Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Eight)
I hope that everyone reading this is enjoying it so far, although I'm guessing that if you've read up to here I'm doing *something* right? :)
This chapter of the story gets a bit darker again...
------
“Sherlock!”
The shout broke him out of his reverie; had he fallen asleep? It was still dark outside, no clues there. He really should get a clock in his bedroom. Or find his mobile, but that was beyond consideration for now.
“Sherlock!” again, and he couldn’t place the voice. Outside, though - he moved to the window and leaned out.
Tommy was under the streetlight, waving madly. He seemed...manic? But Sherlock couldn’t be sure; his data on Tommy’s typical behaviour was severely limited.
“Shut up!” he called out hastily, not wanting the neighbours to be aware of his nocturnal activities and make complaints. “Come to the front door,” he suggested, and made his way through the apartment himself to meet Tommy there.
He’d barely opened the door when Tommy tumbled in, all limbs and eagerness and energy and telling Sherlock something excitedly, but all Sherlock could think of was the fact that Mrs Harris*, his landlady’s apartment was right next to the entranceway. He didn’t want to get on her bad side when he was asking her for the favour of financial leniency.
“Shh,” he hushed Tommy urgently, and gestured for the other man to follow him upstairs.
Tommy followed clumsily, tripping over the stairs in the dim light, but Sherlock knew that Mrs Harris* was more sensitively attuned to voices at night rather than stumbling footsteps, having passed by her apartment at all hours making a racket with his tread and not disturbing her, but her door swinging open rapidly one time when he’d entered the building early in the morning, engaged in a conversation on his phone. “Would you be so kind as to keep it down?!” she’d requested forcefully, and Sherlock had apologised profusely, less out of feeling any actual remorse, and more out of not wanting the bother of having to find a new apartment.
Sherlock didn’t stop or switch the light on until they reached his bedroom, surmising that the empty floor between Mrs Harris’ apartment and his room would provide enough of a muffling effect on their voices so as not to be disruptive.
“Shit! Your room!” Tommy exclaimed, alerting Sherlock to the fact that he’d forgotten to straighten it up.
“Get a client in after all, did you?” Tommy inquired, automatically moving to help Sherlock correct the mattress’ position.
“No,” Sherlock began to explain, but Tommy wasn’t listening. This was blatantly obvious from the way that he had stepped right up against Sherlock’s body, clasping his arsecheeks in his hands, and face upturned alluringly.
Sherlock inhaled sharply, surprised at the directness, but confusion prevented him from fighting or moving away. He felt a certain attraction to Tommy, despite everything, and it was clouding his judgment regarding how he should react right now.
“I kept thinking about you all night,” Tommy declared huskily, eyes shadowed. “Every client I was with turned into you in my mind,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock fast against him. Sherlock emitted a quiet whimper, and couldn’t say whether it was desire, fear or pain, as all the feelings clashed within him.
“It made my entire night very enjoyable," Tommy continued, “but I had to come back here and get the real thing.” He finally dispensed with the teasing, and caught Sherlock’s lips with his own.
Sherlock made to jerk away - the contact was too much yet, Allen was still on his mind - but Tommy’s hold was firm, and instead of breaking apart, the two collapsed in a tangle on the bed. Sherlock caught Tommy’s shoulder with his hands, though, and managed to force a little distance between them. He examined Tommy’s pupils urgently, trying to identify what was going on. Pupils entirely blown. That meant arousal or narcotics, and dammit! - Sherlock didn’t know which.
He decided to risk it. Unable to stop his voice from wavering, he asked, “Have you taken anything tonight?” hoping against hope for an answer in the negative.
Tommy sighed exasperatedly, continuing his attempts to minimise the distance between them.
“What, you don’t want me if I’m a fucked-up junkie slut?” he demanded, fisting Sherlock’s shirt in his hands. “I’ve got news for you; that’s exactly what you are as well!” and he pressed his lips against Sherlock’s mouth again.
Sherlock sobbed as he relinquished his struggles against Tommy: he knew, he knew, he knew...he was worthless, he should be grateful that anyone wanted to be with him ever. Tommy wanted to be with him now, and Sherlock should just let him; Tommy’s life was just as fucked up as Sherlock’s. They both needed someone, and right now, they were each other’s someone.
He lay back and allowed his body to relax and respond to Tommy’s caresses, limbs pliant when Tommy began pulling his clothing off.
He cast his eyes upwards when they were both naked, unable to deal with the sight, the reality, but reassured when tonight, there was a crinkle of a condom wrapper. He started, however, sitting up a little, when the gentle latex suffocation appeared on his cock, applied by Tommy’s busy, busy hands.
“Wha - ” he couldn’t contain the confused syllable from tumbling out of his mouth.
“Shh,” Tommy hushed him now, leaning forwards with his next kiss, so Sherlock was gently forced to lie back down on the bed.
Tommy needed no preparation to take him; he was still loose and lubed from his work earlier that night, yet his anal muscles were perfectly toned, meaning his was able to provide Sherlock’s cock just the right amount of resistance and friction to wonderfully bring him off.
Sherlock groaned a deep, guttural, extended sound of pleasure that he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of, at Tommy’s self-impalement.
Tommy chuckled. “Oh, good,” he murmured happily, and began moving his hips rhythmically.
His motion was smooth, controlled, and entirely intolerable, Sherlock decided, spontaneously grabbing Tommy’s cock and stroking rapidly. He was so close himself, that his usual technique went right out the window, but apparently his enthusiasm struck a nerve with Tommy, and caused the other man to choke and his rhythm entirely failed.
Unexpectedly, Tommy came first, and the combined effects of his convulsions and his come all over Sherlock’s chest, meant that Sherlock couldn’t help but follow closely behind.
Tommy’s buzzing energy vanished now, and he collapsed onto Sherlock for a moment, catching his breath, before he could bring himself to slide off Sherlock’s cock with a subdued noise of regret. A part of Sherlock’s brain told him that the sound was a little put-on, but he pushed the thought away. Plus, he could not compose himself enough to question it aloud.
He sighed a little at the loss of warmth and pressure around his cock, but otherwise in this moment, was truly, blissfully happy for the second time in as many days...Allen had not won.
Tommy removed the condom from Sherlock in a practiced gesture, and tied it in a knot, but merely dropped it to the side of the bed, not knowing where a bin was, nor having the inclination to find out. He stretched out on his back next to Sherlock.
“Oi,” he murmured, flopping a hand onto Sherlock’s chest to get his attention.
“Mm?” Sherlock responded lazily, almost dozed off.
“90 quid, mate.” Tommy stated, deadpan.
Sherlock cracked one eye open to determine whether Tommy was having him on. He grinned, twistedly. “You cheap fuck,” he chuckled, and allowed himself to drift off into a satisfied slumber, ignoring the dried tears on his face.
* A/N: Not a typo, I’ll explain later.
Chapter Nine
This chapter of the story gets a bit darker again...
------
“Sherlock!”
The shout broke him out of his reverie; had he fallen asleep? It was still dark outside, no clues there. He really should get a clock in his bedroom. Or find his mobile, but that was beyond consideration for now.
“Sherlock!” again, and he couldn’t place the voice. Outside, though - he moved to the window and leaned out.
Tommy was under the streetlight, waving madly. He seemed...manic? But Sherlock couldn’t be sure; his data on Tommy’s typical behaviour was severely limited.
“Shut up!” he called out hastily, not wanting the neighbours to be aware of his nocturnal activities and make complaints. “Come to the front door,” he suggested, and made his way through the apartment himself to meet Tommy there.
He’d barely opened the door when Tommy tumbled in, all limbs and eagerness and energy and telling Sherlock something excitedly, but all Sherlock could think of was the fact that Mrs Harris*, his landlady’s apartment was right next to the entranceway. He didn’t want to get on her bad side when he was asking her for the favour of financial leniency.
“Shh,” he hushed Tommy urgently, and gestured for the other man to follow him upstairs.
Tommy followed clumsily, tripping over the stairs in the dim light, but Sherlock knew that Mrs Harris* was more sensitively attuned to voices at night rather than stumbling footsteps, having passed by her apartment at all hours making a racket with his tread and not disturbing her, but her door swinging open rapidly one time when he’d entered the building early in the morning, engaged in a conversation on his phone. “Would you be so kind as to keep it down?!” she’d requested forcefully, and Sherlock had apologised profusely, less out of feeling any actual remorse, and more out of not wanting the bother of having to find a new apartment.
Sherlock didn’t stop or switch the light on until they reached his bedroom, surmising that the empty floor between Mrs Harris’ apartment and his room would provide enough of a muffling effect on their voices so as not to be disruptive.
“Shit! Your room!” Tommy exclaimed, alerting Sherlock to the fact that he’d forgotten to straighten it up.
“Get a client in after all, did you?” Tommy inquired, automatically moving to help Sherlock correct the mattress’ position.
“No,” Sherlock began to explain, but Tommy wasn’t listening. This was blatantly obvious from the way that he had stepped right up against Sherlock’s body, clasping his arsecheeks in his hands, and face upturned alluringly.
Sherlock inhaled sharply, surprised at the directness, but confusion prevented him from fighting or moving away. He felt a certain attraction to Tommy, despite everything, and it was clouding his judgment regarding how he should react right now.
“I kept thinking about you all night,” Tommy declared huskily, eyes shadowed. “Every client I was with turned into you in my mind,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock fast against him. Sherlock emitted a quiet whimper, and couldn’t say whether it was desire, fear or pain, as all the feelings clashed within him.
“It made my entire night very enjoyable," Tommy continued, “but I had to come back here and get the real thing.” He finally dispensed with the teasing, and caught Sherlock’s lips with his own.
Sherlock made to jerk away - the contact was too much yet, Allen was still on his mind - but Tommy’s hold was firm, and instead of breaking apart, the two collapsed in a tangle on the bed. Sherlock caught Tommy’s shoulder with his hands, though, and managed to force a little distance between them. He examined Tommy’s pupils urgently, trying to identify what was going on. Pupils entirely blown. That meant arousal or narcotics, and dammit! - Sherlock didn’t know which.
He decided to risk it. Unable to stop his voice from wavering, he asked, “Have you taken anything tonight?” hoping against hope for an answer in the negative.
Tommy sighed exasperatedly, continuing his attempts to minimise the distance between them.
“What, you don’t want me if I’m a fucked-up junkie slut?” he demanded, fisting Sherlock’s shirt in his hands. “I’ve got news for you; that’s exactly what you are as well!” and he pressed his lips against Sherlock’s mouth again.
Sherlock sobbed as he relinquished his struggles against Tommy: he knew, he knew, he knew...he was worthless, he should be grateful that anyone wanted to be with him ever. Tommy wanted to be with him now, and Sherlock should just let him; Tommy’s life was just as fucked up as Sherlock’s. They both needed someone, and right now, they were each other’s someone.
He lay back and allowed his body to relax and respond to Tommy’s caresses, limbs pliant when Tommy began pulling his clothing off.
He cast his eyes upwards when they were both naked, unable to deal with the sight, the reality, but reassured when tonight, there was a crinkle of a condom wrapper. He started, however, sitting up a little, when the gentle latex suffocation appeared on his cock, applied by Tommy’s busy, busy hands.
“Wha - ” he couldn’t contain the confused syllable from tumbling out of his mouth.
“Shh,” Tommy hushed him now, leaning forwards with his next kiss, so Sherlock was gently forced to lie back down on the bed.
Tommy needed no preparation to take him; he was still loose and lubed from his work earlier that night, yet his anal muscles were perfectly toned, meaning his was able to provide Sherlock’s cock just the right amount of resistance and friction to wonderfully bring him off.
Sherlock groaned a deep, guttural, extended sound of pleasure that he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of, at Tommy’s self-impalement.
Tommy chuckled. “Oh, good,” he murmured happily, and began moving his hips rhythmically.
His motion was smooth, controlled, and entirely intolerable, Sherlock decided, spontaneously grabbing Tommy’s cock and stroking rapidly. He was so close himself, that his usual technique went right out the window, but apparently his enthusiasm struck a nerve with Tommy, and caused the other man to choke and his rhythm entirely failed.
Unexpectedly, Tommy came first, and the combined effects of his convulsions and his come all over Sherlock’s chest, meant that Sherlock couldn’t help but follow closely behind.
Tommy’s buzzing energy vanished now, and he collapsed onto Sherlock for a moment, catching his breath, before he could bring himself to slide off Sherlock’s cock with a subdued noise of regret. A part of Sherlock’s brain told him that the sound was a little put-on, but he pushed the thought away. Plus, he could not compose himself enough to question it aloud.
He sighed a little at the loss of warmth and pressure around his cock, but otherwise in this moment, was truly, blissfully happy for the second time in as many days...Allen had not won.
Tommy removed the condom from Sherlock in a practiced gesture, and tied it in a knot, but merely dropped it to the side of the bed, not knowing where a bin was, nor having the inclination to find out. He stretched out on his back next to Sherlock.
“Oi,” he murmured, flopping a hand onto Sherlock’s chest to get his attention.
“Mm?” Sherlock responded lazily, almost dozed off.
“90 quid, mate.” Tommy stated, deadpan.
Sherlock cracked one eye open to determine whether Tommy was having him on. He grinned, twistedly. “You cheap fuck,” he chuckled, and allowed himself to drift off into a satisfied slumber, ignoring the dried tears on his face.
* A/N: Not a typo, I’ll explain later.
Chapter Nine