Darkness covered the whole of London, especially the little alleyways. John never went down those tiny side streets. Anything could happen down there, and nobody would see it. He preferred to stay in the glow of the street lamps and the signs from the bars that were still open. Everybody looked similar in the late night.
John shivered a little and pulled his shirt closer to him. Not that it did much good, but he didn't have a coat. Every night was spent like this; standing on street corners when most people had gone; leaning against the wall until somebody looked his way, then trying to arrange solicitations and business with them.
In short, John Watson was a prostitute.
He didn't want to be working the streets of London, but there was no question about going back to his home, to the father that beat him and hurt him and had thrown him on the street. Nobody would take him anywhere else in any other job, so he had turned to the only thing left he could to earn money enough to live. In a way, he was lucky. He got a fair amount of business; he was young, good looking and fairly new to the game. He didn't ask for a lot of money, but he wasn't so cheap as to not take care of himself.
He had just started out for the evening, pulling his top hat to shadow his eyes a little; enticingly mysterious. A man came striding along the top of the street, glancing at John before he drew level with him. As the man came closer, John pulled himself off the wall, and stepped to meet him. "Looking for somebody, sir?" he asked, innocently enough. The stranger looked John up and down, taking in his loose, half open shirt, tight trousers and the top hat on his thick almost blonde hair. He sneered and tapped away, stopping to talk to a more muscle bound, experienced boy. "Don't want a pretty boy tonight?" John mused to himself, leaning back on the wall, not to be disheartened.
Hours passed, with a few more customers rejecting John for taller, bigger men than him. Most nights went like this, but he usually got one or two people preferring someone smaller, younger, prettier.
John was about to give up sometime after midnight, when someone else walked across the road, with quick, light steps. When he drew nearer, John could see the man was slightly shorter than he was, but slightly older, by three years or so. He stood up straight again, showing his face this time and smiling. The stranger nodded to him from under a battered hat of his own, and beckoned the young man to follow him.
They walked side by side for a while. John knew the way; they were heading to one of the blocks of apartments.
"Your name?" The stranger asked, barely glancing at the young man next to him, startling John a little in the break in the silence.
"It's Joel," the prostitute lied. Partly through shame, and partly because he wanted to keep some things to himself. He may give his body to strange men every night, but he would not give them everything. "Well then Joel, you must excuse me for hardly making conversation, but as you and I know, it is not conversation I will pay you for. Nor will it be any kind of pleasantry unfortunately. A shame really, but it does not do for one to be seen exchanging friendliness with a creature of the night." The stranger ranted, a slight ironic smile playing at his lips. John was slightly shocked at this, and felt slightly offended, but let the man carry on. "In case you ever require my services - don't you believe we should exchange professions? It's only fair - I am a detective of sorts. I do seem to have rather a talent for solving things. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I much prefer to not be a stranger to my companions. And that is my real name, 'Joel'."
John was amazed. "But how did you...?" "Know Joel was not your real name? Rent boys are not generally in the habit of disclosing personal information to anyone. Not just that, but the way your voice had a slight uncertainty to it when you told me your name, told me immediately that it was completely false. Your unfamiliarity with the new name...you haven't been doing this for very long, have you?"
They had reached the other man's block, and he led John up to his room. "You haven't answered my question."
"Oh...no I haven't." John had forgotten about that in fascination of the detective's talent, of which he certainly had a lot. "A month or so I suppose." He accepted the gesture for him to sit down, and took his hat off, placing it on a table. The room was cluttered; papers, photographs and notes spilling out of drawers and off desks, with several unfamiliar instruments lying on tables, chairs, the carpet. John was unsure how to go on; this customer was so different to every other man John had been with.
"You seem to be very good at what you do, Mr Holmes." He murmured, as sensually as he could. "So am I. I'm very good at what I do. Would you like me to show you?" John was still shy, awkward, ashamed, but he was getting better at hiding it.
"Now that does sound like a good idea."
John took a deep breath, and undid the buttons on the rest of his shirt, looking back over his shoulder and sliding it off, leaving it on the floor (along with his trousers) as he sauntered over to the bed. He lay out on it, waiting for the other man to do as he pleased. "Now you are beautiful," Holmes complimented, removing his own hat and coat, to reveal a mop of wild, dark curls, and intense, dark eyes. His face was handsome and angular, whereas John's features were pretty; rounded and more feminine. He sat up as the other sat down, smaller hands on his shirt, helping him undo it. John would not kiss him though. He promised himself he would only kiss somebody special.
John was pushed back down, into the bed, calloused hands on him, and he braced himself.
"Oh no no, relax, my dear." John felt himself doing as he was told by the soothing words. "It will only hurt you if you're so tense. If you take it easy, you have a chance of getting a mostly good experience out of being violated." The hands were moving across his back and shoulders now, and John could not see his partner. He unwound a little as his muscles were massaged slightly, easing the tension. Most customers just demanded, and did little to prepare John, just forcing into him, which hurt him every time, and caused him to tense up. Sherlock Holmes though, was being considerate, which immediately made John feel more secure in his company. One of his hands snaked down John's back, pressing against his intimacy, then slowly inside him. John gasped out as he was stretched and made easier with those fingers before actually being taken by this new man, slick with bath oil.
It was still painful, but John was appreciating it too, especially as Holmes was going slowly. "Even out your breathing my dear, breathe out as it is painful," the one in charge instructed. John did as he was told but smiled; this man was telling him how to do his job. But the advice worked, and he found himself feeling a strange satisfaction in the sex, which he never had before. He managed even to push back as Sherlock pushed forward, causing the older man to casually say "Oh Joel...how very engaging," which would probably have been the equivalent of shouting his name for anyone else. Sherlock Holmes had been resting his hands on John's hips, but now he moved them, pulling the tangles out of his hair as they ran through it, and pressing against his breastbone as John raised himself a little, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Oh yes, yes indeed," was the response as he allowed more and more of himself to be touched. Holmes sped up his rhythm impossibly; causing John to screw up his eyes, until eventually it was over.
John lay on the bed where Sherlock had left him, breathing quickly and heavily.
"It's never been...been like that," he panted, questioningly.
"That's probably because you've been soliciting with the demanding of desperate men who find themselves tied to wives." The detective offered, lighting a pipe. "Indeed, I find them vulgar, and the prostitutes they prefer. Too quick, too rough for my liking. They don't let me offer any wisdom whatsoever, my dear." John noticed the repetition of the pet name, and became suspicious, as life as a rent boy had taught him to be. He had been left beaten and unpaid many times.
"What do you want from me?" he snapped, to the man beside him on the bed.
"Several things, though I have already taken the first thing on my agenda. I must admit, that was the only thing I thought to want, until I actually spoke to you."
"You've fucked me, now you pay me. Surely you're familiar with how this works?" John tried to sound convincing, but failed miserably. The detective laughed at him.
"All I'm asking, first of all, is your name." John gave up.
"It's John. John Watson."
"John. I like that name John. Now, I thought we might be able to talk for a little while? I do miss company."
"I thought you weren't going to bother with pleasantries or conversation...you said outside-"
"A disguise. I am a detective after all, and you never know who could be watching. Besides, I said I would not be paying you for the pleasantries, which I am not. I shall tell you the truth, John Watson, something not many people get from me. I am twenty five and very lonely. I satisfy myself sexually by paying, much as I have just done." He handed John a banknote from the pocket of his discarded coat to illustrate his point. "I want conversation."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you are very different from everybody else walking the streets in these small hours, John Watson. You're much softer spoken, and in need of company too, I'll wager. I propose an interesting experiment, if you are willing."
"What is it you propose?"
"You stay with me for, say, a week, and I shall see if you are a suitable associate for me. Of course, you can see if I am an appropriate person to your taste too. It would mean you did not have to sell yourself, you could have a hot meal three times a day, and use the bath tub if you so desire."
It was tempting. Very tempting. And there was something about Sherlock Holmes.
"I'd be delighted, Mr Holmes."
"Wonderful! Excellent! You may sleep in this room if you wish, or you may have a different one that I have made less of an impact on. Let me show you." John would have been happy to laze where he was for a while, but he sat up, stretched and pulled his prostitute's uniform back on. "You look just as good in clothes." The detective said as he led John from the bedroom that was evidently his, and into a smaller room with a single bed, tidier with a wardrobe not full of clothes spilling out.
"I like this room," John said appreciatively.
"Then it is yours! I suggest you sleep properly, because tomorrow we are going to have to sort you out with some new clothes. I can't have you wandering the wintry streets in an outfit such as that." With that, Sherlock Holmes was gone, leaving John alone.
He had a bed, but the memories and regret still haunted him. John lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his father's shouting and his mother's sobbing echoing in his ears, the stinging blows phantom against his skin. Sometime near morning, John must have fallen asleep, because he was woken with a start by a frantic pounding on his door. It took a moment to remember where he was, and he smiled a little to think that he had a comfortable place to stay for a week.
"I'm up, I'm up," he yelled through the door, sleepily.
"I've run a bath for you," the voice came back. "Of course, you don't have to have it, and if you don't then I'll have a bath but-"
"No, no thank you I'd love a bath," John interrupted, before the man whose house it was launched into a speech about the merits of personal hygiene. He was led to the bathroom, and chanced to look in the mirror. He hadn't slept much, even in the warm comfort of a house, and there were still hints of dark rings around his eyes. He turned away and sank into the heat of the water in the tub, revelling in washing.
John jumped when the bathroom door banged open, and the house owner wandered in, ransacking the cupboards. "Just looking for a magnifying glass," he informed John, who was slightly embarrassed, "there's some dust on my shoe I don't recall leaving there and I would like a closer look. Are you getting out any time soon, by the way? We have to go out."
"Um...yes I was just about to get out." John mumbled, waiting for the other man to leave the room. A few moments of awkward silence.
"Well get out then!" John was surprised, and blushed furiously, standing up self consciously and wrapping a towel around himself quickly, noticing the stare that Holmes didn't even bother to disguise. But it seemed from an objective point of view, more like Holmes was studying Watson, trying to figure out the mystery of the newcomer, as John knew he obsessively must.
He pulled his clothes on; the only outfit he had brought with him, but there was something different about them. His shirt was white again, and there were no stains. Sherlock Holmes had washed them. That was surprising in itself to John, that someone cared enough about him, but the fact it was the notoriously untidy amateur detective was the most surprising.
Just as John was finished dressing, Sherlock Holmes came into his room. "Ah good, you're ready. Come along then, we must go out." John was slightly confused, but followed out of curiosity anyway. He was led into town, into shops in a daze, pulled into so many different shirts, coats, trousers, hats.
"Watson, you need some new clothes," Holmes announced in every shop, using John's surname. "You can't possibly wear the same things for so long...you get so dirty in that profession of yours!" Whenever this was announced, the prostitute blushed an impressive scarlet colour, willing the generous host to be quiet about his unfortunate lifestyle. They returned to the house with at least three suits and so many other little things; shirts, waistcoats, jackets, that all belonged to John.
"Th-thank you," he stammered. "very much. You honestly didn't-"
"Nonsense! Utter nonsense. Of course I had to! You must look presentable!" John laughed at the simple statement, happy to know Sherlock Holmes. His company was rewarding, and he seemed to like him.
But an enigma he was; John could not work him out in the slightest. He was so energetic and pleased John was there sometimes, but other times he was depressed, or shouted at John for being in the way.
Some days of that first week (The proposed week finished, but neither of them took any notice), Holmes would disappear, leaving Watson in the flat by himself. John hated that. He wandered around aimlessly, remembering all he used to do. He desperately wanted to share his life with Sherlock Holmes, admit everything to a frank and sympathetic ear, but he was afraid that Holmes would find him too complicated and personal, and send him away. That wouldn't surprise him. For all his skills as a detective, Holmes liked simplicity. John tidied the place the first day he was away, laying everything Holmes would like on his desk simply, dusting, sweeping, not over-complicating things, wanting to repay all Holmes had done for him as much as he could. When the detective returned, he went on another shouting rant, even going so far as to strike John. It didn't hurt in itself, but it shocked the well-meaning Watson into keeping his secrets for longer.
A few days after that, Holmes stayed out later than he had before, but came back with a box.
"I do apologise most profusely for the events of last night, my dear Watson," he said - after almost a week of silence, moping and ignoring his guest - smiling and breaking the handsome face into radiance. He pressed the box – which was worryingly shaking – into John's hands. "I thought you might like some company when I leave you here," the detective beamed, as John peered in.
Two liquid brown eyes gazed lovingly back, among a little white face. John picked the puppy up, smiling despite himself. "Thank you...again," John said, setting Gladstone (he had always had a name for the dog he would have) on the floor. "I really must repay you. How can I, Sherlock?" John dared to use Holmes' first name, stroking his new pet.
"Stay with me." The words were so simple, made the headstrong detective seem so lost. "Please? Keep me company, John. Your company is wonderful, and you make excellent and intelligent conversation." This was true; many nights they had stayed up, talking about how to spot the liars, looking at every detail. John had told Sherlock all he knew about and had learned in the medical profession, anatomy, how to treat wounds, simple and serious, and the detective had passed on some of his own precious knowledge. The prostitute did not want to go back to what he had been, so he nodded. "Are you sure you want me? I mean I upset you by tidying up. I..." his protest was very half hearted, and Holmes shushed him.
"I never say anything I don't mean, Watson, learn that straight away. But I do ask something in return. One little thing." Watson looked up into dark eyes. "Tell me about yourself. How did you come to be working the streets, when you obviously have intelligence and background?"
John had wanted to share his story. But presented with the means to do so made him uneasy. The detective was surveying him easily, settled in a chair. Watson knelt on the floor next to him, absentmindedly stroking his new puppy. The little dog licked John's fingers, making him smile.
"In your own time," Holmes said gently, really meaning the words, not trying to hurry John along. And that gave John his confidence.
"Well I...used to study medicine at Oxford University," he sounded terribly posh and snobbish to himself. "I suppose I had finished the course...done most of the exams and everything, but the year wasn't over."
"So you're a qualified doctor?"
"I suppose, yes. Not that anybody would take me on. You see, my father is a vicious man," a painful tightening came to John's throat, and it was hard to speak around, but he was determined now. He couldn't stop talking now he had started. "Ever since I was very small he used to beat me. And my brother. And my mother. But especially me because...because I've always been...that is to say I prefer..." John took the detective's hand that was hanging off the edge of the chair arm, and kissed the back of it to prove his point, not knowing quite why he was being so reckless. Holmes merely raised an eyebrow in invitation for Watson to carry on. "When I was sixteen he caught me with another boy. He thrashed me so hard for that I still...still have the scars."
"May I see them?" The request was unobtrusive. John lifted his shirt gingerly to show thin white marks on his taught stomach muscles.
"That was with a poker." John stated, his voice barely a whisper as the memories, shouts, screams, cries, his father's cursing, rose to his ears. John leant back on his knees and his hands went back to the warm fur of Gladstone. "I came to be a prostitute because...I could never suppress any feelings I had...I can't. You can, Holmes, but I'm not like that. So when...when someone came along and showed me some love I ended up falling into bed with him...and well. When my father found out I had actually engaged in...coital relations with a man...he lost it completely. Dragged me from University, dragged me from his house, said I was nothing to do with him any more...my mother was sobbing and begging him to stop, but she just made it worse, and I got another beating...despite the fact I'm twenty-one now. My father...he's also an important man in society...word got around, by his own doing...that his son was...well. And nobody would allow me any job I applied for. I had no money, and one set of clothes I had...no choice...I don't want to go back, please Holmes, don't make me go back. Half the time they don't even pay me and they hurt me and it still hurts and I can't...I can't...don't want to..." All the emotion John had forced away since his teens was surfacing, and it shocked him. He could feel pricking and burning behind his eyes, and he knew the detective could easily gauge his reaction.
"I see." He said thoughtfully. "Brave, too," he mused, almost to himself. John was still knelt beside Holmes, his head bowed in shame as he struggled to keep his shoulders from shaking. Sherlock took John's hands in his own. They were trembling. "My dear Dr Watson," the detective said. "You need not be afraid of going back to that. It is not anything you deserve." One of the detectives hands let go of one of John's hands, and cupped his cheek, manipulating Watson so they were eye to eye. John gave a little gasping sob as Sherlock Holmes began to gently caress his cheek. Silent permission was given by the detective for Watson to give in. John laid his head upon Sherlock's knees, and cried for the first time since the incident with the poker. The detective said nothing, merely combed the tangles from the thick blonde hair with his fingers, stroking John's hair when it was no longer untidy.
Eventually, Watson's tears had been spent, and he looked up at Holmes again with red rimmed eyes.
"Come to bed, John," Holmes said, as gently as ever. "You are indeed beautiful." It was almost what he had said the first night they met - had it only been a couple of weeks? And John remembered his promise to himself. Holmes began to saunter easily towards his bedroom door, undoing the buttons on his shirt as he went, when he realised Watson was not following. He turned around with a look of concern, to see John standing stock still in the middle of the room. The detective opened his mouth to say something, but the distance between them was quickly made up by Watson himself, who caught Sherlock in a shy, sweet kiss.