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John feels fingers in his hair, tugging without a direction. He feels someone breathing just above him, their breath ghosting over his bare shoulder. He can still taste the dust of Afghanistan in his mouth and there's hands on him. This man, John's guessing at that of course, has made it very clear what he wants of out the doctor turned soldier turned slave.
Hands pinching his arm muscles. Fingers running over his lips. A foot placed between his knees, making him spread himself wider. On display, as if he wasn't already.
John knows himself to be naked, and blindfolded, but he knows no more than that. He assumes a slave market, from the bubble of human voices, and a open aired space, from the call of seagulls and the one faint drone of an airplane. But they had knocked him out before bringing him here. He has seen none of the numerous people who have played with him over the past uncountable hours.
"I'll take him."
"Sir," that's the stall master, the one selling John on behave of the British Army. "He's not for sale. He's goes to auction tomorrow, today is just a preview."
"Than he is for sale."
"No, no, n-"
"He is for sale tomorrow, which means I simply have to offer you an extraordinary amount of money and you will sell him to me. Perhaps twenty odd thousand would do for a start." There is a brief pause; John holds his breath. "Oh, and a gift for you as well, for being a good merchant. I see a Sargent's mark on your shift. Don't make very much, now do you." It is not a question.
"Sir, beg pardon, but I have my orders."
"I'm sure you do. Thirty thousand. In cash."
There is a rustle of papers, the sounds of a briefcase being opened and closed, the clink of a chain. Then fingers are encircling John's neck, cool metal tugs him upwards, and he nearly strangles himself on the choke chain. He does stumble over his feet.
"Pins and needles. Don't worry, they'll go away." The voice, which had sounded so cold, now sounds almost kind. Almost.
They walk for a bit, and John senses that they have passed through some sort of gate. "Get in the car." John can't even see the care, but he tries anyways. A hand closes around his neck. John jerks, and the fingers tighten. "In the car, now." The hand guides him forward and down, though he still bumps his shoulder on the way in.
"Drive, Sebastian."
John is seated on the floor, knees tucked under him in an all too crumpled position. The hand slides up his head to curl into his hair. The chain is pulled once more, forcing John to wedge himself between the passenger seat and the back seat bench.
"My name is Jim Moriarty. You will call me Master, Sir, or Moriarty. You will obey all orders exactly. You may ask questions to clarify an order, but try to make sure they aren't stupid ones. You don't strike me as a stupid man, so that shouldn't be a problem. Do you have a name?"
"Doctor John Watson, sir." That one isn't a problem; he was in the army for long enough. There's been no time to adjust.
"Doctor. And yet you were being sold by the army."
"Yes sir." It comes slower this time. Why does the man care about this? It would be so much easier if he didn't care at all. John wants to forget that part of his life.
"Good. You'll find that very useful working for me."
John can't stop the shudder that passes through him as the man's fingers tighten in his hair. The man, Jim Moriarty, laughs.