Chapter 9: Moderately Intelligent

"I've just read about you in the paper!"

"Mmm," Sherlock commented, unimpressed that he had had to attend a presentation ceremony after having recovered the stolen Turner masterpiece, Falls of the Reichenbach. Whatever happened to remaining anonymous? But the Art Gallery had insisted. They wanted to do a 'thing' and of course that involved the press.

Rose followed him upstairs. She felt slightly apprehensive but mostly excited. She found herself looking forward to the week rolling around again, when she had her next call out to Sherlock's flat. She tried to tell herself it was because the money was good, and it required little effort on her part.

Sherlock was also mildly excited. He'd thoroughly enjoyed the sex in his flat, plus the bra challenge. He'd of course noticed all the signs that Rose had once again become aroused when they were having sex last time. But he made sure not to point out that fact. He wanted to make that happen again. He'd done his research. Call it challenge #2.

"Have you read it?" Rose asked, pulling the folded newspaper from her bag.

"Uh. No. Probably rubbish; probably all wrong."

Sherlock stopped to lock the door to his flat to prevent Mrs Hudson from entering, and calling out "Woo hoo?" while they were in the throes of passion.

"Perhaps," continued Rose. "They've called you an amateur detective?"

Sherlock scoffed as he walked through his living room. "Morons."

"And they think it's your 'hobby'," Rose read, as she followed Sherlock into his bedroom.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They would."

He shut his bedroom door after Rose had entered.

"I'll leave it for you," she said, dropping the newspaper onto the bed.

Sherlock remembered this time, and he immediately held out the cash for Rose. She thanked him then preceded into the bathroom to change. She called through the door, "Leave your pyjamas on!"

Sherlock had remained in his pjs that morning. He couldn't see the point in getting dressed yet - not with his morning session of sex with a prostitute booked in for nine o'clock. John had inquired, "I thought you were going to get started on that missing banker case?"

John knew that Sherlock usually stayed in pyjamas when he was bored and didn't have a case. Sherlock had muttered something about ironing his shirt, which John found odd. Don't the dry cleaners iron his shirts? Do we even have an iron?

Sherlock picked up the paper and read the headline. "Hero of the Reichenbach," it said, with the sub-heading, "Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur'". He threw the paper down on his bedside table in disgust, and flopped down onto the bed to wait for Rose. She eventually re-entered the room, wrapped in her dressing gown. She reached into her bag and retrieved two condom packets and placed them on the bedside table.

"I'm wearing my undergarments," she said, a glint in her eyes.

"Oh good," Sherlock replied, standing up. He was semi-aroused himself at the thought of his next challenge.

He had spent the last few days researching sexual arousal in females, once he'd finished with the Reichenbach case. He felt almost giddy with excitement at the prospect of putting into practise the knowledge he had obtained through careful study.

Rose made to unwrap her dressing gown, when Sherlock said, "No, don't! I'll do that!"

"Oh, okay," Rose replied, loosely tying up the sash. His enthusiasm took her by surprise.

Rose stood still, waiting for Sherlock's first move. She was confused when he walked slowly around her and stood behind her. Gently placing his hands on each of her arms, just below her shoulders, he drew her back into his body. With one hand, he carefully swept her hair aside, and bent his head. She could feel his breath on her neck, and once more, she closed her eyes and enjoyed his close touch. He then slid both hands down her arms, then over the fabric of her robe to her waist and the sash.

Sherlock was aware that his own heart rate was increasing and he made sure Rose could feel his hardness as he pressed against her. His hands found the sash and made light work of untying it. As Rose's robe fell open, he moved back slightly, and gently lifted the robe from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Sherlock then walked around to face Rose, drew her in close for an embrace, as he'd practised last time. He slipped his hands around to her back, one hand caressing her, the other feeling for the clasp at the back. It wasn't there! She'd tricked him! Without missing a beat, Sherlock's right hand caressed Rose's skin underneath her bra, sliding around her torso to the front. He felt in between her cleavage as Rose breathed out, stifling a laugh.

Sherlock tutted, them moved away slightly so he could look at the clasp.

"It's a different kind of hook!" he remarked irritably.

"Almost had it," encouraged Rose.

His hand still underneath Rose's cleavage, he deftly squeezed his thumb and index finger as the bra popped open. Rose gasped as Sherlock moved in closer yet again, his breath on her neck then...

... his hand stole up under the open bra, taking in her breast and massaging it as he started kissing her neck.

Oh my sweet Lord, no! thought Rose, her body trembling under his touch. Her hands automatically found his hair again. She lost herself in the moment. She needed more. More of him. She suddenly felt so electrified.

A soft moan escaped from her lips causing her to freeze and she pushed him away. "That's... that's enough now. Good, you undid the hook."

She turned from him and shed the bra.

Sherlock's voice took on a low, seductive timbre as he asked, "Don't I get to finish?" He knew what he'd done. He knew exactly what happened then, what had surged through her, making her shudder and gasp under his control. He was not going to point it out though.

"Let's start," Rose said, turning around again, but not meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Take your pyjamas off."

"I thought you were going to do that?"

"Um, yeah, maybe after...tea time."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. All her confidence was shot. He suddenly felt bad. Best continue in a more predictable fashion, he thought. Just for now. But deep inside he wanted to yell, "I'm on fire!"

He swiftly removed his pyjamas as Rose took off her knickers. Sherlock lay down on the bed, expectantly, as if this were day one again. Let Rose take the upper hand - try again later, he mused.

They moved through Sherlock's phase one and phase two, finally arriving at phase three.

This is where I lost it, thought Rose as Sherlock re-entered her after they'd swapped positions. He's a client. A man who can't get a girlfriend, who's paying me to have sex with him. Paying me. He's paying for it. Because otherwise I wouldn't look at him twice, would I? Paying for it, Rose. Say it. And whatever you do, don't look into his eyes. Those...eyes.

Oh!

God!

And then Sherlock bent his head and was kissing her neck again, while he was fucking her. She lifted her chin, giving him more of an area to kiss. Offering herself to him. He was using his tongue as well. It feels so good... but...how? Has he been taking lessons from somebody else? The asshole!

That was enough to bring Rose back to her senses. Kind of angry now, she couldn't enjoy herself. Shouldn't anyway. For fuck's sake, she was a professional.

Who was Sherlock seeing? Not Maria. She wouldn't tolerate his rude demands. Not...Tessa? She was young and naive. Sherlock would confuse her with his intellect. Who then?

Rose continued helping Sherlock with his phase three, more or less mechanically now that her mind was employed elsewhere. Sherlock, on the other hand, was bewildered. He thought it was going well - Rose was starting to respond...but now she was frowning. What happened?

He needed to increase his tempo now, for his own happy ending, but...Rose?

Oh! His mind raced through the list of erogenous zones. More breast action, he thought. Nipples too.

Rose wondered why Sherlock had slowed down a little. He began kissing her neck again, but then he slowly started navigating toward her chest as he rocked into her ever so gently.

Damn! Rose thought. Not Tessa then as she hates anyone doing...

...that...

...with their...

Oh, my Lord...

...tongue...

Sherlock had pulled out of her as his escapades continued lower.

"Um...Sherlock?" Rose heard herself say - her voice seemed to come from far away.

"Sher—lock!"

"What's wrong?" He stopped his practical research and looked up at Rose.

Rose looked down at him. His hair was incredibly messy. How did it get that way? Oh, of course, Rose had gotten quite carried away.

"I've got to...ah...go to the bathroom. Sorry. Bathroom emergency."

"What?"

Sherlock moved aside so Rose could climb off the bed. She hurried into his ensuite, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew what had happened. Again. But then again, he was the idiot. He was the one left lying on his bed with an erection.

Rose put the lid down on the toilet seat and sat on top of it, holding her head in her hands. Fuck! I really need to get laid. Not with a client though, for fuck's sake!

She just wanted to leave. She should leave. This was totally unprofessional, but so was leaving. Did Sherlock know what he was doing? Of course he must. He knew exactly what he was doing last week when he was sitting in his armchair and she was kneeling in front of him.

He knows now, and he's not saying anything. Because she told him not to say anything. She didn't say 'Don't turn me on,' because that's not forbidden. Getting aroused is purely her decision, and she'd lost it. No, Sherlock was definitely behaving within her guidelines: he didn't point out that she was aroused, thus making her feel uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable now, but that was her fault. And anyway, how did he suddenly get so skilled up?

Rose got up from her seat, and opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was just putting on his pyjama bottoms.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, voicing his concern.

Rose glared at him accusingly. "Who have you been fucking?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "What?"

"You've been having sex with someone else, haven't you?" she admonished.

He didn't answer immediately. He was studying her, trying to determine the cause of her ire. Oh course, he thought. I'm fucking good at this. To Rose, he answered simply, "No."

"You have!"

"I think I'd know," he remarked, finding her frustration a small source of amusement.

Rose looked him up and down, with her hands on her hips. She didn't know what to think, but now she was unsure. She knew Sherlock didn't like anything that was different, so why would he find someone else to try out sex with?

"Well, I should just finish you off then," she concluded.

Sherlock was momentarily perplexed at her sudden change of heart. "What?"

"Just lie down."

"No. We're having sex. It's my turn," he protested. Then he thought to himself, this is too overwhelming for her. He should've started slowly - perhaps kiss her on the neck this week, flick his tongue over her nipples the next, leave off the pièce de résistance until later. "Just let me finish. I won't do anything ... extra."

He gazed at her, a mutual understanding passed between them.

"Okay," she conceded, moving over to the bed, and lying down in the middle of it again.

Sherlock removed his pyjamas and climbed back onto the bed, and Rose.

"Oh!" they both realised.

He'd removed the condom. Rose reached over for the second packet.
Sherlock kept his promise. No optional extras for Rose.


"Have you given up Saturday nights now?" Sherlock asked Rose as they sipped their tea, seated in the armchairs in the living room during their 'tea break'.

"Ah, no. I haven't."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, before he could decide whether that was a personal question or not.

"I'd have to give up the whole lot Cynthia said. So..."

"Back to dressing up and arresting punters with your fake police gear," Sherlock said, plain-faced, before taking a sip of his tea.

Rose laughed, in spite of herself. It was her fault, really. She couldn't tell Sherlock off for the personal nature of this discussion when she had brought him 'behind the scenes' at the brothel.

They chatted quite pleasantly about debts she had to pay off, and how she wasn't exactly 'rolling in it', an opinion Sherlock had voiced.

Sherlock wanted to probe further, despite the 'no personal details' restriction. He asked, "How hard was the decision to become a prostitute in order to pay off your debts?"

Rose paused. Should she answer? He knew so much already. "Surprisingly easy," she responded pensively, cradling her tea cup in both hands.

"Why?"

She tucked her legs in underneath her and stared into the fire before speaking. "A friend and I used to go out, you know, cruise the pubs and bars, flirting with guys to pay for our drinks." She chanced a look at Sherlock. He was frowning, in a disapproving way, Rose thought. She managed to continue, regardless. "Now and then, you know, you'd give them what they wanted, as a way of saying thanks. If they were cute, it didn't matter, if they weren't, well, you'd just make sure you'd had enough to drink to not care too much." The creases in Sherlock's brow became more pronounced. Rose concluded with, "Working in a brothel is not so different."

Sherlock didn't understand that mentality. He couldn't fathom the enormous amount of energy, time and money the general population expended in the pursuit of 'getting off'. So young men just had to buy Rose drinks in those early days. Now she dispenses with the alcohol and takes the money directly. There was one thing missing though.

"But then you're not drunk to take away the care factor," he observed.

She smiled at him. "I've learnt how to switch off," she replied coyly.

Have you? thought Sherlock, smiling smugly to himself.

"But how did you come upon the idea to work in a brothel?" he probed further.

"I was flat-sharing with two other girls. When Holly decided to move out, Shelley and I were left with more rent to pay. We couldn't get anyone else interested. Shelley started working for Mark and Cynthia—she'd heard about them through another friend. She gave me the idea."

"Shelley?"

"Shelley. My flatmate."

Quirking an eyebrow, Sherlock asked, "You used your flatmate's name as your alias?"

"Great idea, hey, 'John'?"

Sherlock huffed a small laugh.

"Must get confusing at the brothel when someone calls out for Shelley though?"

"No, she left before I started work there, and besides, she didn't use her own name either." Rose looked down, examining her tea cup in her lap. Her face momentarily clouded over as she continued. "She's working the streets now. She says it's easier than handing money over to the brothel owners. But I don't know." She looked back up at Sherlock, then gazed into the fire again. "I worry about her all the time. I could never do what she's doing."

Sherlock quietly observed Rose. "Working the streets?" he enquired.

"Mmm," she confirmed distractedly. Brightening she added, "She can get twenty pounds for a hand job or thirty pounds just for giving head."

"And how many of those would she churn through in an hour?"

Rose smiled. Churn through, interesting choice of words. "I don't know. She's high most of the time she does it. Hey, she thinks someone's stalking her. Do you think we could hire you to check it out? Not like she can go to the cops or anything."

"Hire me?" Sherlock found the concept of being hired by a prostitute amusing.

"Well, she could probably pay you in kind...I'll get her to contact you?"

Rose stopped. This was probably the most personal conversation she'd had with Sherlock. Her barriers were almost non-existent today. See, that's what happens when you almost let a client give you an orgasm, Rose!

Noting Sherlock's look of distaste, Rose hastily changed the subject, "Are you working on any new cases now?"

Sherlock told her briefly about the missing banker case, but chastised her when she started asking about John. "Don't get any ideas," he said firmly.

There was a mischievous glint in Rose's eyes as she stated, "Need to keep my options open."

Sherlock was having none of it. This was his flatmate, for Christ's sake. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't flirt with him?"

"Flirt, no. You didn't say anything about propositioning though," Rose stated with a playful smile.

"He won't be interested," Sherlock responded dismissively.

"Why not?"

"Strong moral fibre. I told you," he remarked through narrow eyes.

"And you don't have any morals?"

Sherlock sighed as he replied. "Morality is a set of beliefs based on principles of how people conduct themselves in interpersonal relationships and within society. My beliefs and John's beliefs are quite dissimilar. He believes in interpersonal relationships. I don't."

"I feel as if I'm in a philosophy lecture," she mused out loud.

"We're having a semi-intelligent discussion are we not?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"That's right. And you're paying me for it, so I'd better get my intellectual head on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the notion. "Why must you swap? Can't you just be yourself?"

"I told you - I have to switch off sometimes. I can't bear all the slobbering and groping - fingers and hands and tongues licking and sucking and clawing at me. It fuckin' sickens me sometimes. I can't relax and be myself."

She stopped, taking in Sherlock's face. He'd gone paler than he normally was, his mouth set in a thin line and his eyes downcast. He stood up suddenly.

"Another tea?" he asked tonelessly.

"I...ah...if you are?"

Blood drained from Rose's face as Sherlock walked away from her. She suddenly realised what had just happened then.

Dammit Rose! He thinks you're including his efforts in that little rant! You've hurt his feelings! I can't tell him I didn't mean him. That would be admitting I liked what he was doing - that I was aroused. But he's visibly upset!

She stood up. Say something.

But Sherlock spoke first, from the kitchen. He placed his empty cup down onto the kitchen bench and spoke quite quickly without making eye contact, "You know, I think we'll finish up today. Our first session was quite intense, but don't worry, keep the full amount. I don't mind paying you for the minimum one hour."

He walked off into the bedroom, leaving Rose standing at the edge of the kitchen feeling like a twat. She walked quickly through the kitchen, following Sherlock into his bedroom. He had his wallet open and was plucking out a twenty pound note. Rose felt like the worst person in the world.

"Your tip," he said, holding up the note before tossing it lightly onto his bedside table.

She found her voice at last. "No, don't... leave a tip."

"Nonsense. This is business. If you've excelled at your job, you should be well compensated. I'll leave you to get dressed. Must get to work. I've got a kidnapped banker to find."

He left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Rose sat on Sherlock's bed for a full minute, her head spinning. Why is she feeling so bad? He's a client! A client! A man who pays for sex. Just...just stop it, Rose. Stop feeling bad for the poor man. The poor, sad, man.

But he's not normally sad. He's usually full of confidence, even in the knowledge of his sexual inexperience, he was still confident and, dare she say it, arrogant. Willing to learn, to excel. How did he get so good, so quickly? And now she'd made him doubt himself. He probably thinks he's a drooling, groping, clumsy, sickening talentless fuck, when in fact he's just the opposite.

Rose looked over at the tip Sherlock had left - dumped onto a bedside table. That's what you do for hookers. Leave the cash. Walk out.

Rose was going to cry if she thought about this any longer. The sex was good, but the conversation was... he would say: disappointing. Yet he still tipped. That made her feel ten times, no, a hundred times smaller.

Rose cleaned herself up in the bathroom, then dressed slowly, the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach weighing her down. She wouldn't accept the tip.

Rose had a whole day of lectures to face. Look on the bright side, she told herself. One hundred and eighty pounds for only half an hour's work. That's like: three hundred and sixty pounds an hour. She could be a high class escort at that rate!

But high class she wasn't.

The money was dumped on the table. She was a prostitute. A tom.

Here's your money.

Get dressed.

Leave.

Rose exited Sherlock's bedroom, her heavy bag of books slung over her shoulder. Sherlock was sitting at his living room table, still clad in his pyjamas, typing on a laptop.

With trepidation Rose spoke, "I guess I'll see you next week?"

"I'll text you if I require your services again," Sherlock replied impassively, staring at his screen and typing a little.

Rose's stomach dropped further. "Sherlock..."

"Pull the door shut quite firmly on your way out. It tends to stick a bit in this weather," he added, still peering at the screen.

Rose strode across the living room, unlatched the door, and left through it, slamming it along the way.

.


UPDATE 13th Jan 2016: This chapter has been edited to be consistent with changes made to chapter 1.