The Warehouse
Warnings: AU, sexual references
Dr. John Watson had had enough.
Okay, so he'd said that many times before, but this time he meant it. He really, really meant it.
He couldn't handle how Sherlock had been acting lately. Or maybe Sherlock had always been this way, and John was only just starting to notice.
"You've pushed it too far this time, Sherlock! Too far!" John shouted at his idle flatmate.
"Would you keep it down, I'm trying to read," Sherlock answered, his tone disinterested. "If you need any one to talk to, you can use my new skull."
Sherlock was quite used to John's outbursts now. They were getting more and more frequent – the best way to deal with them was to not react, to let it pass over like a storm. There was no use retaliating, that only seemed to fuel John even more. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the page of the book he was reading, not daring to look at John's face.
"Are you even listening?"John asked. When Sherlock didn't reply, John repeated, "are you?"
"Not really, no."
"That's it. I'm leaving. And don't expect me to come back!"
"Close the door behind you, there's a draught," Sherlock called out monotonously, and John grabbed his coat and slammed the door shut. Sherlock did expect John to come back. There was nowhere else for him anywhere in the world – just 221B Baker Street. John had to come back. He'd keep starting pointless arguments with Sherlock and Sherlock would keep ignoring them. But John would come back.
He had to.
John, fuming, trudged down Baker Street. Where would he go? Probably Sarah's house, but he didn't want to see her. It had been months since they'd talked.
John bumped into someone as he walked. "Watch it, mate..." John trailed off when he looked up at the man's face. It was none other than the world's consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty.
"Dr. Watson, if you would care to remove your fist from my face..."
John hadn't noticed the punch he gave Jim.
"What are you doing here?" John yelled in the smiling man's face.
"Had a bit of a row, have we?" Moriarty asked, his smug expression evident.
"How did you know about that?" John demanded to know, frowning.
"I know everything about you, John Watson," Moriarty answered, in an almost flirtatious tone.
John was going to run back to Sherlock, to get his help, to warn him. This thought was short lived, however: John didn't need Sherlock any more. John could handle himself and he was sure Sherlock could handle himself as well.
"What is it that you want, exactly?" John asked, injecting as much sass as possible into the question.
"Let's say I require someone of a particular... skillset," Moriarty replied rather evasively.
John gazed up at Moriarty in clueless disbelief. No... Moriarty couldn't mean what John thought he meant... could he?
"I – I'm sorry, could you perhaps repeat that?" John requested uneasily.
"I am the... well, talent scout for a well-paying brothel, and I'm on the lookout for incredible young men such as yourself," Moriarty explained with a lick of his lips.
John was completely stunned. He didn't know what to say. When he finally gained control of speaking, he refused Moriarty's offer.
"No! I'm not a whore! I can't possibly work in a brothel!"
"Oh... but I believe you can," Moriarty smirked, his eyes wondering up and down John's body.
John felt abnormally self-conscious. "I can't, I'm not a whore, I can't accept this offer."
"What else will you do for money?" Moriarty demanded, a question which struck fear throughout John Watson's body. John was homeless – and he had no cash with him. He would have to accept the offer, whether he liked it or not.
"I – I do need a job..." he confessed in shame. Finding another job would be hard, and yet, one was already awaiting him. It seemed like a great job too, although a rather embarrassing one.
"Brilliant!" Moriarty winked at John. "Meet me at Addlestone at four o'clock... oh, and please, not a word to dear Sherly!"
And with that, the Consulting Criminal jumped in a waiting cab, which drove off into the distant, leaving John confused, anxious, and just a little bit excited.
Although Moriarty had specifically stated four, it was nearing half past and Moriarty still hadn't arrived. Maybe this was some joke to make John look like an idiot – what kind of a man with pride and dignity would gladly become a prostitute?
But, just as John's watch clicked over to 4:35 and John was considering leaving, he heard a familiar voice. "Hello, John!" Moriarty sounded awfully cheery.
John swallowed hard, and allowed Moriarty to lead him towards a dark, private estate that had once been a factory. It looked almost mansion-like, standing there in all it's glory, known to its clients and well-paid workers as 'the Warehouse'.
In entering, John was asked to sit down on a cosy chair, in the Warehouse's comfortable lobby. The walls were made of dark stone, and the modern, fresh furniture (mostly white and red), looked ridiculous in such a damp, industrial type room.
"This is how it will work," Moriarty launched into explanation. "You will wait in a room. A client will be shown in, you perform, and you get paid. No asking questions about the client, we draw a line between life in and out of this business. You receive 500 pounds per client, and they may choose to tip you if they find you exceptionally satisfactory."
John's jaw dropped at the money. It all seemed like such surreal figures for something he usually would have simply participated in for pleasure just a few hours ago. John was also incredibly nervous, as he hadn't ever set foot in a brothel before – it was difficult to believe that he was in one currently.
"And will I be sleeping here?" John asked, his throat hoarse.
"Oh, after your first session I will lead you to your bed room," Moriarty said, and a sudden smirk took over his facial features as he uttered his next sentence: "And maybe if you get lonely, I'll let you kip at the end of my bed."
John really had nothing to say to this.
"There are a few rules that you are expected to follow," Moriarty began. "As I said earlier, no asking questions about the client's personal life. You must also agree to do anything that the client asks of you – some of our clients have fetishes, including BDSM. If a client complains about misbehaviour, you will not be paid for your work. And the third rule – workers such as yourself must never, never wear clothes.
"You're asking me to strip?" John asked, his voice shaky.
"Not asking," Moriarty corrected, watching the way John rubbed his sweaty palms together. "Telling."
John slowly unbuttoned his shirt. "I will be just fucking women, right?"
Moriarty watched as the man's top slipped off his shoulders, exposing his bare chest. "Well, yes, women, but men, too."
"What!" John yelped, grabbing his shirt, prepared to run from this place and never come back.
"Relax, your first session is with a lovely young lady, by the name of Sally."
John nodded. That name was awfully familiar, and it slowly clicked why it was familiar. But he needn't worry about that – Sally was a common name, and the chances of her turning up in a place like that were very slim.
John self-consciously unzipped his pants, and Moriarty stared hungrily.
"And the underwear," Moriarty added. John bit his lip and did as he was told.
John looked him up and down before saying, "Yes, I'm sure your services will be more than satisfactory."
John was slightly flattered at Moriarty's remark. John was then lead into a room with a bed, a chair, and a large shower.
"You are to wait here until your client arrives."
Moriarty left John, stark naked, to wait for his first client. John hoped she wasn't too fat or too old. In fact, John was beginning to build up a picture in his mind of what the girl would be like, when the door opened. He looked up in nervous anticipation.
"I told you to take up a hobby, but I didn't think this was quite your style."
It was none other than Sally Donovan.
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