Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Six)
More exploration of just how very messed-up Sherlock is right now.
The side of the bed was empty and cold when Sherlock opened his eyes again, though he hadn’t thought he’d slept. He wasn’t really surprised at the vacant spot, more so at the hollowness it elicited in his heart.
He still didn’t know what he was going to do about working tonight - maybe he could just be really careful and selective about the clients and jobs that he took? Although that had completely been successful when it came to Allen, he thought bitterly.
Restless, he wandered into the living room, wincing at the time displayed on the grandmother clock on the mantelpiece. He’d been in bed much longer than anticipated, and would likely miss some of the regular clients now, and have to pick up work with stragglers; the real perverts, and most often, drunkards pepped up with liquid courage, who’d never used rentboys before, and had ridiculous expectations when it came to prices and tolerable treatment of the workers.
Sherlock shuddered; it was not going to be an easy night.
“The fuck do you have a copper’s card for, ey?” Tommy demanded, his voice cutting through the cloud of dread surrounding Sherlock at the moment. He entered the living room from the kitchen, and Sherlock was so surprised that he was still there, it took him a moment to remember what policeman’s card Tommy could possibly be referring to. Ah. Lestrade. Detective Inspector, if he remembered the details correctly, and he normally did.
“It’s not - ” he restrained himself from saying ‘what you think,’ as it irritated him no end when others said that to him - as if they knew what was running through his mind?! “ - an investigation or a bust or anything,” he explained, knowing that what it was, was stranger than what it wasn’t.
“A client?” Tommy surmised unexpectedly, eyebrows raised, all intrigue and excitement.
Clients with sway were highly coveted in their line of work - there were near countless advantages to such arrangements. Sherlock inclined his head in vague assent to Tommy’s question, and Tommy let out a low whistle.
“No wonder you can afford this place on your own then,” and Sherlock shrugged.
“I get by,” he excused it. “Work every night, anyways.”
Tommy nodded in understanding. “Tonight?” he asked, neutrally. Sherlock nodded sharply, but didn’t make eye contact, and moved away from Tommy, retreating into the kitchen.
He opened and shut cupboards, not with any intent: he wasn’t hungry and there wasn’t anything edible in the apartment anyway. Even the coffee had solidified in its jar, he realised. He’d probably been subsisting on cigarettes a little too long, he mused, but didn’t file away an intention to go grocery shopping. What was the point?
Tommy followed him into the kitchen, again ignoring Sherlock’s avoidance strategy. “Are you alright to, though? You seem pretty fucked up right now. Strung out, you know?” His voice was gentle, but prying, and it aggravated Sherlock.
“You don’t even know me,” he growled, hands fisted and pressed firmly against the benchtop, still facing away from Tommy and his unasked-for kindness.
“No, but a broken person is a broken person,” Tommy ventured, and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to argue the circular logic.
Tommy tapped Sherlock’s shoulder lightly, and Sherlock stiffened at the unexpected touch. He attempted to disguise his recoil by turning around to confront Tommy, who held his arms open, palms up.
“I’m gonna give you a hug, is that ok?” Tommy asked, already moving forward. “Can I hug you?”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but allowed the contact. Tommy kept it minimal, held his body away from Sherlock’s, and only applying light pressure with his hands on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock could break the embrace with ease anytime he wanted. He suddenly felt awkward with his arms, ungainly, and didn’t know where to put them. This wasn’t normal - he was a rentboy, for fuck’s sake! Hugging was the least of the activities he got up to on a nightly basis!
Tommy drew back after a moment. “No way you can work tonight, mate,” he observed. “Can’t even fake a hug - how are you gonna fake a fuck?”
“I can do it, I’m fine!!” Sherlock protested, desperately.
Tommy laughed, not unkindly. “I don’t think so. You’ll get the shit beaten out of you, trying to charge people for that frigid act.” Tommy moved to leave the apartment. “Take a night off, mate - one fella to another. It’d be a shame to hear about another John Doe rentboy’s body winding up in a gutter somewhere.”
Sherlock wasn’t arguing anymore, he saw Tommy’s point. “I can’t, though,” he admitted, finally. “I’ve got to make rent.”
Tommy stopped and turned back. “We all gotta. I’m not a fucken bank.”
Sherlock nodded, morose. “I wasn’t asking - ” he tried to explain.
Tommy sighed. “But I’m gonna be working tonight, so I guess cash isn’t as tight just now.” he pondered for a moment. “Tell you what. Still got that scag?”
Sherlock nodded again, not entirely following, but dug the foil out of his coat pocket. “I had a hit,” he mentioned, unnecessarily, but feeling like he should say something.
“Here,” Tommy said, pressing a note into Sherlock’s hand, swiftly vanishing the packet into his own palm.
Sherlock looked at the note. 100 pounds. “But I had a hit,” he said again, protesting, not wanting to rip Tommy off.
“A hit doesn’t make a huge dent on that amount, mate,” Tommy explained. “I’m rounding it up. Now shut the fuck up or I’ll take the money back and the drugs, and you’ll never see me again.”
Sherlock shut his mouth and tucked the note into his pocket. “Thanks.” he mumbled.
“Money for letting me stay over, anyways,” Tommy excused it.
“Here, though,” he said suddenly, stepping forward again and untwisting the foil. “Lick your finger and dip it in the powder,” he instructed, demonstrating.
Sherlock did so, and tried not to get caught up in the fascinating details of the powder clustered on his finger. He’d learnt that most people in this business found it rude if he didn’t at least pretend to be paying them attention when they were speaking to him.
“Now lick it,” Tommy said, showing as well as telling, “Takes the edge off.”
Again, Sherlock obeyed, and almost immediately felt less aches and pains in his body, although on some level he knew that this was purely a psychosomatic effect - there was no way the drugs were acting so quickly.
“You’re alright,” Tommy stated, stashing the foil away in his clothing. “Catch you later.” And he pecked the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before Sherlock realised what was happening and could react, and left the apartment.
It seemed quiet now, although they hadn’t really been making a lot of noise. Just...empty, and not in the calming way it usually was.
Chapter Seven
The side of the bed was empty and cold when Sherlock opened his eyes again, though he hadn’t thought he’d slept. He wasn’t really surprised at the vacant spot, more so at the hollowness it elicited in his heart.
He still didn’t know what he was going to do about working tonight - maybe he could just be really careful and selective about the clients and jobs that he took? Although that had completely been successful when it came to Allen, he thought bitterly.
Restless, he wandered into the living room, wincing at the time displayed on the grandmother clock on the mantelpiece. He’d been in bed much longer than anticipated, and would likely miss some of the regular clients now, and have to pick up work with stragglers; the real perverts, and most often, drunkards pepped up with liquid courage, who’d never used rentboys before, and had ridiculous expectations when it came to prices and tolerable treatment of the workers.
Sherlock shuddered; it was not going to be an easy night.
“The fuck do you have a copper’s card for, ey?” Tommy demanded, his voice cutting through the cloud of dread surrounding Sherlock at the moment. He entered the living room from the kitchen, and Sherlock was so surprised that he was still there, it took him a moment to remember what policeman’s card Tommy could possibly be referring to. Ah. Lestrade. Detective Inspector, if he remembered the details correctly, and he normally did.
“It’s not - ” he restrained himself from saying ‘what you think,’ as it irritated him no end when others said that to him - as if they knew what was running through his mind?! “ - an investigation or a bust or anything,” he explained, knowing that what it was, was stranger than what it wasn’t.
“A client?” Tommy surmised unexpectedly, eyebrows raised, all intrigue and excitement.
Clients with sway were highly coveted in their line of work - there were near countless advantages to such arrangements. Sherlock inclined his head in vague assent to Tommy’s question, and Tommy let out a low whistle.
“No wonder you can afford this place on your own then,” and Sherlock shrugged.
“I get by,” he excused it. “Work every night, anyways.”
Tommy nodded in understanding. “Tonight?” he asked, neutrally. Sherlock nodded sharply, but didn’t make eye contact, and moved away from Tommy, retreating into the kitchen.
He opened and shut cupboards, not with any intent: he wasn’t hungry and there wasn’t anything edible in the apartment anyway. Even the coffee had solidified in its jar, he realised. He’d probably been subsisting on cigarettes a little too long, he mused, but didn’t file away an intention to go grocery shopping. What was the point?
Tommy followed him into the kitchen, again ignoring Sherlock’s avoidance strategy. “Are you alright to, though? You seem pretty fucked up right now. Strung out, you know?” His voice was gentle, but prying, and it aggravated Sherlock.
“You don’t even know me,” he growled, hands fisted and pressed firmly against the benchtop, still facing away from Tommy and his unasked-for kindness.
“No, but a broken person is a broken person,” Tommy ventured, and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to argue the circular logic.
Tommy tapped Sherlock’s shoulder lightly, and Sherlock stiffened at the unexpected touch. He attempted to disguise his recoil by turning around to confront Tommy, who held his arms open, palms up.
“I’m gonna give you a hug, is that ok?” Tommy asked, already moving forward. “Can I hug you?”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but allowed the contact. Tommy kept it minimal, held his body away from Sherlock’s, and only applying light pressure with his hands on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock could break the embrace with ease anytime he wanted. He suddenly felt awkward with his arms, ungainly, and didn’t know where to put them. This wasn’t normal - he was a rentboy, for fuck’s sake! Hugging was the least of the activities he got up to on a nightly basis!
Tommy drew back after a moment. “No way you can work tonight, mate,” he observed. “Can’t even fake a hug - how are you gonna fake a fuck?”
“I can do it, I’m fine!!” Sherlock protested, desperately.
Tommy laughed, not unkindly. “I don’t think so. You’ll get the shit beaten out of you, trying to charge people for that frigid act.” Tommy moved to leave the apartment. “Take a night off, mate - one fella to another. It’d be a shame to hear about another John Doe rentboy’s body winding up in a gutter somewhere.”
Sherlock wasn’t arguing anymore, he saw Tommy’s point. “I can’t, though,” he admitted, finally. “I’ve got to make rent.”
Tommy stopped and turned back. “We all gotta. I’m not a fucken bank.”
Sherlock nodded, morose. “I wasn’t asking - ” he tried to explain.
Tommy sighed. “But I’m gonna be working tonight, so I guess cash isn’t as tight just now.” he pondered for a moment. “Tell you what. Still got that scag?”
Sherlock nodded again, not entirely following, but dug the foil out of his coat pocket. “I had a hit,” he mentioned, unnecessarily, but feeling like he should say something.
“Here,” Tommy said, pressing a note into Sherlock’s hand, swiftly vanishing the packet into his own palm.
Sherlock looked at the note. 100 pounds. “But I had a hit,” he said again, protesting, not wanting to rip Tommy off.
“A hit doesn’t make a huge dent on that amount, mate,” Tommy explained. “I’m rounding it up. Now shut the fuck up or I’ll take the money back and the drugs, and you’ll never see me again.”
Sherlock shut his mouth and tucked the note into his pocket. “Thanks.” he mumbled.
“Money for letting me stay over, anyways,” Tommy excused it.
“Here, though,” he said suddenly, stepping forward again and untwisting the foil. “Lick your finger and dip it in the powder,” he instructed, demonstrating.
Sherlock did so, and tried not to get caught up in the fascinating details of the powder clustered on his finger. He’d learnt that most people in this business found it rude if he didn’t at least pretend to be paying them attention when they were speaking to him.
“Now lick it,” Tommy said, showing as well as telling, “Takes the edge off.”
Again, Sherlock obeyed, and almost immediately felt less aches and pains in his body, although on some level he knew that this was purely a psychosomatic effect - there was no way the drugs were acting so quickly.
“You’re alright,” Tommy stated, stashing the foil away in his clothing. “Catch you later.” And he pecked the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before Sherlock realised what was happening and could react, and left the apartment.
It seemed quiet now, although they hadn’t really been making a lot of noise. Just...empty, and not in the calming way it usually was.
Chapter Seven