A/N: Someone on tumblr asked me to write more Racer so I scribbled this out over my lunch break last night. Was mostly hand-written in a notebook, which I'm pretty terrible with as a narrative medium (much prefer typing), so pre-emptive apologies for any dumb or wacky sentence structures.


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Eric huffed an annoyed sigh into the soft fabric of Sherlock's sweatshirt, feeling the body under him flinch slightly as the screeching sound of the doorbell drowned out the noises from the telly. The two of them were curled up on the sofa, with Eric's face buried against Sherlock's chest while Sherlock unsuccessfully tried to avoid getting killed every five minutes in Halo.

"Your problem," Sherlock muttered distractedly. His tongue poked out from between his teeth in concentration as he navigated his endless one-man crusade to be the absolute worst Halo player in all existence. Eric grumbled something indistinct ('lazy arse ponce', or the like) and reluctantly propped himself up on his good arm. Sherlock, still holding the controller, raised his hands to let Eric wriggle out from under his arm, then resumed playing without having bothered to so much as pause the game.

"Yer gettin' the next one," Eric tossed over his shoulder as he plodded towards the front door.

"Not my job," Sherlock replied. Eric rolled his eyes. True enough, that, but sod Sherlock for being enough of a prat to point it out.

With a heavy huff of a sigh Eric finally reached the entryway and tugged open the door.

"'Lo?" he mumbled tiredly. Upon spotting the man on the front porch, however, he was forced to do his best to hide a grimace. Oh, brilliant.

In front of him Racer flashed an easy grin, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded brown trousers. An unlit cigarette dangled from between the man's lips as he eyed Eric up and down appreciatively.

"Ello then, love," he drawled. The tone of his voice was enough to make Eric's skin crawl. Racer had a bit of a reputation for chasing after street kids, young blokes especially, with an enthusiasm bordering on the disturbing. It was a habit Eric had fortunately yet to find himself on the wrong side of, due in large part to his status as an employee of Corey. Devin's elder brother controlled the bulk of Racer's supply lines, and it wouldn't do well for business to be interfering with the workforce of his distributor. Racer knew that well enough, meaning Eric, Charley and Ben had all been thusfar spared any serious advances from the man. Didn't stop him coming off as a massive creep, of course, but one had to take what positives you could get in this business.

And so, leering creep on his doorstep or not, Eric resigned himself to doing his job. And that was to assist clients. He pasted on the friendliest smile he could manage and stepped back to open the door wide enough for his guest to enter.

"Hey, Racer. Restockin' again?"

"Aye, lad, same as always. Toss us a pinch'a that pure snow, too, f'ya got a gram or two. We'll see wot we drum up wit' that."

"Right." Eric smiled again, less forced this time (Racer wasn't in too much of a teasing mood, it seemed, which might keep his usual lewd comments to a minimum), and turned toward the storage room about halfway down the hall where the majority of their stockpiled drugs were kept. Easy enough to toss together a packet of Racer's usual assortment; though as far as the pure stuff went he'd have to find a baggie somewhere, see if he could pester Sherlock into weighing up a few grams of his freshly-processed batch. Ordinarily Eric would do it himself, of course, but the cast on his arm made for a slightly difficult time with the scales.

As Eric made his way down the hall Racer trailed along behind him. "Got yerself a bit roughed up there, eh love?"

"Oh, er…" Eric glanced down at the sling on his arm. He shrugged, faintly embarrassed, and shot Racer a sheepish grin. "Yeah... s'just dislocated. Me an' Sherlock got jumped by a couple tossers walkin' back from th'pub after the last show."

At the mention of Sherlock's name Racer's eyes seemed to light up - not an entirely pleasant expression to witness. Belatedly Eric was reminded of the way Sherlock tended to go all odd over any mention of the weasel-like dealer and wondered whether he should have avoided mentioning his boyfriend altogether.

"Ah, did ya now!" Racer was grinning like he'd just discovered something hilarious. "I heard about that one, I'd wager. Lowell's boys been runnin' round screechin' their fool heads off 'bout a toffee-nose cokehead wot clobbered 'em all. That'd be yours, would it?"

"Erm…" Eric hesitated - partly because he wasn't sure if he should confirm or deny the question, and partly because Racer's accent was fucking impossible to decipher. The man had apparently been Scottish at one point, but years spent skulking about the alleys of London had infected his lilting brogue with all the worst elements of Cockney.

"Lad's a fighter though, eh?" Racer went on smoothly, not bothering to wait for a response from Eric. "And a proper boffin by Flanagan's talk." Grinning, he shot a lewd, meaningful glance towards the front of Eric's trousers with his subsequent words. "Boy sure as hell's got himself plenty a skills, then, hasn't he? Imagine you've had yerself more'n a few demonstrations by now, y'timorous dog you."

Racer's lecherous tone and teasing wink made it plenty clear what sort of 'demonstrations' he was referring to. Eric's face immediately went beet red as Racer cackled.

"W-we're… I mean, I'm not… it ain't none'a your business!" Eric tried to set his expression in an affronted glare but failed miserably as his cheeks were still burning crimson. The sling on his injured arm kept his hands from their usual nervous habit of pressing together, which wasn't at all helping him regain his composure. In desperation he cleared his throat and turned resolutely round to begin gathering Racer's supplies from the storeroom.

Racer was still chuckling. "Now, now, there ain't no shame innit, love. Though… may wanna be wary there, y'ken? Couple grams'll get ya damn far with that'un. No tellin' who all's had 'im on his knees for a quic-"

"Right!" Eric exclaimed suddenly, cutting Racer off by shoving a brown paper bag in the man's hands. "Usual stuff, best quality we got, good t'go!" Ears and cheeks still flushed a fiery red, but he'd resolved to ignore it in favour of getting Racer the hell out of their house. Priorities, here.

"And th'pure shit?" Racer opened the bag to glance inside, idly checking for the correct contents. His expression remained locked in a sort of faintly vulgar smirk as he glanced back up toward Eric.

Eric baulked a bit. Ah fuck, right, the purified cocaine… he had no idea where it was being kept, either, as Sherlock had been the one in charge of storage. That meant he'd have to go and ask, which would probably mean letting Racer tail him into the sitting room, which would lead to Sherlock having to interact with a bloke who'd pretty much just flat-out admitted to having blackmailed him into… oh christ, no, fuck all aspects of that plan. Find a way out of it, quick, quick!

"Actually I, er… just remembered I ain't s'posed t'sell that lot until Corey gets a client list set up for it an' all. Y'know, high rollers and th'like? All them's got first dibs."

Racer quirked a dubious, slightly annoyed brow. "Think I damn well qualify on dibs, love."

"W-well yeah! Course you do," Eric stammered. Ah shit shit shit, he'd accidentally offended Racer, of all people. All traces of jovial silliness were quickly vanishing from the man's demeanour, replaced by a dangerous sense of impatience. Not good. "I just… wanna make sure y'get the right price an' all, yeah? Corey'd have me head f'ya got overcharged."

A few seconds of silence passed between them, Racer fixing Eric with a cold, calculating look and Eric doing his best not to look utterly terrified. Finally, with a sudden smirk (which very nearly caused Eric to pass out right there in the hallway out of sheer fright) the dealer tossed his paper sack of drugs a few inches into the air and caught it again, chuckling.

"Ah, Crenshaw…" he muttered with a fond chortle. "Yer a real piece o'work, love. I do wish ye'd take me up on me offer sometime, eh? Have a bit of a go street-side? Be a bleedin' natural, y'would."

Heart still hammering away, Eric forced a shaky smile. "I… I'm good where I'm at for now, thanks."

"Ah well. Someday, yeah? Always a shame t'leave ya, lad."

With a roguish wink and another light toss of his bag Racer turned to amble down the hall. Eric followed after, shutting the door behind the man after offering a passably-polite parting wave, then turned to lean against the wood panelling in mixed terror and relief. His heart had kicked into high gear some five minutes ago, whole body gone icy hollow and trembling with excess adrenaline. He wondered if it would be too ridiculous to just sink down and curl into a ball right there in the entryway. Would anyone be likely to stumble over him before he managed to work himself back out of panic mode...?

Probably, he determined. Ben was due back soon, as was Chuck. And besides which, he reminded himself, he had a boyfriend in the other room. And skin-and-bones or not the prat'd be far more comforting to lean up against than a cold wall. All Eric had to do was make his way to the sofa. Not difficult, that. Well worth the effort.

Limbs still a bit shaky he managed to pull himself up to his feet, then navigated the short stretch of house back to the sitting room.

"Have you actually taken the time to look at these sodding spaceships?" Sherlock exclaimed almost the instant Eric came within his field of view. "None of them make the slightest ounce of sense within the context of the narrative. I mean what are the odds of architecture featuring a sheer drop in the midst of a corridor making it past health and safety inspections? There's not even a guard rail or anything! Complete rubbish."

Despite the trembling fear still working its way out of his limbs Eric smiled and huffed a small laugh. Evidently Sherlock had been too engrossed with the logical inconsistencies of Halo to take note of who'd been at the door. Probably for the best, considering.

With a frown Eric flopped down on the worn cushions, then after a moments' hesitation shoved his way back into the position he'd been in before - practically curled up in the space between Sherlock's chest and the Xbox controller in the other boy's hands, face pressed against the cigarette-and-laundry scent of Sherlock's jumper. Sherlock let him without much fuss, engaged as he was with his sorry attempt to play video games.

Eric tried not to dwell on the implications of Racer's words earlier, but of course it was impossible not to. Wasn't much of a surprise anyway, really… it was a well-known fact round the back streets that any junkie Racer took a shine to would end up doing whatever disgusting thing the man asked of them, lest they find themselves cut off for miles around. The dealer boasted a web of influential pushers spanning nearly a dozen districts' worth of drugs trafficking all grovelling at his feet. Clearly Sherlock had run afoul of that whole mess and gone with the only option he'd have had available to him. Awful, yes, but understandable.

… still, though.

Eric shifted around a bit, repositioned himself so his head was resting in Sherlock's lap, and blinked rather forlornly up at the other boy's face. Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion and glanced downwards.

"What?"

"… Nothin'," Eric muttered after a moment. He turned his head sideways to glance at the telly, watched as Sherlock's pathetic iteration of Master Chief scarpered behind an energy shield to escape a horde of Covenant grunts. "You really suck at this game, mate."

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped with a scowl. Eric smiled, then turned back over to curl up on the sofa cushions. He pressed his face against the warmth of Sherlock's stomach and tried to will his body to stop feeling so cold and panicky.

Calm down, he told himself. Honestly. Nothing had bloody happened - Racer got his drugs, Sherlock hadn't so much as registered the guy's presence, whole business went as well as could be expected. And yet still he couldn't help this feeling of dread creeping up through his guts... bleeding hell, stupid sodding fear response.

Racer was terrifying enough, yeah, and by all appearances he'd targeted Sherlock as one of his sick little playthings quite some time ago. That was probably legitimate reason to fret, Eric figured. But, still... in the end of it all Sherlock was an adult. Capable of looking out for himself. Moreso than most, really, considering he'd soundly beaten the tar out of a trio armed blokes without a seconds' hesitation. Eric shouldn't have to worry about him. Whatever Racer had forced him into… it was all in the past. Only to be brought up if it happened again.

Which it wouldn't. Ever.

Because even if Sherlock didn't need the interference - even if he didn't want it or so much as know about it… Eric decided he'd do his damnedest to keep Racer away from now on. Evils of the world abound, and perhaps Eric wasn't much of a fighter. More of a worrier, really. Fretting over everything without doing anyone much good.

But in this, maybe... in his own small way, perhaps he could help. Or try to, anyway.

Sherlock, after all, was well worth protecting.

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