Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes had seriously fucked up this time, there was no dispute on that fact. He owed his dealer quite the sum of money for his cocaine, but he hadn't cared. It was good cocaine. After he exceeded half of his marketable price (as a slave), his dealer sold the debt to another man who sold him into sexual slavery for a profit. Which is how he came to be a sex slave. The man who had bought his debt (and had effectively bought Sherlock himself) was rather into public humiliation and BDSM styled fetishes. Sherlock, being the obstinate bastard he was, generally would not comply to what his Master had wanted of him. His pride and self-dignity were constantly in the way of his willingness to bow to this master. In spite of every consequence he had thrown at Sherlock (occasionally literally), Sherlock was still undyingly obstinate, so that man, sick of Sherlock’s stubbornness and deciding to cut his losses, sold him to another slave trader by the name of Victor.
Victor was exceedingly possessive of Sherlock. Yet, he did not care so long as Victor kept him in supply of his cocaine, or pretty much anything else that would drown out his mind's unending noise, his release. That was the whole reason for all of this, the Masters and Traders and Collectors, he wanted that silence, he needed that silence. It was driving him mad, the static of the facts, the deductions, the thoughts. But nothing else mattered to Sherlock, not ever, just the silence, the respite from his genius. His willingness to do anything for that cocaine (his seven percent solution), especially after that two week long hell of withdrawal and humiliation at the hand of his previous Master, was what brought him to the Trader's Show with Master Victor. He paid no heed to anything but his Master's supply of narcotics, he didn't care about anything else.
Victor was always the last to leave at these sorts of things, so it was rather surprising when the sandy blonde man in the cuddly jumper walked in just a moment after everyone else (aside Victor's entourage) had left. It was even more strange when he offered to buy Sherlock off of Victor for three times what Sherlock thought he should be worth at street market value.
The man was on shorter side of the national average height. Sherlock's mind was simply intrigued by this man. He was a doctor of sorts (probably a surgeon), a soldier as well, so probably RAMC, he was here on business for sure, but he looked so simple and kind and trustworthy. But he was hiding something, Sherlock was certain. What was he hiding?
“He’s not for sale! Or trade! Or anything! Get out of here!” Victor was getting angry, Sherlock loathed when Victor got angry, it quickly escalated to a certain kind of hell for him. But, at least, this hell was much more tolerable than his own mind.
“Oh, come now,” coaxed the sandy blonde, his deep blue eyes sparkling. “I do have quite the pretty penny.”
“I’m not interested in your pennies.” Victor was at the end of his tolerance, it never took long for that to come. “Boys.”
“Really?” scoffed the antagonist, almost merrily, “You can’t do it for yourself?” As the first three surly men appeared to take care of the short fellow, something about him changed. The change was so instantaneous, that it was almost terrifying. In fact, it might have been if Sherlock hadn’t been so busy being intrigued.
This small, average seeming bloke went from almost endearingly cuddly, to complete soldier in milliseconds. That was what he was hiding, wasn’t it? He wasn’t just some happy-go-lucky Army doctor, he was a covert operations specialist. He had to have been one with the moves he was pulling on these high end body guards. He was landing so many blows that it was difficult to believe that he was, in fact, a human being. These expert level fighters were landing more blows on each other than they were on the man clad in the white-with-black-stripes-but-not-the-other-way-round jumper. The fight was over in less than two minutes. Which meant that the only people left standing in the room, were Victor, Sherlock, two other slaves that Sherlock didn’t bother to learn the names of, and this man. Sherlock was intrigued by the ability to switch back-and-forth between his kind, gentle self, and this super-soldier.
“Would you like to give it a go now, Victor?”
Victor hollered and darted toward him. He had Victor down on the ground before Sherlock had the chance to blink. He, then, went to each of the four men had taken down, and put a bullet in between each of the eyes, Victor was last. “Now, can I have him?” asked the man politely.
“Yes, God! Yes, just don’t kill me!”
“You shouldn’t beg, it’s unattractive.” And with that he pulled the trigger, putting Victor out of his misery. “You three!” he was calling out to the remaining three people, the slaves. “It’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt any of you. But, I would recommend you come with me. Probably before the cops show up.”
Reluctant to have any level of dealings with the police, Sherlock and the others followed the man out of the warehouse, and into a parked gray sedan.