Oh Golly Miss Sage! TWO Sherlock fics in one hour? How strange!
Well, to be fair, I only wrote the first one today, but this one I've had tucked in my computer for quite some time now. If you really like the first chapter and are content with the ending, don't read the second because the writing's rubbish (I think anyway. I was very distracted while writing it)
Sherlock sucked in a breath of the cold air that was surrounding him. It felt good on his throat but made his hands sting. He was waiting on the curb; waiting for who he knew was coming.
It wasn't like he wanted to do it. Had Mycroft known, he surely would have done all in his power to prohibit it. But Nancy was nice to him. One of the only people left in the world who even wanted anything to do with snobby, obnoxious, narcissistic, Sherlock Holmes.
It was her who talked him into it. Said the two of them could go into business together; split the profits. It seemed like a fair enough deal considering he had no idea what he was doing.
"Just sit there and play dumb," she had told him. "They like it that way."
He had lied to his mother and father about where he was going. Said he would catch a movie with a few of the local teenagers in town; just what was expected of him at that age. Of course, they probably hadn't believed him, but they let him go nonetheless.
And oh did Mother and Father hate Nancy. They thought she was a terrible influence on their much younger and much more impressionable son. They were probably right, but they had tolerated her for a time. That was until they had found the weed under Sherlock's mattress. Nancy had lied for him and said it was hers (which in a way it was, since she was the one who had given it to him in the first place). After that she wasn't allowed to pick him up for lunch or go on walks with him to the park.
They had still managed to meet in secret, though. When your son was a genius such as Sherlock was, it was rather hard to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Normally he would be rational. But not about this; he couldn't find the sense in him. He wasn't willing to give up the only person who'd give him the time of day just because her job was less than respectable or because she smoked less than legal things.
They would meet on the street corner; just as they always did. Only this time it was different. This time she was taking him somewhere he had never been before. Never had wanted to be.
He saw her bright red hair among the crowd of people walking towards his direction, and immediately dug into his pockets and pulled out his lighter. She always wanted a cigarette but was always loosing her matches. He had learned to prepare himself long ago.
She approached with a sly grin, holding out her bud for him to lite. Only this time was different, this time she held two.
"You know I'm not supposed to," he said.
"Since when does Sherlock Holmes listen to Mummy?" she asked in response, and handed him the cigarette anyway.
Sherlock took it without further protest and held it to his lips. He knew smoking wasn't a wise choice either. It would lead to an addiction that he wouldn't be able to drop later in life. But much like the drugs, he didn't care enough to stop while he could.
"Nervous?" Nancy asked. Her large heels made clicking noises he could hear even over all the sounds of the city. He tried to focus on that instead of the pit forming inside his stomach.
"Maybe a bit." He put the cigarette to his mouth again and sucked in. He was grateful Nancy had brought him one after all; nicotine was useful in times like those.
"Nothing to worry about," she assured him. "Honestly they usually do all the work for you. All you need to do is show up, look pretty, and take their money."
Sherlock looked down at himself. He didn't think he looked very 'pretty'. "Are you sure I'm cut out for this?"
"Course," she promised. "Seen your face lately? Lovely cheekbones on you. And those eyes—honey the girls will be tripping over their own two feet to get to you. Maybe even a few guys."
He knew she was only joking, but that didn't really help the knot in his stomach. "So … tell me what to do again?"
"Walk into the pub and act like you belong there," Nancy repeated her words from earlier. "No one will look at you twice about your age as long as you stick by me. Make sure to keep your eyes forward; don't look at anybody. Act like you're better than everyone else; though that shouldn't be hard. We both know you are. Don't go over to the clients, let them come to you. And whatever you do; don't do that strange deduction thing of yours. That'll chase them away. Better if you just keep your mouth shut all together really; ladies like a man of mystery."
Sherlock nodded and mumbled her instructions over to himself under his breath, "act like I belong, and eyes forward, better than everyone else, mouth shut."
Nancy looked at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile spreading across her lips, though she said nothing.
When they arrived at the pub, Sherlock was almost too filled with anxiety to even open the door. Luckily for him, Nancy took care of that for him, and used her arm to give him a little shove.
He looked around, momentarily forgetting to keep his eyes forward. The place was swarming with drunks of all ages, most male but a few female as well. He spotted at least ten people that were definitely married, and another six who were engaged. But he kept his mouth shut, as Nancy had said.
"Over this way." His friend tugged on his sleeve and led him through the crowd of people to the bar. She sat down at one of the stools, and gestured for him to join her.
"Who's this?" one of the other women sitting near asked. Sherlock gave her a quick once-over. Big hair, too much make-up; it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was doing here. Must be one of Nancy's friends.
"This is Sherlock Holmes." Nancy raised her eyebrows and changed her voice, pretending like Sherlock was some big thing that everyone should know. Probably part of her act. "Sherlock, this is my friend Harper."
He thought about offering his hand, but decided against it considering all the places hers could have been in the last twenty minutes. So he just sat their silently.
"He's good," Harper said into Nancy's ear. The redhead nodded proudly. Sherlock was her monster to create. "But how old is he? Can't be more than 18."
"Sixteen," Nancy hissed back, too quit for Sherlock to hear. "You'd think it'd be harder to talk a genius into this kind of thing, wouldn't you?"
Harper opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment one of her gentleman callers came up from behind and rested a hand on her shoulder. One look and she knew what to do. Nodding at Nancy and then Sherlock, she took the man's hand and let him lead her out of the bar.
Nancy looked back to her partner in crime. She noticed the way he was sitting straight up, lips tightly pierced, and hands fidgeting under the table. She put one of her own on his leg and leaned in. "You don't have to do this, you know."
He just nodded and looked away from her. He shouldn't have been there. He should have listened to his parents and older brother. What on Earth had possessed him to agree to this?!
Before he had time to chicken out and run away, a hand rested on his shoulder from behind. He turned around to look. It was a woman, probably in here late twenties to mid-thirties. Bleach-blonde hair and running makeup; she had been crying, and smelt an awful lot like alcohol. At first Sherlock was confused as to what she was doing—he didn't know this woman. Then, a nudge from Nancy helped him understand. This was his first "client".
Sherlock swallowed his fear and rose to his feet, following the woman through the crowd of people and to the doors. Just before he left, he turned around to locate his friend. They hadn't discussed what to do when one of them was picked up. When they met eyes, however, Nancy just held up her two thumbs and smiled very wide. Trying to comfort him—how sweet. And utterly useless.
"Do you have a car?" Sherlock asked the woman once they were outside.
She ignored his question and walked right up to the curb, then held out her hand.
"Split a cab then?"
Still no reply.
Not until they were in the cab and moving towards her hotel room did he hear her voice for the first time. She pushed herself against him and whispered in his ear, "I'll make you cry for your momma, boy."
So then clearly she was not intoxicated enough not to notice his age. She was however far enough gone to not care at all.
The hotel the cab dropped them off at was nice enough. So this woman had money again. Sherlock looked over at her clothing. They could have been from anywhere, but didn't look all that expensive. So maybe it wasn't her money she was spending. But whose then? Rich father? No, husband more likely. The clothes were at least two years old. What had happened in two years? Well, her husband could have gotten a raise, but she wouldn't have hired a prostitute if that were the case. He remembered her running make up. Divorce.
She didn't bother checking in, meaning she had been to her room already. Traveling? Or maybe she was kicked out of the house. So he was pressing the divorce then. She was looking for revenge by spending his money and paying for intimate entertainment.
The room she brought him to was on the third-to-top floor. When they entered Sherlock saw that it was still clean, and the bed was neatly made. Her suitcase was open on a chair, showing she didn't plan on staying for very long, even though with a husband pushing divorce that would probably be the case.
"Shouldn't I know your name?" he asked.
"Betty," she told him, then turned to shut the door.
The second it was locked behind her, she turned on him, looking like a savage wild animal. Sherlock got the freighting impression that he was supposed to be her prey. She jumped at him full force, knocking him back onto the bed and beginning to strip him of his clothes. He tried not to wince as he was slowly exposed. He didn't want to be there …
Once he was stripped she stared at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to do the same to her. So he did. He started with her shirt, which pulled over her head easy enough, but next was the bra. What the hell were those things—Chinese handcuffs? After struggling for a few minutes, Betty sighed and unclasped it herself. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks as he worked his way down towards her belt.
Once they were both "ready"—he couldn't bear to think of a different word. He wasn't sexually comfortable yet, and doubted he ever would be—she pushed him back into the mattress and knelt over him, grinning like she was having a great amount of fun.
That's when it started. And he didn't like it at all. It didn't feel right—he didn't know this woman, hardly love her. They had just met! He didn't even know her last name, and he couldn't recall her asking for his. He needed to distract himself if he was to make it through.
Think about this woman, he told himself. Who she is. What's she doing? Well, she claimed the upper position without second thought, not something most women would do. She's trying to show her dominance. She owns me for now; I'm under her command. But why? Maybe she couldn't control her husband. Perhaps she wasn't kicked out—maybe she left when he brought another woman home. Yes, that would make sense. That's why her suitcase isn't unpacked even though she's clearly staying for an extended amount of time. This isn't her home, she didn't leave willingly she felt as though she was forced out. So, Saturday night comes along and she's sitting alone, thinking of her husband and his betrayal. So she goes out to a pub to have a little fun, gets a little too drunk and ends up bringing a teenage boy back to her hotel room. But that's only part of the—OW JESUS CHRIST WOMAN!—but that's only part of the story. What else? What else? He began to look around more, trying to see instead of feel. Her hair is cut like that of an office worker but her clothes say something a bit more casual. Her nails are done but slightly chipped at the tips; she doesn't work with her hands but her fingers are required for something … Typing probably. Writer? No, too professional for a freelance worked and too casual for a journalist. Blister on her right hand says lots of pencil or pen use as well. Teacher seems more likely, she'd need to grade papers just as often as use the computer. Young children or teenagers? She had no problem picking me up, and even drunk she'd probably no better than to risk going home with a potential student. That says primary. Children of her own? No, she's too young to have adult children and she'd never leave them with her husband and her mistress. Lack of use of a condom just now says infertile. Maybe that's what caused her husband to cheat in the first place, of course—
"You seem distracted," she moaned.
She closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else but in that hotel room with that girl. It was too much for him to take … One thing was for sure; he was never letting Nancy talk him into such a thing again.
What seemed like an eternity later, Betty finally stopped and flopped down on the bed next to him; still naked. He wanted nothing more than to stand up and get dressed, then run as fast as he could back to his house so he could shower.
But Mrs. Inferiority Complex wouldn't have that. She grabbed his arm and cuddled up next to him. "Will you stay the night?"
Think fast. Excuse, excuse … "I can't. I have other people to meet." Most useful lie had had ever told.
"Oh," she said, sounding slightly disappointed. "Right."
"You wouldn't want me here in the morning anyway," he told her as he rolled out of the bed and began pulling her clothes on.
"And why's that?" she asked, sprawling out in a weak attempt to seduce him back into her dark clutches.
"Because I'm sixteen-years-old and you're a school teacher," he replied, as if it were obvious. She had left the money on the side table, and he had done his job. He didn't need to be polite any longer. "Once you're sobered up you're going to feel dreadful about this. The guilt might eat at you for years. Judging by your obvious emotional instability and all the other problems going on in your life, you might even kill yourself. Sorry about the divorce by the way, and the suspension from work. Maybe next time you should make sure all the children are accounted for before leaving for a field trip."
She sat up and watched him, looking completely dumbfounded. To be honest, that was his favorite part of profiling people. They were always so confused.
He pulled up his trousers and shoved the money into his back pocket. He grinned and nodded in Betty's direction, then backed out of the room, praying he'd never have to return.
When he stepped outside the hotel, he found Nancy there waiting for him. "How'd it go?" She had something a little stronger than a cigarette waiting for him this time.
"Okay," he lied, breathing it in. His head was cleared almost instantly. All problems from that night nearly forgotten within minutes. He loved that sensation. He still had his sense though. "Shouldn't we go somewhere we can't be seen?"
"Sherlock, no one's looking," Nancy told him. It was true. The streets were empty and any cars going by drove right past.
"What time is it?"
"Near three am. Surprised it took you so long."
He dropped his blunt and blinked a few times. "Three am?! My mum's going to kill me!"
Nancy laughed. "Oh c'mon. Live a little. Come on I'll buy you a drink."
They were just about to walk off in the direction of other nasty bar that was still opened when a familiar voice growled from behind them, "Sherlock Holmes!"
Shit.