Hi! I'm AppleA, and I'm a new fanfic writer. Seriously, this is not only my first Sherlock Holmes fanfic, it's my first fanfic ever. so reviews and suggestions are amazingly apreciated. Just my luck, my only inspiration is complete crackfic. xP I've got another story in the works, this one is only supposed to go 2 chapters, and yes, my other plot is extreamly crackfic. ;-;

My excuses (because everyone love a good one) :

First off: Inspiration came at 2am, my muse had smores. X.x

Second: No, Watson is not a cad in this story...there is a twist in this story. :)

Edit-I added in those missing w's and seperated some of the lines. I appologize for the confusion, you see, I'm missing my 3, d, w, and ? keys, so I solve that problem by typing the story & then adding the letters back in after I get them from eith the URL or another pg. So I frequently miss a few, and mix ups happen, like "when" becomes "hen". Feel free to point these out to me and laugh at my face. xP


A rough, drunk looking man made his meandering, stumbling, way into a shady, ill-kept, decrepit building.

After knocking on the door heavily several times, he was admitted. He managed to slur "Ten pounds for the best you've ...hic… got." after several false starts to a slimy man in his late 20's.

The man behind the counter as remarkably and very suggestively dressed…and the rest of the establishment seemed to follow suit. Young men lounged at a lively bar, chatting up older (less sober) men, while the latter appraised them like so much cattle about to be bought.

"And do you have any…preferences my good sir? "The man almost purred, but it as too suave to be called that. "S'mone young…inexperienced like." The man stumbled out in a drink-maligned Cockney slur, as he pulled out several rumpled bills, sliding them across the counter and receiving a room key in exchange. "Number 122, on the right." The man was all business, smart and matter-of-fact. "and should you need a place to rest…before venturing out, feel free to sleep in the bed." The drunken man merely grunted, and the solicitor of the rooms nodded and made a note on his desk " 122; will have a hangover. Do not let go until completely sober & capable of avoiding detection."

Meanwhile, the man stumbled up the steps to room 122. After unlocking the door, he faced a young man in his mid twenties looking extremely nervous.

He as a fresh-faced young man with hazel eyes, brown hair, clean-shaven, and generally possessing a countenance that inspired a feeling of youthful trust in the world.

"Yes sir? " his tone as shaky, his voice somewhat higher than it seemed his normal tones would be, although he was built along the lines of a malnourished rugby player.

After making sure the door was locked, a strange change came over the man. He straightened up, gaining about 6" until he seemed to tower over the rent-boy on the bed. His eyes became alert, their piercing grey color taking stock of the surroundings, and both his slur and Cockney accent transforming into a semi-high sounding accent, like that of a county squire.

But to the rent-boy, the strange man's athoritive manner made him seem on par with any member of the Royal family, for all that the man (past his manor and costume) seemed to be in his early 20's.

In that high English, he rapt out the strange orders in a commanding tone to the rent-boy "Might as well make yourself comfortable boy, I shan't be using your services to-night."

The rent-boy sat fairly astonished at this proclamation, a slow spreading grin crossing his face like pooling honey, his hazel eyes harboring some small measure of –hope?

His delight obvious to his companion, who snorted "Am I really so unattractive as that? " , his grey eyes sparkling at the rent-boys glee. "Oh no sir," blurted out the rent-boy, nearly babbling in his relief, "it's just I don't like men."

This declaration prompted a quirk of a raven eyebrow. "Really? I should think that's a supreme hindrance in your profession."

The rent-boy blushed scarlet and muttered unhappily "Yes…yes it is…" The eyebrow contrived to go higher up into the hairline.

"May I ask then, what you are doing in this situation? " The rent-boy blushed even redder, giving a fair impression of a tomato. However, he showed a supreme amount of control worthy of the army and managed to subdue that unruly red to a faint pink at his cheekbones.

His chin jutted out as he threw back his challenge, "May I ask what you are doing by hiring a man and then proclaiming a lack of interest? "

The grey-eyed man treated him a quick grin. "Touché. I am here to catch a murderer in the lower salon in" here he drew his pocket watch and after consulting in, snapped it shut "thirty minutes from now."

His audience, for the man acted like he as on stage at every moment, gave a gasp. "Really? How? Who are you? "

The grey eyed man flashed another smile and said "My name is Mister Sherlock Holmes, and that's my job."

The honey-and-hazel rent boy scrambled to his feet and introduced himself. "My name is Henry Watson, at your service."

"I should hope so, I paid ten pounds." There as that same quicksilver smile. Henry froze at this, then relaxed, realizing that the joke as most likely well meant.

Mr. Holmes noticed this of course, and replied to Henry's momentary loss of movement with slight, almost unnoticeable concern.

"I'm sorry, that was terribly tactless of me."

Henry merely smiled brightly at him, his smile suffusing his eyes, completely changing him from the nervous wreak he was mere minutes before. "Oh it's quite alright, no harm done." He said quite amicably. Mr. Holmes relaxed slightly at Henrys easy-going demeanor.

"It occurs to me that you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here if you have absolutely no interest in men? Surely someone would have, forgive me, complained, by now? "

The haunted look returned to Henry's eyes as he replied woodenly. "Oh no, some men…enjoy it."

Mr. Holmes choose his gentlest voice as he replied "I can tell this has no fond memories for you. You needn't tell me if you have no desire to." In his private thoughts he answered his question to himself why a rent-boy wore so many clothes, Henry quite literally had on every buttoned article of clothing he seemed to be able to lay his hands on. It obviously was a meager form of protection against the inevitable.

Henry looked at Mr. Holmes, biting his lips. He felt the urge to tell this man everything, if only to be able to do something about his situation. After some deliberation, his eyes never leaving Mr. Holmes's, he replied in a broken, halting narrative that grew stronger with every word, although it was a painfully short and to the point narrative.

"My brother, John,… sold me to cover his…addiction. He was a surgeon in Afghanistan, and was wounded in the shoulder. The pain…was unbearable. His doctors gave him high…dosages of…painkillers. Morphine particularly. When he was…honorably discharged, he still kept taking the morphine. The cost…eventually plunged him into debt. So, since he can't work, he sold me here to pay for it." He ended his narrative with a shrug, feeling oddly relived to have told his story.

He didn't look at the other mans eyes, for fear he might see contempt. Contempt that he didn't run away, contempt that he didn't help his brother enough, contempt at his station in life. He was soon startled from his revere by the smell of tobacco.

Mr. Holmes had lit a cigarette, and as staring at him with the oddest look on his face, like Henry was a peculiar anagram he was trying to solve. Henry looked back with defiance, his solid, yet emaciated shoulders squaring. He settled however, after looking into Mr. Holmes eyes and seeing nothing confrontational there.

After a few minutes quiet silence, he said with a level, deep voice that seemed to suit him like wine in oak barrels, "And how about you? Why are you here? "

Mr. Holmes broke of his thought to reply with a vague smile "I've already told you, I'm here to catch a murderer in," here he consulted his watch again "Fifteen minutes."

"Well, yes, but how do you know he's going to be here? "his voice gentle, with sincere curiosity in those wide eyes. Mr. Holmes looked a bit perturbed by this sudden prompting for his story when he had fully prepared to wait these thirty minutes in silence with some miffed –Soiled dove? More like soiled eagle, he thought with a smile.

But then again, it was only natural that the lad should be curious, considering that he had rashly told him his purpose outright. And he was not such a lad, Sherlock Holmes realized. He was about the same age as himself! There as a cause for a shudder if there ever as one, but he firmly repressed the notion.

Instead he found himself telling this rent-boy, Henry Watson, he hastily corrected himself, he does have a name, how he tracked the murderer of three men to this particular den of deviance. "And once I saw the talcum powder on the sole of the statue, of course the logical action would be to lay a trap in the very place I knew he would soon frequent." He paused for a moment to enjoy the look of pure unadulterated admiration and awe on Henry's face, something he rarely saw working with Scotland Yard, many of whom were older than him and tended to pay him no heed. "Speaking of which, I believe I shall go down to the bar, seeing as it's five minutes to time." with that he rose, and Henry scrambled to his feet.

"I say, do you mind if I come with you? " Mr. Holmes turned and a fleeting look of incomprehension fitted across his features before they settled into their customary mask.

"Only, you see," there was that stutter again, "If I stay here and you return the room key, Jorran will send someone else up here." Henrys handsome face took on a momentary look of panic, followed by a half-hopeful, half-pleading expression.

"Then come quickly!" Mr. Holmes as already out the door and partially down the steps. Henry allowed him self a happy grin before quickly setting off after him.


TBC, just who is this cold blooded killer? And what's going to happen to Henry?