I'm thinking #7 for Sherlock sounds about right. <3shutupimageniusMay 20 2013, 18:15:55 UTC
Despite the fact that slavery was commonplace still never made Sherlock feel any better about the idea. His family had had slaves for generations, though he still never quite got used to the idea, even going out of his way to do things himself just for the sake of being rebellious. He certainly would never have set foot in an auction house if not for casework, which had him finally swallowing his disgust in order to find a slave owner who'd been neglecting the rules of slave contracts. He'd gotten a tip from the Yard about a specific slaver who'd gone through several slaves in a matter of months, all of whom turned up dead from neglect or abuse. Even though Sherlock wished the Yard would do away with slavery itself, at least making sure they followed regulations and no one ended up dead was a start
( ... )
it was made for him ♥crimebloggerMay 20 2013, 18:48:03 UTC
John was in actual hell. For the past two years of his life, he had given everything for the rebellion, had tried so hard to free as many slaves as possible and offer them the chance of a better life somewhere far removed from the Commonwealth and its disgusting, inhuman practices. He had disappeared from his former life as an army doctor, wanting to use his qualifications for something more worthy, despite the fact that he could have lived out his life in relative comfort and safety... perhaps with a household slave or two of his own, if the surgery really took off. But no. Not him. He couldn't. He simply couldn't. And so he had joined the cause, freed slaves, built bombs, killed men of the imperialist guard, and for what? To have them ratted out by one of their own, their safe house raided, men John considered friends killed or taken away, like he had been... to this. A bloody slave auction. For sale. John felt sick to his gut. He supposed it was a fitting punishment; sell the rebel troublemaker, and sell him cheap, make him take
( ... )
Sherlock waited for his new purchase to arrive, not looking forward to putting on the master and slave show so as not to draw attention to them. There was a certain procedure to this kind of thing, a way a master acted with their slave that they'd have to adhere to in public, despite how much it disgusted Sherlock
( ... )
At his new master's first touch, John could not help but tense up. It was both a very demeaning and intimate gesture, and not one John suffered easily... but he would have to. They were in the middle of the lobby, with potential buyers and guards all around. This was not the place, nor the time. Biting the inside of his cheek, John let himself be led into the elevator... only to have his world turn on its head once again.
Snapping up his head, he regarded the other man with a startled expression. Instead of lowering his eyes and offering apology for daring to look straight at his master, John kept staring at the dark-haired stranger. For some part, it was simply because he had not ever received the proper training; he wasn't actually prepared to be any sort of slave. Mostly, however, he was shaken. Was there some sort of information new masters received with their purchase? A file of sorts? It seemed likely. But no, no, who would include the part of John's life in which he had been a rebel? Nobody would buy such a slave, and if they
( ... )
Sherlock could certainly feel the tensity in his new companion, wishing only that he could tell him right away that this was all for show, and that he didn't have to worry about being treated like a slave unless they were in public. He was grateful when they were finally alone and he could relax, glad he could finally broach the important issues with someone he hoped could be an asset to him. Not a slave, an equal companion. He hadn't had one of those before
( ... )
It was a trick. It had to be. A way to get John talking, get him to say things he should not, so that he might be punished accordingly, and more severely than a regular slave would. He was a traitor of the Commonwealth, and a newly bought slave who had no idea of how to behave properly so as not to bring insult to their master... Really, if his new master had been so inclined, he could have struck him the moment John dared to look up. But he had not. Instead, he had recounted exactly why John was here... Had he just said he could use John as he was? What, a rebel? The internal struggle to tell or not tell was evident in John's eyes, as well as the lines of his body. Would he risk it? What else could happen, really? How much worse could it get? But then, he had no idea what to expect, not really. It might all just be a game, and oh, how desperately he wanted it not to be. Could he trust this man
( ... )
Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he could see that the other man was struggling with whether to tell him the truth or not. "Don't bore me by trying to lie to me. It won't work." he said, nodding when he finally answered. "Good. See, that wasn't so difficult." Two years was a good amount of time, glad that he picked someone clever enough to avoid capture for so long. He shook his head when John mentioned not being a traitor. "Nor am I asking you to be. I want to assist in your cause. I promise you, I am not your enemy." he said, making a face when John added in that 'sir
( ... )
John still did not know what to think; he was tired. Actually, he was bloody exhausted. He had barely gotten any sleep since the raid, and any attempt at it had left him with nightmares of his comrades killed or brutally tortured in front of him. In the few days it took his capturers to get him to this slave auction, his waking hours were filled with interrogations of varying kinds, and once he'd been told where they were sending him, the thought alone had left him feeling too horrified to even contemplate sleep. And now here he was, in a hotel room, fancy as could be, with a man telling him he was no slaver, not a slaver at all, but a consulting detective (what the hell was that even supposed to be?). A man who needed a slave for... what, exactly, John wasn't sure of, yet, but he was making it perfectly clear how he felt about slavery. More than that, he wanted to assist in the cause. John's cause, the one he thought he'd never return to again...
When the man - Sherlock, his mind whispered to him, treacherous thing - began to cut
( ... )
Sherlock kept his eyes focused on his task of cutting the other man free, trusting that John wouldn't attack him after hearing his explanation. He glanced up when John spoke his name, his lips quirking a half-smile. "It's nice to meet you, John." he said, checking over John's wrists before moving away from him to put away his knife and gather a bottle of water and a pack of biscuits so he could bring them back to John
( ... )
As soon as John sat down on a nearby chair and bit into the first biscuit, he realised just how hungry he was. He worked his way through the pack in record time (not very dignified, but sod it), all the while listening to Sherlock with suspicion and faint wonder in his eyes. Freedom? Not to mention the chance to actually do something good, something right, something that would have fallen right in line with the morals and principles of the Cause, except they would never have access to this kind of convention. John was proud of the organisation, and what it had achieved, but he was not delusional; they still had a long way to go. Being able to infiltrate a slavers' convention, work from the inside, maybe even get a few of the bastards locked up for murder, which would result in indirectly saving slave lives? God yes
( ... )
Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smirk at how John devoured the biscuits, moving to the phone without needing to be asked because it was obvious John was starving. He ordered meal service and hung up, turning his attention back to John. He already knew John would say yes, as it was very apparent in his eyes. He chalked it up to his always being good at reading people, never imagining for a moment that he could have some special connection with this man because he didn't have special connections with people, and they certainly didn't have special connections with him
( ... )
John had been watching and listening to his new master with equal parts suspicion and excitement, stubbornly ignoring the low rumble of his starved stomach (you've just had a whole roll of biscuits, food is on its way, hush up, I'm trying to focus). It sounded... Well, it sounded exciting, and dangerous, which only added to John's excitement, if he was being entirely honest with himself. Which he was, most of the time. He was an adrenaline junkie, living on the edge, which was exactly why he'd gotten caught and put up for sale in the first place. He still didn't consider himself reckless, but he never stepped down from a fight or challenge, either. And this, oh, this was a fight he could get behind.
Before he could form a reply or come up with more questions, Sherlock (sir) instructed him to open the door, and indeed, a knock followed a moment later. Extraordinary. Shaking his head, John got up and opened the door, making sure to keep his eyes lowered as the hotel employee rolled in the food. God, this might actually be harder than
( ... )
Sherlock leaned back to sit against the headboard of the bed, stretching his long legs in front of him and pressing his hands together beneath his chin. He watched John intently, practically able to see the gears turning in his new companion's head. He knew he wouldn't be able to refuse him, seeing very clearly that John had a penchant for danger and intrigue considering his years of service in the military and subsequently for the anti-slave movement
( ... )
John tried his best not to attack the food like some sort of ravenous caveman, but he was hungry, so hungry, and this was proper British food, and it was warm and smelled so good... For the longest time, John ate, and ate, well past the point of what his stomach could consider sated, but he had no idea when he would get a meal like this again, did he? Despite all the reassurances and explanations, despite even the feeling of John somehow strangely deciding to trust this unusual man, he was still suspicious, and would be for some time to come.
"Alright," he eventually said, sitting back in his chair (God, he was full, and tired, Jesus, when was the last time he slept?), regarding the man on the bed with watchful eyes. "This first event, tell me about it." Brief me, give me my orders, but as a soldier, an equal, a human being, not a slave.
Beyond his staring intently at the ceiling, there were occasional moments when Sherlock couldn't help but cast amused glances at John. He knew that John had had a rough go of it, and something inside him was proud at the fact that he could provide for him a much better life than any other slaver could. One slave at a time, he kept telling himself, and someday maybe slavery itself would all be a thing of the past
( ... )
John's blood ran cold at Sherlock's description of the event they were to attend that evening. He had heard of these private parties, though he had never attended one himself (obviously). They were infamous, and intensely hated in his circles. Though there were many different kinds of resistance groups to be found in the Commonwealth, they were all equally disgusted by the way most of the upper-class saw slavery as it was today; too soft, too kind, treating the slaves too much like humans and not enough like possession, like things to use and abuse until it was too broken and you had to throw it out... only to buy another one, new and shiny and uncorrupted. John had to briefly close his eyes to repress the hot spike of rage he felt; he was going to have to be more than collected tonight. He would need to be submissive, subdued, next to invisible. He would be useless to Sherlock if he attracted too much attention to himself, and he would ruin this chance for himself. He had to do well. He had to do better than that; this would have to
( ... )
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Snapping up his head, he regarded the other man with a startled expression. Instead of lowering his eyes and offering apology for daring to look straight at his master, John kept staring at the dark-haired stranger. For some part, it was simply because he had not ever received the proper training; he wasn't actually prepared to be any sort of slave. Mostly, however, he was shaken. Was there some sort of information new masters received with their purchase? A file of sorts? It seemed likely. But no, no, who would include the part of John's life in which he had been a rebel? Nobody would buy such a slave, and if they ( ... )
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When the man - Sherlock, his mind whispered to him, treacherous thing - began to cut ( ... )
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Before he could form a reply or come up with more questions, Sherlock (sir) instructed him to open the door, and indeed, a knock followed a moment later. Extraordinary. Shaking his head, John got up and opened the door, making sure to keep his eyes lowered as the hotel employee rolled in the food. God, this might actually be harder than ( ... )
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"Alright," he eventually said, sitting back in his chair (God, he was full, and tired, Jesus, when was the last time he slept?), regarding the man on the bed with watchful eyes. "This first event, tell me about it." Brief me, give me my orders, but as a soldier, an equal, a human being, not a slave.
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