Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely Quarto from AO3- Any mistakes, however, are mine. And just to be clear: this fic is NSFW, it features depictions of past drug abuse, past major character death, prostitution, BDSM practices, references to violence and tonnes upon tonnes of sex. In fact, our heroes spend more time shagging than doing anything else. So if that's not your cup of tea, you have been warned. If it is, however, something you might be interested in, read on...
CHAPTER ONE: FORCE MAJEURE
Room 211
The Metropole Hotel, Belgravia
Sherlock walks over to his client, nonchalantly hooks his fingers through the studded leather collar around his neck.
"Now, Mr. Anderson," he says crisply, "what is it that your mouth is for?"
And he yanks the collar sharply before the man can answer, dragging him a couple of inches across the highly polished bathroom floor and making him gasp. Wriggle. His handcuffs, dog-lead and humbler prevent him from escaping; The ball-gag in his mouth prevents him from making much noise at all.
Mrs. Anderson- Sherlock's other client- gives a small, hungry intake of breath at the sight and leans forward, eyes narrowing.
Her expression is best described as… hungry.
"That's it," she breathes, eyes alight. "That's just what he deserves, the cheating, conniving bastard."
"Then that's just what he shall receive," Sherlock says. "Isn't it, Mr. Anderson? Isn't it?"
He yanks at the dog-collar again and Mrs. Anderson crows in delight.
"Now show me what your mouth is for," he says. "And make it worth my while or I'll beat you black and blue, you worthless, lying, little whore."
And with studied ease he forces Mr. Anderson's head down towards his shoe. The man shakes his head, attempting to pull away, but Sherlock does not acquiesce; Anderson has a small rag tucked into his left palm if he wishes to safe-word out and he has yet to use it- In fact, past sessions indicate that he's probably enjoying himself immensely right now.
Sherlock is proved right when another sharp tug on his head causes Anderson to sag, his body slouching into the familiar, submissive posture Sherlock associates with this man's moving into subspace.
Swift and deft, Sherlock reaches down and pulls open the ball-gag. Takes it off.
Mr. Anderson takes in a deep, gusty breath, his chest expanding massively and then sets to licking at Sherlock's shoe with a feral, desperate single-mindedness.
His cock hangs, thick and ready and useless, down between his spread knees.
Dog-leash still in hand Sherlock drags him towards the toilet seat before seating himself upon it and opening his fly. Pulling out his own cock. Mr. Anderson follows along after him, his tongue licking and sliding around Sherlock's shoe, paying particular (unhygienic) attention to his sole and heel. He's panting like a dog, his hips pushing furiously in pointless, pathetic rhythm-
His hands are planted against the floor, his arse tipped upwards, the head of one of Sherlock's more expensive toys visibly protruding from it.
Sherlock's eyes meet Mrs. Anderson's and hers grow even larger. More hungry. Her hand has moved down to press inside her jeans, the motion making it obvious that she's getting herself off. As if she'd given him the idea- preposterous- Sherlock suddenly yanks her husband's mouth away from his shoe and pulls him upwards, forcing two of his fingers into his mouth so far it makes Anderson gag.
"Suck," he says brusquely and when the kneeling man does he smiles for his wife. Takes his wetted fingers and slides them quickly up and down his shaft, giving it a quick tug.
He's semi-hard already- the wonders of Viagra- and it doesn't take much to get him rock solid.
All he has to do is move into his mind palace and run through his client list for the next day- has he this room or the one in The Marriott for Lady Smallwood?- and he's good to go.
Once he's ready he grabs Mr. Anderson by his hair and pulls backwards, forcing his mouth open. The other man gags again but Sherlock is merciless; he simply takes himself in hand and rams his client's head downwards, cramming his prick into Anderson's waiting mouth with a small grunt.
The other man sputters, his hands scrambling on the floor as his wife lets out a hoarse cry of delight but Sherlock doesn't let up. That's not what they're paying him for.
He merely directs his eyes floor-ward again, checks that Anderson hasn't dropped his rag and elected to safe-word out.
He needn't have bothered though. Within seconds Anderson's relaxed his jaw and throat muscles, familiarity telling him what's expected. This is, after all, far from his first time on his knees in front of Sherlock Holmes. He hollows his cheeks, his tongue slipping and sliding over Sherlock's shaft in long, wet strokes, head bopping and eager in his quest to please his Master.
As he does he keeps moving his own hips, his cock hanging useless and hard as he gets someone else off.
He gives good head but then he should do, Sherlock's taught him. And since Sherlock's done him such good service then it's no small thing to grab his head, control his rhythm. To force himself deeper into his throat, to tell him that he's going to swallow everything down if and when Sherlock comes. As he grits this out he hears a strangled, sharp cry to his left: It turns out Mrs. Anderson's managed to come without any male intervention and he smiles at the thought of having one less orgasm to deliver.
He's got an appointment with Minister Worstead this afternoon and previous experience suggests he'd best keep his more… vigorous efforts for her.
Maybe it's the sound of his wife's climax, maybe it's the way Sherlock's hand rakes at his scalp but Mr. Anderson also shudders then, his hips convulsing as he comes in thick, white spurts of ejaculate. It pools on the pristine bathroom floor- it's why Sherlock chose this room- until he's essentially kneeling in a small puddle of his own cum.
Sherlock tells him this, hisses it in his ear even as he forces himself further into Anderson's mouth. The man moans, the vibration of it quaking along Sherlock's length and that's what makes him come. He feels it, feels Anderson's gagging against the onslaught of liquid and even though he pulls his cock a little back he makes the client swallow every last drop of him.
When he's done he pushes Anderson's head away. Stands and tucks himself back inside his trousers without comment. His part in all this is done-For now, at least.
He's barely even out of breath.
Anderson's still kneeling, cheek down in his own cum now. Sherlock hunts around in his trouser pocket and finds his keys, releases his client from his collar, his cuffs. His humbler.
He refuses to remove the butt-plug, that was Mrs. Anderson's idea.
"What a filthy little whore you are," he says, patting the other man's head before side-stepping him and his wife, moving through the door of the bathroom out into the wider hotel suite.
He really, really wants some fresh air now.
"Clean that mess you made up," he tosses over his shoulder. "Make sure to clean the toy and put it where your wife found it too, there's a good boy."
And he closes the door behind him against their answers, pulls out the box of sanitary wipes he keeps for these occasions. Quickly, brusquely he washes down his hands, his face. (Failure to do this always leaves him feeling sweaty and unpleasant and he refuses to think about why.)
Instead he seats himself and flicks on the telly, turns the channel to Jeremy Kyle USA. He hears the shower in the bathroom run as he does it, probably washing the evidence of his and the Andersons' previous activities away. He watches the show, the volume set low and tries to ignore the sounds when his clients start fucking in the shower. It's not that he's really surprised- they have form for it- he just wishes they weren't so bloody loud.
The sounds of moaning and splashing and slapping flesh make him curl his lip in disgust.
By the time they exit the bathroom he's grown antsy and he quickly shows them to the door, pulling out his smart-phone even as they mutter thanks and (unheard) requests for a similar appointment next month. He doesn't look at them as he closes the door. He doesn't bloody need to.
He needs to get room service into that bathroom before his 1 o'clock arrives, and it's with this thought that he moves into the suite bedroom to change.
Meanwhile,
In An Exorbitantly Expensive Flat In Islington
"Oh my God."
And Molly Hooper's fingers tighten into fists, her tiny, splinter of an engagement ring digging into her flesh as she does so.
She's really love to pull it off and throw it at her fiancé, but she knows from bitter experience that it doesn't easily come loose.
Instead she stares, frozen, at the tableaux in front of her: Sees her bed, unmade. Her bedroom, strewn with women's clothes which don't belong to her. She sees Tom- her fiancé, Tom- and he's staring up at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's, while he lies, splayed, between another woman's thighs-
There's something about the sight of that that hits her like a physical blow.
This woman he's in bed with- this woman he's still bloody inside, probably- is doing a decent impression of a deer caught in a car's headlights, staring at little Molly as if she were the velociraptor in Jurassic Park and she'd just figured out how a door handle works.
Molly's not sure that comparison's entirely inaccurate, and she suspects her expression says as much.
For a moment all is still, fiancée and fiancé staring at one another, tart-shagging-fiancé staring at them both. But then-
"Get out."
Molly says the words through gritted teeth, and she says them to both of the people in her bed.
Nobody watching her would dare think she's joking.
"Get out," she snaps, "Get out of my bed and out of my house, now, you, you-"
She finds she hasn't even the words to tell these people how terrible they are.
The woman at least has the courtesy to flinch and look uncomfortable, casting her gaze about the room as if to work out how she might unobtrusively gather her clothes and put them back on. There's no way that wouldn't involve a magic wand or a working friendship with the X-Men however and she thus will have to do things the old-fashioned way.
Tom, on the other hand, shows some hitherto unknown degree of bullishness, shaking his head and crossing his arms. He tries to look stern as he moves away from his lady friend and out of the bed, only to become squeamish at the thought of being naked in front of Molly- or possibly, being naked when Molly is in this mood- and instead freezing. It's rather ridiculous, watching a man try to be spectacularly superior and embarrassed at the same time.
At any other time Molly would feel sorry for him but right now not killing him is the best that she can do.
After a moment he gives up the fight. Stands awkwardly. He starts shuffling to his feet with one of the bed's pillows pressed in front of his groin, coming to a halt about three good metres out of Molly's reach and sheepishly pulling on his trousers. He has to drop the pillow to do so.
This, Molly decides, is probably a good thing.
As soon as he stands the woman in bed is spurred into action. She practically leaps to her feet and out into the kitchen, pulling on underwear and clothes as she goes. Muttering apologetically to herself and to Molly though not, the pathologist can't help but note, getting close enough to touch.
She leaves her mobile on Molly's night-stand, so great is her rush and in that moment the pathologist silently decides that the bitch is never seeing that beauty again.
Molly watches her go with an odd resignation- resignation is settling in with disheartening speed, actually- and as soon as she clears bedroom door Molly shut it quietly. Turns her attention back to Tom, still trying not to look awkward in half-closed trousers and no shoes.
He looks rather like a child caught being mischievous, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his eyes not really looking at her and for some reason that's the thing that infuriates her.
"So…" he says and clears his throat.
His gaze flashes longingly over her shoulder to the door and Molly thinks she just might have to kill him and arrange for his body to disappear down the Thames.
"So," she rejoins quietly.
The silence stretches out, but then-
"Here's what we're doing," she says.
"You're going to leave.
"You're not going to come back here.
"You're never going to touch me again.
"And you're going to bloody well ring our families and explain this because there's no way in Hell that's falling to me- Is that understood?"
She almost manages to get through this last part before she bursts into tears.