John Watson the slave, Sherlock Holmes the master.

Chapter 9

"Master," I said in greeting as I walked into the living room.

It had been two years since Sherlock punished me for that first dreadful time. Since then things haven't been the same. Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded that I am a slave, I'm not equal to everyone else; I am practically furniture, no I am furniture. The first few months were the worst but this past year things have been different. Every time Sherlock looks at me I see a strange look in his eyes that he quickly hides. It reminded me of when I was a teenager, chasing after girls, a look of lust but restraint.

In the back my mind I pondered what this could mean, does he have a thing for me, is it just my imagination, am I interpreting this the wrong way? If it was only lust then he could take me whenever he wanted because to the world I was little more than furniture; I would become a pleasure slave if my master asked for it and I would have no say, as always. The puzzling thing was that he hasn't taken me yet so could that mean he cares? These thoughts and more go through my head every time I look at Sherlock but as always I dismiss them knowing even if I was correct, nothing would ever come of it. I was a slave and he was my master; any other relationship would just be wrong. Every time I dismiss the thoughts but before I do I ask myself the same question. Do I reciprocate the feelings? And even though I try not to answer, my reply is always the same.

Yes.

Each time I tell myself I'm mad. How can I feel that way for someone who beats me and owns me?

After I spoke, Sherlock turned to face me with that look but as always he quickly hides it. He knew it was wrong just as much as I did, although social convention never stopped him in the past so what was holding him back? Society only prevents a relationship. There was nothing holding him back from having his way with me. This was all very confusing.

"Hello John, I don't want anything to eat but feel free to get yourself something." Sherlock said to me turning away.

I expected him to say as much, he rarely ever ate anyway, so I headed into the kitchen to make myself something knowing that if I didn't and my stomach rumbled Sherlock would get grumpy at the 'distracting noises'. I decided against anything complicated or anything that would require more than 5 minutes to make. Grabbing a bowl I made myself some cereal, quickly ate it, and washed up so I didn't have to do it later.

The day went on as usual and I stayed invisible like a good little slave. That was until Sherlock got up without a word at the end of the day and grabbed his coat to go out. I followed him silently and ignored the disgusted looks thrown at me by strangers on the street as they notice my collar. I was so used to it by now that I barely noticed them anymore. I was confused when Sherlock walked into a bar and ordered alcohol.

I was so taken aback that I actually decided to speak out of turn.

"What are you doing, Master?" I asked looking at him concerned. Sherlock ignored me. I decided it was not my place and stepped back. Sherlock knew full well what he was getting himself into and I wouldn't be able to stop him.

I raised an eyebrow when he downed his first glass immediately and got a refill but I stayed in my place even though I was itching to stop him.

One hour later Sherlock was completely drunk and I decided that that was enough. He was so drunk he probably wouldn't even stop me taking him home and stepping out of line.

"Okay, Sherlock. I think you have had enough." I knew I shouldn't call him by his given name but I didn't want to remind him that I was just his slave, that would only make my life difficult.

"Oh hi John," He replying slurring his words, "I didn' know you were there. You were so silent even a teeny tiny li'le mouse would have been lou'er."