John turned back to the window, taking in the man standing below. It wasn't the stripper from the bar (which had already thrown him for a loop), but it didn't mean the man was any less attractive.

He looked like he was tall, from this angle anyway. Tall and muscular with dark blond hair, and a face that belonged in a magazine. The doctor heard Sherlock move next to him and he cast a glance, realising that now was not the time to be developing an inferiority complex, considering Sherlock was looked at him the way he did a particularly stubborn suspect.

It was unnerving being at this end of that speculation.

"John, I think you should keep out of the way for a minute. Tristan and I need to talk, clearly. And I'd rather do it in comfortable surroundings and a bearable temperature."

The doctor nodded, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He turned and looked around the floor, picking up his discarded clothes and shrugging into his boxers.

Sherlock waited for John to get at least partially dressed, and make himself scarce, before pulling on his thickest, tan dressing gown and padding down the stairs. He was deeply confused, and though he had theories, he didn't want to jump to potentially-upsetting conclusions without more data. His face was blank as he opened the front door.

Tristan hovered on the edge of the pavement, his head snapping forward as the door was opened.

"So now you deem me worthy to answer, you son of a bitch?" he hissed, his fringe falling into his cobalt eyes.

"I'd tell you that I don't know what you're talking about, but that should be abundantly clear. I needed to talk to you anyway, so this might be fortuitous. Come in. Tea?"

The blond opened his mouth, but his curses would have only fallen onto deaf ears as Sherlock had already turned to walk back into the flat. Casting a glance around the street, he mumbled under his breath before stepping through the threshold and up into the main flat.

Sherlock was filling the kettle when Tristan strode into the flat, fuming.

The detective turned to look the man up and down briefly. "I told you that cafe was a bad idea. When will people learn to take my advice? Is pride really more important than avoiding food poisoning?" he muttered to himself, adding milk to two mugs.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Tristan spat, stopping by the alcove and boring his eyes into the back of the detective's head. "Is that all you've got to say? Not going to give me an explanation?"

"No. And since you're here, I think I should tell you that it's time to end this arrangement between us."

Tristan's face dropped, his eyes going wide.

"Are you fucking joking right now? You already did, you prick, why the hell do you think I'm here? Were you so high on riding that cripple's dick you forgot? I guess I was a second thought though, huh?"

"I already did? Hm. Interesting," Sherlock said, completely deadpan, eyes bright and sharp. "Then what on earth are you doing here?"

"You - you didn't even consider my offer." Tristan's body deflated a little, his face turning slack as the anger gave way to the niggling of pain from Sherlock's rejection.

"Refresh my memory. And for goodness' sake, drink your tea," Sherlock sighed, plonking the mug down on the table, and floomping down into his armchair.

"I don't want tea," Tristan hissed, storming into the main room and standing in front of Sherlock. He stood tall, crossing his arms and studying the man before him for a moment. "I asked you to let me be your first. Don't say you don't want it, either, I've heard the way you beg for it."

"I don't want it. Not from you. Our arrangement's over, you don't have to come here anymore. You don't have to do anything with me. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"Because!" he snapped, throwing up his hands. "Because you know exactly what you fucking do to people. The way you moan - it's obscene. You're a drug, Sherlock Holmes. A cruel, soul-sucking drug."

"Because I - oh. I...didn't factor sentiment into the equation. Idiot," Sherlock tutted, looking peeved.

Tristan let out a grunt, crossing his arms and turning his head a little. "Yeah, you are. I'm fucked off you just dropped me like that. You didn't even give me a chance to show you how fucking amazing I could make you feel. How different toys are compared the real thing."

"...You've seen and had quite enough of me already. Far more than enough, it would seem in hindsight," Sherlock pondered aloud. "We had an arrangement. Cash in return for services rendered. You were under no obligation to go further, and I didn't require you to."

"Doesn't mean you didn't want me to," purred the blond, letting his voice dip into that tone laced with steel, the one that demanded Sherlock's attention. The one that whispered commands and left the detective squirming. "Come on," he breathed, stepping closer to the man, looking down at him with a small smirk.

Sherlock flushed a bit, but replied snappily. "Triss, don't be ridiculous. I'm spoken for. I apologise, I should have seen this coming. I assumed you could just switch off when you were with a customer. Maybe you should consider a new line of work."

Tristan spat a curse, his anger flushing his cheeks.

"Oh, please. You wouldn't have come to me if that man could satisfy you the way you needed it. I bet he wouldn't even spank you, frigid fuck. As if he would have the guts to pin you down and give you everything you deserve and more."

"As pointless as it is to argue, you know perfectly well the reasoning behind the physical…aspects of what we did, I explained it in simple terms at the start of our transactions. If you have nothing fresh to add to this conversation, I'll let you leave. And if you refuse, I'll make you."

Tristan bared his teeth, a feral reaction born from his frustration. It took him a moment, but then a small, deliberately twisted smirk playing on his lip.

"Oh, yes, the reason you hired me. Told him, have you?"

Sherlock paused for a split-second. "Nothing about what we did is relevant to anybody else."

The smirk only widened, and Sherlock found himself uncurling from the chair.

"So that's a no, is it?"

"You've said whatever it is you felt you needed to say. Back to the brothel with you," Sherlock sneered, standing up with finality.

Tristan's smirk turned crooked, dark, twisted. He stepped back, away from Sherlock's immediate reach, and cast a glance around the room. He couldn't see that old short guy anywhere, but it didn't mean he wasn't listening. He'd seen him at the window. He was here.

"I would quite like to discuss our terms, Sherlock. The reasons behind our agreement. You didn't quite fully go into enough detail with me."

"What possible reason could you have?!" Sherlock yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. "What are you doing here, apart from stealing our oxygen?!"

"Calling you on your bullshit!" replied Tristan, his voice just as avid as the other's, if not as loud. The detective's baritone gave his voice more force, but Tristan's held more pain. "You think you can get away with shit like this? Fucking with other people just to get what you want? I think it's about time that everyone knew the truth about you! That's you're a cold, calculating, selfish prick!"

"It's your job! Don't you understand, you idiot? People pay you for sex. That's what you're for. You do what you're told for money. That's arguably your only positive trait!"

"Maybe," growled Tristan. "But they don't just pay me to fuck them - as you so intimately know."

"I don't know what you're going to gain from this," Sherlock muttered, curling his lip, his eyes bright and cold. "Everybody already knows I'm a cold, calculating selfish prick. I seem to remember it's one of the first things I recall my mother ever saying to me."

"Oh boo-hoo, I don't get paid to listen to sob stories," snapped Tristan, a thump from somewhere above them drawing his attention. He turned back to Sherlock, a smile tugging his lips. "Why don't we tell him, hm? Tell him exactly what you paid me to do, huh? No? He wouldn't care how fucking obsessed you are about him? How you couldn't get him, so you had to hire an actor to get his attention. That he wouldn't give you any attention whatsoever until he thought you were being fucked by someone else."

Tristan's voice turned darker, as did his expression. "I'm sure he'd love to know how you couldn't come without thinking it was his hands touching you. 'Oh, John, yes... Oh John - tell me I'm amazing, tell me you love me'." Tristan chuckled, but it was empty. "You're pathetic."

Sherlock stared at him, watery-eyed, for a few seconds, before pulling in a sharp, damp breath. "Are you quite finished?"

"You know what, no. You're gonna get your fucking money's worth. Does he know he's gonna be screwing a virgin? Does he know you're shit-scared of having someone that close to you? That you prefer plastic and rubber? Easier that way, no sodding 'sentiment' getting in the way. Ironic that all that you babble about before you come is love, and you can't even get that far without closing your eyes and thinking of your hetero little soldier. You're a fucking loser."

Sherlock held himself still, his eyes narrowed and expression threatening to crumble. The detective opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat tight, and unable to release the venom bubbling in his chest, Sherlock covered his hesitation with a cough. He took a few slow, deliberate blinks, before turning to the other again.

"I take it you feel better now you've aired me out to my flatmate and my landlady?"

He'd heard Mrs Hudson's door open downstairs while Triss had been having his rant, and as far as he knew, it hadn't closed again. There were no sounds from upstairs either. 221B was holding its breath, and the tension was stifling.

"If I can't get what I want, I don't see why you should either," Tristan shrugged, eyes cold, expression tired.

"Where..." Sherlock cleared his throat again, feeling the heat crawling up his neck from the words revealed, hanging heavily in the flat, before turning his sharp eyes back to the man before him. "Did you come here specifically to humiliate me? If so, I think I've earned at the least an explanation."

"I came here to see if I could change your mind about ending our arrangement. Believe it or not, I care about you. Very much. Obviously that's all been fucked up now, not least because you're clearly mad as fuck about the hobbit."

Sherlock, despite the sting to his eyes, cocked an eyebrow, his features turning to steel.

"I didn't end it. Well, I was certainly planning to, but I hadn't..."

"Well, somebody fucking texted me. I know you're a crackhead, but you must remember that."

Sherlock frowned, looking down at himself. He patted his pockets, ignoring the imbecilic prostitute who was radiating arrogance in front of him to grab at the hard block of plastic sitting in his pocket. He tapped at the buttons, raising his hand as he saw Tristan opening his mouth and silently stopping him. His eyes widened as he searched through his messages.

"This... can't be right."

"Damn straight. Speaking of which, has the good doctor declared his love for you yet? Or did he gently let you down because he prefers wet pussy and you're a fool for thinking otherwise."

Sherlock snapped his eyes up, his knuckles turning white against the grip on his phone.

"That is quite enough," he snapped, his voice dripping with liquid steel. "I've had enough of you."

"So, what do you deduce, Sherl? Ghosts in the computer? Or were you tripped out on coke, dreaming of dear Doc? Don't think I've forgotten those days. Not much has changed, clearly."

Sherlock blinked, his eyes moving from the phone screen and back to Triss. His brain and whirring through different explanations, but they all skimmed the truth. The truth was incomprehensible, and it sent papers scattering through his Mind Palace. The very foundations were threatening to cave, and the mess of his mind set his body to a natural panic.
"You're lying," he murmured, even though the truth sat firmly in his hand. "It's not..."

Sherlock frowned, breathing hard, his high cheekbones reddened with stress, the rest of his face a worrying greyish pallor. The usually- gentle murmurings echoing in his Mind Palace from distant corridors, became a drunken, ferocious riot in the foyer, and he closed his eyes hard.

Hyperventilation. Panic. Shallow breaths. Low oxygen. Racing Heart.

"VATICAN CAMEOS!"

There was a moment of honest shock as Tristan stared at him, baffled into silence.

There was a moment of pregnant quiet before a thump sounded from above, followed quickly by a rhythmic pounding. Tristan turned his head as a half dressed, semi-flushed man came storming into the living room, his face like thunder and eyes eerily soft.

"Think it's time you left, mate," growled John, stopping just in front of the detective in a protective gesture that neither man could say was intentional.

Tristan actually laughed. "Seriously, I don't believe this. Did you leave your girlfriend in bed? She's gonna be pissed that you left off eating her out just to come and baby your delusional flatmate."

John cocked his head, his blood actually fizzling in his veins as he fought the urge to rip the man's face apart.

"I had actually just finished eating out Sherlock, if you must know. You kindly interrupted as we were getting to the best part." John's voice was low, dangerous, and teetering on the edge of losing control.

Tristan frowned, glancing between the two dressing-gown clad and bed-rumpled men.

"Holy shit, you're serious. Did he flip out on you yet? He's not used to having 'people' inside him..."

"Oh you have no idea what this man can do," purred John, giving the stranger a nasty smirk. "And you never will. So fuck off."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck, little man. Don't think you're getting your money back. I earned that. He's got a fuck-load of issues."

John let out a small laugh, shaking his head. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock, just... standing there. Looking quite broken, and not like the man who had been in his arms just minutes before. He felt a rush of anger, about everything, and it anchored onto the man in front of him. John turned back, giving no warning, no snappish hint. He just raised an arm, and threw a punch aimed right at the other's jaw. He felt the hard bone against his knuckles, heard the fleshy impact, before drawing back enough to watch the other stumble.

"That is for calling Sherlock pathetic, for being a whiny little bitch, and really, because I don't like your face. Fuck. Off."

The other man's injured face warped into an ugly grimace, and he poked his tongue around his gums, before picking up the now-cold tea Sherlock had offered him, and spitting a mouthful of bright blood, and half a tooth, into the stagnant drink. "You're...fucking insane. You deserve each other," he slurred, pointing a very shaky finger at them both, before stumbling from the flat.

John kept his eyes sharp until he heard the front door slam. His shoulders then slumped, the cocktail of guilt, anger and betrayal stirring his stomach and setting him on edge. He turned, but couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Was that true?"

Sherlock was staring somewhere off into the middle distance, a small tic twitching in his eyelid, his expression disturbingly-blank. "What, the part about you stealing my phone to dump my lover? Yes, it would seem so."

John felt his cheeks grow hot, and he ground his teeth.

"Just like the fact you hired someone to deliberately make me jealous? Or goad me into wanting you? What - what the fuck, Sherlock, seriously. What the hell is going on with you? You lied to me."

"It's fascinating to know that you needed 'goading' into wanting me. I'll keep it in mind that you're only attracted to physically injured, vulnerable virgins. Wonderful." He turned abruptly, picking up his skull from the mantlepiece and striding quickly through the kitchen, and into his bedroom.

"It was never about the moans," John called, the resounding slam of Sherlock's door setting a silence in the flat that took his breath away. He looked down at his quickly reddening knuckles. "It was just about you," he mumbled, turning to kick the nearest inanimate object.

He obtained no reply. Listening for signs of distress, John heard only the occasional small thump. It was a short matter of minutes before Sherlock emerged once more, face blank, fully-dressed, and an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He held his skull tucked under his arm, and he had his phone in his mouth.

John didn't need to speak to understand. He didn't need to do anything. With the truth laid out in front of them, neither were able to face it. Not when Sherlock looked so raw and John felt so exposed.

"Are you coming back?" he found himself asking, or more accurately, whispering.

Sherlock spat his phone into his palm long enough to talk. "I'll come back to wherever you are. But right now, I'm in...disarray. I think you understand. My phone's charged. I...still...well. You know."

John opened his mouth, but closed it, their eyes meeting and holding. John swallowed thickly, feeling his emotions plastered over his face.

"Yeah... I know. I know."

Sherlock looked a little torn, and his pale face was primed a self-conscious pink. "Um..." He quickly kissed the tips of his own fingers, and pushed them roughly, but tenderly, against John's mouth.

John was too stunned to do much more than blink, but the detective didn't linger. Instead, Sherlock turned and swept from the flat, leaving John stood there in his boxers and a t-shirt. He blinked slowly, his left hand (now burning from the impact to the whore's face) reaching up, letting his fingers brush tenderly over the lips that still tingled from the remnants of Sherlock's kiss.