bakerstreet | ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ shipping.

ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ shipping.

ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜᴇʟʟ

Of all the places in this world, there's nowhere worse you could be than where you are now. You're in hell - metaphorically or literally - and laying down and just dying seems more and more like the valid action to take. But you can't go any lower and death could be a no escape. There's only one thing keeping you from being a jaded, broken husk: you've fallen in love with someone who shares this fate. It's a love so different than the norm, that only those who've known this desolation can fathom. Perhaps they give you hope, they're an innocent worth keeping safe, they showed you unexpected kindness, or they're simply something to cling to. No matter what, you'll protect them and you wouldn't dream of leaving this place without them. They will leave, though...

...even if you don't.

☣ ＣＯＭＭＥＮＴ．ＩＮＦＯ．ＰＲＥＦＥＲＥＮＣＥＳ．
☣ ＲＥＰＬＹＴＯＯＴＨＥＲＳ．
☣ ＴＨＲＥＡＤ.

ＣＡＰＴＵＲＥＤ → For a crime you committed or not, you're in a prison.
ＶＡＬＵＥ → Something about you is worth quite a deal to the wrong person.
ＳＣＩＥＮＴＩＦＩＣ → You're nothing but an experiment, a lab rat.
ＰＥＲＳＥＣＵＴＥＤ → Your mistreatment is not because of what you've done. It's for who you are.
ＦＲＥＡＫＳＨＯＷ → All of your oddities are on display for the amusement of others.
ＦＯＲＣＥ → You have to do horrible things, though not of your own will or design.
ＲＡＣＫ → There's not just isolation or imprisonment on your plate - there's physical torture as well.
ＢＲＩＭＳＴＯＮＥ → "Hell" is no hyperbole; you're in the fiery pit itself.
ＷＩＬＤＣＡＲＤ

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[21+ for romance please.]

Edited 2016-05-18 22:31 (UTC)

He's cleaning the floor when he hears Master bellow for him.

"Wretch! Come!"

He gets up. Wretch wasn't always his name but he supposes he's had it for as long as his birth name so it may as well be. His feet are bare and swollen, calloused beneath, marked with blisters. He's wearing a simple shift which is enough during the hot days, but provides little warmth at night when the wind turns freezing and a draft enters his 'hutch' where he's allowed to rest, where Master provided him such a luxury.

He misses England less and less but still dreams about the cool climate and frequent mild rain. There's no faces that come to mind, no one that he thinks is looking for him, or long having presumed him dead. He was little more than a boy when he was taken. A stupid teenager going off travelling as they all do.

One step in the wrong country, alone at night, and he'd wound up with a bag over his head and shoved into the boot of a car. And that was the end of his freedom.

Master shouts again and Wretch quickens his pace, despite his limp where Master hobbled him after his third escape.

He enters the room and stands with his head bowed but he can see what's occurring.

Master has...another. Another figure with his hands tied and a bag over his head. His normal clothes are still on but not for long, Wretch knows. White skin like his once was. Is...he being replaced? Wretch shivers. Master would not just release him if he was sick of him. He would...dispose of him properly.

Hoping to gain some last minute favour, Wretch falls to his knees and prostates himself before Master with his head to the floor. He doesn't speak. He knows better. His position says all. How may I please you, Master?

He feels for the poor man taken. He knows what is ahead for him.

Bound hands shake. There's another ... person here. Sherlock can smell him, really, rather than see through the bag. He has to utilize his other senses. He's frightened, really. Who wants him? Well... maybe someone with a grudge against big brother, but who would care about all this trouble. He guesses he is still in this desert heat.

Sweat's still soaking through his clothes.
This person who's kidnapped him, doesn't seem like they'll treat anyone well, the rough way he's been handled.
Do they want information? He probably doesn't know much of value for MI-6 intelligence.

The large man in fine robes pulls the bag off the young man's head.

"Listen carefully now." He speaks good English though it has a heavy East Asian accent; "You belong to me, from this day forth. You are my property. My tool to use and assist me as I please. If you obey then I will be kind. If you resist to submit or try to escape then the punishment will be severe. Now, on your knees."

He grabs the man's shoulder and shoves him down to the ground.

Wretch keeps looking at the floor. He...remembers this. He remembers Master saying these things to him all those years ago. He thought he could fight. That he would be saved. Oh, how stupid he was.

[[ooc: Work till half 10]]

Sherlock grits his teeth, unwillingly kneeling, feeling the sweat soak through his collar.

It's very hot here, extremely so.
He doesn't bow his head, but his eyes are a bit reddened and he shakes slightly. He gets the implication. He's supposed to serve the man sexually as well as physically which he's not exactly interested in. "If you give me what I ask, I see no reason why there should be trouble." He attempts to compromise. He's a drug addict. He really doesn't care what happens to him if he's high and hence might cooperate, but he's also rather stubborn.

He doesn't tell him he doesn't know anything. Maybe he can pretend he has something to stay alive.
Although - judging by the appearance of the other in the room, which Sherlock glances at - maybe staying alive is worse.

Wretch instantly cringes when the stupid boy talks back. He's in for it.

The back of Master's hand connects harshly with Sherlock's jaw.

"You no longer talk unless I ask you a question, Whore. And you do not speak without addressing me as 'Master'." says the rich man; "I need my slaves to be in fit state of mind and body. Behave and you will be fed and have your thirsts quenched. Bread and water is all you will crave from now on and you will work for both."

Wretch understands that now. So long as Master gives him enough food and water to get him through the day, he is grateful. And being given a roof to sleep under at night is a luxury.

Sherlock's head jerks away from the blow, he falls flat on his face.

That hurt. Maybe he should cooperate at least a little. He nods a bit. That doesn't mean he's a Whore yet. He'll just stay silent.

Edited 2016-05-20 04:06 (UTC)

Wretch resists the slight instinct to run to the man and make sure he's okay...

No. Stay still.

He hopes the new one learns fast.

"Follow Wretch here. He's going to teach you what your new place in life is now." Master explains.

Sherlock glares defiantly bath the floor. So there stupid and have kidnapped a genius junkie. Well then. He'll just run away later.

He just has to pretend for long enough.

Master clicks his fingers and Wretch gets to his feet.

"Show this one around the house, teach him where everything is and the daily routine. Give him one of the old camel matts for his new clothes. Come to me if he is difficult. I want both my slaves ready to see me when I return at noon." Master tells Wretch, barely looking at him, as if not wanting to dirty his gaze.

Wretch nods, bowing low; "Yes, Master. Of course, Master."

He goes to the door and gestures to the new slave. Come on. Quickly, now, please.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and slowly gets up off the floor.

Gritting his teeth. He should be used to bruises by now, but he isn't.
Bullies, being ordered around.

Mycroft will come save him, right?
And if not he can escape, right?

Wretch doesn't speak until the door is closed behind them and Master is gone. He walks quite quick for someone with a broken foot that clearly hasn't healed well. He's learned hard.

It's been a while since he's been allowed to talk at length so his speech is horse. A little broken.

"This is Master's dining room. He only eats here when he has company, otherwise he has meals out on the patio, except if it's raining. He eats breakfast in bed. I made a list of his preferred meals for each day, over there." he points, his hands forever shaking, wrists scarred.

He goes to fetch one of the matts that have had three holes cut into them. It's stained and smells but has been slightly washed to get the worst mess off.

"Here. Get rid of your clothes, wear this." he says, though it sounds more like a plea than an order.

He doesn't look the man in the eye even though they're equals. Habit.

Sherlock grimly takes it. He's not an idiot. He strips off his clothes, checking his pockets. The man's skilled, he supposes, the wallet he had owned is gone.

He's still going to escape. There must be other clothes in this house to steal. It itches and is immediately uncomfortable.

He regrets his cooperation but when he's being watched less closely...running away. Leaving. Apologize maybe.

The other man fought.

Edited 2016-05-20 12:15 (UTC)

Wretch sighs and nods; "Thank you." For not being difficult. Master will blame him as well as the new one.

Master always blames him.

He shows the new one where the mop and bucket are as well as the garden where there's a well with fresh water which needs to be drawn with a heavy rig.

He takes a moment to look at the man...Boy, really. He looks as if he's never done a hard days work in his life. Public school? Spoiled, upper class? He's about to be in for a shock.

Sherlock just sullenly nods.
He doesn't want to reveal he's leaving.
He shouldn't yet.

The man's might tell. Sherlock doesn't have friends, just his big brother that might not notice he's missing.

Should just cooperate.
He's still got a sullen defiant expression.

Edited 2016-05-20 13:09 (UTC)

"Just do whatever Master says. Don't fight, don't argue, don't run away...Everyone in this area keeps slaves. They will know. There's no escape. Just...accept that. And Master will be kind." He tries to assure the man though he knows it's not much comfort.

His eyes are dulled, empty of hope.

"He isn't kind. Has everyone in this district been stolen away?"

He supposed slaves are.
But now he's angry. He will run away. First chance he gets.

He hangs his head. He's...talked to a few during parties when the slaves were sent to the kitchens. Away from Masters ears.

"Some are born into it. If a slave is white then it's usually safe to assume..." he cringes; "W-where did they get you?"

"London," he shrugs. As though he doesn't care. He does though. "The place doesn't matter though."

He's leaving. Soon.
Just have to be passable until he's in safe territory. He regards the fellow.
"You're telling me not to fight him because you're being pathetically sympathetic."

Edited 2016-05-20 14:36 (UTC)

"London..." his voice breaks with a longing he hasn't felt in years.

London was his home once. Not where he was raised but a different and welcome world compared to Chelmsford. For the short time he'd lived there after running away he had finally felt like he belonged.

A brief flicker of light in his dark life that quickly went out.

He hangs his head at the man's words. He knows they're true; "Please...believe me. I would have given anything for someone to have warned me when I arrived."

Wretch takes a breath and lifts his shift enough for Sherlock to see the many, many, many scars that litter his body.

Do you want this?

Dean Winchester | Supernatural | OTA

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Sherlock Holmes | BBC Sherlock | m/m

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