The next morning, John threw the covers off his bed and vaulted over the mattress in his haste to access his computer. A new found youthful exuberance was singing through his veins at the possibility of meeting Sherlock Holmes again, and the time it took to boot up his laptop again was almost too painful to bear.

He opened his email inbox immediately, drumming his fingers on the desk with impatience. Loading...loading...loading...

Nothing.

Not a single message, not one. John's heart plummeted. He had been waiting for a reply for what felt like forever, and now the stupid bastard wasn't even going to email him back! John growled in his frustration and kicked the table leg childishly.

The rest of the day was spent watching the hours tick by and staring fixedly at the blank inbox of his email. By half four John was just about to lose what little was left of his sanity, and with a final laborious heave, he pulled himself into standing and staggered to the door. He needed to get outside; needed to clear his head and stretch his aching legs.

He took a short lap around the lower half of the park again, passing the bench he had sat on yesterday and glaring at it accusingly. John half expected to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger he had met the day before, skulking around the green searching for his prey in that billowing greatcoat.

By the time he was on the home stretch, the doctor had convinced himself whole-heartedly that it was pathetic to keep his hopes up. He resolved to check his inbox one final time before resigning himself to a life of loneliness and abstinence of sexual pleasure. He would be that loopy old man who lived at the end of the road and was always tending to his rose bushes and muttering nonsensically about 'The War'.

As John's thoughts strayed to things like how good he would look in a flat cap, and how many cats he should keep, he inserted the key into his front door and shuffled inside. 'No, keeping lots of cats is for women, what do men do when they go completely bonkers I wonder...is there some kind of animal we should keep to comfort us in our insanity?' John's mind babbled contentedly to itself while he threw his coat onto the little bed and plonked himself down at his computer for a final time. He clicked open the inbox and closed his eyes pleadingly, he really didn't want to be that nuts old man, not yet anyway.

He took a breath and opened his eyes...

Inbox: 1 Message

From: sherlock_holmes . email virgin. net

Subject: -

Message:

221B Baker Street

Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

-SH

John's heart leapt into his throat and he choked on his own breath as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. He had an appointment...with Sherlock Holmes...at his house...right now. He stumbled up and tripped over the chair leg, throwing himself to the other side of the room and pulling on his coat. With one last, affirming look at his laptop screen, John grabbed his wallet and darted out of his door and out onto the street, hollering for a taxi and launching himself into the back as it pulled up, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair, the violin resting in his lap and his long pale fingers plucking at the strings absently. He was an interesting one, that John Watson, he reflected. Sherlock looked forward to meeting him again very soon indeed.

He didn't usually handle his own appointments; he had Molly to do all that for him. Ah, Molly, dear, sweet Molly. Sherlock often wondered how she had got herself into this business. She was so loyal, so willing. Sherlock trusted her entirely, and he had never once tried intentionally to seduce her. She was pretty, in a common sort of way, but he didn't want to drive her off when she did such a good job organising his clients and finances. He could hear her shuffling about in her office downstairs, organising paperwork and answering the phone. She never showed any embarrassment in his trade, never complained when he asked her to polish the handcuffs or change the wet sheets. His room of work was soundproof and secure, but Sherlock knew that she could still distinctly hear the strangled cries of release and the desperate begging which drifted down from upstairs where her employer was at work.

Sherlock did not enjoy his work. He catered to the whims of the pathetic and took his clothes off for money. It made him pity them, the small, insignificant little people. He indulged them, played out their sick, twisted little fantasies with indifference and perseverance. It mattered little to him what they did with his body. Sherlock possessed the unnatural ability to detach his mind completely from every sensation and emotion his body was experiencing which should be connected with sexual exploration. It meant nothing when these people touched him, took advantage of his well formed muscles and unblemished skin. Beauty was just a concept to Sherlock, and he found work in the fact that others perceived him to be possessing of this trait. When his clients wanted to be dominant, he allowed them, and when they wanted him to make them beg, he did so. Pleasure was an exact science. Sherlock could manipulate people's emotions and make them scream louder than their own partners ever could. He could master their bodies and he knew exactly what sent every client over the edge. This was not love-making; this was sex, plain and simple. Sherlock had studied it, practised and refined his art until he was good enough to earn money from other people's desires. This was the only thing he had ever been good at. He hated his job, but there was no other way. These people made his living, and he detested each and every one of them.

Business was unusually slow for him of late, to the extent that Sherlock had been obligated to generate interest in his work by stalking the streets of London in search of lonely looking individuals with low self esteem. That's how he had come across John. He was a strong, courageous man whom the dominatrix had admired for some time from a distance before approaching. Sherlock could spot a potential customer from a mile off, and John seemed perfect. He went through the motions, making small, inconsequential deductions about the man's life and work, smiling in the right kind of way, allowing the sunlight to glance off his strong, angular features, and planting that seed of intrigue in the doctor's mind which would compel him to seek Sherlock's company once more.

But John, he was special. There was something about him that he couldn't quite figure out, a rare occurrence for him, to be unable to read someone. Sherlock related to his isolation. John was stuck in this world he didn't belong in, driftwood caught in an unsurpassable current, swayed by an ever changing tide.

It was for this reason that he insisted on answering the doctor's correspondent, relieving Molly of her duty and dealing with this one enquiry so that he may be the one to make contact with his potential client. Miss Hooper had been wary of allowing her employer access to his own appointments. Sherlock knew why, he had the unfortunate habit of insulting people without meaning to, which Molly had quickly established was a very good reason to allow her to take over this part of his business. For this though, Sherlock had been insistent, and refused to allow Molly anywhere near to him as he rattled off a blunt reply. It was most uncharacteristic of him to take such an interest in his own affairs, Molly observed, but she thought nothing of it, and turned her attention to cleaning the assortment of leather collars and heavy straitjackets which the previous client had required.

The dominatrix sighed in boredom. He stood gracefully and laid his violin in the armchair, straightening his suit jacket and fluffing his hair in the mirror. It was important to make the right kind of first impression. "Molly!" He called loudly, turning his head and considering his appearance critically. He heard light footsteps tapping up the seventeen steps to his flat form the ground floor, and his assistant entered the room looking a little flushed from the exertion.

"Yes, Sir?" She enquired, clasping some files tightly to her modest breasts and smiling endearingly. Sherlock was very fond of her, and counted his secretary as possibly his closest thing he had to a friend. The dominatrix gave her a gentle smile and twirled briefly on the spot to allow her a full view of his attire.

"How do I look?" He asked, brushing some imaginary lint from his lapel.

"Very dashing Mr Holmes" She replied dutifully, stepping forward to smooth a stray curl into its proper place and touch his cheek briefly. "Are you expecting your next client presently?" She said as he moved away.

"Yes, I expect so Molly" he replied, turning back to the mirror and scrutinizing his reflection, watching his assistant in the glass. "Do show him up immediately when he arrives" Sherlock directed.

"Very good Sir" Molly nodded, before crossing the room to the door.

"Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes Sir?"

"You look very pretty today, if I might be so bold" Sherlock added, smiling again and giving her an appraising look. Molly blushed, looking down at her simple blue blouse and running her fingers over the material.

"Thank you" She said quietly, "will that be all Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded politely "That will be all Miss Hooper."

John got out of the cab outside 221B Baker Street and paid the driver carelessly. He approached the door and buzzed the intercom for the ground floor office. A timid female voice answered.

"Holmes residence, how may I help?"

John swallowed thickly and ran his fingers through his sandy hair nervously.

"Uh, John Watson, I have an appointment" He managed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his impatience. In his fleeting departure from his flat, John had forgotten his cane, but he barely noticed its absence in light of the thrilling events which were about to unfold.

"One moment please" The woman replied, and John was cut off.

Some moments later the door opened, and a young woman stood on the threshold carrying a manila folder under one arm and expressing a bright and friendly smile.

"Right this way sir, Mr Holmes is expecting you" She said, turning and leading the way up the stairs to a plain wood door. John observed little of his surroundings as he passed the office. It had a functional, professional atmosphere, and there wasn't much to be deducted from the sparse furniture and few paintings and photographs on the walls.

The woman knocked three times on the door and motioned for John to enter. "A Mr Watson here to see you" She told what looked like empty space from where John was standing.

John entered the flat and the door was shut behind him as the woman left him alone with his new acquaintance. The occupant of the flat stood in the centre of the room with his hands behind his back and an inviting smile on his face. "Ah, Doctor, I was hoping you would receive my reply" Sherlock Holmes intoned in his rumbling tenor. John stared at him dumbly, taking in his lean form and his impossible height.

"Mr Holmes" John replied, smiling a little shakily and biting his lip.

"Sherlock, please. I am told you have no formal requests regarding my services?" Sherlock asked pleasantly, moving forwards and helping John off with his coat, his fingertips trailing a burning heat along the back of the other man's neck. Upon impulse, Sherlock leaned forwards and John felt the soft, delicious pressure of his lips brushing his clavicle. He shivered and turned to face the dominatrix. Sherlock was smiling ruefully and moving a little closer so that their chests were almost touching.

"No, I suppose not" John said, controlling his voice successfully and raising his head to meet the other man's seductive gaze. "Look, all I want is a good, honest shag" The doctor said firmly. Well, that was a new one. Sherlock chuckled, his chest vibrating against John's in his good humour.

"Honest?" He enquired, eyeing the wad of money gripped tightly in John's fist by his side.

The doctor faltered, and then tried to hand the money over to the man. Sherlock inclined his head towards a small side table, gesturing for John to deposit the money there. John nodded, laying the bills out on the surface and turning back towards the dominatrix. Sherlock didn't count the fee like he usually did; instead he kept his gaze fixed on John, analyzing pressure points and sensitive areas, pain threshold and stamina.

"Right this way John" He said, steering the bewildered doctor towards his room with a hand on the small of his back.

The bedroom was comfortably furnished and lit with a warm, intimate glow. John found himself feeling more at ease at the sight of such domesticity amidst the maddening realisation of what he was doing. "Relax" Sherlock purred from somewhere close behind him, a tender hand caressing John's behind soothingly. "I'll make you comfortable"

John quivered at his touch, feeling the other man pressing himself into his back and nosing his hair gently. Sherlock wandered round to his front, smiling alluringly and raising a hand to brush over John's cheek. He leant in slowly, feeling the doctor's breath hot on his skin...

Whoops, did I cut it off at a crucial moment there? Hehe. You shall have to wait a little longer for that particular scene, I want it to be good enough for the lovely people who gave me such positive feedback for chapter one! Hope you liked it, and you won't have to wait long I promise. Thanks for the reviews! ~K