on Sherlock than himself.
John was having a hard time not laughing at them, the relief was so great. So this is how it was going to be. He … he could tolerate this. Christ, well, there were some definite advantages to having the worlds smartest and most observant man as your owner.
On the way back from the caffe, John leaned in, “You could have warned me.”
“And miss the expression of relief on your face? Never,” Sherlock grinned. “Besides I needed to know how quickly you could pick up my cues. Never know when we’ll have to do some quick roleplaying. Cases frequently require some dissembling.”
“Hmm. Yes there is that,” said John sipping his drink. It tasted marvellous. He felt marvellous. “Would you like to go to bed,” he asked impulsively.
Sherlock looked oddly at him. “What? Bed? It’s mid-morning. I’m not tired.”
“I’m not tired either,” said John. He took a large swallow.
“Oh!” Sherlock said, finally picking up the cue. “Oh,” and he smiled. “Yes. Are you sure?”
John nodded.
“I’ll order you,” said Sherlock warningly.
“I was rather counting on that,” John responded. Too much so, in fact. The pleasure of sex and the collar together were something that John couldn’t help but be enticed by. Thank goodness they were right at 221B. The neighbours had enough to gossip about without the state of his trousers adding to it.
Just then a police car pulled up to their side. Lestrade leaned out, looking harried, his silver hair spiked up as if it had seen some pulling recently. “Thank goodness I caught you. Hello, John, I hear you are sticking around. Sherlock, how good at you with ciphers?”
“I can be good,” said Sherlock, his eyes darted to John briefly, as if asking for permission.
“Later is fine,” John said softly. He sighed, a little frustrated, but then Sherlock was always happiest on a case, and John did like to see him happy. “Tonight.”
Sherlock grinned widely. “Come upstairs and tell us about it,” said Sherlock to Lestrade, who didn’t seem to make head or tails out of the exchange. John sighed and held the door open for the two of them, then followed them up to the next case.
THE END
A/N: Well, this didn't turn out as satisfying as I hoped it would, but considering how messy the situation was, it was as satisfying as I could reasonably make it, without pulling a true deus ex machina out of my ass. This society is not going to leave John unpunished for his crimes. If the surgery were really possible to undo, John would never have gotten past that. So it's happily dysfunctionally ever after. Bit bleak, but ah well.