Sherlock left John's rooms with a swing in his step. He was to return again the next day, and his belly was full of secret, joyful anticipation. Sherlock's rather prodigious inner vanity had begun to crave the admiration evident in John's drawings.
He couldn't wait to be immortalized in paint.
It was an abiding shame that John only knew Sherlock as a pretty face and couldn't appreciate his dazzling intellect as well, he thought.
Angling his steps towards Wiggins' cellar room, Sherlock inquired cursorily after the boy's health. From his bleary account, Sherlock was able to confirm that the men who had beaten Wiggins and the men who'd attacked him were two and the same. From Wiggins' fuzzy recollection, it seemed that they were also the ones tailing Sherlock.
Mildly disappointed that there only seemed to be one enemy at work, Sherlock left, after carefully slipping 10 more francs into Wiggins' sister's pinafore without her noticing. He needed the pickpocketing practice, he grumpily defended his generosity to himself.
By god, if the silly girl didn't notice a great big man like him slipping money into her apron then she needed all the help she could get.
Hands in pockets, he strode home. It was beginning to darken, and he drafted a battle plan in his mind. He needed more information.
Once in his paltry, dank rooms, he slipped into his tightest trousers and sauciest ascot and carefully arranged his curly mess of hair to hide his bruises, slicking it to the side foppishly. He tentatively applied a little rouge to his cheeks, attempting to hide his pallor.
Tonight, Sherlock was tarting himself up proper.
It was imperative that he follow up on the rumor about the Comte de Chambord's bastard son before he could go to ground. It was unlikely that the news of a nosy lorette would cause him to forfeit his murderous spree, but he'd noticed that madmen were very seldom rational.
One more peek in the cracked mirror for vanity's sake, and he trotted down the stairs. He had a bar to captivate.
Sherlock took a deep breath before he swung open the door to the gambling den, mentally shifting all the gears and pushing all the buttons that dropped his gaze, softened his spine, flushed his cheeks and muted his acerbic tongue.
Hips swaying demurely, lashes fluttering, and eyes cast down, anyone who knew him as Sherlock Holmes, eccentric younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, peer of the realm, would have a hard time recognizing him.
Slinking meekly through the rough denizens of the den and dodging pinching fingers with practiced ease, he spotted one of the young libertines that made up the social circle of Hugh de Chambord.
Sherlock's shy smile suddenly grew sharp teeth. Reliable sources said that the young viscomte had a weakness for pretty young boys.
Taking short steps and hunching his shoulders forward, trying to look as naif and innocent as possible, he reached the bar and leaned on it facing the room, letting his gaze stick on the young libertine.
His prey had money troubles, his dandyish clothes were clearly remade from last season. Gambling debts, Sherlock guessed by the pack of cards sticking out of the pocket of his frock coat. Drinking lightly this evening, only two glasses of absinthe heavily sugared, judging by the thin skim visible in the bottom of the glass.
Couldn't afford him, excellent.
But impecuniousness wouldn't stop him from pinching Sherlock's ample bottom, oh no. He knew the type. His derriere was a magnet for inebriated young noblemen willing to experiment with such a fetching boy. He'd collected a sheaf of bad poetry just in the past week.
The one he favored from sheer perversity was a sonnet to his arse: the twin planets of your sweet arse blind me with their heavenly radiance was one particularly memorable line.
With a mental cringe, Sherlock swayed those selfsame globes over to the young nobleman's table, and flirtatiously pretended to have dropped his glove. The young man gallantly picked it up for him, and as soon as he looked up into the innocent eyes of the plush lipped, blushing boy, he was lost.
In no time at all, Sherlock was on the man's lap, drinking in his words with seemingly adoring ears. There wasn't much news the man could impart to him, but he learned that the Hugh de Chambord had in fact been picking up boy lorettes, and that he would be at a ball given by friends of Mycroft the next week.
With information gleaned, Sherlock excused himself blushingly to go to the cabinet de toilette and slipped out the back door. He was wasted as an academic when clearly his purpose in life was to tread the boards, he thought to himself
He stood for a moment in the reeking alleyway, taking deep gulps of air, and allowed himself a moment to slip out of character.
Back straight, he shook off the cloying submissive innocence that characterized his disguise and let his face slip back into its habitual impassive scowl. He stretched naturally, not to further a flirtatious aim but merely to work out kinks in his back.
He accepted the utility of the disguise, but after too long inside Sherlock LeBeau's skin, Sherlock Holmes began to tear his hair out.
Feeling the need to distance himself further from the sweet, foppish, giggling boy, he spat disgustingly into the gutter. He slouched proud and haughty in the shadows for a moment, desperately wishing for a cigarette before he grudgingly began to slip back into character for the walk home.
Every step Sherlock took forward was another slide into LeBeau's delicate skin. If anyone had been watching, they would have been amazed to see this fierce older man, full of disdain and ennui, transform into a sweet, fresh-faced and submissive boy.
The face he presented the puddles of streetlight and shadowy alleys was meek and pretty as he prowled home.
Perhaps too meek. A long arm shot out of a doorway and gripped him harshly. Sherlock stumbled a bit, trying to wrench free. He hadn't expected this. Stupid, stupid!
"Let go!" he hissed breathily, still in character.
"Well aren't you a pretty whore? How much for a tumble, little ladyboy?" came a slurred growl from the alleyway. "Wouldn't you look pretty on your knees for me?"
The other scarred and tattooed arm shot out and pinched his bum roughly, gripping a sharp handful and yanking him into the doorway. Sherlock stiffened, eyes going cold and dark in a way that if the drunk had been paying attention, would have had him backing away apologizing frantically.
That was it. Sherlock had had enough.
He'd been groped, dehumanized, spilled on, demeaned, and underestimated all evening. He'd been inexpertly flirted with, he'd been patronized, he'd been ignored. He'd gathered some information, but not enough to justify the mewling, puny way he'd had to act the whole evening.
Sherlock, after holding himself together all week, snapped.
Murmuring sweet assents, he let himself be reeled in, and when drawn in close, kneed the bastard viciously in the groin. Sherlock drank in the agonized shriek with grim pleasure.
It wasn't even a challenging fight. The drunk landed one hit on Sherlock's cheekbone before Sherlock quietly, with deadly accuracy and great satisfaction, took him apart slowly and systematically with his fists. He was feeling generous, and didn't reach for any of the knives hidden on his person.
Perhaps he shouldn't have calculated the bruises he'd leave exactly equidistant, so the man would wake up striped by expert fists.
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so gleefully methodological about dislocating the fingers that had pinched his bum so roughly.
Perhaps it wasn't morally right to leave the man black and blue and moaning in a puddle of someone else's vomit, and perhaps it wasn't virtuous to whistle happily and give the man a swift kick as he left.
He sauntered home happily. The demimonde collectively looked at the man spattered with blood and whistling indecently, with his tight trousers and rouge, and gleeful bounce in his step, and decided not to bother him tonight.
Sherlock understood that he should feel guilty for beating the man to a pulp, but Sherlock had never claimed to be a good man. He had to get his jollies somehow.
Notes: Sorry this has taken so long, it required a lot of research! Also, finals. This would be much faster if I didn't have to research period accurate euphemisms for toilet and such... pinafore: like an apron, worn by young girls. ascot: like a cravat. a sort of necktie. libertine: a young person, usually male, who enjoyed all the illicit pleasures of society, but, as I understand it, did so publicly. So public drinking, public sexual behavior, public drug use, etc. Moneyed hedonists. viscomte: a kind of lesser noble. Translates to vice count. The amount of trouble I had finding information about the status of nobility in this period was odd. As far as I understand, titles stopped being given out in 1870, but the titled families continued to use them. So Mycroft is a peer of the realm, which used to be given only to ducs and those with major lands, but in this period, was given to those with large amounts of influence in the government. cabinet de toilet: bathroom. lav. loo. potty. researching the etymology of these was fascinating. if you have free time, I highly suggest it. Impress your friends! tread the boards: act. John's Bit Not Good day to follow! Let me know what you think!