So I had this story stuck in my head for some time... so here it is. Please forgive any grammatical and historical mistakes. Enjoy and PLEASE don't forget to review...
The market place stank of sweat. Goats whinnied as their masters led them through the cobbled streets; women chattered amongst themselves with expensive silk fans; and stalls were filled with exotic goods. Men talked politics as they sat on the high stone steps while the women shopped the streets. Birds nestled themselves on the rooftops surveying the crowds surging below—men fiddled with their garments: togas, cloaks, and tunics while others walked with nothing but their subligaculum. Golden eyes flashed as both men and women turned to stare at the new arrivals stepping off the docks. Chains clinked as a number of men were shoved forwards deep into the streets, herded like animals. The captives were dragged into an open square, forced unto their knees, their feet dusted with white chalk. The golden eyes burned as a tall thin serpent looking man thrust a spear into the earth. A bell sounded, rising through the market like a signal. Birds flew from the rooftops, spiraling across the clear blue sky.
The golden eyed captive snarled and was rewarded with a punch to the gut as he was dragged to an opposite corner of the square, followed by two others. A crowd soon gathered; men interested in spotting the strong and the healthy while the women gossiped by their husbands sides. The golden eyes that watched the roar of people belonged to a man of medium height, golden hair pasted to his sweat streaked brow. He firm muscled chest rose as he struggled to breathe. His hands where tied tightly behind him, the leather straps cutting into his flesh. Thin scars ran over his chest and back—marks from wars won. He was a man of thirty that had looked upon many a battle, the scars of war failing to diminish his beauty. He watched as people shouted, biding upon the men before them. The quaestor, supervised by the aediles, cried out to the public. The golden eyed man watched as one by one the men were sold off, following their new masters like dogs. As the last man was auctioned off, a group of soldiers grabbed the blonde haired man, pulling at the collar around his neck. The man stumbled towards the podium, his feet dragging in the sand. As soon as he was in view of the crowd, the shouting began. His chin was forced up, his legs spread. He watched as the people of Rome began holding their money high in the air, their eyes drinking in the sight of him. He forced himself to stand tall, not to be made a mockery. He tried to ignore the churning of his gut as mens eyes lazily followed his tone body; women stealing glances at him from behind their fans. The golden eyes narrowed—the heat of the sun beating down upon him. He licked dry lips, the salt stinging his tongue. The blonde once again studied the crowd, golden orbs like the sun, falling upon a set of starting grey-green. He stared, his mouth set in a firm line as the man—younger by five to eight years, watched, lips quirking into a thin lipped smile. Suddenly the dark haired man shouted, sending the crowd into a buzz of discussion. A voice then shouted, leaving the dark haired man looking amused. Something in the smile of the youth warned the golden eyed man not to get near. However, soldiers retrieved the end of his collar, ushering him closer to the man who had just made his purchase.
" I don't understand why I have to be the one to go to the market. It's uneventful, dull, boring." The dark haired youth drawled as his mass of dark curls bounced around his head. He rearranged the cotton-silk robe over his shoulder, his bare skin drinking in the warmth of the sun. For a man living in Rome, he was highly pale but he didn't seem to care. His long slender fingers worked at the gold clasp threaded through the dark blue cloth.
"Sherlock. I can't buy you everything you need, whenever you desire it. Besides, I have to attend the Senate."
Sherlock turned his frown toward his older brother, watching as Mycroft Modius Holmes stood tall beside the water bowl. The older sibling dipped his hands in the water decorated with red rose petals before taking the cloth from a female slave. Mycroft raised a perfect brow at the younger Modius Holmes, silently ordering him away. Huffing with indignation, Sherlock took off into the streets alone, cursing Mycroft until finding it difficult to draw breathe.
He drifted through the streets, eyes calculating. He observed the people striding through thr streets as if they had important lives. The darker haired boy idly picked at goods—finding nothing to his liking. He was ready to return back when he heard the sound of the bell. A new auction was about to take place. Sherlock sniffed, making his way through the crowd—His day was already boring enough as it is, might as well watch something fun.
Sherlock pushed himself to the front as the first line of new slaves were brought into the square. He studied them, finding them lacking. They were war trophies brought over from across the seas. Some looked sick, other had the look of defeat deep within their eyes. As they soon became scarce, Sherlock found himself preparing to leave, when the man was brought out from the shadows. His light coloured hair glimmered amongst the sweat on his brow, intelligent gold eyes, threatening under thick blonde lashes. A full mouth pressed themselves in defiance as his tongue snaked forward to moisten his dry lip. Sherlock found himself at awe. This man had seen war, many a battle. He had scars to prove his bravery, his victories. He was not tall, but of medium height; body perfectly toned to perfection. What caught his full thought was the strength burning in his soul that shone through those eyes that seemed to resemble gold. Sherlock heard the roar of the crowd as they became intoxicated with the rush to succeed. Never had a man so beautiful, so dangerous been for auction. Sherlock raised a hand into the air, his lungs filling up with oxygen.
"One thousand denarius!"
The crowd buzzed like a hive of angry bees. One thousand denarius was many a coin and most could not afford such a price. Sherlock smirked as the quaestor dropped his hand, finishing the bid. Sherlock watched as his new slave was brought before him, eyes boring into his own. He took the rope from the soldier, fingers wrapping around tightly.
"You are mine."
John Watson stared as the dark haired man took the rope into pale hands; his green eyes mixed with gray gleaming as he spoke—a deep voice of foreign words, floated up into the blonde's mind. He frowned unsure what the man had said, but it had sounded pleased. John felt the pull of the cord around his neck as the youth lead him through the winding stalls. He could snap this boy's neck like a twig and escape—return back home to his people. John followed the boy, his arms burning from being bound for so long. He became vaguely aware that the youth was speaking. He tilted his head trying to focus on the strange language, watching the full lips of his new captor. As they rounded a corner, John pulled back his head, pulling the rope from the darker haired man, and then lunged. Something flashed in the man's eyes as the blonde charged forwards. With impeccable speed Sherlock twisted, throwing a punch in the man's stomach. John doubled over, his ribs screaming in protest.
"I'll have you know, slave, that I am a skilled fighter. I observed the slight bruising in your upper linea alba which is why I aimed my blow. You have slightly cracked ribs, massive cramping in both your upper and lower triceps—being bound for so long your arms must be in a lot of pain. You are mine and you are to obey me. Is that understood?"
John blinked through his lashes, his stomach seizing. Through the pain, the commanding tone were recognizable. He was not to try that again. He nodded, hoping that the man before him would understand his acceptance. The green-gray eyes seemed appeased before once again leading the blonde warrior through Rome's cobbled streets.
Sherlock led the man through the atrium, watching with hidden curiosity as the golden eyed slave looked around with cautious wonder. The ceiling rose high decorated with many colourful paintings—a large square opening towered above, allowing rain to fall down into the impluvium below; a large space to collect the water when it fell from the Heavens. A stone statue of a lion—water pouring from it's mouth, spilled into a smaller impluvium, the waters supported vast colours of petals. Sherlock rose a brow as John stilled, eyes flickering over to his own. Sherlock sniffed, before calling out for assistance. Three men and a woman, all Mycroft's slaves, appeared from behind the massive pillars.
"Find a knife to cut this man from his bonds. He is my slave and a new addition to the House of Modius."
Sherlock sank down unto the lectus—the ornate red couch that lay in the middle of the reception hall. John held still, unsure as to what his future would hold. He sensed movement to his side, crouching into a stance as a man with a similar collar approached, knife in hand. Sherlock blinked as his golden slave hissed through his lips, the sound low and threatening.
"It's alright. He means you no harm—I wish you free from your bonds."
Golden eyes darted back towards the dark haired man, body unwilling to back down. He was unsure what the man was saying, but the look in his eyes held no enmity. John slowly exhaled, allowing the other man to approach. He tensed as the bonds were severed, the leather falling to the floor. Blood rushed through, his fingers tingling painfully. He flexed, his shoulders rolling back with strength. He straightened his spine, gaze now fully trained on the man who had brought him to this strange place. Sherlock grinned, eyes sparkling.
"Let's get you washed, you smell of sweat and salt."
John raised a brow, as the dark haired youth motioned for him to follow. John reluctantly stepped forwards, his bare feet echoing along the stone. He was led into a smaller room, one with a deep square pool.
"Remove your loincloth, slave."
John bit his lip—the foreign words demanding something he could not understand. Sherlock looked at the blonde for so long, the man shifted awkwardly on his feet.
"You can't understand a word I am saying can you...but no matter. Come here."
John understood those two words, and stepped closer. His body froze, eyes narrowed as the youth stepped into his personal space, hands reaching for his cloth. Sherlock felt himself oddly warm as he undid the knot securing the dress covering up the man's cock. John didn't move as he studied the man before him, unsure as to the boy's intentions. As if being woken from a dream, Sherlock coughed, gripping John's arm within a surprisingly strong grip. John grunted as the youth motioned for him to enter the water. The blonde slipped into the bath, the sun from the roof naturally heating up the water. The warmth comforted him to his very bones, washing away the dirt and sweat. John splashed water across his chest and back, conscious of the youth watching his every action. He suddenly felt exposed, his movements stilling. He stood in the water, the sun bathing him in light as those eyes of such mystery examined every detail.
"You are perfect aren't you," Sherlock breathed. He felt as if the God Apollo, Master of Light had appeared before him. John licked his lips, the taste of salt washing away. Both men tore their gazes as one of the slaves entered the room—a fresh set of clothes placed near the baths edge. John glanced from the clothes to the youth, who nodded, a smirk adorning his lips. John took a breath before submerging himself under water. He rose—water dripping off his body like raindrops as he hoisted himself out of the bath. Sherlock found his eyes being drawn to the mans ass; the solid muscle ready to be fucked. He bit his lip as the blonde hastily wrapped his cock back within the confines of his dress. Once clothed with a loincloth and fleece leggings bound with thin strips of leather that came up to his mid thigh, John waited. Sherlock nodded, pleased. He turned around, John following him as the youth made his way through the vast home. Sherlock strode over to a vast balcony, eyes focusing on the scene below. John eased forwards, before following the youths gaze. Men shouted as they fought against each other—wooden shields and weapons smashing against the other. They lunged, twisted and leaped; each trying to gain the upper hand. Sherlock smiled, showing perfect white teeth.
"You will be my gladiator."