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.
He just sits staring at you for almost two straight hours. Perhaps there's a part of him that worries the second he turns his head you'll vanish again.
And he can't have that.
John needs to know that he isn't in some hallucination brought on by too many drinks curtousy of Mr. Douglaas as well as the Turkish heat.
He gets out his phone and takes a picture of you, sending it in a text to Lestrade.
Look who I found. Not photoshopped, honest.
Can even take a video if you need it.
Call me. - J.
Then he pockets his phone and goes back to watching you.
Hopefully that doesn't sound too much like an order.
"I'm in Turkey." He replies into the phone; "I just found him...i-in the streets. He's a bit out of it. Doesn't even recognise me or his own name. Might have amnesia, I can't be sure yet...It really is him though, Greg. Sherlock's alive and he's right in front of me."
He squeezes your other hand, giving you a reassuring smile, a touch apologetic for talking to you like you weren't in the room even though he's looking right at you.
"SHERLOCK, NO!" He puts the phone down and grabs your shoulders, laying you back on the bed, against the pillows, putting the duvet up; "No...No, just lie there. You don't do that, okay? Not anymore."
John strokes your cheek reassuringly, the initial anger in his eyes softening, looking sorry for shouting at you.
He picks the phone back up, taking hold of your hand again.
"Sorry about that...No, I haven't told anyone apart from you." He sighs. He didn't even think of Mycroft; "My flight is already booked for tomorrow afternoon. Any chance you could meet us at the airport? The state he's in...I could do with some help getting him settled. Probably needs to go to hospital as well to get checked over. You'll understand when you see him."
He rubs at your shoulder, frowning at you with concern; "...I...I'm pretty sure he's spent the last couple of years as part of a sex traffic circuit. He was being...s-sold when I found him. Only way I could get him without causing a scene was to 'buy' him myself. I know I should have gone to the police but god knows if they're involved with this too to some degree...And I didn't wanna risk losing him again
( ... )
"Will do. I'll text you before we fly out so you know when to meet us. See you tomorrow." He bids Greg goodbye before closing the phone.
Before summoning the guts to call Mycroft, John first sees to reassuring you.
He rubs your shoulder; "That was Lestrade. He's a friend, do you remember? You've got lots of friends, Sherlock, back home. We'll fly back there tomorrow, okay? I'm going to call your brother now. Mycroft. You must remember him...do you?"
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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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And he can't have that.
John needs to know that he isn't in some hallucination brought on by too many drinks curtousy of Mr. Douglaas as well as the Turkish heat.
He gets out his phone and takes a picture of you, sending it in a text to Lestrade.
Look who I found. Not photoshopped, honest.
Can even take a video if you need it.
Call me. - J.
Then he pockets his phone and goes back to watching you.
He'll be in the same spot when you wake.
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His skin itches in patches.
He's been tested and treated with antibiotics. Before sale.
Meaningless, really.
Not all of his clients are "safe".
He's usually put through a nearly full panel with every new Master.
He looks around, bewildered at first.
He coughs again, and watches you for indication.
He's yours for the taking.
~x~
Lestrade stares at the text.
Can't be.
"Come on, John, pick up."
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He takes the glass of water from the side and hands it to you again as you cough.
His hand rubs at your back; "You don't need to get up. Just rest. I've called up room service, they're sending some food up."
John touches the answer button on his phone.
"Hi Greg. You got the picture?"
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Pay for it. Pay. Always.
"John what is this? Where are you?" Greg demands.
Someone is shouting at Master. He bows his head, wincing, scratching himself.
Please.
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Hopefully that doesn't sound too much like an order.
"I'm in Turkey." He replies into the phone; "I just found him...i-in the streets. He's a bit out of it. Doesn't even recognise me or his own name. Might have amnesia, I can't be sure yet...It really is him though, Greg. Sherlock's alive and he's right in front of me."
He squeezes your other hand, giving you a reassuring smile, a touch apologetic for talking to you like you weren't in the room even though he's looking right at you.
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Yes, Master.
He drains the glass, and holding a bit of water in his mouth, kneels in front of you, undoing your zip in a rather swift motion.
He swallows the water, adam's apple bobbing.
~*~
"John, fly home. Please. We'll take care of him, Mrs. Hudson will be so pleased, you know. Does - does Mycroft know he's alive?"
[[ooc: I'll be back and forth tonight.]]
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John strokes your cheek reassuringly, the initial anger in his eyes softening, looking sorry for shouting at you.
He picks the phone back up, taking hold of your hand again.
"Sorry about that...No, I haven't told anyone apart from you." He sighs. He didn't even think of Mycroft; "My flight is already booked for tomorrow afternoon. Any chance you could meet us at the airport? The state he's in...I could do with some help getting him settled. Probably needs to go to hospital as well to get checked over. You'll understand when you see him."
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He coughs again, covering his mouth.
Please. Why don't you just use him? This is torture. Why did you buy him only to reject him?
"John. What's wrong with him? What's happened to Sherlock?" Greg can get Mycroft to pull resources if he can't himself. He's demanding, worried.
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He hears what you say to the other end, and he feels shamed. Considering what he's done.
Shameful.
Something people hide away and don't talk about unless it's for use.
"And yeah, you will need a passport for him. Best call Mycroft. Call me when to meet you at the airport."
Greg has no idea how to deal with this.
Sherlock, who hated being touched.
Now could only find purpose as...ah, it was disgusting...
[[ooc: here for a bit]]
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Before summoning the guts to call Mycroft, John first sees to reassuring you.
He rubs your shoulder; "That was Lestrade. He's a friend, do you remember? You've got lots of friends, Sherlock, back home. We'll fly back there tomorrow, okay? I'm going to call your brother now. Mycroft. You must remember him...do you?"
[[ooc: Same. Going to sleep soon.]]
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He ... he is not sure what sort of game this is. But he doesn't like it.
And Norman is an only child. No brother. Lonely. All alone.
He just blinks dully as though he doesn't completely understand, shifting against the robe.
Please. He needs...
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