A/N: Wow, I'm filling this more than a month later. Oh well. And just to be clear, all parenthesized words aren't vocalized, they're mostly Sherlock's thoughts. Still a bit unsure about the title, so suggestions are very much appreciated!
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“You're so gorgeous... If you moan prettily for me, I might even give you a tip.”
The voice snarled into his ear, circling around for a moment before Sherlock could discern the individual words. Through a hazy curtain of morphine and whatever else was in the syringe, whatever else shielded him from the indelible reality, he could hear himself start to moan.
To Sherlock's ears, it sounded like a sob.
The customer didn't notice. They never did. He sped up, thrusting harder and harder into Sherlock. If he could feel it, Sherlock supposed it might be painful. Or perhaps it was supposed to be pleasurable. He always got the two mixed up.
When he finally finished, the client let out a throaty shout (a cry of victory, victory over what? over Sherlock?) and slumped onto Sherlock's back. Breathing heavily, almost panting, he rolled onto his back on the filthy bed, peeling off the condom. Did he know about all the stains (semen, blood, cocaine, tears) littering the mattress? If he did, he surely wouldn't lay on it, being a respectable banker leading a fairly comfy life.
“Did you come?” the hoarse voice grunted, staring at him through lazy, half-slitted eyes. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on his stomach.
“Yes.” Sherlock said, used to lying. When he said no, the customers would sometimes take it upon themselves to pleasure him. It never ended well.
The banker left, throwing the aforementioned tip on the bed. He handed the rest of the fee to Damien, who had been standing outside waiting. Only when Damien waltzed (he didn't walk, never just walked) through the door did Sherlock sit up.
“I need another hit.”
“Oh William (never Sherlock, always William), you had one already, and you've only been through three customers! Surely you'll be fine for one more client.” he lilted as he scooped up the meager tip from the grimy bed.
“No, it's wearing off! Please!” he pleaded. His dignity was long gone, thrown away in a sea of cracked syringes, used condoms, and soiled sheets.
Sighing, Damien withdrew a small bottle from his pocket, saying “Fine, but only for you darling. Enjoy, but hurry it up, the next client will arrive soon.”
As Sherlock greedily clutched the bottle and went through the familiar motions of filling the syringe, he felt a wave of relief. He could never be sober, never, because if he was, all of it would become real.
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Sherlock didn't think of the past often. He had abandoned his given first name and died his hair black, nowadays he was virtually unrecognizable from what he was back then. Coupled with the fact that Mycroft “took care of” Damien, Sherlock thought there was no way his history would ever come up again.
Looking at the drunken man before him, Sherlock realized he was wrong.
Fill: Quondam Memories 1/?
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“You're so gorgeous... If you moan prettily for me, I might even give you a tip.”
The voice snarled into his ear, circling around for a moment before Sherlock could discern the individual words. Through a hazy curtain of morphine and whatever else was in the syringe, whatever else shielded him from the indelible reality, he could hear himself start to moan.
To Sherlock's ears, it sounded like a sob.
The customer didn't notice. They never did. He sped up, thrusting harder and harder into Sherlock. If he could feel it, Sherlock supposed it might be painful. Or perhaps it was supposed to be pleasurable. He always got the two mixed up.
When he finally finished, the client let out a throaty shout (a cry of victory, victory over what? over Sherlock?) and slumped onto Sherlock's back. Breathing heavily, almost panting, he rolled onto his back on the filthy bed, peeling off the condom. Did he know about all the stains (semen, blood, cocaine, tears) littering the mattress? If he did, he surely wouldn't lay on it, being a respectable banker leading a fairly comfy life.
“Did you come?” the hoarse voice grunted, staring at him through lazy, half-slitted eyes. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on his stomach.
“Yes.” Sherlock said, used to lying. When he said no, the customers would sometimes take it upon themselves to pleasure him. It never ended well.
The banker left, throwing the aforementioned tip on the bed. He handed the rest of the fee to Damien, who had been standing outside waiting. Only when Damien waltzed (he didn't walk, never just walked) through the door did Sherlock sit up.
“I need another hit.”
“Oh William (never Sherlock, always William), you had one already, and you've only been through three customers! Surely you'll be fine for one more client.” he lilted as he scooped up the meager tip from the grimy bed.
“No, it's wearing off! Please!” he pleaded. His dignity was long gone, thrown away in a sea of cracked syringes, used condoms, and soiled sheets.
Sighing, Damien withdrew a small bottle from his pocket, saying “Fine, but only for you darling. Enjoy, but hurry it up, the next client will arrive soon.”
As Sherlock greedily clutched the bottle and went through the familiar motions of filling the syringe, he felt a wave of relief. He could never be sober, never, because if he was, all of it would become real.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Sherlock didn't think of the past often. He had abandoned his given first name and died his hair black, nowadays he was virtually unrecognizable from what he was back then. Coupled with the fact that Mycroft “took care of” Damien, Sherlock thought there was no way his history would ever come up again.
Looking at the drunken man before him, Sherlock realized he was wrong.