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In retrospect, it's all Sarah's fault.
She's the one who asks him to stay late after the clinic closes with the excuse that she's behind on her filing. By the time John catches on to the fact that she doesn't, in fact, need help with her paperwork but is trying to hit on him, the sun has gone down and it is no longer safe to travel on the streets alone. He tries unsuccessfully to hold back a sigh as he leaves the clinic, having made the excuse that his landlady is waiting for him to return home. Sarah wasn't pleased, but even she can't argue with that - not after everything Mrs Hudson's done for him.
As he stands on the pavement, he toys briefly with the idea of catching a cab. Only they're costly, and with the right - or wrong - cabbie behind the wheel a day's work could easily slip through his fingers. Best to take the alternative route, then, even if it will lead him through the Den. At least there will be guards and he won't need to be concerned about getting jumped. He tells himself he'll just keep his eyes on the ground and sets off, leaning heavily on his cane.
The guards at the Den give him the once over as he approaches but say nothing to impede his progress, and John enters unchallenged. It is cool inside, the long corridor stretching out, seemingly endless, filled with curious gawkers. Most of them are just passing through, and only a handful are truly serious about buying. But then considering the going rate of the average slave that's not surprising, and John knows that it is the occasional buyer who makes the Den worthwhile.
Keeping close to the right side, he begins the walk. He is keenly aware of the slaves he passes, even though he tries to pretend he is not. Some look at him. Others, the better trained, don't. A few reach out straining fingers, as though pleading with him for salvation: the guards who notice retaliate with the sharp crackle of electricity from a small issued taser. John closes his eyes, breathing picking up slightly, and quickens his pace even though it causes his side to burn with a bone-deep throb.
It is as he nears the middle, where the older or less desirable slaves are kept, that he hears it. The sound is sharp, splitting the air, and he tenses with memory. His head turns, searching - and there. One of the guards wields a whip over a slave who is kneeling on the ground. As John watches, the guard snaps the whip forward and brings it down smartly over the slave's lower back. It lands perilously close to the slave's kidney. The slave bears it in a stoic silence that suggests this is not the first time.
"Damn," John swears softly, unable to resist stopping. He steps close enough to see that the slave's back is liberally speckled with deep bruises and fresh wounds, several of which are bleeding freely, and his shoulders are stiff in a way which screams agony. His fingers itch with the urge to soothe away that pain.
"Think you're so smart," the guards says, obviously unaware or uncaring that he has an observer. "Think you can out to me to Miriam and not suffer the consequences? I'll show you, you little fuck." He brings the whip down again with a savage crack that makes John's teeth ache. "Who's laughing now, huh? Still want to show off?"
There is a pause, and then a deep voice says tiredly, "You've got a small child that you do not regularly pay support for. Your ex-wife - no, your ex-girlfriend has considered taking you to court, but no one knows that the reason she broke it off with you is because you're gay and she's too ashamed to bring it up. And you're so repressed you think trying to fuck a female co-worker who resembles a man from behind makes a difference."
The guard's face turns an interesting shade of purple.
"Stop!"
Too late, the tip of the whip kisses the slave's collarbone. John can't hear the sound of a bone snapping, but he can feel it. His breath comes short and fast as he hobbles to the door and pushes it open. The guard turns to face him with a startled look. He's panting, his cheeks now flushed an ugly red, and he twines the whip around his hands the way most men would touch a lover. It makes John sick to see it, the way that he so clearly enjoys causing pain, and he can't help staring the man down.
"What do you want?" the guard snaps at last, unnerved by the silence. "Civilians can't interfere with punishments."
"We can if we're interested in purchasing," John says calmly. He's not sure where the words come from - he can't afford a slave, any slave, not on what little he earns from the locum and his pension. But perhaps just the idea of a sell will stall the guard long enough to let the worst of his rage fade.
The guard shifts, looks from John to the slave. "You want him? Why?"
"I don't have to explain my choice to you. I'd like to see the information on this slave." And then when the guard doesn't move, John squares his shoulders and adds, "Now" in the tone of voice that made young recruits shiver.
He's pleased by how quickly the guard hastens from the kennel. The slave remains kneeling, eyes on the floor, and John gets a good look at him for the first time. He is tall, all legs, and pitifully skinny. His skin is pale, and not just in the way of someone who does not often see the sun. He's got curly black hair that's long, brushing the tops of his shoulders, and he's had a fair amount of training considering that he is able to keep still even with the swelling rapidly developing on the left side of his neck. The position he is holding, arms crossed at the base of his spine, must be excruciating.
John steps closer, cautious, and reaches out to touch the slave's back in an attempt to judge the damage done. The slave tenses but does not move, and John is allowed to examine the worst of the wounds without protest. The skin beneath his hand is worryingly hot. "You'll be alright after some proper care," he murmurs low, hoping he is correct.
"I suspect that your version of proper care is not shared by the guards." The head never lifts, but John hears the muttered comment clearly. He smiles.
"Probably not," he agrees, shifting around with a wince. "Chin up." Two fingers beneath the warm, pointed chin, and he finds himself being scrutinized by the palest set of blue-grey-green eyes he's ever seen. The slave isn't conventionally beautiful, especially like this, but John can see how, with some feeding up, he could be. He's got long lashes and nice cheekbones and full lips, all of which has likely pleased more than one owner in the past.
"You're a doctor," says the slave.
"I am." John palpitates the area around his collarbone gently, noting the wince the slave can't hide. Definitely broken. "And I'm guessing you're a handful."
The smile is quick, infectious. "So they tell me."
"How did you know those things about the guard?"
"I deduced them." Those blue-grey-green eyes flash across his face, down his body, and then back up again. "You're not just a doctor, you're an army doctor. I was watching the corridor - you weren't paying attention until you heard the sound of a whip. Remarkably like a gunshot, wouldn't you say? The way you stiffened and looked around for trouble, speaks of experience. That, combined with your haircut and tan lines, makes it obvious. You limp when you walk but you stand squarely when someone is trying to intimidate you, so your limp is partly psychosomatic. You've never owned a slave before, probably don't agree with the trade: evident by how you kept your head down. See no evil. And you're not sure you can afford to buy me. You keep rattling the change in your pocket."
Startled, John stops. He swallows and eases his hand from his pocket, something he hadn't consciously realized he was doing. The slave stiffens at the movement and his head lowers, though he keeps gazing up at John through the fringe in his eyes. He's waiting for punishment, John realizes, and the idea makes something in his chest ache. His curiosity about this slave is fully piqued, and now it's no longer a ploy: he genuinely wants to know who this man is.
The door creaks open again and the guard walks in carry a thick file. He stops, says, "Sir, I feel it's only fair to warn you that you probably don't want this one. He's a bad one, been returned too many times to count, and the owners have always lodged complaints."
"Let me be the judge of that." John holds a hand out and is pleased when the guard promptly hands the packet over. Most of it, he realizes quickly, is just ownership papers: purchases and returns, there must be about twenty of them from varying people, different names that mean little to him. He catches a glimpse of the most recent one - Michael Stamford - before arriving at the first, which states that the slave was sold into captivity at the age of ten years old.
Ten. His throat tightens. At the age of ten, John was playing army with his friends. He was just discovering that girls weren't gross after all. He didn't even know what a slave was.
"He's mouthy," says the guard, apparently interpreting the silence as hesitation. "But he's not horrid to look at, and I've heard that he's pretty good at what he's trained to do." His smirk is cruel and leaves little to the imagination. Legally sexual slaves cannot be bought or sold in the Den, but that's never stopped anyone.
"How much?" John asks hoarsely, and the slave twitches.
"£100."
That's... nothing. John's never heard of a slave who goes for that cheap. He makes the calculations quickly. It's not a good deal of money, but it's enough. He mentally says good-bye to any frivolous purchases over the next month and says, "I'll take him."
Both guard and slave stare at him incredulously, until the guard notices. "Oi! Head down!" he barks, hand flying to his taser.
"Do not," John says, catching his wrist, "touch him. Ever again, understand? I'm going to get the money. He better be in the same condition when I return."
The guard hesitates, swallows, nods. "Yes sir."
Unsurprisingly, the Den had loads of cash machines stationed in clever, unassuming spots for just such an occasion. John strides over to the nearest one and feeds in his card. For once, he has no problem withdrawing the required sum: the machine works perfectly. It doesn't even hurt to watch the numbers in his already pitiful bank account drop that much further. He collects the notes and returns to the kennel, noting as he enters how surprised the guard looks, as though he expected John to make a run for it.
"Here," he says, thrusting the money out.
"Just sign there, sir, and he's yours." The guard takes the money greedily, offering the ownership papers.
There is supposed to be a more complicated procedure than this. It shouldn't be this easy to own someone, John thinks. But he puts pen to paper, scrawls his ungainly John Watson on the line with his NIN just below, and the guard walks out and doesn't look back.
John is left looking at the slave, who is still kneeling. The wounds on his back are clotting, the bruises turning fresh purple. "What is your name?"
"Sherlock."
It comes with no hesitation, just there between them, the only thing of value this slave has to offer. He takes in a shaky breath.
"My name is John. Come on, we're leaving."
Sherlock gets to his feet slowly, wobbling slightly, though he refuses the hand John instinctively extends. The collar around his throat becomes visible as he straightens, the cool black gleaming against his skin. In a matter of minutes it will fade to a shade of brown as the logs are updated, and everyone will know that Sherlock has an owner. If he is caught, or detained, the authorities will only have to scan the back of his collar and John's information will come up on the screen.
They step out of the kennel and John turns instinctively, trusting that Sherlock will follow, and he does with long strides that he consciously has to slow for John's sake. No one takes a second look at them, not even at the appalling damage done to Sherlock's back. It must hurt terribly, but Sherlock walks as though he is used to the pain.
From the Den it is about a ten minute walk to Baker Street. It takes John fifteen, and his leg is aching by the time they finish climbing the stairs. He eases the door open and lets Sherlock in first before shutting it behind them. The flat looks cold, impersonal, as though no one has yet moved in. Sherlock glances around the room quickly but says nothing.
"Go on," says John, tossing the hated cane down on the table, "tell me."
"You've lived here for several weeks but you've yet to unpack. You're living here on charity - no, reduced rent, and it bothers you that you can't pay in full. Several times you've nearly left, but something keeps you here... ah yes, sentiment." The word is spoken with a slightly curled lip. "You won't leave, you can't afford to leave, and yet you've just bought a slave purely on whim even though you are not normally an impulsive person."
John watches him. Sherlock has rattled this off without pausing for breath, yet he stands with a shoulder ready to raise in defence. "Nearly right. Only I can be impulsive sometimes, if it matters."
"And I matter."
The pure disbelief in Sherlock's voice makes him angry, and just as he hears the footsteps coming up the stairs he mutters quick and furious, "Yes, you matter. Everyone does, slave or not."
The opening door prevents Sherlock from responding.
"Hello, John dear. You're - my gracious." Mrs Hudson comes to a full on stop, staring at Sherlock in stunned amazement.
"Mrs Hudson, this is Sherlock. He's going to be staying with me for a while," says John, silently pleading with her to be okay with this. If she's not, he has no idea what will happen. He won't return Sherlock to that place, won't sell him, so they'd both be out on the streets. Not appealing.
She hesitates for a split second before giving a slow nod. "Right," she says, looking between them, and then, "Right. There's another bedroom upstairs, dear, if you'll be needing two?"
"Of course we'll need two," he says firmly, and a little bit of tension drains from Sherlock's shoulders. John gives him a quick glance. "Could you bring us some tea, Mrs Hudson?"
"Not your housekeeper, love, but just this once." She casts another concerned look in Sherlock's direction before bustling out.
"Sit down," John says, moving towards the end of the sofa. He's got a first aid kit stashed there, and it will do for a start until he can get to the clinic tomorrow and fetch more supplies if necessary. He approaches Sherlock warily, carefully, a bit like how he'd get close to an injured animal that might lash out. There is strength in those arms, however pained and feverish he may be, and John Watson is not a fool. "I'm just going to clean these, okay?"
Sherlock says nothing, not at first. He sucks in a deep breath when John first touches him and goes rigid, but remains silent as John carefully wipes away the blood and puss. Finally, he says, "Why?"
"Can't you deduce it?"
"I can't... read you." He sounds frustrated, miserable. "You keep surprising me."
John ponders this as he lightly sweeps some antiseptic across an ugly gash. They'll heal, but it will be days before Sherlock can move without pain, he'll be on bed rest until the worst of his fever has gone. He suspects Sherlock will be a dreadful patient - slaves who aren't used to being cared for often are, but Sherlock just seems the type regardless - but it will give them time to get to know each other.
His eyes linger briefly on the collar, now faded to a pale brown that looks almost gold in the light. Sherlock is the mystery here, not John. How could someone sold into slavery so young be so brilliant? It's fascinating. He wants to know more. He wants to know who Sherlock is, where he came from, what he's been through. Suddenly his pathetically grey life seems a shade more interesting.
"I guess tonight," he says slowly, knowing this is not the answer Sherlock will want, "I even surprised myself."