AN: I have created this story, the plot and the way the relationships develop between the characters myself. However, the credit for the inspiration for this story goes to an author on Ao3 who wrote her own shorter and unfinished version of a similar theme.

Guilty,' the word caused John to flinch, even though he had known it was inevitable that he would be found otherwise, he had allowed himself in the split second pause given by the juror that he would walk away a free man. The judge's gavel banged down, as the courtroom began to get restless, calling for execution.

'Order, order in the court,' the dusty white-wigged man boomed down from the bench. He cleared his throat and addressed John, "John Hamish Watson, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of the crime of desertion from the armed forces, the penalty for which is execution by firing squad," John squeezed his eyes shut as the courtroom once again murmured its approval while the judge banged for silence. "However," the judge began again, "you have been a trained army medical doctor for over a decade, and up until this point have had no record of cowardice or misconduct and have served this country faithfully. That is why I shall allow you to continue to live, and to serve, by sentencing you to slavery, until your death or until your master gives you your freedom." The gavel banged down for the final time as the courtroom erupted into anger - they had come to see an execution not to let a deserter walk away with his life. John slumped down into his seat as his lackey came to take him to the prisoner transport van.

A short ride from the High Court took John down to Southwark Bridge, underneath which London's slave trading was performed. Lives changed hands here for money or, for slaves of lesser condition, goods. Whores were bought here, alongside butlers, chefs, nannies, maids, any menial job designed purely for the pleasure of the person that owned them would be performed by the men and women who were no longer such. They were now only slaves.

When the British National Front came to power in the mid-80s they had performed sweeping reforms on the judicial system, making slavery in Britain not only legal, but a common punishment. A series of right-wing revolutions had followed in other countries and now the common slave trade across Europe was well established.

John was dragged, hands and feet bound in chains to join a line of other state-owned slaves - men and women who had been sentenced to slavery or had been forced to due to debts, homelessness or from long-term unemployment. Across from them in the crowded market place were rows of others in chains, exotic looking men and women from Africa or the far-east were standing, shirtless and oiled waiting for inspection. Further back behind the slaves of the wealthy and prominent traders, were the weak, sick slaves, not fit to do hard manual labour due to disfigurement or age. John shuddered and avoided looking at them, wondering if in years to come he would be back at this market as one of the twisted old men, long years of servitude etched onto his skin.

He had been stripped to the waist, allowing for his military tattoos to show, always a strong selling point. A man with greasy black hair and an ill-fitting suit straining around a rotund figure was eyeing John up eagerly. He and the government slaver began to discuss his condition and history as though he was a used car.

Hovering just behind the fat businessman, two slender, suited men were also listening to the slaver's sales pitch. 'I must be prime fucking rib to draw a crowd,' John sneered to himself.

'Let me see his teeth,' the potential buyer grumbled, 'I'm not getting conned into buying some runaway slave in poor health for the price you're asking.'

John's slaver spat on the ground, before attempting to force John's mouth open. He resisted, clamping his mouth shut and struggling against his restraints. The ugly man trying to sell him became enraged, and began to beat him with a long, hard metal baton.

He fell to his knees under the harsh blows, sure he would hear a crack of his bones snapping any minute.

'I'll take him, slaver, stop damaging my property,' a cool voice broke through. One of the men in suits, with pale skin, curly black hair and piercing blue eyes was pulling money out of his coat, a lot of money. The slaver growled and spat again, sheathing his weapon and putting his grimy hand out for the cash.

'Sherlock what are you doing?' snapped the second man, 'buying a disobedient, untrained slave for more than he is worth? You've gone soft, brother dear.'

The man named Sherlock did not respond, simply slapped the wad of notes into the hand of the man who had beaten John and waited silently as a bill of Sale and Ownership was written and signed, John's chains were unlocked, and the metal collar locked in place around his neck. The slaver handed Sherlock a copy of his ownership rights, and the key to the collar, both of which disappeared into deep pockets of the coat he wore.

Sherlock motioned for John to stand, and looked him up and down before apparently losing interest and striding away. His brother followed and left John standing next to the line of unsold slaves. The government slave trader gave him a rough shove in the direction the two brothers had went, and John stumbled as he followed on behind them.

As they reached the road, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled up. John's stomach tightened with fear, the car looking ominous, ready to whisk him off to a life of servitude, or perhaps even his death. The man could do whatever he wanted to John, he owned his body and his life.

Sherlock and his brother got in, and looked out at John as he stood on the pavement, immobile.

'Get in,' snapped the second man, impatience etched on his face. John still stood there, too fearful of what was to come to accept invitation to sit in the car. The man swiftly exited the car and grabbed John by his hair, throwing him forcefully onto the floor and getting in behind him, slamming the door shut.

'I will thank you not to touch my property like that again, Mycroft,' came the cool voice of Sherlock from somewhere above him. John lay on the floor of the car, scalp burning, cursing the one named Mycroft.

'Sit up,' Mycroft's command came, and this time John obeyed swiftly. The car had a long interior, with six seats, two rows of three facing each other. Sherlock and Mycroft sat on one, a young woman, a smartphone in hand and collar around her neck sat on the other side of the car. John sat on one of the seats next to her, facing his new master.

The car ride was approximately fifteen minutes long but felt like years. The atmosphere was tense, the silence only broken by the clicking of the slave girl on the phone she carried.

'The Home Secretary requests you join her for a meeting in an hour, sir,' she announced after a notification noise came through on the phone. Mycroft nodded at her and she began frantically typing again.

John looked over her shoulder at the driver of the car, he could see the silver metallic collar just peeking out from his uniform. They were obviously a rich family, to own more than one house slave raised them above most middle-class families, but to have personal assistants and drivers as well would suggest they were amongst some of the wealthiest men in London. Slaves, while common, were not cheap.

The thought filled John with dread. Who knew who the man that bought him was? What if he was so rich, and had so many slaves, he was used to using human beings as his playthings, wanted to use John for his body in some depraved manner? John felt bile rise in his throat, fear tearing at his stomach. Just as he thought he would vomit the car drew to a stop on Baker Street and the door was opened. Sherlock stood, utterly ignored his brother and pushed John out of the car.

'Thank you again for the delights of your company, Mycroft,' Sherlock muttered, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

'Remember what we discussed, Sherlock,' Mycroft replied as he shut the door and the car glided away. Sherlock turned on his heel and strode towards a black door with '221 B' in shiny brass screwed to the glossy wood. He opened it, and let John through into the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door, locking it in place. 'Trapped now,' John thought as he heard the lock click, letting out a shaky breath.

A woman in her sixties bustled out of the ground floor flat to greet them, 'Hello, Sherlock dear, how was your outing with - oh, who's this?' she asked, interrupting her own train of thought as she laid eyes on John.

'Some home help for us, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock replied, beginning to stride up the stairs to the second flat. John felt the older woman's eyes staring at the collar around his neck and he imagined it tightening slightly as he became more aware of it.

'I didn't know we needed any,' she called after him, shooting John a sympathetic look before gesturing that he should follow Sherlock.

John took her advice and followed the lanky gentleman up to the second flat. He was surprised at what greeted him. No penthouse, no spacious Victorian interior, just a dark little flat, it's furnishings would have been cosy had they not all been covered in a blanket of papers and coffee cups. Sherlock was standing at the window with his back to John, looking out onto the street below.

After a lengthy pause John cleared his throat, 'What shall my duties be... sir?' he added after a pause.

'Hm? Oh, yes. You,' Sherlock responded, turning to look at John thoughtfully, 'I suppose you can help keep this place a bit tidier, aid Mrs Hudson with anything she needs, bring me groceries , run other errands and don't interrupt me when I'm thinking.'

John nodded in response, lowering his gaze. He had never seen a slave look his master in the eye longer than necessary.

'But first, go put a bloody shirt on,' Sherlock ordered, a faint smirk pulled at his lip before he turned back to the window. John gave a single nod to his back and went exploring the flat, looking for something to wear.