Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or its characters.
Warnings: drug use, mildly dubious consent, coercion, Jim being creepy.
Note: I tried my hand at sort-of deductions for the first time in this so if they seemed amateurish it's because they absolutely are. I also never write in present-tense so I apologise if I made a typo here or there.
Natural's Not In It
Sherlock is led up a well-lit corridor; the extremely clean plush pile carpet is springy under the soles of his worn-out plimsolls. He runs his eye along the walls. The art is tasteful, the colour scheme understated. He could have found something similar in any expensive hotel in London. It's safe. It's bland. It gives nothing away about its owner. His tastes, his predilections.
If the man's personal assistant is appalled by Sherlock's presence he doesn't show it. He has been the picture of polite attention from the moment Sherlock walked in the door, only too aware of his worn-out clothes and uncombed hair. But he's been sent here and he's come. He washed his hair and found clean clothes when he read the address. That was more than he usually bothered with.
The personal assistant stops outside a door on the left and Sherlock waits behind him, casting one last look up the hallway. He wonders what kind of kink the personal assistant's boss has to specifically call the company Sherlock works for. It has to be a kink. Nobody with this kind of money calls Sherlock's boss. A truly grasping, grimy, chain-smoking cretin if he ever knew one. He was surprised he even had the time to run his business with all of the time he spent squeezing the wages out of his employees.
The man raps his knuckles smartly on the door.
"Come in!" sings a voice. Younger than Sherlock had imagined. He had pictured a man in his forties at least. And if his taste in decorations was to be trusted he was either the most boring bastard in London- or extremely paranoid.
The personal assistant takes a step back. Sherlock has to go in alone. It's been a long time since he got nervous on a job, but there may have been the smallest, smallest flicker of anxiety in his stomach at that moment. He brusquely walks past the personal assistant without thanking him. Being abrupt helps calm his nerves. It gives people something else to think about besides what he's there to do.
The first thing he sees is an arched window at least six feet in height behind the desk. (Mahogany.) The sky is cloudy that night, but if he was the sort to care about staring out over the rooftops of London he might have found it a striking view. That view must have cost a lot. Then he looks at the man in front of it. He's in fact much younger than Sherlock had envisioned. He can't be more than thirty-five- and he's handsome. Very handsome. Sherlock's stomach contracts again.
"Mr. Moriarty," Sherlock says. His voice is steady. Thank God. He can do breathy and awe-struck if the client likes it, but he prefers it to be on his terms.
Moriarty smiles. It doesn't reach his intense brown eyes. He gets up from the desk and comes around to shake his hand. He's dressed in an immaculately tailored and fitted suit. Tom Ford, Sherlock guesses at. The chandelier above them glints in the highly polished leather of his shoes. No ring on his finger, or mark from where it had been hastily removed. Unmarried, then. Silver Rolex watch. The same watch on almost every investment banker's wrist in Wall Street.
Moriarty's eyes are on his. He doesn't do the customary look up and down Sherlock is used to, eyes always lingering on his crotch and legs. Neither do his eyes wander away from his, lingering on his cheekbones and neck with an uncomfortable intimacy.
Moriarty holds out his hand. "Luca, I presume?" It's the name Sherlock gives all of his clients. He can't even remember why he chose it. Was it after Luca Pacioli?
Moriarty's voice has a soft, Irish accent. His voice is canorous and well-bred. Perhaps he tried to get rid of that Irish accent when he first moved to London. Businessmen. They wanted to fit in. But also stand out. Must have been a challenge.
He shakes his hand. The fingers are soft, but palpably calloused. Not rough, but certainly not unused to gripping, working. Sherlock imagines what those hands will feel like on his body.
Moriarty gestures to a small parlour connected to the study. "Make yourself comfortable."
Sherlock follows him. The parlour is decorated similarly to the corridor. Landscapes of the countryside and marble busts of blank-eyed aristocrats. It's almost calculatedly bland.
"What do you drink?" Moriarty is standing at the bar. He's quite the attentive host. One of his hands hangs idly in the pocket of his expensive suit. "Scotch?"
Sherlock considers saying yes, but he doesn't think throwing up on his client's expensive sofa because he can't stand scotch would be a good look. "I don't drink when I'm working." It's a lie. A bad lie. He had two beers before he arrived here. The smell of the bar is still clinging to his clothes even as he sits there.
Sherlock thinks he sees a smirk ghost across Mr. Moriarty's mouth, but a second later he's sure he imagined it. "Of course. Forgive me. You don't mind if I do?"
Sherlock shakes his head silently and forces himself to relax on the sofa. Christ, he needs to lighten up. But he's not used to entertaining men of this calibre. His usual johns thought a line of cocaine and a lukewarm beer was the lap of luxury.
Moriarty sits in an artisan easy chair opposite him, taking an idle sip from the glass of scotch as he sits back. He takes in Sherlock's appearance. Sherlock is suddenly conscious of the lint on his jumper and the threadbare knees of his jeans.
"How long do I have you for?" Moriarty takes another mouthful of scotch. "Luca." He says the name as though he's tasting it, like a glass of wine he's trying to determine the quality of.
He's watching Sherlock almost intently. It's becoming a little wearing now. Sherlock is used to being stared at. By clients, by people on the street. Whether deserved or not, his appearance gets him attention. But there's something about Moriarty's scrutiny that's like being cut through with a diamond blade.
Sherlock leans forward, forcing a smile onto his mouth. It always feels like an ill-fitting piece of clothing. "As long as you want me." As long as you're willing to pay for, was the unsaid subtext. But Moriarty seems like the kind of man who gets subtext.
Moriarty swirls the scotch around in his glass. "I had a bath prepared for you."
Sherlock stares at him. Was this usual for high-class clients? Was this a sexual thing? Were they fucking in the bathtub? He scrambles to find a response, not wanting to offend, though not entirely comfortable taking up the offer either. He would be an utter idiot to blow this job. He needs the money. He needs to not be fired by his boss.
"You didn't have to-" he starts awkwardly.
"I wanted to," Moriarty interjects smoothly, putting down his empty glass. There's a narrow trickle of scotch left under the ice cubes. "Please." He gets up and gestures to a door with a gold-plated doorhandle. "I've left a robe out for you, Luca." He looks for a moment like he might laugh, but again it's gone so quickly Sherlock can't be sure he saw what he thought he saw.
But ah. A robe. Was that what this was about? A polite way of getting him out of his clothes? The rich certainly went about things in a roundabout way.
Moriarty opens the door for him and Sherlock walks into the bathroom. There's a large, circular bathtub in the centre, filled to the brim with moderately bubbly water. It's very warm inside, certainly heated. There's a white bathrobe hanging off the sink. Sherlock turns to Moriarty, but the door has already snapped closed behind him. Sherlock stares at the door.
So. Apparently sex in the bathtub is not on the menu.
Sherlock is determined not to be frustrated. Or disappointed. But how long was this foreplay going to take? Was he going to be given dinner next? Taken to a movie? He thinks about all of the times he's been shoved into the backseats of cars, into alleys, pub bathrooms. Knees sore from being pressed into gravel, head aching from having his hair pulled, his face pushed into walls and doors.
He thinks of the nights when he's been paid in coke instead of cash and the mornings when he's woken up not knowing where he is or who he slept with the night before. He's woken up with scratches down his face, bite marks on his neck, blood in his underwear. Sometimes the john disappears without paying and Sherlock has to slink back to his boss with his tail between his legs, having to admit he got coked out of his mind and fucked up another job.
Sherlock sighs. Maybe a bath isn't so bad. He undresses, throwing his clothes into the corner. He turns around and finds himself looking at himself in a full-length mirror on the wall. It seems rather narcissistic. The thing is huge. He can hardly move anywhere in the room without getting a garish, full-colour vision of himself.
He gingerly walks towards it. It's been a long time since he's seem himself nude. The mirror in his bathroom is so tiny and grimy he can barely make his face out in it.
His limbs are long and pale. There's bruises on his legs. There are the ghosts of healed scratches on his back and thighs. His ribs and hips are slightly too pronounced. But he could look a lot worse. For someone who regularly forewent meals for a line of crappy quality coke, he could have looked much worse.
Speaking of which. He looks at where he threw his clothes. With a slightly furtive look at the door, he scrambles over to them and sticks a hand in the pocket of his jeans. He yanks out a sandwich bag and a pink plastic straw he cut in half. The coke isn't very good. He got it as a freebie from the man he'd gone down on for a few pounds the night before. He sometimes did off-the-books favours to rather pathetically supplement his income from his wage-stealing bastard of a boss.
For all he knew it could be ground-up glass and baking soda, but-
"Waste not, want not," he mumbles, spilling it out onto Moriarty's marble sink. He makes a clumsy but roughly straight line and snorts it in one, almost clean go. He brushes the excess away with the back of his thumb and stuffs the remainder back in his jeans.
Sherlock can't help smirking to himself. His boss would have fucking flayed him if he knew he was getting high on a job like this. All he had to do was look pretty and do everything he was told, he'd said. It'd get him enough blow to make even him happy. For a bit.
Sherlock lowers himself into the bath. The water is warm, but not hot. A mist of vaguely floral scented bubble-bath settles over him. He sinks down until the water engulfs his shoulders. The tips of his hair dip into the water. He can't quite believe that he's soaking in the tub of a millionaire businessman. High on coke. He smirks again.
It comes upon him that a man like Moriarty would probably have security cameras everywhere, including in here. It doesn't bother him. He'd been showing him a lot more shortly.
He wallows in the bath and scans the walls. It doesn't take long to find it. Or what he suspects is it. A china cat sits innocuously on the sink, absurdly out-of-place amongst Moriarty's chic, minimalist décor. Its eyes are big and blank. It looks hollow. Definitely big enough to house a small camera. It's directed towards the shower and bathtub, away from the toilet. Sherlock wonders who else Moriarty has on there. Other rent boys maybe. Much higher class than him. Handsome suits and expensive cologne to match Moriarty's. Unless abject poverty is Moriarty's fetish. Sherlock hasn't decided yet.
He finishes after a few minutes. He's already showered, but he stays in what feels like a polite length of time. Then he gets out and wraps himself in the robe. He feels unusually exposed when he walks back out to the parlour. Moriarty is still in his suit, sitting in the same easy chair, though there's a newspaper on his lap now. He's refilled his glass with scotch. He fixes him with that sharp smile again. Sherlock decides he doesn't like it.
He sits back down on the expensive sofa. Moriarty's reading the Financial Times. Clever, Sherlock thinks. Another choice that told simultaneously everything and nothing about the man. He was rich: obvious. He was self-made? Perhaps obvious by the newspaper clippings and photos neatly framed on the wall showing meetings between him and various heads of state and business leaders. In Mexico, Colombia, Thailand, Vietnam, Iran, Afghanistan. Him, not his father. He had built his wealth himself. Did that mean he had escaped poverty? Could explain his interest in impoverished rent boys. Was this merely kindness then? He thought of that razor sharp smile. No. Sherlock discounted the idea out of hand.
"Now is there anything else I get you before we begin?" Moriarty's looking at the newspaper. Feigning disinterest, not taking the opportunity to cop an eyeful of Sherlock when he's barely dressed.
If it's designed to throw him off-balance, it's succeeding. He doesn't think he's ever been with a john this long before without them touching him. Christ, he's had johns fuck him, buy him a drink, fuck him again, do a line of coke with him and hail him a taxi in shorter stints of time than this.
And Sherlock doesn't even know what he means by "begin". Haven't they already begun? Or was everything they had just engaged in foreplay to the foreplay? He's not able to keep the bite from his voice when he replies: "Begin what, Mr. Mor-"
"Please," Moriarty leans towards him, tossing the newspaper aside, "call me Jim."
Sherlock looks at him narrowly. "Jim," he repeats shortly.
Jim looks pleased, like he's just taught his pet to perform a trick. "Stand up for me." He sits back in his seat. "I want to look at you."
Sherlock takes a breath. It's shaky. He's just about sick of this. But he obeys, standing stiffly in front of the businessman. Jim tilts his head. His eyes are bright and cold. Sherlock hasn't met anyone who can smirk without even moving his mouth before.
"Turn around for me, sugar," Jim says. "Slowly."
Sherlock does as he's told, hardly able to hide his look of disdain at Jim. Then he stops. He fixes Jim with a look. The businessman cocks his head. His eyes could have cut diamond.
"Sit down, Sherlock."
Sherlock's stomach drops rapidly. "How-" He tries to collect himself. His boss could have accidentally said his real name when they were making the appointment. But somehow he knows that isn't the case. He sits down. He's feeling hot from the bath and the coke. The robe seems to cling in an unpleasant way.
"Now…" Jim smiles pleasantly. "Tell me what you've observed."
Sherlock doesn't speak and doesn't move. His mind is racing. He feigns a blank expression.
Jim laughs. "Oh, sugar, that face. That is good." When had his voice taken on that caustic quality? Had it always been there? "Young men can never keep their eyes to themselves. Fact. And yours were darting all about the room in a frenzy when you came in, sweetheart."
Fuck, why hadn't he just kept his eyes on Moriarty's face? But he isn't used to dealing with men like him. He had underestimated him.
"So, tell me." Jim leans back comfortably. "I want to hear it." He laughs. "I can't imagine your usual… ah, customers are very interested in hearing you talk."
Sherlock finally finds his voice. "Why do you want to hear me talk?" he asks sharply.
Jim rolls his eyes. "Because you're so pretty when you're ranting."
Sherlock scoffs.
Jim smiles mockingly, tongue running over his top lip. "I'm interested. Call me self-absorbed, but I just can't wait to hear all about me from you. And I'm betting you can't wait to tell me."
Sherlock is silent for a moment. And then he takes the bait. He can't help himself. He's still feeling the effects of the coke, but that isn't influencing his decision. Or so he tells himself, as he fixes his eyes on Jim.
He shrugs. "You're young. Thirty-four. Thirty-five." Jim doesn't talk or make an inclination that he's right or wrong. Sherlock continues: "And yet you've clearly built up quite the business empire. But in what?" Sherlock glances up at where the newspaper clippings are hung. "Well, I don't know what the front of your business is, Mr. Moriarty, but you seem to have a significant presence in heroin trafficking hotspots, if what's on your walls is anything to go by." He fixes his eyes on Jim again. "And your hand. It's soft, but just a touch calloused around your palm and the pads of your fingers. Especially your trigger finger. So is it from a hobby perhaps? Or, in your profession, do you just sometimes have cause to carry a gun?"
Jim smiles. He's delighted. "What else?" He takes an offhand sip of scotch.
"You make a great deal of effort to hide your personal tastes. Everything in this office and what I saw of the rest of the house could have come straight out of a furniture catalogue. I don't think that's a coincidence."
There's a bite to Sherlock's voice now. He couldn't stop himself. The words were spilling out more quickly than he could get his mouth around them.
"Everything about you is like something from a catalogue. The Tom Ford suit, the cologne, the shoes, the scotch, the Rolex watch, the accent. You learnt how to play the perfect businessman young and you're very good at it. You even tried to lose the accent, until you realised it was the only thing distinguishing you from every other up and coming genius in London." He lapses into silence. He's almost panting.
Jim sighs, almost happily. He puts his scotch down and gives Sherlock a little, not entirely mocking clap. "You forgot closeted gay."
"I thought that went without saying," Sherlock retorts.
Jim laughs. "Oh, you are choice. I do like you."
Sherlock sits back. He's breathing like he's just finished a sprint. He would have killed for another line of coke. He stares at the ceiling.
"And you like to watch," he says, not looking up. "I found your hidden camera."
"Oh, that." Jim sounds amused. "Yes, I thought you might. Did you like the cat? I bought it just for you. You seemed like a cat person. Am I right?"
Sherlock sits up. "You knew I'd find it?" His head's swimming. Maybe he shouldn't have turned down that drink. "Of course you did. Obvious." He chides himself. He should have known that. It was so ludicrously out-of-place amongst all of the carefully selected décor. "And where's the real camera?"
Jim smiles in a predatory fashion. "Inside the mirror."
Sherlock grunts.
"Is it my turn now?" Jim drains his glass and puts it down on the coffee table between them. "Now, let's see…" He gives Sherlock an affected look up and down. "You're twenty-three. Dropped out of university not once, not twice, but three times-"
Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but Jim speaks over the top of him.
"You might look like you crawled out of the bargain bin at Oxfam, but you come from quite the impressive stock of old money and rusted-on aristocracy." Jim tuts. "Mummy and daddy must have been just heartbroken when you ran away." His eyes glitter with spiteful enjoyment. "And to see you as you are?" He snorts disdainfully. "Coked out of your head even now? Letting whoever will give you your next hit fuck you and slap you about?"
Sherlock doesn't speak. There's a delicate flush to Jim's face. Sherlock glances down at his crotch. He's straining against his suit.
He looks back up at Jim's face. "I think I'm ready for that drink now."
Jim smiles indulgently. Wordlessly, he gets up and walks across to the bar. He mixes Sherlock something. Sherlock doesn't care what it is. He just needs a drink. Jim sets the glass in front of him and Sherlock quickly drinks it down. It's strong and burns his throat, but the sensation is welcome.
He looks at Jim as he puts his glass down. "What now?"
Jim looks surprised. "I can't imagine what you mean." He tilts his head. "You're coming down now, aren't you? Your pulse is levelling out, your temperature is lowering. Are the thoughts coming back? All those nasty, unwanted thoughts."
"I can't imagine what you mean," Sherlock retorts.
Jim's laugh is honeyed and indulgent. "That trash you snorted in my bathroom didn't satisfy you, did it?" He tuts. "Wait here. Daddy has a present for you."
Whatever alcohol Jim has given him, it's gone straight to his head. Perhaps he should have eaten something. Sherlock lays back against the sofa, waiting while Jim disappears back into the study. The liquor is a pleasant burn in his chest. He runs a hand down his robe. It's too hot in the room.
Jim returns, sitting beside him on the sofa. Sherlock turns his head to look at him, but doesn't sit up. Jim holds up a bag of pearly white powder in front of his eyes. Sherlock sits up quickly. His head immediately begins to swim.
Jim snatches the bag back. "Now, now. Patience, sweet thing. Aren't you curious how I know so much about you?"
Sherlock isn't. He should be. But at that moment he's thinking about how long he's going to make the line. He forces himself to drag his eyes away from the bag to Jim's face. "You saw me before you realised where I worked. You liked how I looked. You watched my movements. Man like you must have a lot of cars and a lot of staff. It wouldn't have been difficult. You discovered my line of work. You called the company. They were so grovelingly pleased to have your custom, they spilt whatever information you wanted. Including my real name."
Jim looks utterly taken. He leans forward, until there is barely an inch of space between them, but he doesn't touch him. "Oh, good boy. You are wasted as a whore."
Sherlock bristles. "I am not-"
He breaks off. God damn it. The coke makes him reactive.
Jim's smirk is positively razor sharp. "Ouch. Did I hit a nerve?"
Sherlock exhales impatiently. "Look, are you going to give me the coke or not? I didn't pin you as a tease."
Jim laughs hard at that. "Oh, honey. Now that is just a bad lie. Let's make a deal. I'll give you one line of coke now- and I assure you that this here-" he shakes the bag in front of Sherlock's face- "is better than anything you've ever gotten from your STD-riddled johns in whatever pissed-stained alley you last whored yourself out in- and the rest of the bag later. We'll see if you're a good boy."
"Cut the weasel words," Sherlock says sharply. "What do you want?"
Jim doesn't reply. He bends towards the glass coffee table, spilling some of the powder out onto it. It's a decent amount. Close to Sherlock's favoured amount, if he's doing a few lines in a night. He wonders if Jim has watched that too. Was he in the bar one of the nights Sherlock was? Did he watch him snort it in the crowded bathroom?
Jim sinks a hand into his pocket and pulls out a one hundred pound note. He holds it up to Sherlock and then secures it with a rubber band. He holds it out to him.
"You didn't answer my question." Sherlock isn't looking at him. He's looking at the cocaine. His mouth feels dry.
"You don't want it?" Jim shrugs, moving to the put the money back in his pocket.
Sherlock grabs his arm. Jim's eyes are triumphant. He lets Sherlock pry the rolled-up note from his hand and sits back to watch as Sherlock kneels down in front of the coffee table. He snorts it, going back to catch the residue he's missed. He drops the note on the table, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
He sits back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. He really wants another drink.
Almost as though he's read his mind, Jim walks to the bar and refills his glass, coming back and pressing it into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock drinks it without looking at it. It tastes sweet. It reminds him of the alcopops men used to buy him when he was a teenager.
He feels hands pushing insistently inside his robe. He doesn't struggle, doesn't even want to struggle as Jim unties it, hands rubbing Sherlock's chest, lingering over his collarbones and shoulders. Sherlock looks at him, feeling bleary. Jim's really very handsome. His hair was slicked down perfectly when they met, but it's a bit mussed now. His skin is tinged pink.
Sherlock lets Jim pull the robe off of him. It lays in a limp puddle around him on the sofa. Jim sits back with a tut when he sees Sherlock is still wearing his underwear. "Well, that needs to go. Take those off for me, sugar. I need to see you."
His voice is heavy and thick now. He's so controlled, he's managed to ignore the erection straining insistently against his trousers until now. Sherlock is almost impressed.
He stands up with a slight sway, managing to steady himself without falling back down on top of Jim. He pulls the underwear off and bundles them up with the robe, throwing both aside. Jim surveys him, the smirk tugging at his lips again.
Sherlock stands, wavering a little, but not moving. Without taking his eyes off of Sherlock, Jim dips a hand into his breast pocket. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lights a cigarette quickly and takes an idle drag, blowing the smoke out in an elegant stream.
"Go to the bed. Lay down. Wait." He jerks his head towards the study. "It's through there."
Sherlock nods and obeys. He is not steady as he walks. He knows he's inebriated, even as he stumbles against the door, and has to push himself back upright. He doesn't look back as he leaves.
...
Jim doesn't rush after Sherlock leaves. He enjoys his cigarette and pushes the bag of cocaine back into his pocket. There's still traces of it across his coffee table. He snatches up the rolled-up one hundred pound note.
He can still smell Sherlock. He smells of bubble-bath and alcohol and stale cigarettes. His body was delightfully fragile, pale, marked. He had bruises on his thighs, scratches on his back. It had been a pleasure to watch those pretty grey eyes dilate, as his body fought between duelling drug-induced sensations. Stimulant and depressant.
Jim puts out his cigarette and follows Sherlock into his bedroom. Sherlock is already on the bed. He looks up as Jim's enters. He doesn't seem lucid. His head is swaying very slightly. Jim hopes he didn't overdo it with what he put in Sherlock's drink. Fucking an unresponsive corpse is never fun.
He undresses while Sherlock watches. He puts the cigarettes, the lighter, the cocaine, the hundred pound note up on the dresser. When he's dressed only in his vest and underwear, he sits on the bed beside Sherlock. He runs a hand across his sweet cupid's bow. Sherlock opens his mouth compliantly.
"It's Westwood, by the way."
Sherlock looks at him uncomprehendingly. Jim bends down and presses his lips against his ear. God, he could eat him up. And he's tempted to try.
"The suit. You said Tom Ford."
Sherlock grunts in response, clambering up until he's sitting upright. Jim runs a hand down his body. He's so breakable. Jim isn't much bigger than him, but he thought he could easily snap those lovely, delicate limbs without much difficulty. But he had much more fun things in mind for the rent boy.
"Undress me."
Jim thinks he might come right there when Sherlock obeys, hands moving to pull Jim's vest over his head and throw it aside. Jim stands up so Sherlock can do the same to his underwear. Jim lets out a low hiss at the sting of cold air against his skin.
Sherlock immediately moves to take care of the state Jim's got himself into, sitting listening to Sherlock run on in his endearing, inebriated stream. He likes listening to him talk. He'd liked watching him too. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Jim had been tracing his movements for weeks before he finally approached the company Sherlock worked for.
It was a shitty, little company. Run by a sleazebag Jim would very much have enjoyed killing if he hadn't needed him- for the moment. He'd been like putty in Jim's hands from the moment he'd walked in. He knew Jim wasn't the usual destitute loser who used his services.
He'd pretended to peruse the rent boys. His heart had stopped in his chest when he saw Sherlock's face. He wasn't smiling; he was making no attempt at coquettishness like some of the other boys were. There was the shadow of a bruise over his right eye. Jim had read the name underneath with amusement: Luca. His little Luca.
He pushes Sherlock's hands away. "Not tonight, sweet thing." He wants his first orgasm to be inside of Sherlock. He wants to come inside of him when he's dazed, drug-addled, desperate and full of Jim's cock.
He'd have Sherlock's pretty mouth stretched around his cock another time. He had all of the time in the world to play with him. See what games he liked. See what delights he could coax out of him, with alcohol and promises of cocaine.
He savours Sherlock's uncertain look when he turns his blowjob down. He's not in control here. His usual clients probably used him nice and fast, not letting the shame and self-loathing sink in before he got his next line of coke. Jim likes to play with his food.
"Tell me what you like, beautiful." Jim rubs his thumb across Sherlock's mouth. "You like to be fucked on your back?"
A dark flush begins to creep across Sherlock's face and neck. He's certainly not used to being asked what he likes. It's making it too personal, Jim can tell. Sherlock just wants to be fucked. Fucked and then left to get high in peace.
Sherlock shrugs. "Whatever gets you hard." He isn't sober, but he isn't drunk enough to play Jim's game without a bit of encouragement.
Jim laughs. "Let's see. I didn't you complaining when you were being shoved up against alleyways and filthy public bathroom walls." A smile spreads on his face. "Is that it? You like being treated like a little slut? Pushed around? Treated rough?"
Jim gets off the bed. He goes over to his dresser and picks up the coke and the bill. He walks back over to the bed. Sherlock watches him impassively.
"Tell me the truth and daddy will give you another treat." He almost sings it.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but they're fixed on the bag. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Jim hardly made it out: "Yes."
Jim grinned. "What was that, sugar-"
"Yes," Sherlock spat. "Hold me down. Fuck me."
Jim bites his lip. Oh, that is nice. His cock gives a pleasing throb at Sherlock's words. He drops the coke onto the bed and the pound note. Sherlock grabs for them. He clumsily spills the coke out on Jim's bedcovers as straight as he can manage. He snorts it, while Jim plays with his hair, touches himself with the other hand.
Afterwards, Jim throws the bag aside and pushes Sherlock down onto his hands and knees. He's a pretty picture. Elegant back curved, arse presented for Jim's consideration. Jim takes his time slicking himself up. He can hear Sherlock's little breaths, his moans. He's feeling the full effects of the coke now- and he likes it. Jim slides a hand underneath him and feels that he's gotten himself half-hard. It's too beautiful.
"Ready?" Jim asks, his fingers teasing up and down Sherlock's thigh, leaving smears of lube.
"Get on with it." Sherlock's biting tone is almost believable, if it hadn't been laced with a taut note of desperation.
By the time Jim's finished playing with him, teasing sweet, little noises out of the young man- or more like dragging them out of him- Sherlock is almost sobbing. Jim won't touch his cock and Sherlock is choking for him to. He won't beg. He won't even ask. He's too proud. Jim loves breaking the proud ones.
Sherlock tosses his head, messy, dark hair bouncing around his neck as Jim eases himself in. He watches the shudders, the movements of his back and body as he sheathes himself. Sherlock's bones are too pronounced. He'll have to get some food in him. Put some meat on his bones. At the same time, running his fingers down the bumps of Sherlock's spine is a rare treat.
He asks Sherlock questions as he fucks him. Asks him how fast he likes it. If he likes to have his back scratched, his hair pulled. In desperate gasps of air, Sherlock answers him. Yes, he likes it hard, he likes it deep, he likes it rough. He wants to be marked, he wants to be owned.
Or that is the subtext Jim reads from his monosyllabic responses. Sherlock Holmes wants to be owned. He's wanted it since he walked into Jim's study, with his shabby clothes and uncombed hair. And Jim is nothing if not an obliging host.
Sherlock moans underneath him, looking like he doesn't know whether to hunch over or arch back. His hands are bunched up in Jim's bedding. Jim wishes he could see Sherlock's face. He must have been so divine like this. Maybe a mirror next time. He threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulls. Sherlock cries out with a shudder.
Jim's not gentle. He knows Sherlock doesn't want gentle. He might whore himself to feed his addiction, and avoid slinking home to his parents with his tail between his legs, but the thrill of being used, being debased, is real. The coke only intensifies the feeling.
He touches Sherlock's nipples, finding them erect and very sensitive. Sherlock shudders and almost collapses when he begins to play with them, not stopping his rather harsh pace, forcing himself inside Sherlock. When Sherlock is throwing his head back, breathing in a way that makes it seem like he might hyperventilate or faint, he moves his hand back to Sherlock's cock, stroking it, focusing attention on the sensitive crown and where his balls are trembling, tight and begging for release.
Sherlock probably hasn't had a lover who knew his body this well. And Jim already feels he knows Sherlock's body oh so very well. He's built a picture of it in his mind. Touch here, stroke there. Scratch here. Bite there. Thrust here. Draw blood there. And he has so much time to learn more.
He hits Sherlock's prostate with ruthless precision, listening to Sherlock's cries become sobs with a smirk. Sherlock throws his head back, finally speaking, finally crying out what he's wanted to for the last five minutes:
"Please!"
Jim pants as he answers. "Please, what? Tell me. Tell me what you want from daddy."
Sherlock sobs. His body is so taut. He's tensing beautifully around him.
"I need… Oh god… I need-" Sherlock's babbling.
Jim smiles to himself, as he hits Sherlock's prostate again. A moan is forced from his mouth before he can stop it. But Sherlock isn't paying attention. He's hunched over, clinging onto the covers.
"Oh god- Please-" he sobs. "Jim."
Jim's eyes flutter shut and almost roll back in his head. Oh fuck. Sherlock saying his name like that. He could play that over and over in his head. He thrusts again, hard and deep inside of him and comes. He thinks Sherlock comes soon after, but the force of his orgasm robs him of his senses.
"That's right. Oh." Sherlock sobs again when he forces himself roughly inside of him once more. "Come for daddy."
Sherlock crumples underneath him, whimpering and shivering against the bed. Jim takes a shaky breath to compose himself and runs an eye over the exhausted rent boy. He pulls out slowly, letting Sherlock feel it. Sherlock makes a shuddery noise, half obscured by the bedcovers.
Jim leaves him on the bed and pulls his underwear back on. He sits back down beside Sherlock, stroking his hair and back. Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't speak. Jim likes him like this. He wants him to be like this as often as possible.
"Good boy," he coos. Sherlock lets him play with him, play with his hair and stroke and pet him.
After a few minutes, his breathing has levelled out and Jim leaves to have a cigarette.
...
When Sherlock wakes, he has a splitting headache. He sits up blearily, looking around the room. It's empty. Someone has thrown a sheet over him while he slept. Underneath he feels cold and sore.
He drags himself off the bed, limbs protesting the sudden pressure. His head throbs unpleasantly. He wraps the sheet around himself, suddenly very conscious of his naked body and the fresh marks on it.
He tries to affect an indifferent expression as he walks into Jim's study, as though he isn't hungover, fucked raw and currently dressed in a sheet. Jim is seated at his desk. Hidden by the Financial Times again. He's dressed in a different suit. It's grey. He looks around the newspaper as Sherlock walks in.
He smiles at him in an annoying, indulgent way, folding the newspaper in front of him. "Sleep well?"
"Of course," Sherlock says through his teeth.
Jim laughs. He stands up, walking over to him. Sherlock fights with the urge to step back and narrowly wins. He stays rooted where he is, letting Jim circle around him like a bird of prey, drinking in his dishevelled state. He stops in front of Sherlock.
"May I?"
"Am I still on the clock?" Sherlock bites back, not sure if he can stand the man's hands on him again.
"You can tell yourself that if you like." Jim touches Sherlock's jaw and gently guides him to raise his head. He runs his fingers over the mark he left on Sherlock's neck the night before. Sherlock doesn't remember him doing it. It hurts and Sherlock pulls away.
"Unless you want anything else, I'm going to dress and go." Sherlock can barely keep the charade going. He wants out of the viper's nest.
Jim, who had been staring fixedly at his neck, suddenly looks at his face. "I had your clothes thrown out." He pulls a face apologetically. "Sorry. Did I forget to mention that?"
Sherlock goes cold. He wants it to be from rage, but it's from another emotion altogether. He pushes away the sensation that wants to hysterically remind him that's he's now trapped. "And why, may I ask, did you do that?"
"I thought you might like something a little less… ah, "garbage can chic"." He turns towards the sofa. Sherlock follows his gaze. He raises his eyebrows.
The suit isn't as nice as Jim's, but it's competently tailored and cut. It's a shade of navy blue that he quite likes. He turns and fixes Jim with a look.
"What do you want from me?"
Jim's eyes are sharp when he replies. "Get dressed and come into the parlour." He leaves. Sherlock stares after him in frustration. He has no choice but to keep playing his game. He has no clothes and no money.
He hastily dresses, finding the suit fits very well. Almost too well. He wonders just where exactly Jim found it. Perhaps Jim gauged his measurements all of those times he watched him.
Jim looks pleased when he enters in the suit. He stands up, walking over to fix the way it sits on him, smoothing it out over his shoulders and waist. Sherlock grits his teeth and bears it.
"Alright," he snaps at length, sick of Jim's constant touching and playing. "Tell me what you want. You know I can't have much money-"
Jim seems genuinely tickled by that. "You think I want your money? Oh Sherlock. You are a delight." He recovers himself, still tittering a little at the thought. "Ah, no. As charming as your little hovel is, I have no designs on it at present."
"Then what?"
"You." Jim's eyes burn like they could singe right through him.
Sherlock knows he's heard correctly, and yet he says: "What?" His mind is racing. He had not foreseen this last night. Granted, after he'd downed the two drinks of whatever Jim had made him and the three lines of coke, his mind wasn't at its sharpest.
"Let me spell it out for you," Jim walks over and leans against the bar, folding his arms. "You can either stay in that rat-infested shithole of yours, sucking johns off for bags of shitty coke and working for that slimy cunt who takes most of your pay, or…" he pauses, with relish, "you can come and work for me."
Sherlock doesn't mean to laugh, but it rolls up his throat before he can stop it. He laughs in Jim's handsome, cold-eyed face. "You have to be joking."
Jim's smile doesn't shift for a moment. "Let me word it another way: you can stay in that pissed-stained apartment for, oh, about another month or so. That's about as long as you'll get away with not paying rent, after you become rather unfortunately unemployed."
Sherlock's amusement rapidly dissipates. "What?"
Jim bites his lip. "Well, sweet thing. When I tell your boss all about how you stole from me, how I'll be charging him for the damages, I don't think he's going to be all that keen for you to stay on." Jim's voice is sweet, low, dangerous. Sherlock's smile has died on his mouth. "And, well fuck, when I start calling every brothel and shitty pimp in London, telling them how you rip off your customers and- much worse- rip of your employers you might find it a tad difficult to feed that little habit of yours." He grimaces at him. "Sorry."
Sherlock is silent. He's steadying himself. He's not frightened now. He's livid. He thinks about hitting him.
Jim is on a spiteful, mirthful roll. "Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you can get by. Street-walk. Take what you can get in pubs. Backstreets. And, hey, perhaps you can scrape by for a few weeks- until you're thrown out of your flat and end up on the street." Jim shrugs a shoulder. "How long really until you go crawling back to mummy and daddy? Surrender yourself back to the gilded cage? Rehab?"
Sherlock's fists are curled tightly beside him. He doesn't look at Jim's face. He stares at a point over his shoulder, willing himself not to react.
"Option B: you come work for me."
Sherlock exhaled softly. "Alright. Say I wanted to take you up on your… generous offer. What do I have to do?"
Jim gives a half-shrug. "You've deduced the nature of my little empire. And I've deduced that you know my customers, the market I'm working in. You get me information, you infiltrate my competitors, and you can have as much coke as your dizzy, little head can handle." He has a look like he's giving Sherlock something very special and choice. "The good shit. The pure shit. Not that ground-up chalk you snort night after night."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "And dare I ask what you'll want in return?"
Jim tilts his head, the look of confusion almost convincing. "I can't imagine what you mean."
"Cut the crap," Sherlock says sharply. "Will I be required to fuck you or not?"
Jim's look of wounded shock is a thing of genius. Sherlock wonders if he practices it, he'll be able to perfect it like that. "Sherlock. Honey. You are required to do nothing." He looks away with a smirk. "What you'll beg for is another matter entirely."
Sherlock ignores the remark. He's pretending to consider, but he knew minutes ago that he was fucked. He thinks about his parents' house. And his brother. He feels like getting drunk. Very drunk.
"I'll need to think it over."
Jim laughs. "You mean you need to get coked out of your head and wallow in self-pity." He tuts. "Fine. I'll give you until the end of the week. You think about it, Sherlock. You give it a nice, long brood. See how much your freedom is worth to you."
Sherlock made disdainful sound. "Can I go now, please?"
Jim throws up his hands. "You were always free to go whenever you wanted, sugar."
They both go back into the study. Sherlock walks towards the door, his limbs feeling heavy. When his hand is on the knob, he turns back to Jim. "Why me?"
Jim shrugs. "Call it destiny."
Sherlock snorts. "I call that bullshit."
He walks out.
...
Jim watches him go, letting his eyes linger on the man's behind in that suit. He thinks about the second one he'll buy for him. Perhaps Westwood. If he was good and did what he was told. And then he'd do something about that hair. He was too pretty to be hidden behind that tangled mop.
Sitting back behind his desk, he wonders how long it'll be until Sherlock calls. He doubts it'll be more than a day. Sherlock will go home, snort his last coke and look around his squalid apartment. Once he's had time to picture the grim reality of being cut off from his supply- and his ability to get violently fucked with an excuse- he'd call.
And Jim would be more than ready when he did.