Author's Note: This section onwards is my own work.
xxRegretteRienxx
It felt as though it would split him in half, but he didn't cry out, for fear that it would, impossibly, get worse.
They'd never find him doing something as foolish as empathising with another human being again, he resolved with a grim set to his jaw.
He found himself imagining killing Allen, and then, mysteriously, cataloguing different ways in which he could disguise the murder, make it look like an accident.
He mentally shook his head. There was no way he could gain the upper hand in this situation right now.
No way.
The money was thrown at him afterwards, as he still lay on the bed in pain.
"I hope you're not getting old, baby," Allen sneered as he got dressed, "I'll have to find a new fuck."
Sherlock didn't answer him, he couldn't bring himself to, and Allen made his own way out.
Although previously he'd been exhausted, sleep was not forthcoming after Allen had left, so slowly, gradually, Sherlock drew himself to his feet. He was not seriously injured, he noted with a dark sort of satisfaction. Only psychologically, then, he determined. And he'd have to go and make sure that he was still clean. A surge of anger overwhelmed his turmoil of emotions, and he pulled on his clothes. He lit one cigarette shakily, while still in the flat, and pocketed Allen's dirty cash. He couldn't stay here right now. He had no idea where he was going to go, but currently, anywhere would be an improvement.
The policeman's contact card lay on the table in the dark apartment.
His feet took him back near the park where he worked. How inconvenient of them to do such automatic things. He was preoccupied, and his body's autopilot was useless. If anyone saw him walking around the park, as he did on a weekly basis, they'd think he was looking for a job, and there was no way he could possibly do one right now.
He decided to turn left down Montague street. If he did that, the mental map leapt into his head unbidden, then he could cut across the block and basically follow Drury Lane until he wound up at the Thames. Polluted though it was, the lapping water usually soothed his racing mind.
Usually.
But he never got the chance. A car pulled over in front of him as he was about to cross over to the pedestrian island, and Sherlock froze. He had no back up as a rentboy; no pimp and certainly no union. If the person in this car wanted to use him, and didn't take no for an answer, Sherlock had no choice. He steeled himself, and muttered the closest thing to resembling a prayer he had ever uttered in his life.
The car door opened.
But it was the wrong side, it was the passenger, and someone was getting out. Someone skinny, wearing tight clothes. Someone who looked like the streets were his home. He was tucking money into his pocket and not looking back at the tubby, middle-aged, middle-class-looking driver of the car.
Sherlock thought his knees would collapse.
Another rentboy.
He wasn't entirely sure of this one's name, he was relatively new to the area, but Sherlock had definitely seen him before, wandering from one end of the square to the other, with the same look that Sherlock himself wore while on the pull; a mixture of desperation and a feigned nonchalance, searching the night for clients. The other boy lit a cigarette, the tiny flame lighting up his face in the darkness, and Sherlock instinctively reached for his pocket to get a smoke out himself. But his pocket was empty. In his haste to get out of the flat, he'd left them behind. For fuck's sake!
He licked his lips in anxiety, and the other rentboy caught his eye. There was the subtle lift of a chin in acknowledgement, and the barest hint of a smile.
"Smoke?" the other boy offered as he approached.
Sherlock nodded. "Name's Sherlock," he introduced himself.
"You're in the park a fair bit, aren't you?" the other boy inquired matter-of-factly. "Tommy." he stuck his hand out in a cheesy display of propriety.
Sherlock highly doubted that "Tommy"s name was really Tommy – a lot of the boys on the street used common names as pseudonyms, either to avoid attention from the law, or to avoid being chased up by family, friends or enemies. It was just easier to be anonymous sometimes.
Sherlock understood it, but he didn't desire it. His ego obstinately stood in the way of his becoming just another nameless shadow. Well, usually. Tonight he'd give almost anything to be able to just vanish, for everything to go away.
Tommy silently read Sherlock's ponderous expression. "Long night, huh?" he commented. "Run-in with the fuzz." Sherlock answered. It was some of the truth, after all.
Tommy nodded. "I'm not doing any more jobs tonight. Want to unwind?" he offered. There was no suggestiveness in his voice, Sherlock observed, none of the tell-tale signs that anything was wanted, anything expected. He shrugged. The night couldn't get any worse, surely.