commentboxed rentboy au fillholisticaliceAugust 27 2010, 20:25:59 UTC
John doesn't know how it came to this.
Since coming back from the war, making the rent was a struggle. He never managed to complete his medical degree, Harry was living in pay-by-the-week motel herself and somehow the idea of whoring himself on London streets seemed more plausible than him finding a job in this economy. His latest client was particularly rough, bending him over in a darkened alley. John half-expected a crazed vagrant to put an end to their rutting but only the sounds of rodents scurrying and their quickening breath serenaded him through the act. The man dropped some bills at his feet after. Zipped himself up without a word and left.
Leaning to pick them up hurt. A voice startled him.
"You can't do that here anymore."
Another boy, black curls and high cheekbones, leered at him from the darkness. He wore tight clothes and smelled the way John did after working all night.
"Says who, your pimp?"
"How do you know about Mycroft?"
John shook his head. As though tonight wasn't bad enough. He didn't need to get into a turf war with anybody named Mycroft on top of things.
"You shouldn't be in this business, anyway."
Another boy, light-haired and deep-voiced, snorted. God, had they both been watching him? This was mortifying.
"Be nice, Sherlock. I reckon he's cute. Besides, it'd be nice to have someone else to talk to these nights besides you and the johns. What's your name?"
Blushing, John told him. The other boy snorted again and slapped their hands together. "People call me Lestrade. Been working around here for two years now. Don't listen to Sherlock: you'll get used to the rough ones, soon, don't worry."
"I meant, he's been injured, Lestrade." The boy named Sherlock dug in his pockets. Lit a cigarette. "Was Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"How did you..."
"Same way you knew about Mycroft, I suppose." Lestrade snatched the cigarette from his companion. "You psychic-types freak me out."
Sherlock threw him a nasty look. "I could have been a detective, Lestrade."
"And I could've been a police officer but this was easier and, ironically, people fuck you over less."
A faint clicking came from the end of the alley and a cadenced voice made the three of them jump.
"Back to work, gents. Cocks aren't going to suck themselves, after all." A man in a shiny suit and a glinting umbrella clapped his hands. A woman, thin and wearing very little clothing, clung to him. Her phone cast a ghostly light on Mycroft's face. "Who's this?"
"Says his name's John." Sherlock said.
"What kind of a name is 'John' for a rentboy? That'll just confuse people. From now on, your name is Sweet Lips Johnny."
John started to protest but Mycroft raised his umbrella.
Ahaha, and you managed to work Anthea in as well. Is it Christmas?
("And I could've been a police officer but this was easier and, ironically, people fuck you over less." Disturbingly, this may just be one of the best Lestrade lines I've read.)
Since coming back from the war, making the rent was a struggle. He never managed to complete his medical degree, Harry was living in pay-by-the-week motel herself and somehow the idea of whoring himself on London streets seemed more plausible than him finding a job in this economy. His latest client was particularly rough, bending him over in a darkened alley. John half-expected a crazed vagrant to put an end to their rutting but only the sounds of rodents scurrying and their quickening breath serenaded him through the act. The man dropped some bills at his feet after. Zipped himself up without a word and left.
Leaning to pick them up hurt. A voice startled him.
"You can't do that here anymore."
Another boy, black curls and high cheekbones, leered at him from the darkness. He wore tight clothes and smelled the way John did after working all night.
"Says who, your pimp?"
"How do you know about Mycroft?"
John shook his head. As though tonight wasn't bad enough. He didn't need to get into a turf war with anybody named Mycroft on top of things.
"You shouldn't be in this business, anyway."
Another boy, light-haired and deep-voiced, snorted. God, had they both been watching him? This was mortifying.
"Be nice, Sherlock. I reckon he's cute. Besides, it'd be nice to have someone else to talk to these nights besides you and the johns. What's your name?"
Blushing, John told him. The other boy snorted again and slapped their hands together. "People call me Lestrade. Been working around here for two years now. Don't listen to Sherlock: you'll get used to the rough ones, soon, don't worry."
"I meant, he's been injured, Lestrade." The boy named Sherlock dug in his pockets. Lit a cigarette. "Was Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"How did you..."
"Same way you knew about Mycroft, I suppose." Lestrade snatched the cigarette from his companion. "You psychic-types freak me out."
Sherlock threw him a nasty look. "I could have been a detective, Lestrade."
"And I could've been a police officer but this was easier and, ironically, people fuck you over less."
A faint clicking came from the end of the alley and a cadenced voice made the three of them jump.
"Back to work, gents. Cocks aren't going to suck themselves, after all." A man in a shiny suit and a glinting umbrella clapped his hands. A woman, thin and wearing very little clothing, clung to him. Her phone cast a ghostly light on Mycroft's face. "Who's this?"
"Says his name's John." Sherlock said.
"What kind of a name is 'John' for a rentboy? That'll just confuse people. From now on, your name is Sweet Lips Johnny."
John started to protest but Mycroft raised his umbrella.
"Sweet Lips, don't make me smack a bitch."
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Ahaha, and you managed to work Anthea in as well. Is it Christmas?
("And I could've been a police officer but this was easier and, ironically, people fuck you over less." Disturbingly, this may just be one of the best Lestrade lines I've read.)
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I just had to thank you for that
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I just had to thank you for that
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