Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Five)
Not much to say before this one -- it's a bit of a short chapter. I promise that subsequent instalments are much more action-y :)
Sherlock didn’t bother giving Tommy a tour of 221B once they entered the apartment: it wasn’t in his nature to conduct hospitable treatment of others; besides which, his body was starting to protest its continued use without true rest, quite strongly.
Sherlock ducked into the bathroom to piss, and splashed water on his face after washing his hands. He leant on the sink for a moment, calming his breathing and trying to stop shaking. It had just hit him that he needed to work again tonight - he had no money stowed away, he’d never really been that sort of an organised, forward-looking person. Money always sort of figured itself out, most of the time. But today, he was suddenly reminded of the fact that rent was due, and therefore tricks would have to be turned.
The upsurge of bile and disgust shocked him. Normally he wasn’t so susceptible to emotional reactions. He couldn’t work tonight. He just couldn’t. Not tonight. Just once.
Sherlock decided to huddle into his bed and consider this Catch-22; it was unlikely he would be able to actually sleep, under so much stress, but the comforting softness of the sheets would possibly calm him.
When he walked into his bedroom, however, he was startled by Tommy standing at the foot of his bed already, an expression of disturbed shock at the state of the bed on his face.
“Get out.” Sherlock ordered, blocking out emotion, and moving to tear the dirty, stained - too stained, there was blood, there shouldn’t be blood - sheets off the bed, and hoping that he actually had a spare, clean sheet somewhere in the apartment.
“Sorry mate,” Tommy blurted awkwardly, but not leaving the room. “I didn’t realise you brought clients back here. Just threw me, it did.”
“Get out!” Sherlock repeated, with greater anger. He’d forgotten the state of the room, forgotten the story it would inevitably tell to anybody who saw it, hadn’t thought how much he’d be affected by being in the room again. He was sobbing, not audibly, but his breath was definitely catching, and there was a terrible knot in his stomach that was near-paralysing. Tears stung his eyes, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer.
He didn’t care about finding a new sheet now, he just wanted to cover himself with the duvet and block all of this out.
Tommy could just fuck off, sleep on the couch, sleep on the street, Sherlock didn’t care right now. His emotions were taking him over, and there was nothing he could do about it. That wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. He curled up under the duvet, and buried his face in the pillow. It wouldn’t completely make his crying inaudible, but it would muffle him so the sound wouldn’t reach the living room, thank god.
But the edge of his bed sank down, revealing to him that Tommy had not actually retreated to the living room, as Sherlock had wished him to do. Enraged, Sherlock whirled on Tommy, glaring through his tears, teeth bared viciously.
“Fuck off!!” he screamed, now, and swung punch after punch in Tommy’s direction, just blindly lashing out, never managing to land a direct blow. Tommy deflected the strikes with open palms, clearly having enough experience with irrational rage outbursts to know when the anger was actually directed at him, as well as how to defend himself against flailing fists.
“Shh, mate, look, I’m sorry,” Tommy said, catching Sherlock’s wrists and holding them although Sherlock continued to fight him, vainly. “I’m really, really sorry for you, mate. Bad client, huh? Too rough, obviously.”
Tommy’s observation, stated without pity or malice, merely empathy and facts, utterly destroyed Sherlock’s rage, and the fight left his body.
“I know what they’re like, mate.” Tommy stated, and Sherlock couldn’t doubt him. “I’m gonna stay here til tonight, alright? I’m not gonna touch you or nothing, I’m just gonna be here.”
Sherlock nodded mutely, eyes downcast. On one level, he actually did want Tommy to be there, and currently that was outweighing the vicious urge to push everyone away and nurse his injuries alone.
He lay down again, still curled up, and wrapped the duvet entirely around himself.
Tommy lay down on the bed as well, but, true to his word, didn’t touch Sherlock at all. Sherlock couldn’t feel any pressure on the edges of the duvet on the side where Tommy was lying, showing that the other man was truly keeping his distance.
In the very pit of his inescapably large pile of emotions tormenting him at the moment, Sherlock felt a granule of gratitude towards Tommy, and hoped irrationally, selfishly, inexplicably, that he would still be there when he woke.
Chapter Six
Sherlock didn’t bother giving Tommy a tour of 221B once they entered the apartment: it wasn’t in his nature to conduct hospitable treatment of others; besides which, his body was starting to protest its continued use without true rest, quite strongly.
Sherlock ducked into the bathroom to piss, and splashed water on his face after washing his hands. He leant on the sink for a moment, calming his breathing and trying to stop shaking. It had just hit him that he needed to work again tonight - he had no money stowed away, he’d never really been that sort of an organised, forward-looking person. Money always sort of figured itself out, most of the time. But today, he was suddenly reminded of the fact that rent was due, and therefore tricks would have to be turned.
The upsurge of bile and disgust shocked him. Normally he wasn’t so susceptible to emotional reactions. He couldn’t work tonight. He just couldn’t. Not tonight. Just once.
Sherlock decided to huddle into his bed and consider this Catch-22; it was unlikely he would be able to actually sleep, under so much stress, but the comforting softness of the sheets would possibly calm him.
When he walked into his bedroom, however, he was startled by Tommy standing at the foot of his bed already, an expression of disturbed shock at the state of the bed on his face.
“Get out.” Sherlock ordered, blocking out emotion, and moving to tear the dirty, stained - too stained, there was blood, there shouldn’t be blood - sheets off the bed, and hoping that he actually had a spare, clean sheet somewhere in the apartment.
“Sorry mate,” Tommy blurted awkwardly, but not leaving the room. “I didn’t realise you brought clients back here. Just threw me, it did.”
“Get out!” Sherlock repeated, with greater anger. He’d forgotten the state of the room, forgotten the story it would inevitably tell to anybody who saw it, hadn’t thought how much he’d be affected by being in the room again. He was sobbing, not audibly, but his breath was definitely catching, and there was a terrible knot in his stomach that was near-paralysing. Tears stung his eyes, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer.
He didn’t care about finding a new sheet now, he just wanted to cover himself with the duvet and block all of this out.
Tommy could just fuck off, sleep on the couch, sleep on the street, Sherlock didn’t care right now. His emotions were taking him over, and there was nothing he could do about it. That wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. He curled up under the duvet, and buried his face in the pillow. It wouldn’t completely make his crying inaudible, but it would muffle him so the sound wouldn’t reach the living room, thank god.
But the edge of his bed sank down, revealing to him that Tommy had not actually retreated to the living room, as Sherlock had wished him to do. Enraged, Sherlock whirled on Tommy, glaring through his tears, teeth bared viciously.
“Fuck off!!” he screamed, now, and swung punch after punch in Tommy’s direction, just blindly lashing out, never managing to land a direct blow. Tommy deflected the strikes with open palms, clearly having enough experience with irrational rage outbursts to know when the anger was actually directed at him, as well as how to defend himself against flailing fists.
“Shh, mate, look, I’m sorry,” Tommy said, catching Sherlock’s wrists and holding them although Sherlock continued to fight him, vainly. “I’m really, really sorry for you, mate. Bad client, huh? Too rough, obviously.”
Tommy’s observation, stated without pity or malice, merely empathy and facts, utterly destroyed Sherlock’s rage, and the fight left his body.
“I know what they’re like, mate.” Tommy stated, and Sherlock couldn’t doubt him. “I’m gonna stay here til tonight, alright? I’m not gonna touch you or nothing, I’m just gonna be here.”
Sherlock nodded mutely, eyes downcast. On one level, he actually did want Tommy to be there, and currently that was outweighing the vicious urge to push everyone away and nurse his injuries alone.
He lay down again, still curled up, and wrapped the duvet entirely around himself.
Tommy lay down on the bed as well, but, true to his word, didn’t touch Sherlock at all. Sherlock couldn’t feel any pressure on the edges of the duvet on the side where Tommy was lying, showing that the other man was truly keeping his distance.
In the very pit of his inescapably large pile of emotions tormenting him at the moment, Sherlock felt a granule of gratitude towards Tommy, and hoped irrationally, selfishly, inexplicably, that he would still be there when he woke.
Chapter Six