Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Seven)
More and more and more and more....
Btw, feedback is love and exceedingly appreciated! It really does make my day to know that people are reading and enjoying this, or that there are aspects that I can improve in -- plus, it motivates me to write more, so please be in touch!
<3
Sherlock stood in the living room uncertainly for a moment, then shed his clothing as he walked to the bathroom.
It was a longer shower than he usually took, but then he didn’t normally have such busy nights, and he kept finding new sore places, which meant his typically perfunctory process was delayed as he would pause, wince, gasp at the pain; sometimes supporting himself against the sides of the shower cubicle as sobs wracked his body.
Tommy was right. There was no way he would’ve lasted a shift tonight. But that didn’t solve the other problem, Sherlock mused, finally twisting the taps off and wrapping a towel around his waist. He ignored the cruel chill of the night pervading the apartment, and located his coat and trousers where he’d carelessly tossed them.
Hands still damp, he rifled through the pockets and located the money from Tommy and Allen. 250 pounds, all told. He needed 400 for rent alone - the landlady cut him a pretty good deal - but then there were utilities to pay as well. Fortunately, his habits and lifestyle meant that these expenses were fairly minimal. 150 pounds, then, and beg off paying utilities for a few days.
He scrounged around the living room, pulling the cushions off the sofas and couch and discarding them haphazardly on the floor. They weren’t his furniture, anyway. One of those prefurnished apartments, which kind of worked, because Sherlock would never bother to go to the store and get himself these things. Too much hassle. Far too much. And this way, he had a bed. It was a nice change to his previous abodes.
The living room yielded 72.50 pounds, which was fantastic, way more than Sherlock had expected - a crumpled piece of paper in the corner had revealed itself to be a letter containing two 20 pound notes. He preferred not to dwell on who the letter had been from; the fact that his family knew his current address without his telling them filled him with an indescribable rage.
Kitchen wouldn’t have money, he passed that room over, and headed back upstairs to his bedroom.
He was mostly dry now, having dripped all over the living room carpet, and so he pulled some clothes at random out of the drawers, and then rooted at the back of his sock drawer for a near-full plastic bag he knew to be there. He’d been lucky enough to avoid the attention of the law at this apartment so far, but experiences at previous addresses drove him to be cautious and secretive.
The bong was less easy to stow away, usually, but another relic from a previous tenant, a modern-art vase, suitably tall and black and nondescript, served the purpose of hiding place quite nicely.
He sat on the edge of the bed as he packed the bong, deliberately facing away from the pile of bedclothes still on the floor. A couple of tokes to stop him shaking, and then he’d keep looking for cash. There had to be some in here.
The grandmother clock chimed midnight in the living room, and Sherlock dragged himself to his feet with a groan. Those sheets had to go, he decided, and cast them in the hallway just outside the bedroom door. Miraculously, he found another sheet bundled in the bottom of the wardrobe, and while he doubted its cleanliness, it didn’t smell too bad, and didn’t seem to have too many stains - at least, not any that he couldn’t tolerate.
He started making the bed when a memory struck him, and he shoved the mattress so it was on the diagonal, revealing a corner of the base.
Fuck yes!! Sherlock almost exclaimed aloud, seeing the collection of notes he shoved under the mattress when the occasional urge to put money securely away struck him.
He grabbed them together and strode into the living room, pooling the cash. 437.50 pounds, fuck yes, Sherlock thought again, grabbing a scrap of paper and scrawling a note to the landlady.
He kept the extra cash on the living room table - might be an idea to still get that extension on the utilities - and folded the other money inside the note, clomped downstairs and tucked the bundle under the ridiculous Bakelite phone she insisted on keeping on the small table in the entranceway.
He clambered noisily back upstairs, and had a celebratory smoke, the pot settling his jarred nerves a little, but not nearly enough. He realised he wanted the heroin again, and remembered with disappointment that Tommy had bought it off him so that he could afford the rent. He grumbled in annoyance, and determined to head out in a minute to see if he could find Tommy again, and buy back some of the score. But in a minute.
He stretched out on the mattress, not caring it was still askew, and ran his hands absently through his hair. The sensation was brilliant, relaxing - nothing at all like when most of the clients grabbed it, too roughly, too forcefully, causing pain as they dictated where he should put his head, his mouth. He always had to fight back tears, sometimes had to fight back rage.
Occasionally, he could distract them by bringing them closer to the edge with a tiny scrape of teeth, or a sensuous growl or hum which caused sensation to shoot all the way through their pleasure centres, leaving them gasping and limp with desire. Others would react more...passionately to such tactics, and rather than releasing him would drag harder, forgetting or not caring that it was another human being in their grasp.
Sherlock took it; he had to, but he would always grimly tally on an extra charge to the services as a result. Truth be told, he was too sharp, too proud; he didn’t fit the typical profile of a rentboy. But it was this very cleverness and vanity which meant that he was able to fake it, night after night, fucking convincingly, and brilliantly fucking.
Chapter Eight
Btw, feedback is love and exceedingly appreciated! It really does make my day to know that people are reading and enjoying this, or that there are aspects that I can improve in -- plus, it motivates me to write more, so please be in touch!
<3
Sherlock stood in the living room uncertainly for a moment, then shed his clothing as he walked to the bathroom.
It was a longer shower than he usually took, but then he didn’t normally have such busy nights, and he kept finding new sore places, which meant his typically perfunctory process was delayed as he would pause, wince, gasp at the pain; sometimes supporting himself against the sides of the shower cubicle as sobs wracked his body.
Tommy was right. There was no way he would’ve lasted a shift tonight. But that didn’t solve the other problem, Sherlock mused, finally twisting the taps off and wrapping a towel around his waist. He ignored the cruel chill of the night pervading the apartment, and located his coat and trousers where he’d carelessly tossed them.
Hands still damp, he rifled through the pockets and located the money from Tommy and Allen. 250 pounds, all told. He needed 400 for rent alone - the landlady cut him a pretty good deal - but then there were utilities to pay as well. Fortunately, his habits and lifestyle meant that these expenses were fairly minimal. 150 pounds, then, and beg off paying utilities for a few days.
He scrounged around the living room, pulling the cushions off the sofas and couch and discarding them haphazardly on the floor. They weren’t his furniture, anyway. One of those prefurnished apartments, which kind of worked, because Sherlock would never bother to go to the store and get himself these things. Too much hassle. Far too much. And this way, he had a bed. It was a nice change to his previous abodes.
The living room yielded 72.50 pounds, which was fantastic, way more than Sherlock had expected - a crumpled piece of paper in the corner had revealed itself to be a letter containing two 20 pound notes. He preferred not to dwell on who the letter had been from; the fact that his family knew his current address without his telling them filled him with an indescribable rage.
Kitchen wouldn’t have money, he passed that room over, and headed back upstairs to his bedroom.
He was mostly dry now, having dripped all over the living room carpet, and so he pulled some clothes at random out of the drawers, and then rooted at the back of his sock drawer for a near-full plastic bag he knew to be there. He’d been lucky enough to avoid the attention of the law at this apartment so far, but experiences at previous addresses drove him to be cautious and secretive.
The bong was less easy to stow away, usually, but another relic from a previous tenant, a modern-art vase, suitably tall and black and nondescript, served the purpose of hiding place quite nicely.
He sat on the edge of the bed as he packed the bong, deliberately facing away from the pile of bedclothes still on the floor. A couple of tokes to stop him shaking, and then he’d keep looking for cash. There had to be some in here.
The grandmother clock chimed midnight in the living room, and Sherlock dragged himself to his feet with a groan. Those sheets had to go, he decided, and cast them in the hallway just outside the bedroom door. Miraculously, he found another sheet bundled in the bottom of the wardrobe, and while he doubted its cleanliness, it didn’t smell too bad, and didn’t seem to have too many stains - at least, not any that he couldn’t tolerate.
He started making the bed when a memory struck him, and he shoved the mattress so it was on the diagonal, revealing a corner of the base.
Fuck yes!! Sherlock almost exclaimed aloud, seeing the collection of notes he shoved under the mattress when the occasional urge to put money securely away struck him.
He grabbed them together and strode into the living room, pooling the cash. 437.50 pounds, fuck yes, Sherlock thought again, grabbing a scrap of paper and scrawling a note to the landlady.
He kept the extra cash on the living room table - might be an idea to still get that extension on the utilities - and folded the other money inside the note, clomped downstairs and tucked the bundle under the ridiculous Bakelite phone she insisted on keeping on the small table in the entranceway.
He clambered noisily back upstairs, and had a celebratory smoke, the pot settling his jarred nerves a little, but not nearly enough. He realised he wanted the heroin again, and remembered with disappointment that Tommy had bought it off him so that he could afford the rent. He grumbled in annoyance, and determined to head out in a minute to see if he could find Tommy again, and buy back some of the score. But in a minute.
He stretched out on the mattress, not caring it was still askew, and ran his hands absently through his hair. The sensation was brilliant, relaxing - nothing at all like when most of the clients grabbed it, too roughly, too forcefully, causing pain as they dictated where he should put his head, his mouth. He always had to fight back tears, sometimes had to fight back rage.
Occasionally, he could distract them by bringing them closer to the edge with a tiny scrape of teeth, or a sensuous growl or hum which caused sensation to shoot all the way through their pleasure centres, leaving them gasping and limp with desire. Others would react more...passionately to such tactics, and rather than releasing him would drag harder, forgetting or not caring that it was another human being in their grasp.
Sherlock took it; he had to, but he would always grimly tally on an extra charge to the services as a result. Truth be told, he was too sharp, too proud; he didn’t fit the typical profile of a rentboy. But it was this very cleverness and vanity which meant that he was able to fake it, night after night, fucking convincingly, and brilliantly fucking.
Chapter Eight