I would firstly like to apologise for the huge delay in updates – real life has been holding me back from my fun, but finally it has eased off a bit. Plus, the plot bunnies wanted me to do a horrible thing, and make this chapter begin with "Many Months Later..." but I decided against it, and forced myself to face up to the challenge of *shock* character development! So I hope you enjoy this chapter, I promise there is more to come much sooner than my previous gap between updates!
I would also like to point out that in my head, Sherlock is already living at 221B Baker Street – I hope that doesn't jar too nastily with canon for people's enjoyment of this story. Finally, Sherlock is hooking around Russell Square (Gardens). I don't know how realistic this is, having only visited London very briefly a couple of years ago, but I'm basically working with the assumption that *any* parklands are fair game for prostitution. However, if anyone can inform me that Russell Square is, for example, very heavily policed, I would be happy to change this detail.
Please read, enjoy, review! Thank you to all the people who have this story on alert! You are an abundance of little doses of joy in my inbox, keep it coming! :D
xxRegretteRienxx
Sherlock didn't quite realise when the person who was originally on the couch left, and Tommy took their place, but he did know that when he began to emerge again from the depths of the sluggish and floaty and tingly and numb world of heroin-nirvana, and back to the real world with all its pain and cold and poverty and unpleasant memories, Tommy was there, starting to stretch and sit up and reach into his pockets for a cigarette. Sherlock wanted to cry as his dopamine levels disintegrated from the dizzying high back down to normal, but the urge was irrational, and he fought it with every fibre of his being.
It wasn't a simultaneous conclusion to their trip, as evidenced by Tommy offering Sherlock some smokes as well, and while Sherlock wanted them, and managed the momentous achievement of keeping his eyes fixed on the packet, couldn't quite coordinate himself enough in order to reach out and grab one. Tommy shrugged, he was in no rush, and sat the packet on the couch cushions between them as he luxuriated in drag after drag.
Finally, Sherlock's hands were returned to his control, and they sought out a cigarette. After his fist puff, Tommy turned to him with a loose grin.
"New experience, huh?" he commented companionably.
Sherlock considered lying, but didn't feel any real need to. He knew only too well, after the events earlier tonight, that his person was near-worthless. Why bother with the effort to defend it?
"What gave it away?" he asked, not meeting Tommy's eyes. Tommy was being friendly, Sherlock realised, and he wanted to keep the other man away as much as possible.
"Easy," Tommy laughed. "The shit hit you hard, mate. I mean, it's alright shit – wouldn't be using it otherwise – but it's not that good. You fucken lightweight." he said, smiling, then stood. "Come on, let's fuck off."
Sherlock got to his feet before he realised what he was doing, and tried to compensate for the mindless obedience of his actions by striding out of the room in front of Tommy, pulling his coat sleeve back on over his bared arm.
The sun was up now, outside, and Sherlock squinted painfully in the rays, wondering vaguely what time it was.
It wasn't until they hit the corner of New Cavendish Street and Portland Place that Sherlock realised that Tommy seemed to be actually following him, not just sharing the walk.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended. And then, not harshly enough. He was yet undecided about how he felt towards Tommy at the moment. Tommy had so far expressed nothing but pleasantness and friendship towards Sherlock, but all the same, Sherlock had been raped not even 24 hours ago – he didn't quite feel trusting towards others just now.
"Dunno." Tommy shrugged. "Assumed you had some place to crash." he explained.
"You're not coming over." Sherlock stated.
"Oh." was the crestfallen response.
Something about that one syllable struck Sherlock. He stopped, and faced Tommy.
"You're not homeless." He deduced aloud. Of course he wasn't – Tommy was a decent rent boy, able to charge a nice handful of pounds for his services, because he kept himself clean, and he wore clothing of a certain quality, not rags. On top of all this, he worked Russell Square, and heroin was his recreational drug of choice. If he was sustaining a heroin habit and was homeless, he would be entirely incapable of maintaining such a level of cleanliness and personal grooming, and would never garner any clients in Russell Square.
"No." Tommy confirmed. "I share a rubbish bedsit with a couple of mates over in Islington. It's just, I dunno...kinda crowded. They usually have birds over, so I can't really get a lot of kip, you know?"
Though his demeanour was still very matter-of-fact, Sherlock easily spotted the vague despair Tommy probably would have been able to disguise from other people.
"It's alright, I've got something to help me sleep today." Tommy tried to brush off his embarrassment at assuming he'd be going over to Sherlock's tapping his coat pocket.
Sherlock didn't need to have seen Tommy putting his unused stash in his pocket to realise what Tommy meant by the superficially off-handed comment.
He was silent for a moment, forcing his emotions into some sense.
"Islington?" he finally said, incredulously.
"On the edge closest," Tommy explained. "It's not that far."
"It's the other bloody side of Bloomsbury and then some!" Sherlock exclaimed, but not loudly, unwilling to draw attention from the general public who filled the footpath around them. "Take you at least an hour to get there, walking."
Tommy smiled wryly. "Thought I'd be able to find someone to give me a lift. Usually do." And his game face was on: chin tucked down so he had to look up through his lashes to meet Sherlock's gaze, lips moistened and slightly pouting, inviting.
Sherlock didn't doubt for a second that this technique usually worked for Tommy, but a shudder ran through him at the thought of any prostitution at the moment. He stomped out his cigarette butt decisively.
"Come on." he ordered, crossing Portland Place briskly.
Tommy was still on the kerb, not having caught up with Sherlock's thought processes.
Understandable, really, when Sherlock wasn't entirely sure himself why he had changed his mind, or what he was going to do once he and Tommy arrived at Baker Street. "Come on!" he instructed again, calling over his shoulder, and Tommy sprang into action, jogging to catch up with Sherlock's pace.
"Erm...Ta." Tommy offered, uncertainly.
Sherlock looked over at the other man out of the corner of his eye. "Mm," he responded, noncommittally.