Well, I have a few apologies to make before imposing this entry on the world -
Sorry for taking so long between posts.
Sorry that this entry is so RIDICULOUSLY long (approx 3,500 words).
Sorry for making an Israeli antagonist. I don't mean offence by this, I don't mean to try and say that Israelis are more likely to perform criminal acts than any other nationality, I just had to choose a nationality, and that was the one I went with. I hope everyone's okay with this.
Thanks to everyone who has persisted with this fic and been so patient with the huge gap between posts.
As always, comments are love!
Read on, my pretties!
xxRegretteRienxx
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He couldn't see Tommy anywhere upon his return to Russell Square, and paced in agitation, searching. He thought he saw a familiar face, but then – he caught the eye of another lone figure, who gazed steadily.
Was it analysis, or desire?
Sherlock inclined his head a little, and licked his lips – a strategy which would send the right signals to a client, but wouldn't provide enough evidence for an undercover police officer to justify an arrest. To say it was a well-practised gesture would be a severe understatement.
Apparently, the other man interpreted Sherlock's indication correctly, because his hesitation vanished, and he half-sauntered, half-strode across the park until he stood directly in front of Sherlock. They didn't break eye-contact the whole time.
Sherlock tensed slightly as he surveyed this new client. He was taller than Sherlock, and physically larger. On top of which, he had an aggressive demeanour, and this was the part which really gave Sherlock cause for concern. How much would the client want, and could Sherlock give it to him? Especially without his extra, needed dose from Tommy.
He clenched and unclenched his hands in an attempt to dispel the tension he was feeling, and raised his chin to look the other man in the eye. Despite his defiant pose, his expression was inviting, submissive, and he knew his lips being pouted just so was irresistible to near all his clients.
"You'll do." The man said decisively, after sizing Sherlock up for a moment.
He grabbed Sherlock's jacket lapel and dragged him along roughly. Sherlock's heart raced as he panicked, but allowed himself to follow the other man.
Don't fight, don't provoke, it'll make things worse. Running was always an option, Sherlock reminded himself, endeavouring to deduce the extent of the threat posed by the other man.
Surprise and relief swept through him when their pace was stopped at a park bench, and the man released Sherlock's jacket. He sat on the bench abruptly, and parted his knees.
"Suck me." he ordered.
"50 pounds." Sherlock said automatically, then balked. They were out in the open, anyone could see.
Tact was in order – this client wasn't exactly someone who would take well to being told that his choice of venue was less than optimal.
Break down the defences. There were always defences, Sherlock knew.
He moved purposefully between the other man's knees, never breaking eye contact, and gracefully knelt. He smiled, and the hint of nervousness wasn't entirely an act, as he was preoccupied with thoughts of his next hit, and whether there were any police in the vicinity.
But to the client, his anxious expression conveyed anticipation and possibly lack of experience which Sherlock had observed, was inexplicably a common kink amongst many of his clients. They clearly had no concept of just how very improbably it was to find a virginal rent-boy, let alone one who was worth paying anything at all for his fumbling, pathetic services.
He pressed his palms against the other man's knees, fanned his fingers out and slowly moved both hands further up the thighs. He let his breath out in a gradual exhale, which the client mimicked unconsciously, revealing to Sherlock just how engaged he was in the moment, and his level of desire, communicated by the quavering, uneven release of air.
Sherlock abandoned the legs teasingly, before he properly reached the man's groin, and grasped his hands instead. He drew the hands to his mouth and kissed them one after the other, then chose a finger at random to torment with his tongue, lips and just the barest edge of his teeth.
The erotic manipulation was almost automatic, as his conscious brain entertained itself with collecting points of interest about the man. He was aroused, there was no doubt there; straining fabric betrayed that.
Unmarried – he picked another finger to lave – there wasn't even a dent on the man's ring finger to indicate the removal of a ring in an attempt to disguise a marriage. Single, definitely. No girlfriend either, judging by those unpolished business shoes which would have been buffed at least a little in order to garner attention and interest from potential romantic partners.
This outfit was zero-effort, straight-from-the-office, and Sherlock knew exactly what was lacking in this man's life. Despite his aggressive demeanour and conduct, this man was actually shaking more from fear than desire; the sweat on his palms and brow was evidence of that simple fact: Sherlock could literally taste the wrong concentration of salt and hormones on his skin; this was not the right sweat for the situation.
This new information made Sherlock's next step only too easy.
Satisfied, he rocked back on his heels and stood up in a smooth movement, running a finger upwards along the client's torso as he did so. It was just the mildest suggestion but again, the absolute loss of control that the client was experiencing in this situation meant that he again followed the motion automatically.
He seemed somewhat bewildered to find himself on his feet, and Sherlock acted fast to distract him again and get them out of the spotlight he was only partly imagining completely illuminating them. He stepped in close again; proximity seemed to throw this particular man: he couldn't quite suppress his fear response enough to be able to completely lose himself in the experience. That explained the redirection of energy into making it seem as though he was completely in control of the situation.
Sherlock's relaxed assertiveness was something the other man didn't know how to contend with. Had Sherlock been blatantly wresting dominance, he probably would have responded with even greater aggression, but subtle control was much more difficult to counter.
He ground his hips calculatedly against the client, providing multiple attacks by slipping a hand between them to stroke in an entirely singular manner. Sherlock also targeted a particular spot on the man's jaw with his tongue. It seemed to do the trick.
Sherlock ensured his expression was equal parts agreeableness and pleading. The client was reduced, couldn't argue, couldn't control, there was nothing tangible to fight against. It was all pure lust now, and Sherlock turned the grind of his hips against the clients' body into a gentle, gradual guidance towards the bushes just behind the park bench.
Slowly, wonderingly, the client backed into the shrubbery, and as soon as Sherlock noted that they were surrounded by plants instead of the eerie, deceptive emptiness of the park, he fell to his knees again.
He'd put enough work into this client already – goddamn it – he should start upping his prices to account for his highly personalised service. He knew that his ability to read clients and understand what they wanted was far superior to any other rent boy. But higher prices would discourage clients; they would be reluctant to come to him, and he'd be deprived of his favourite game: deducing what clients want from a sexual partner, and then changing himself in order to suit it brilliantly.
The current client's desperation was only too apparent, and Sherlock found that he hardly needed to pay any heed to his technique again; just the moisture, heat, pressure and motion of his mouth seemed to be sufficient. This client didn't care if Sherlock was skilled, or paid particular attention to his head or his frenulum or whether Sherlock was able to consume his entire length without choking (he was), or whether Sherlock stimulated his balls in any way – It was all over fast regardless, and Sherlock was glad twice: once to be free to return to his hunt for Tommy, and once for his observational skills so that he could remove himself from the firing line, so to speak, well in advance, perfectly avoiding...unpleasantries.
Yes, he'd managed to disengage just before the client had come into his mouth.
"Well." he announced conclusively, and patted the client's thighs as he stood again, much as a rugby player pats his teammate on the back after a good game. "50 pounds." he repeated, because the other man hadn't yet come back to himself or made a move to pay. He didn't, however, look as though he was about to faint, so that was a plus.
"Yeah," the man breathed, but couldn't decide whether to pull his trousers back on first or get his wallet out.
Sherlock lit a cigarette while the client fumbled: he was disinclined to help, even though his assistance would undoubtedly hurry the process along. His apathy was returning, he couldn't find compassion for anyone else – particularly not people who had a habit of treating others like shit. A small corner of him was glad not to have bowed to the client's desire to abuse, but it was nowhere near a large enough corner to make any significant difference. Even had the client beaten him, Sherlock possibly wouldn't've cared, and he wondered at the effort he'd actually put in to avoid getting rough treatment.
He didn't tap his foot while waiting for the cash, but his eyes darted in paranoia around the park, and then a note was being tucked into his pocket.
"Alright." he stated, turning on his heel and walking off without a backwards look.
It only took a second to reach the centre of Russell Square again, and he spun slowly, noting everything and everyone. He stopped short mid-survey, however, because there was his target. Tommy. He was leaning over a car on the other side of the park, talking charm through the open window. Sherlock didn't need to hear it or see anything besides the posture and the gestures to know that Tommy was talking his way into the car, with dirty promises and beautiful, lewd words. Sherlock had done it himself on countless occasions.
The cheer that had bubbled up inside him dissipated when he realised that Tommy picking up another client meant that Sherlock couldn't score off him just now. Irrespective of this minor detail, he continued to stare over at Tommy.
Suddenly, it hit him just why he was so fixated, and just what it had been that had caught his eye back in the alleyway with Clyde.
It had always thrown him, because it was such a stereotype for the villain to drive a sleek, black car, with immensely tinted windows.
Shit. Allen. Shit!
He'd been so busy thinking about cocaine, he'd failed to spot the distinctive, olive, elegant hand protruding from the shadows, extended to lightly pet Tommy's jaw.
Sherlock wasn't sure if it was jealousy or disgust that overtook him in that moment, but he did know it was the single most unpleasant emotion he had encountered since Allen's most recent session those couple of days prior.
He started towards the car urgently, despite seeing the door had already opened; despite Tommy already climbing in. It was impossible to stop the chain of events, but he still tried. Completely irrational.
He lunged forward with a surge of energy and – collided solidly, knocking the wind out of himself. He basically kept his feet, however, thanks to some miracle, and no thanks to the legs of the other person tangling around with a complete lack of coordination. He swore out loud this time, and his curses chorused with the obstacle's own angry utterances. He was constantly observing, of course he couldn't help but notice who the man he was currently trying to extricate himself from was.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade." he commented. It was almost a greeting, despite his unfriendly tone.
The other man's head snapped up, and though his eyes registered recognition, his jaw worked through a variety of shapes trying to recall the correct name.
"Sherlock." Sherlock pointed out, resigning himself to just having to wait until Tommy was returned to the park. If he was returned.
"Sorry, yeah, Sherlock." Lestrade stuttered. "I was miles away, thinking about this bloody case."
"The kidnappings?" Sherlock inquired, purely to prompt Lestrade to talk more.
"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "It's been all over the news, hasn't it? I'm not thrilled about that, advertising to the criminals just where we're up to in our investigations, letting them know how far ahead of us they are."
"Hmm." Sherlock said non-commitally, scanning the park for Tommy's return (ridiculous: Allen wouldn't be done with Tommy yet, what was he thinking?).
"It's a bit too obvious, don't you think?"
Lestrade was lost now. "What do you mean?"
"The first person who was taken is well-known for frequenting Vatan, an Israeli restaurant. The second person has Israelophilic parents, as evidenced by her first name: Farah. And the third person is possibly the worst offender of all, having just come back from a six-month working holiday in Tehran. It's really quite, quite obvious." Sherlock rattled off.
His continued search for Tommy meant that he missed the look of bewildered amazement that descended upon Lestrade's face. "So you're saying that all the victims have been kidnapped because they're Israeli? They're not Israeli, Sherlock. Each of them is a British subject."
Sherlock sighed impatiently, and shot Lestrade a look of derision that was usually reserved for exclusive use on Mycroft. "You are underestimating the kidnapper. They're concerned about national pride, not nationality. The only thing is, I don't know what has happened to the hostages, so I don't know what side the kidnapper is on. Anti-Israeli, most likely, with those father issues."
"Father issues? What are you on about?" Lestrade demanded. "We have no idea who the kidnapper is, no ties between the victims – "
"The Israeli link, I just told you." Sherlock cut in.
" – no real links," Lestrade persisted, "And now you're throwing around speculations, based on nothing! Just because every second person in your industry has severely unresolved father issues doesn't mean that's what motivates the rest of the world!"
Sherlock maintained a steady gaze, not betraying the impact of Lestrade's words. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but otherwise he was terrifyingly still. The inspector seemed to suddenly realise how spiteful he was being, and he stopped, gathered himself.
"Sorry. Sorry. Stressing again. Completely unwarranted. Look, I don't care what you do. That's not my concern. It's not even my department, I deal with homicide. The higher ups think that our kidnapper might kill the hostages – or might've done already, which is why they've lumped me with this. I hate to admit it to anyone, especially a civilian, but – ha – who are you going to tell?" Lestrade laughed humourlessly. "I don't know what to do with this case. I have nothing to go on!"
"The Israeli - " Sherlock began again, but Lestrade cut him off. "Stop saying 'the Israeli connection'! Where did you get that type of information from, anyway?"
Sherlock scratched his side absently.
"I deduced it, from an article I read in the paper earlier today."
"Deduced it?" Lestrade scoffed, crossing his arms. "Go on, then. Who's our kidnapper?"
"I don't know who they are, precisely," Sherlock admitted. "But I do know they may have some form of vendetta against Israelis – it's complicated, so likely the kidnapper is Israeli themselves, probably posing as a tourism promotions representative, therefore having connections with the British-Israeli community, and able to track people who regularly attend particular venues. The kidnapper likely made friends with Farah's parents via a chance meeting at a party or another social gathering, and exchanged contact details under the guise of developing a friendly acquaintance relationship, and finally, a tourism promotions representative is naturally a port of call when people are planning trips overseas, which explains the unfortunate Mr McWilliams. Our kidnapper goes against the expectations of society – I believe she is a female, rather than the typical male antagonist, and this should narrow your search parameters significantly. She's young, a recent generation, passionate about Western society as proven by her nylon-based clothing – you remember the scraps found at the site of Mr. McWilliams' kidnapping? – nylon, as opposed to more traditional materials such as cotton. She's acting out against the oppressive societal structure well known to be upheld in Israel, her rebellion possibly due to being the youngest girl of a family of three, maybe four, older brothers. She seems to be out to punish people she regards as likely to contribute to the oppression of women."
"Oh my god." Lestrade breathed. "You can't be serious. We've got experts all over this case, forensic psychologists, anthropologists, the best investigators in the precinct, and no-one's come up with a theory nearly as convoluted, mad, and...entirely believable as yours. I just can't comprehend it. I mean, I'll have to look into it all, maybe you're just talking bollocks, but...stop scratching, yeah? Here, write your number on this," Lestrade requested, holding out his notepad and pen. "If you're right, and dammit, I don't know what I'll do if you are, I'll need to be in touch with you again. That is alright, isn't it?"
Sherlock nodded briefly, but didn't reach out to accept Lestrade's offering.
"I don't really..." he searched for a way to phrase it, "like answering phone calls. You're better off texting me. I answer fast, don't worry." he added, not sure why he felt a need to reassure the officer.
"Fine," Lestrade confirmed with a wave of his hand, "I'll text, fine. Stop scratching, though, I think you've drawn blood!"
Sherlock looked down at his hand, still rhythmically digging into his side. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem to belong to him. He thought about stopping the motion, but nothing happened. Dysmorphia. Why...?
Lestrade's hand shot out, grasped Sherlock by the wrist and dragged his hand away.
Sherlock managed to break free of this hold, and shoved Lestrade away roughly.
"Get off me!" he shouted, wrapping his arms over his head as he struggled for control. He blocked out Lestrade's look of concern, the mild protestation of "I'm just trying to help..." and grit his teeth in agony.
Where the fuck was Tommy? Why was Allen still tormenting him? He couldn't bear it anymore. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
"I have to go." he announced suddenly, not meeting Lestrade's gaze. "I have to."
He shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode away rapidly. He didn't know where he should go, what to do. He needed to find – maybe he should go back home. Maybe it was better if he waited here.
He reached a park bench and stopped, looked at it, stood near it, paced from one end to the other.
No, he didn't want to sit down.
He looked across the park. Lestrade hadn't followed him.
What now, what now?
He checked his wrists – no watch. He tapped his pockets automatically, even though he'd just had his hands in them. His phone must be at home. Not that it would help; he didn't know what time it'd been when Tommy had left, anyway; no idea how long he'd been in the park.
Agitated, he kicked at the park bench. It wasn't enough to damage it, to tip it over, but it was something to do.
His leg became sore and he was forced to stop.
Now, he sat.
He slumped over, arms folded, then straightened them out and traced his fingers through the grass, which was beginning to gather dew. The drops of moisture transferred to his fingers without protest, and soon his fingers were icy cool.
He brought them closer to his face to inspect, flexing them, rubbing them together. They were working now, back to belonging to hi, and he looked up with a triumphant smile. He was okay. And that – that was Tommy! He leapt to his feet and ran over.
It was clumsy, his legs had gone stiff from the position he'd sat in, and he slid on the wet grass, but he reached his destination, slamming their bodies together as he tried to express to Tommy how much he'd missed him, how much he'd wanted him, how much he was glad that Allen hadn't done anything horrible with him.
He couldn't, it would never, never be possible to be able to communicate that, but he did crush Tommy's lips against his, did make a huge effort to devour the other man, did cling to his clothes desperately.
Tommy broke away for a breath. "Hello, eager." he smiled, and Sherlock leaned in to claim his mouth again.
"Don't go," he murmured urgently, and Tommy looked at him in confusion.
"Okay." he said finally, and stroked Sherlock's hair gently. He planted a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "We'll go home, shall we?"
Sherlock had wrapped himself around Tommy – now that he was back, he didn't want them to part ever again. He nodded with his chin resting on Tommy's shoulder.
"Come on, you big goof." Tommy chuckled, easing Sherlock away.
They began walking, and Sherlock attempted to be satisfied with just holding Tommy's hand. He reminded himself every step of the way, that walking while hugging was impractical, barely feasible. Holding hands was okay.
He held on with all his might.
-
TBC