Hello, dear readers, old and new! Sorry for the delay, but I did warn you! Plot has been well and truly laid out, so all I need to do is pad it out with porn XD There will be more posted in the next few hours – I'm in the midst of writing and trying to figure out when the next chapter break should be. Hmm.
I hope you enjoy this chapter – please read and review!
xxRegretteRienxx
He woke with a start, heart pounding, the last traces of some horrible dream swiftly escaping his memory, but the quietude of the outside world – Baker St was settling down to rest for the night – reassured him that whatever had tormented his unconscious mind was not here in the real world.
Tommy was still next to him this time, and Sherlock stared for moment, just beginning to realise how little he actually knew about the other man.
He wondered how much he could figure out without asking, without waking him.
Physical features were easy, and didn't really lend a lot to understanding another's character, Sherlock knew that only too well, but nonetheless.
Asleep, Tommy appeared younger than he did while awake, full of bravado, drive, and a strong self-assertion – which might only be an act, considering Sherlock was able to make the man's certainty vanish just the night before. Or had it been two nights previous? Time was escaping, inconstant.
It was hard to tell with particularly good actors what the true person behind the portrayals was – especially since half of them didn't know their 'true self' themselves. But age was not able to be feigned in sleep, and besides, Tommy's hands, softer and more delicate than Sherlock's own, did not only depict someone unfamiliar with manual labour, but also indisputably betrayed youth.
The hands in question were gently curled, much as Tommy's entire body was, facing towards Sherlock but in on himself, not affectionately wrapped around the person with whom he was sharing a bed.
That was helpful, Sherlock could surmise two things from the pose – firstly, a familiarity with non-bed sleeping surfaces, and secondly, a disinclination towards intimacy, even at a very fundamental level. Though the intimacy aspect was hardly a deductive leap, considering that most people in their industry had some sort of atypical approach to relationships with others.
Sherlock didn't quite know what his own position regarding human interactions was – although he felt emotions most of the time and could understand others' emotions, sometimes he had to remind himself what was and what wasn't socially acceptable behaviour, and to express his emotions appropriately. He was certain, from observing both members of his family and people he encountered in general, that this was not a 'normal' way to experience the world, and that socially adaptive emotions and behaviours came a lot easier to the majority of the rest of the world.
His job was so much easier. He didn't have to connect emotionally, and the clients didn't expect him to. It was much easier to distract them through some form of physical stimulation, and even the clients with the greatest curiosity about something he did that was particularly cold or stand-offish, were suddenly incapable of coherent thought, and were suddenly incapable of caring anymore whether their fuck was smiling at them with appropriately-happy eyes, sceptical eyes, or indeed, any eyes at all. While laying back and screaming, shouting, lip-biting bliss, little else seemed to matter.
Tommy murmured, and pawed a little in his sleep, making Sherlock think of a puppy dreaming.
He felt a sudden urge to leave and get away from this man who seemingly had so much influence over Sherlock's decisions. He had convinced Sherlock to let him stay overnight last night, convinced Sherlock to stay home rather than working, to let him come into the apartment again later on in the night, to fuck him without paying…and what for? For a little hit of heroin? For a flash of sparkly green eyes, some attractive pink lips, and a lock of reddish-blonde hair?
That wasn't how Sherlock worked, and he felt sickened.
He stood, and strode into the bathroom – he didn't run, although it was a rapid pace, it was certainly measured.
Perhaps it was more rapid than an objective viewer would deem necessary, but Sherlock was glad of his prompt arrival to the bathroom when his legs gave way, and he wound up kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, long fingers clutching the porcelain for all they were worth, and dry-retching painfully.
There was nothing to throw up, didn't his body know that?
Cold sweat tormented him, and when the uncontrollable heaving choking mess was over, he was shivering violently. A hot shower. Lots of soap. That would clear him up. Get this all-over sticky feeling off him. It had to work.
The bathroom was filled with steam, and his skin was red, but he was still scrubbing furiously, when the curtain slid over and another body was in the recess behind him, touching him, kissing his shoulderblade.
He whirled, enraged, but lost his footing, as one is wont to do in a shower, and his arm which had been striking out at the intruder, was suddenly grabbing and holding him close instead.
A soft chuckle was elicited, he felt it emanate from the other's throat and reverberate through his chest – Tommy, for it was Tommy, was standing too close for Sherlock's liking.
And his hands were everywhere! Grabbing his arse in the most provocative manner, as though he thought he had the right, without even the slightest consideration of payment!
It clashed harshly with Sherlock, with what he wanted from Tommy, and he briefly entertained the thought of hurling Tommy against the wall of the shower: it would surely split his skull open, or at the very least daze him, and then he would fall, most likely causing irreparable, if not fatal, damage to his spine.
But he didn't follow through.
Partly because dealing with the subsequent dead body wasn't something he felt he had the energy for right now, and partly because it wasn't entirely clear at the moment what direction the shower walls were in, from this peculiar vantage point.
"Tommy…" he whispered, unsure whether Tommy would hear him over the running water of the shower – when had the shower become so goddamn loud? It was pounding down!
"Good morning to you, too," Tommy said in reply, his lips fastened somewhere around the base of Sherlock's neck, mistaking Sherlock's racing pulse, shortness of breath and loss of balance as being a positive aftereffect of his joining Sherlock in the shower, rather than a negative one.
Sherlock's entire weight against him a moment later soon made it abundantly clear that this was not the case.
"Fuck!" Tommy exclaimed, but to his credit, kept his balance, and managed to stop Sherlock from falling, which was no mean feat considering Sherlock's gangly limbs trying to off-balance him every which way.
With as much assistance as Sherlock could provide, Tommy managed to manoeuvre Sherlock so that he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
"Can you stay there for a minute?" he checked, cautiously.
Sherlock slumped against the wall next to the bath, using that to keep himself from toppling back, barely noticing how cold it was against his skin until Tommy came back from turning the shower off and wrapped a towel around his shoulders instead.
"You're not gonna be sick, are you?" Tommy asked in concern, and Sherlock shook his head, a humourless smile crossing his face. He felt miserable.
"You just need something to perk you up – wait a minute, I know – " and he was off again.
Left alone, Sherlock felt a sudden pang and couldn't wait for Tommy to return. He didn't want Tommy to ever leave. What the fuck was wrong with him? He didn't care especially for the other man, but if he left, he'd be stuck all alone – he probably would have hurt himself badly, falling over in the shower like that; but then again, if Tommy hadn't startled and enraged him, he wouldn't have jumped and slipped. He leant forward, propping his elbows on his knees, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, trying to force rational thoughts into his brain.
And Tommy was back, kneeling in front of him – the whole scene must have looked like some bizarre ritual offering, as Tommy held out a small tinfoil package on upturned palm.
"Open up," he said in a singsong voice, but Sherlock eyed the contents dubiously.
It wasn't heroin, that much was obvious. That meant any variety of other drugs available on the streets, which took the form of a whitish powder. Sherlock couldn't tell which. He wanted to just get a taster: the tip of his finger, and the tip of his tongue, but even if he did, he was aware that he wouldn't know the taste, it would just be a mishmash of chemicals.
Besides, his current state of melancholy paralysed him from actually following through with any of these thoughts. Maybe if he just stayed here long enough, he'd die, and the world would go away and stop causing him to experience such horrible things all the time.
"It's crack," Tommy explained, trying to prompt Sherlock to move, to respond. "It's better if you smoke it or stick it in ya, but you can just lick it, and you'll get a nice buzz."
Sherlock knew that, he knew all of that, and more – the information racing behind his eyes as he looked at the powder now, Cocaine, benzoylmethyl ecgonine, frequently administered in multiple doses over the course of a day, unlike heroin, which one hit can cause a state of physical listlessness for hours. Causes: high energy and euphoria.
Euphoria. He'd see about that. And he leant forward; his finger still moist from the shower and the steam floating in the air – a smile lit up Tommy's face, his gift was being accepted.
Tiny crystals fastened themselves along the length of Sherlock's finger, and he stuck the entire thing in his mouth to suck them off, not noticing the excitement this gesture elicited on Tommy's face, but definitely noticing the younger man invading his personal space again, leaning in intrusively, demandingly, for a kiss.
The taste of powdered chemicals on his tongue was confused with the taste of Tommy: musky, not a clean, minty-fresh veneer, but not unpleasant, like the sight of a hobo with gingivitis makes one imagine. He seemed to have a certain natural sweetness which made him appetising, and before Sherlock realised it, he was kissing him back, and holding his head in place, lest he back off again and leave him alone.
Tommy giggled, actually giggled, like a child, and easily broke out of Sherlock's hold, but didn't move away; he took a large pinch of the crack and placed it far back on his tongue, kept his mouth opened as he leant in to Sherlock again, and Sherlock did his damned best to get as much of the luscious powder away from him.
Ages later, and yet too soon, Tommy concluded, "Well, you're obviously feeling better. Come and get breakfast with me before work."
Sherlock scrambled to his feet to follow Tommy back into the bedroom. They dressed rapidly – clothing was less of a concern in their work, and more just how the clothing clung to their bodies, and exactly whereit clung to – and were out of the apartment within a minute.