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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
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Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, oral sex
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 11

In a futile attempt to distract himself, Sherlock set about identifying the oily residue from the empty cases in the warehouse. A few hours work confirmed what he had already known –the substance was left by oil used to clean and protect rifles in transit. It was all standard stuff, commonly used in Europe and America. The climate in the Middle East and Eastern Europe required a more viscous type of cleaning oil. Nothing interesting there. He sent the relevant details to Lestrade and cast about for something else to work on.
The coded messages sent to and from Dmitri Karolinski promised to be a more compelling distraction. The cipher didn’t fit the pattern of any of the code systems Sherlock had seen before. And, after working for two full days with the various possibilities in the words, Sherlock was not happy to realize that the initial dissipation of arousal had been temporary. As he tried substitution codes, symbol codes, translation codes, even literary codes, he was reminded by the smallest and most incongruous observations of the precisely how good John had felt, pressed up against him, wrapped around him, moaning into his mouth, rocking his hips in desperation… Dealing with a suddenly overactive libido was very distracting, especially after he had managed to keep it properly in check up until now. After staring at the same message for four hours without any comprehension, Sherlock decided to try getting more information out of Kevin Philips, the skinny stripper. John’s abrupt departure last time had left Sherlock with quite a few unanswered questions, but he had been sidetracked by his other investigation.
It was really the perfect solution. If sexual frustration was causing problems, all he had to do was find some form of release. The club specialized in a particular form of release, even if it was very carefully not mentioned. Kevin Philips, though an amazingly bad dancer, would surely be adequate to the challenge of generating the right amount of friction and heat to achieve orgasm. On the sidewalk outside City Boys, which was just opening for the evening, Sherlock braced himself against the garish décor and music before going in search of possible relief.
The barkeep was busy setting up for the evening, but he waved vaguely in the direction of the back of the club in response to Sherlock’s inquiries. Kevin was sitting very close to the man with the sound equipment; judging by the other man’s stance (leaning as far away as possible) and eye movements (looking anywhere but in Kevin’s direction) as he adjusted volumes and microphones, this was not an arrangement he would have chosen. Sherlock nearly turned and walked away then, but Kevin caught his eye and sashayed over. (Really, he sashayed. There was no other word to describe the man’s gait. It was absurd.)
“Hello, lovey. Here all alone tonight? Where’s your friend got himself off to?”
“I require sexual stimulation. It is my understanding that you can provide it, if certain arrangements are made. What are those arrangements, and how would I make them? As briefly as possible, please.”
“Aren’t we eager! Your man’s gone off and left you, then? Tell you what, ducks. Just for you, I’ll make a special offer. Fifty quid, and I’ll make you forget all about him. You just follow me to Paradise.” With a lascivious wink, the bad stripper led the way to the toilets, hardly the most sanitary place for activities requiring a certain amount of exposed skin. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock followed.
The lavatory was, fortunately, deserted and clean, at least on the surface. Kevin beckoned him into a corner stall. In the confined space, they were pressed together, close enough to smell the cheap beer and greasy chips on Kevin’s breath. It was difficult not to recoil in disgust. “What’ll it be, then? A knee-trembler? Are you the sort who gets off by touching? I tell you, I wouldn’t mind being touched by you, mate. And you know what they say about men with big feet-”
“Ugh, no. I’m revoking your speaking privileges. Just provide enough stimulation that I can achieve orgasm so I can go back to thinking normally.”
Kevin pouted a bit, but he shimmied down until he was kneeling. With a smirk, he reached out and palmed Sherlock’s fledgling erection through his slacks. He ran his fingers down the length, squeezing a bit. It seemed as if he was going to try speaking again, but the look on Sherlock’s face stopped whatever he’d been about to say. Instead, he just opened the zip and fished Sherlock’s length out of his pants. There was no more preamble to the damp heat that engulfed him, tongue wriggling like a drowning fish across the frenulum and down the [center of the penis] vein. The sensation was so utterly foreign and shocking that Sherlock immediately lost any sense of arousal, his erection flagging completely. Naturally, Kevin noticed, but he remembered his instructions not to speak. He simply increased the level of suction, which quickly became distinctly painful.
With the vague idea of pulling the man’s mouth away from sensitive anatomy, Sherlock threaded his fingers through Kevin’s hair and started pushing away. He paused. Without the hair to cover it, the tattoo behind left Kevin’s ear was just visible. From the awkward angle, Sherlock couldn’t make out what the tattoo was supposed to represent, so he pulled the kneeling man up by the hair and turned him away to get a better look at the side of his head.
Ignoring Kevin’s squawks, Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifier and peered at the small design nearly hidden by black hair. About three centimeters across, it was a circle with the left half black and the right half white. “Who had this tattoo put on you? You’re not clever enough to come up with something like this on your own.”
Kevin struggled in earnest now. “Ow! Ow, stop that. What do you care where I got a tattoo? Anyway, roughhousing wasn’t part of our arrangement. That’ll cost- “
“Tell me how you came by this tattoo, or I’ll tell your Probation Officer that you’re soliciting for sex in the lavatories.”
“How’d you know about my Probation Officer? Are you an Undercover?”
“Of course you have a Probation Officer; you have a tattoo proclaiming your affinity for the Vory, even if you’re not one yourself. Who gave it to you?”
“My tat says what now? What the hell is a Vory?”
“Never mind that. Where did you get it?” Sherlock’s grip tightened on Kevin’s hair, pulling hard against the scalp.
“Alright, alright. Ow… This guy I used to see got me really pissed and took me to the shop to have it done. Hurt like bloody balls, too. Couldn’t touch my head for weeks.”
“What guy? What was his name?”
“Dmitri something or other, I don’t know.” He ran his fingers gingerly across his scalp when Sherlock finally let him go.
Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began texting Lestrade with this latest update. He noticed with disgust that his fingers had become coated with the product Kevin had used in his hair and left greasy smears on the keys as he typed. “Tell me everything you know about the man.”
“I don’t really know anything about him. He didn’t really speak English, and I’m crap with Russian, so we never really did much talking. Course, we didn’t need words, did we, eh?” His nervous laughter died quickly in the face of Sherlock’s icy glare. “Anyway, we weren’t really together together, if you know what I mean. He’d come ‘round every once in a while, stay for a couple of days, and then he’d be off again. I don’t normally go in for the tattooed types, but he was always a decent shag. I haven’t seen him for months now. And I don’t know nothing about any Vories or anything else he was up to. He never said anything about anything. All we ever did was get thoroughly plastered and then shag for a while.”
“You’re being deliberately dense.”
“No, honest! That’s all I ever knew. I’d get home after my shift, and he’d be sitting on my bed. He’d let himself in somehow. Never said much, just went straight for my laces. I’d leave him there when I went back to work, and he might or might not still be around when I came home again. It was just sex; that’s all it ever was. No meaningful conversations, no sharing stories, no common interests but sex. Once or twice, he’d have someone else over while I was out, I’d hear ‘em speaking Russian, but the other blokes always left as soon as I showed up. I don’t know anything, and I wasn’t doing anything wrong! Come on, mate, don’t call my Probation Officer!”
“I am certainly not your mate, and I have no interest in speaking with your Probation Officer. Now, move so that I get out of this filthy place.”
“Wait!” Kevin looked almost desperate as Sherlock tried to reach the latch. “Don’t you want to finish what we started earlier? No charge!”
Having finally gotten the door opened and managed to squeeze past Kevin’s skinny torso, Sherlock didn’t even bother turning around to reply. “I can think of absolutely no reason to prolong physical contact with you. You are utterly repellent and repulsive in every way.” He inspected himself quickly in the mirror for any visible traces of his recent activities and strode from the room as quickly as possible.
Well, that had certainly proved to be productive. All traces of his former arousal were completely gone. The mere memory of Kevin’s greasy hair and skinny elbows was enough to remind Sherlock of why he had never been interested in copulation in the first place. More importantly, he now knew a possible location for the smugglers’ drop-off points, or at least a place where they met. No doubt he would have picked up on that information the last time he’d been in the club if he hadn’t been so distracted by observing John. It was yet another reminder of why he avoided sex entirely.
Found Karolinski’s boyfriend. Stripper at City Boys. Tattoo showing he works around mafia covered by hair behind left ear. Flat used as meet-up point. SH
He had no doubt that the flat was completely devoid of any clues about Karolinski’s activities by this point. John said he’d been in that hole for several months, and John was a very good doctor. If the Russian had been operating in the country for at least seven years, as proven by his involvement in the strangulation case, why had he changed his pattern and remained in confinement for so long? Either he had angered someone in charge and been confined at the warehouse as a punishment of some sort, or the activities in the room had been sensitive enough to require constant monitoring. The amount of crates that had evidently been stored in the room, combined with high level of traffic in and out of the warehouse made it far more likely that he had stayed there to provide security for the contents of the room. That level of trust would in keeping with the evidence of his abdominal tattoo that he was related somehow to a high-ranking member of the Russian mafia.
Sherlock was so absorbed in his deductions that the sound of his mobile startled him. It was a text from Lestrade.
What were you doing running your hands through a stripper’s hair? And at his flat, no less!
He sent Lestrade the address and ignored the obvious bait as the cab pulled up in front of Baker Street. Petty people with their petty misconceptions and assumptions. It was really not worth his time.
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Anomalies