Chapter Two:
Sherlock's sigh came out in a puff of fog. He pulled the zip of his coat closer to his neck before shoving his gloved hands back into his pockets. He thought he should probably buy a decent coat sometime soon, funds willing. The current one was beginning to fray at the seams.
He hadn't planned on going to the public lavatory at all that day, and certainly not so late at night. Lately, he'd been sticking to a regular hour, in hopes of coinciding with the policeman's schedule. Why settle for less, after all?
It wasn't that long since he'd walked out of his tiny flat. Sherlock had spent most of his day indoors, exhausted and frustrated. He hadn't slept in over 72 hours, and sleep still eluded him. It was often the case after he'd spent days without thought-exercise to keep him occupied, to keep him focused. His boredom would simply get the better of him and he would end up in a right state. His mind kept rattling away in his head, as if trying to escape its flesh and bone cage.
At this point, there was very little Sherlock could do to will his mind into silence. He was too mentally agitated to sleep, yet too physically exhausted to really think. His body and mind rebelled against one another, frustratingly out-of-sync.
This was nothing out of the ordinary for Sherlock. Over the years, he had found ways to deal with the problem, in case mental stimulation wasn't readily available.
The easiest (and most tempting) option wasn't feasible at the moment. It involved substances that Sherlock was currently abstaining from (as he'd been, perhaps, a bit too indulgent lately.)
The second option usually worked just as well, and was the reason Sherlock had left his flat in such a hurry. It was probably best said straight-out: Sherlock needed to come. The release of sexual tension always brought on a certain degree of physical and mental tranquility for him, even hours after the initial refractory period.
The logical course of action would have been to just give himself a hand. Unfortunately, that was something he had always found difficult. Sherlock was stupidly bad at wanking; the act was simply not distracting enough, not in solitude, at any rate.
He did try, though, never one to back off from a challenge. Sherlock had lain in bed, closed his eyes, and wrapped a well-lubed hand around his cock.
Well, that had been all right at first. He'd attempted to keep his mind blank, focusing on the sensation around his hardening flesh. It worked…for about thirty seconds. Then, he tried to conjure up a few fantasies; past lovers came to mind, even the policeman with his well-endowed cock, but the memories paled in comparison to the real thing. Without meaning to, Sherlock started to wonder if there was a correlation between crime-fighting and one's… measurements. Which, granted, was very interesting, but not quite helpful in solving Sherlock's predicament.
After that, his mind became a battlefield of activity. He went completely off-topic; he started to ponder chemistry equations and envisioned that composition he had been intending to write. He'd also remembered the mould he'd discovered in his fridge that morning, and wondered what use he could make of it. One thought followed another, and it became increasingly difficult to chase them away.
He tried opening his eyes, attempting to clear his mind by staring blankly ahead. He had started to focus on the stain on the wall and the sound of passing cars outside his window. Frustrated, and already softening, he gave up.
He wondered how other people managed it at all (and so often.) He was hardly ever able to bring himself to orgasm alone. He craved it, knowing that the release would ease his mind and body alike, but Sherlock simply needed an extra rush to keep his mind focused, really focused, on the act and in the moment. He needed something to keep him grounded.
In conclusion, he needed someone. Otherwise, he'd have no choice but to start contemplating another type of distraction. And so, Sherlock made his way to the only place he knew of where he could get off without complications.
The public lavatory was still a short distance away. The park was poorly lit, which was usually all right by him. He passed a group of young men gathered beneath a flickering lamp-post. They stood idle despite the chill of the night. Most of then were around Sherlock's age, if not a little bit younger.
"Got a fag?" one of them called out to him as he passed… while holding on to a cigarette, Sherlock noticed. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, and kept on walking.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, Princess," the youth sneered, jogging after Sherlock.
The young man circled around to face him, forcing Sherlock to stop in his tracks. He took a last, long drag from his cigarette before tossing it at Sherlock's feet, smirking as he did so.
Sherlock could hear the rowdy laughter coming closer, as the group of boys strolled to catch up with them.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak dunce," Sherlock replied, unable to stop himself. "Shall I fetch a translator?"
Loud sniggering came from behind them. The boys broke out into cat-calls and howls. The whiff of cheap alcohol and energy drinks carried in the wind, assaulting Sherlock's nose.
"You gon' let him talk to you like that, Randall?" one of the boys yelled, elbowing one of his companions rudely.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and started to walk past Randall, as he was apparently called.
The young man angrily blocked his way, shoving Sherlock back by the shoulders. Sherlock stumbled against one of the other boys from the force of the push. Sherlock straightened, carefully keeping his face blank. He didn't take his hands out of his pockets. He regarded the young man curiously, recognition beginning to bloom in his mind.
"What's the matter, eh?" Randall snarled. "In a hurry to get your arse pumped?" The boys howled with laughter at that, catcalling owlishly.
"Don't think we don't know what's down there," Randall continued, grinning and nodding in the public lavatory's direction.
"Well, of course you'd know," Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "You're a frequent visitor."
"What'd you say, Nancy Boy?" Randall growled.
Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement. He leaned closer to Randall and ducked his head toward the young man's neck, sniffing audibly. Yes, it was exactly as he thought.
Randall jumped back, startled by Sherlock's actions.
One of the young men huffed in laughter. "I think he's coming on to you, Rand!"
Sherlock turned to the speaker with a frown. "Do you really think he's such a catch? No, no." He turned back to Randall. "Even if I was tempted, which I'm not, experience taught me not to bother." He looked Randall up and down, and again his mouth ran away with him.
"Don't recognise me?" Sherlock asked. He looked down pointedly, eyebrows raised suggestively. "I'm afraid I do recognise you."
Sherlock took a deep breath.
"Fifteen centimetres in length, roughly three centimetres in diameter, a prominent curving to the left, glans slightly disproportional. In short: nothing spectacular. I can't fault you for that. However, then there's the stamina: just over two minutes, and a rather uncoordinated attempt to return the favour. A disappointing encounter, to say the least."
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Sherlock snapped in irritation. "You're not as anonymous as you think you are. You didn't even try to hide your breathing pattern, your walking pace, or your designer-replica cologne. For God's sake, you didn't even change your shoes! If you're trying to hide, at least do it properly. How thick can you get?"
"You high, mate?" one of the boys snorted, although he seemed taken aback by Sherlock's rant, eyeing his friend with a frown.
"Then there's also the vandalism," Sherlock added. "'For a good time call Randy'?" he quoted. "How very original."
"Listen, freak…" Randall started, a blush rising in his cheeks.
"Oh, what was it? 07765 405 933, I believe that's your phone number?" Sherlock smirked. He looked at the gaping young men. "Well, it's been a laugh, but I've got to dash." He walked around the red-faced young man. "Bye."
He heard, rather than saw the movement, and managed to dodge the strike just in time. He turned around to face the huffing young man. His eyebrows rose sardonically.
"There's no need for that," Sherlock said in dismay, not bothering to take his hands out of his pockets. He dodged another clumsy strike aimed at his head.
"I'll show you a good time!" Randall choked out, hands fisted hard at his sides. He swung again, and Sherlock merely leaned back to avoid the strike. The young man stumbled, caught off guard, and Sherlock retaliated quickly. His forehead met Randall's in a painful head-butt, the resounding crack echoing through the night air.
The youth crumbled to the ground, clutching his forehead. Sherlock regarded him blankly. His eyes flickered to the group of young men, who had started to advance on them with intent. Some of them reached into their pockets in a way that didn't bode well for Sherlock. Perhaps it was time to leave. He'd better not stick around for a fight he was doomed to lose.
He turned on heel and made to dash off.
Unexpectedly, Randall made a surprisingly fast recovery, considering how obviously drunk he was, and tackled Sherlock to the ground.
The impact knocked the air out of Sherlock's lungs. He gasped, and attempted to dislodge the weight off his back. The young man was frustratingly sturdy, however, and he did not budge, though he huffed with exertion.
"Having fun, Randy?" one of the boys jived. Sherlock looked up, a sinking feeling in his gut at finding himself surrounded.
Stupid, he thought savagely to himself. When would he learn to keep his damn mouth shut? Sherlock's hands were trapped under him, lodged as they were in his pockets, and he cursed his own stupidity for the second time.
"Shut up and help me with this fucking ponce," Randall gritted out, as he shoved Sherlock's face into the mud.
"Sure you don't want us to leave you two arse bandits to it?" one of the boys called, causing the others to burst into hysterics.
"Shut the fuck up, aresholes!" Randall growled. Sherlock managed to free one of his arms, just enough to swing back with his elbow, hitting Randall straight in the nose. It creaked horribly. Blood gushed out of Randall's nostrils and landed in Sherlock's hair.
"Modda' Fucka!" Randall screamed, clutching his broken nose. He rolled off Sherlock's back.
Before he could lift himself up, however, a boot hit Sherlock in the jaw, and he gasped in pain. The angle was a bit off, luckily for him, or it would have dislocated the bone. White stars flashed in his vision. He managed to drag himself up by his arms, but then another foot hit him squarely in the stomach, sending him coughing and gasping onto his side.
He grabbed the next foot that came at him, managing to dislodge it from its path with an angry snarl. He clawed at the ground, attempted to lift himself back up. He didn't get a chance to do so before the next strike arrived, this time aimed at his back. It hit him between the shoulder blades.
More kicks followed, leaving Sherlock gasping in pain, covering his face and head with his hands.
He was lifted up by two of the boys, each of them managing a firm grip on one of Sherlock's arms. He attempted to break free by kicking one of them in the shin. The boy cursed colourfully, but didn't release his hold on Sherlock's arm.
"Go on, Randall!" Sherlock heard from somewhere on his left. He couldn't discern who the caller was, as his vision was rather blurry. He shook his head, attempting to clear it.
It was then that he saw Randall advancing on him unsteadily, blood still dripping from his nose and staining his face and shirt. Randall's eyes were fixed on Sherlock's face, something dark and menacing in his gaze.
Randall threw a punch, and Sherlock's head snapped to the side with the force of the strike. Another punch caught him on the mouth. He felt blood dripping from his split lip. He breathed raggedly; his tongue flickered over his teeth to check if any had started to become loose.
Sherlock smiled at Randall through bloody teeth, and then lashed out with his foot, hitting the young man in the knee. Randall howled, but the strike apparently wasn't as severe as he made it sound, since he remained standing.
Randall advanced forward, and then retaliated with a kick of his own. It landed on Sherlock's ankle, making him yell out in pain for the first time. He staggered, and the boy's grip on his arms was the only thing that kept him upright.
Sherlock head slumped as he tried to catch his breath. A hand settled in his hair and pulled him back up. He opened his eyes to see Randall grinning broadly at him, close enough that Sherlock was able to smell his stale breath. Randall waved a switch-blade in front of Sherlock's face before slowly moving it to rest at Sherlock's throat. He pressed hard enough to graze the skin.
Sherlock forced himself to look Randall in the eyes without blinking. He didn't dare open his mouth to speak.
"What's going on over there?" a new voice called out, startling both Sherlock and his assailants. Sherlock thought that it sounded familiar, and quite fortunately, very close by.
Randall's gaze flickered toward the newcomer, and he cursed. He looked back at Sherlock mournfully, but eased the knife from his throat. He spat at Sherlock's feet before shoving the switch-blade back into his pocket, backing away.
"Shit," one of the boys holding Sherlock said, and suddenly Sherlock found himself on the ground. The group took off running into the night, leaving him behind.
"Stop! Police!" the newcomer called out. Sherlock recognised him belatedly as his favourite policeman. He lifted up his head to see a familiar pair of shoes appear in his line of vision.
My hero, Sherlock thought in morbid amusement, and rolled onto his back with a pained groan.