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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 24
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A/N: This chapter does not contain overly violent or gory imagery, but it's still disturbing in its own right.

Chapter 25

2001

Sherlock thought about heading home. He'd gotten what he came for; a tiny bag of white powder lay safe and secure in his pocket, and every few minutes he felt an almost compulsive need to touch it with his hand, to reassure himself that he hadn't lost it. It wasn't much, but it would help him get through the night.

'Home' for the 21-year-old cocaine addict was a single room in a seedy, decrepit building in East End owned by a man with dubious morals. Rats and cockroaches were a regular occurrence. As were various other substance abusers and the disorderly behaviour which followed in their wake. Waking up to the sound of sirens approaching at full blast was something all residents were used to, and no one rarely even batted an eyelash.

Sherlock himself tried to avoid the police at as much as possible. Getting arrested meant attracting the attention of Mycroft, and even worse, he always depended on his brother to bail him out.

At least he was now lucky enough to have a place he could call his own. Sherlock had spent too many nights sleeping in missions and shelters, squeezed in amongst a variety of people with different problems and dispositions: the homeless, the alcoholics, the drug addicts, the mentally ill and the social outcasts. Shelters in general only had one rule: they demanded you be sober.

He had not intended to start hustling when he left home three years ago with one hundred pounds in his pocket, stolen from Mycroft's wallet. But with no place to go and a very costly drug habit to support, there had been little choice. In the beginning he hadn't thought of it as prostitution. If he went home with a guy to have a place to crash and some food in his belly, where was the harm in that? Employers weren't exactly lining up to hire a college-drop out with a history of substance abuse, and even so, Sherlock's mind abhorred the idea of a white-collar job and the stagnation connected to it. If the choice came down to comfort or freedom, he would take the latter any day of the week.

Sherlock walked along the pavement, shivering in the cold beat of the autumn wind. He needed a new jacket for cold weather and made a mental note to include this in his financial planning, lacking though it was.

He reluctantly stopped when a panda car suddenly pulled up beside him and wondered what about him could have possibly attracted the attention of a law enforcement officer. He knew that his brother paid DI Lestrade to keep him under observation from time to time, but this was not Lestrade. Sherlock felt his skin crawl with unadulterated disgust when the man inside the police car revealed his identity.

The smile that greeted him through the window was just as sickeningly familiar as the face sporting it.

Anderson.

"Well, it's certainly a fine night for a stroll, isn't it?" the officer remarked, resting an elbow on the frame of the car window.

God, I hate him, Sherlock silently said to himself.

Indeed he did, worse than the others at the precinct. Lestrade was at worst an annoyance, only doing "what was right" and following Mycroft's orders. The stuffy prick, as though he knew what was right simply because he was Sherlock's brother...

One night when he had to deal with Lestrade, Sherlock made certain suspicions very clear about why the detective inspector agreed to be on Mycroft's payroll, besides the obvious excuse of money. The suggestion had been mean-spirited and crude, not that Sherlock cared, and it inspired a very red-faced Greg Lestrade to hold him in a cell for the night to cool the young Holmes down.

Still, the DI was doing his job - and his sworn duty - and had been fair in the past. Anderson, on the other hand, was downright nasty and used his badge as an excuse for his unsavory disposition.

"Sergeant," Sherlock finally said in confirmation. He had learned in the past that ignoring Anderson counted as "resisting an officer," and it was always believed by the precinct. After all, it was his word against that of a whorish drug addict who always had a snide, deep-cutting remark ready on his tongue.

"And where are you off to at this hour?" Anderson asked.

"Home," Sherlock replied swiftly, ready to walk away as soon as he had the chance.

"And where are you returning home from?" the officer countered.

"Nowhere in particular. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm really tired and all I want to do is get some sleep." Sherlock refrained from looking at Anderson while at the same time not appearing too confrontational. He really did not need to give the unsavory policeman an excuse to take a closer look at him, not with his 'prize' so obvious in his pocket. Sherlock began to walk faster and hoped Anderson would think it too much work to further pursue him.

Anderson, however, was undaunted and continued trailing Sherlock at walking speed from his police car, his beady rat's eyes practically gleaming with interest.

"Sleep, you say?" the sergeant asked, pretending to mull this over in his head. "You're not tricking off, then? Or perhaps you prefer the term "solicitation"? We've busted you a number of times for that, Holmes. Surely I don't need to remind you, with your so-called photographic memory and all."

"It's 'eidetic memory', you asinine prick," Sherlock snapped back, wishing he could spit in Anderson's self-righteous face. However, he knew the consequences that would follow. "I told you, I'm going home! Now leave me alone!"

"It's your night off, then?" Anderson taunted, pleased with himself for having succeeded in provoking Sherlock into an emotional outburst. "What's a night off for a crack whore? Do you go to church or something?"

Sherlock was not, and never had been, a crack user, and he knew Anderson knew that as well, but he was not going to take the bait this time. To escape the policeman's attentions, Sherlock promptly cut into a side street, too narrow for Anderson to navigate with his car.

"Don't you walk away from me, Holmes! I wasn't finished with you!" Anderson shouted at the young man's rapidly disappearing back. "Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you, you filthy junkie bitch!"

Fists clenched, Sherlock kept walking. He was not going to feed this degenerate's moronic yammering, nor cater to the Sergeant's lizard-like, shriveled insecurities.

He heard the car door swing open, but the young Holmes fought not to respond. He deeply wanted to take a swing and let his fist collide with that rodent face, but more than anything, he just wanted to go home, to use what he had been out to obtain in the first place and just collapse. Though it was sorely tempting, the brief satisfaction of making Anderson bruise or bleed was not worth the assault charge.

"And don't walk away from me, or else I'll have you detained!" Sherlock felt a hand grip his arm, squeezing painfully as it yanked him back to face the officer.

"Fuck off!" he spat at Anderson as they glared, inches apart from one another. Both had placed their hands on the other, one in attack, the other in defense.

"Oh, no, I don't think so," Anderson sneered, reaching into a pocket before Sherlock could interfere. "Not at all."

Sherlock desperately grabbed at the small plastic bag as the weasel of an officer plucked it away from him.

"Well, well, well... what have we here?" Anderson announced triumphantly, and not at all quietly. "Coming home from nowhere in particular, eh? I didn't figure you had such a low opinion of your little smack dens."

Sherlock's jaw tightened at the officer's discovery. So much for plans of going home and "enjoying" the remainder of his night.

Mycroft would be furious, and Sherlock knew he would have to endure another tedious lecture, perhaps even outrights threats of incarceration from his brother. His freedom was the only thing Mycroft could still threaten to take from him, but Sherlock didn't think the elder Holmes would go as far as sending him to jail, not when he knew the inevitable outcome of such a decision. Mycroft would see to that he was charged with a petty offense, pay his fines, and have him released back into the world with imploration to quit the drugs and get his life "back on track".

What track, Sherlock often wondered. His life had never been on track, so how could he possibly get it back there?

Anderson did a brief visual examination of the bag's contents and chuckled at the discovery.

"Pretty good stuff, from what I can tell. High purity. Not the brown shit that's often sold on the streets. Must have cost some money." The malicious gleam had returned to the policeman's eyes. "How many cocks did you have to suck to afford this? You do bareback? What do you charge for a bareback shag, Holmes?"

"Why? Are you interested?" Sherlock cut in, momentarily satisfied to witness the expression of poorly disguised shock on the Sergeant's face. Anderson was no prize, but Sherlock didn't think he had to take sex from prostitutes he arrested. Especially not if the prostitute in question was someone whose guts he hated. Nonetheless, it had felt good making Anderson sweat, if only for a moment.

The following happened with no preamble; Anderson grabbing Sherlock's wrist and twisting it, as he nimbly plucked out a pair of handcuffs and shoved his suspect against the brick wall with more force than was strictly necessary. The cuffs clicked shut and moments later Anderson's growled words, followed by sprinkles of spit, reached Sherlock's ear.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm hereby arresting you for unlawful possession of drugs. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand your rights?"

When Sherlock did not answer, Anderson put his weight against him, again pressing the young man into the wall.

"DO YOU?"

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed. The brick surface scraped painfully against his face. It would not break the skin, but his face was in danger of being rubbed raw, not exactly good for promoting oneself in exchange for drugs. Although some clients barely ever looked at faces... after all, looks had nothing to do with the quality of a fuck or blow job. Sherlock kept this in mind so that he could manage to resist the urge to kick Anderson in the scrotum.

"Good. Now come on."

Anderson yanked at the cuffs, sending a jolt of pain through the young man's shoulders. Sherlock feared the risk of a pinched nerve, or perhaps even a shoulder getting wrenched out of its socket. He would not find it completely unbelievable that an officer with Anderson's level of self-entitlement could easily excuse such injuries as the inevitable result from a criminal resisting arrest. And with Sherlock's lifestyle demanding he be very physical - be it for pleasuring or evading any breed of pursuer - he could not afford a ruined shoulder. Thus, he begrudgingly went as guided, towards the patrol car with very little fuss or resistance.

"In you go," Anderson ordered, opening the door to the back passenger seats. Sherlock dodged as he was carelessly shoved inside, managing not to hit his head. He did not put his expectations past the little rodent to "accidentally" send him into the framework of the vehicle. Even so, Anderson could only get away with so much before the brutality became blatantly obvious.

"Try as you may," the officer said, buckling his safety belt and starting up the car as he frowned into the rear view mirror at Sherlock's reflection. "You'll just keep getting yourself arrested. You're all the same. You seek out your own destruction."

"Don't pretend you know me, Anderson," Sherlock snarled quietly. "You don't know a thing about me."

The Sergeant snorted as he steered the panda car away from the curb and back into the flow of the central London traffic. "I know what matters, Holmes," he said. "You live on the streets, you steal, you lie, you pick pockets, and you whore yourself out to strangers to support your rather costly and very much illegal drug habit. You were born with a fucking silver spoon up your arse, and yet you've chosen this as your life. What does that say about your character?"

"Stick to your own little world, Anderson. This one just confuses you."

There was a momentary flash of anger in the policeman's gleaming rodent eyes, but it passed as quickly as it had appeared. Anderson sounded just as smug as earlier when he spoke again.

"You know, Lestrade is going to be so disappointed," he said with a melodramatic expression of mock dread. "This is actually his day off, but since your posh git for a brother has appointed him your personal keeper, we'll have no choice but to call him. How are you going to explain yourself, Holmes?"

"I wasn't intending to."

"Too bad, because he's going to demand you do. As for your brother, what will you tell him this time? He's a busy man, that Mycroft Holmes, is he not? Must be troublesome, having to adjust his schedule according to his kid brother's antics. Do you suppose there'll ever be a time when he won't have your back anymore? There's a limit to everyone's patience, and I think you're testing his. Insufferable prick, thinking he can just waltz into the station with his umbrella and three-piece suits and order us around like we were cattle."

Anderson let out an indignant sniff, as if personally affronted by Mycroft's meddling.

Sherlock tried to subtly shift in his seat to relieve the pressure on his shoulders without Anderson noticing. The man was like a vulture in that sense; first sign of weakness and he instantly picked up on it.

"You might be going down for a serious offense this time, Holmes. Maybe even your brother's influence won't be enough to get you off the hook."

"And?" Sherlock argued, glaring out the window. He was childish in his attempts to sound unmoved and disinterested. Truly he wanted to sit in silence for the duration of the drive. At least in a cell he would be away from Anderson's idiotic, self-served rambling.

"And you likely won't even last an hour before you piss of the wrong inmate."

"Oh, I hope not," Sherlock snorted. "I'd hate to see how Mycroft would react if that were to happen."

Anderson's grip on the steering wheel tightened. His expression looked as though he had eaten something very bitter. Sherlock did not take the opportunity to gloat. He had silence in the car at last, and he was going to enjoy it.

Staring out the window, he awaited their arrival to the precinct peacefully, and at first he did not give any thought to a turn Anderson made. After all, the way to the police station could be taken by several paths. But he soon recognized that Anderson's choice of a route was not the quickest. In fact, the car was taking the longest route.

Sherlock looked into the rearview mirror, searching for some sort of clue as to the officer's motives. Anderson glanced fleetingly back at him, but otherwise kept his eyes on the road.

Despite the wooden expression, a wicked smile briefly flickered into the sergeant's eyes. He had plans, and he was determined to see them out. Sherlock instinctively tested the strength of the handcuffs. With his wrists bound and no means to pick the lock, his options were very few, short of a well-aimed kick and a poorly balanced sprint to God knows where.

"It's no use, Holmes," Anderson said calmly, his eyes never leaving the road. "You won't get out of those, unless of course, you're willing to break your own thumb and twist it out of place. But you're not quite that desperate yet, are you?"

Sherlock swallowed, trying to suppress the uncontrollable feeling of panic bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. His every instinct told him that he was in danger, despite the fact that his rational self should have scoffed at such a notion; Anderson might have been a slime, but he was still a policeman, and directly under Greg Lestrade's command. The mere idea that he would do something to hurt Sherlock - to actually hurt him - when he would risk serious repercussions to himself was ludicrous. Wasn't it?

"Where are you taking me?" Sherlock demanded, his voice a pitch higher than normal. "This isn't the way to the station. What are you doing?!"

"Keep your knickers on, Holmes," Anderson said, then chuckled at his own poor attempt at a joke. "We're just taking a little detour. You don't mind, do you? It's not like you have anywhere to be."

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't want to admit it, let alone show it, but he was becoming very frightened. He had clearly misjudged Anderson; the man was not merely a serpentine skulk with an unsavory disposition and a mildly sadistic streak, but something much more sinister. How could he have missed this in all his previous dealings with Anderson?

However, in his own defense, Sherlock took in consideration that this was probably a side of himself which the Sergeant - for the most - part kept well-hidden from others.

"Take me to the station," Sherlock said. "I want to call Mycroft."

"Sorry, mate. No phone calls allowed."

"I'm under arrest, aren't I? I'm entitled to a phone call!"

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't."

Again, Anderson had that stupid smug smirk on his face. Sherlock wanted to kick his teeth in.

"Will you stop being so bloody cryptic and tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"Really?" the officer replied in mock surprise. "All of this brilliance you supposedly have and yet you can't guess what's going on?"

"If there is a possibility that I am not under arrest," Sherlock said. "Then to what end am I in this car and going the long way to the station?"

"Oh, we're not going to the station," Anderson said, voice high with slightly theatrical cheer. He clearly thought he had been very clever to mislead Sherlock in such a way.

"Is this some elaborate attempt to get me to boost your ego?"

Anderson grinned, though there was something rather hateful behind his eyes when he smiled. "I suppose you could say that."

The car made an abrupt left turn that caused Sherlock to momentarily lose his balance on the seat. He quickly glanced out the window to see. Warehouses all around. Empty lot. No lights, save for a street lamp in the distance. No dogs barking in response to their presence. Most likely abandoned.

An ideal place to kill someone, with a low chance of anyone happening across the body anytime in the near future. Was Anderson truly capable of committing such a crime?

The Sergeant turned off his patrol car engine and exited, eerily silent. Likely to prolong the suspense of whatever it was he was about to do. He opened the door to Sherlock's seat. Sherlock sat very still, like a cat about to strike a potential threat... except presently he was very much incapable of clawing at anything.

"Alright, out you get."

"No." The young man still didn't move, convinced that any movement, no matter how small, would provoke the predator to strike. His eyes took in Anderson's appearance as the man leaned into the car, well aware that he was fully at the mercy of a possibly murderous sadist, and no deduction, no matter how pertinent, would be of any aid to him.

Sherlock's brain, however, worked at express speed, much like a turbo-charged engine, and sometimes it moved too fast even for his conscious mind to catch up.

Anderson bought expensive suits but his shirts and ties were of inferior quality; clearly it was a way of saving money. A Sergeant's salary would only take you so far. Did he have a way of making money on the side? Shoes shined, wedding ring buffed, collar ironed with great care. Obviously not by the man himself. His wife? A maid? On first glance Sherlock wouldn't have taken Anderson for the type to employ a maid, but he was decidedly not on good terms with his wife, so it seemed unlikely that she would go to such lengths to care for his appearance. A maid then. Probably a young illegal immigrant from a less privileged existence somewhere in Eastern Europe. Perhaps Poland…

Anderson carried his wallet in his right front trouser pocket, keys on the opposing side. Was the key to the handcuffs on that same keychain? Sherlock wanted to think so, but even if that were true, how was he supposed to get it without the use of his hands?

To his surprise, Anderson appeared amused rather than angry over Sherlock's refusal to cooperate.

"No? What's your plan? You gonna move into my squad car, Holmes?"

Sherlock knew his best chance was to stay inside the car. If Anderson did anything to him in here, he was bound to leave traces that could be detected by his colleagues, even those less than qualified for a job in forensics. And Sherlock was intent on leaving his DNA on as many places as possible.

Granted the Sergeant could - and probably would - try to have him bodily removed from the vehicle…

"Whatever is about to happen," Sherlock said with a sneer, "your attempts at secrecy are still something to be desired. There may not be dogs or security guards... but think of the population of homeless that might stumble upon this spectacle."

Anderson lifted an eyebrow, glancing aside in thought. A rather unexpected response, Sherlock thought. At worst he expected the officer to express rage at the unavoidable truth that he would still run a risk of being found out for murder.

Anderson sighed, frustrated. "Fine."

This time Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, perplexed. "Fine?"

"It'll be a little uncomfortable, but we'll do this in the car."

Sherlock was utterly confused now. Was Anderson really so unbalanced that he would rather coat the interior of his panda car with evidence of a murder? The young man edged away on his seat, ready to put his legs forward so that he could kick his assailant in the face. Presently he did not care if he would be subsequently charged in the near future with assaulting an officer of the law. If he could somehow escape from this, perhaps with the promise of reporting the ratty little bastard to his brother...

His plans were interrupted by a dismissive laugh from Anderson.

"Oh lord," the Sergeant rubbed at his eyes as though he had been amused to the point of tears. "You think I'm going to kill you, don't you?"

Sherlock blinked, and in the span of that blink, he realized the truth. If he had been led to an abandoned place instead of being arrested, and was not about to be murdered...

Of course. He had whored himself in exchange for other favours to his benefit, so why not also to avoid detainment?

Sherlock regarded the lizard-like policeman with the bitter, gleaming eyes, and was suddenly struck by his almost uncanny resemblance to the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote. The thought of having sex with him was absolutely repelling, and yet Sherlock had with barely any hesitation gone down on some of the filthiest, most depraved men in London. He tried to avoid cops, though, and this particular cop was someone he would not poke with a ten-foot pole.

Anderson let out a dry bark of laughter. "Oh my, Holmes. You almost look like you'd prefer the killing."

The young man tried to control his shaky intake of breath and meet the other's gaze without any fear. He wondered if forcing prostitutes and other second class citizens to pleasure him sexually was a regular extracurricular activity for Anderson or if this was a fluke. Sherlock was willing to bet on the former. The look in the man's eyes was confident, calculating, scheming. He had definitely done this before and gotten away with it.

"I won't do it," Sherlock said, almost as surprised by his own words as Anderson. He was headed down a dangerous slope, refusing a man who had him under complete control, but his pride would have it no other way.

In an instant, the smug grin was replaced by a glare of repressed fury. "You will if you want to stay out of the precinct, especially one with a cellmate who would like to do much worse to you than I would."

Sherlock frowned back and would have crossed his arms like a petulant child, were his hands free.

"Oh don't make that face," Anderson said, his mouth curling in the smallest of smiles. "You look so ugly when you're angry. Now if we could just proceed with our little exchange, both of us can go on our merry way and you'll be home safe, and I can forget I ever saw you tonight."

"Maybe I'd rather go to the station," the younger man spat. He was not entirely telling the truth, but he presently felt as though he'd rather die than pleasure this bastard.

The click of a button inspired him to look back at Anderson, who was now opening a pocket on his coat. With a smirk he produced not only his apprehended suspect's bag of substances but also a second bag. It appeared Sherlock had spoken too soon. Instinctively he strained against the handcuffs. His wrists were being rubbed raw by this point, the pain the only sensation amidst numbing arms.

"Perhaps this will help you make up your mind better. Yours and this one combined... I'd say you could be tried for possession with intent to sell."

"That's a load of bullshit!" Sherlock exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to keep his cool. For some reason, the suggestion that Anderson would plant evidence to implicate him infuriated Sherlock more than anything the despicable policeman had said or done thus far. He could stand taking the blame for things he was guilty of, but drug dealing was not a crime he had ever committed and thus did not want on his (admittedly quite extensive) criminal record.

More than anything, he was not going to let this nefarious scumbag ruin his life with false accusations.

"You wouldn't get away with something like that, Anderson."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" The Sergeant's wicked smile broadened. "You can deny it all you want, but they'll never take your word over mine. You're a habitual liar, Holmes; a druggie, a thief, and a whore. I know it, you know it, Lestrade knows it, and your posh brother knows it better than anyone."

"Mycroft would believe me," Sherlock argued, but his voice lacked conviction. In truth, he was beginning to doubt his own words. He had disappointed Mycroft so many times already. The day would come when his brother decided to stop wasting valuable resources on him, family or no family.

"Do you really want to risk it, Holmes?" Anderson wondered, casually leaning into the car while pretending to poke at some dirt under his fingernail.

Perfectly manicured, Sherlock noted. The bastard seemed to have more than his fair share of money to spend.

"If he doesn't believe you, your best theatrics won't save you from going to prison. You can count on three months minimum, six if you're unlucky." Anderson laughed gleefully. "If you mouth off to the judge, you're bound to get the maximum sentence. You just can't help mouthing off, can you? It's in your nature. What do you think will happen to you in prison? Those blokes aren't known for being gentle. A pretty young queer-boy like yourself, you'd already be a target. Add to that your glib tongue and superiority complex…"

Sherlock knew. Lestrade knew, and Mycroft knew as well, which was why he'd always negotiated on behalf of Sherlock to avoid landing the young man a prison sentence.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, voice low and reeking of defeat.

"A blowjob," Anderson replied conversationally, as if he'd just asked for a pack of cigarettes from a drugstore cashier.

Of course, Sherlock thought. With his hands bound, performing fellatio would keep his legs a fair distance away from doing any kicking or fighting back, especially in the cramped space of a car. Lips thinning, Sherlock stared toward the front of the vehicle and happened to catch his reflection in the rearview mirror. He had not taken a real look at himself in a long time, not much caring for whatever would look back at him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he refused to look at Anderson as he gave his answer. "Get it over with."

He was glad he was not looking in the Sergeant's direction, because the sickeningly satisfied smile on Anderson's face would have made him want to bite into the officer with every ounce of strength he had. Presently it was the only action he would actually be happy to perform.

"I knew you'd see reason," Anderson said. "Move back then."

Sherlock suddenly found himself barely able to move. His limbs felt replaced by lead, and his stomach stuffed with rocks, yet he still managed to shuffle into the far side of the vehicle. The seats felt far too firm, the upholstery harsh as burlap. Experimentally, he flexed his jaw and found it difficult to move. Hopefully its limited mobility indicated that he would not instinctively bite down.

Anderson removed his overcoat and suit jacket, perhaps to gain more mobility himself, but likely because he didn't want them soiled. Sherlock fought not to wince when the policeman reached down to unzip his trousers. Of course the small but still detectable twitch did not pass by Anderson unnoticed.

"Are you scared, Holmes?" he taunted, placing one hand on Sherlock's knee and squeezing while cupping himself with the other through his Calvin Klein underwear. The bulge he sported so far at least did not look all that big, thank God.

"Are you scared of my cock? What kind of whore are you? Or this that an act?" The man scoffed. "Do your clients like it when you fake virginal modesty? I bet you're really good at playing the Catholic schoolboy."

I'm not scared, merely repulsed, Sherlock thought, but he did not speak the words out loud. With any luck, it would be over in less than ten minutes and he'd be on his way home.

He did not want to watch when Anderson lowered the elastics of his boxers to free his budding erection, but his eyes were inexplicably drawn to it, like a person about to witness a train wreck.

"This situation does not particularly arouse me," Anderson said. "You will have to draw that from me."

Sherlock swallowed, and the hand squeezing his leg travelled up to harshly grasp his neck. Body tense as a board, Sherlock momentarily resisted the grip attempting to force his head down into Anderson's groin.

"Do it, Holmes," the Sergeant ordered, his tone no longer playful. "Show me that those lips of yours are good for more than just giving lip."

Sherlock imagined Anderson thought himself very clever for the comment, which only made him wish the insufferable bastard could spontaneously combust... preferably outside of the squad car.

The younger man simply stared at his target, inexplicably horrified. He had fellated countless repellant characters in the past, but those moments were a means to support his habits and afford the occasional meal or rent payment. If he could somehow treat this as one of those times, instead of a pathetic bribe to keep himself out of prison...

"Remember some foreplay," he heard above him, and he cringed, gnashing his teeth. Sherlock barely practiced foreplay even for customers. Most of the time it was never requested, and either way, Sherlock hated any sort of intimacy. He cared nothing for these people, and he never felt the urge to be romantic even with the less detestable ones.

Still, Anderson was calling the shots. Desperate not to let this bastard see him tremble, Sherlock stiffly nuzzled at the hardening organ. Everything about Anderson repulsed him now; even the scent, which at least was cleaner than some of the previous customers, made him want to gag.

"Oh, yes..." Anderson said, bucking a little at the touch and hence driving his cock into Sherlock's face. "Yes, you could afford to do a little more of that."

Sherlock wished he could employ the use of his hands. Not only would he feel less helpless with his wrists unbound and perhaps regain an iota of control, but he could also have used his quick, dexterous fingers to make Anderson come faster. Now he had to do everything with his mouth, which would only prolong the ordeal.

"Could you please uncuff me?" Sherlock asked, putting emphasis on the 'please' and making sure he did not sound the least bit cutting or confrontational.

"No," Anderson said simply. "I asked for a blowjob, not a handjob. I'll uncuff you once you're done."

Sherlock knew that trying to persuade Anderson to do otherwise was meaningless and a waste of time, so he did not argue. Instead he aggressively enveloped the despicable officer's cock in his mouth and began sucking at a quick pace focused on force rather than finesse or technique. His experience in this field had given Sherlock fairly good control over his gag reflex, and he was grateful for it now. Vomiting in Anderson's lap would hardly increase his chances of getting home tonight.

The Sergeant's hand had a firm hold on Sherlock's thick, silken curls, slightly oily from going two days without a shower, and pumped the young man's head shamelessly up and down.

"Oh my…" Anderson said, slightly out of breath from the activity, "you're good at this. You should give yourself more credit!" The statement was followed by a supercilious snicker which made Sherlock want to bite down on the member currently filling his mouth. Anderson, knowing that his charge was hardly in a position to talk back, continued his taunts.

"Do you practice these skills on the Boss?" he asked. "Is that the reason he's always so easy on you?"

No, that role goes to my brother, Sherlock wanted to say. But he had no way of talking back, a frustrating thing indeed. And biting was out of the question. So he used his anger, bobbing even faster, curling his lips over his teeth to keep things gentle... not that he wanted to. With his efforts, hopefully he could get Anderson off within a few minutes.

Among the things he hated - apart from being unable to speak, of course - was the eager thrusting into his face. He had dealt with such behavior in the past, but previous clients... well, they were clients. Those moments would end with money, or drugs. For all he knew, Anderson would change his mind even after a very good climax and send him off to the precinct anyway.

After about five minutes - which felt like thirty - Sherlock felt the testicles begin to constrict against his chin. If he timed this properly, he could pull away before Anderson ejaculated. Even though Sherlock was not really looking forward to getting a load of the bastard's spunk on his face, he would have rather dealt with that than the filth being sent down his throat.

As he anticipated the release, he began to pull away. Then a hand clamped over the back of his head, fingers gripping his hair and yanking painfully. Sherlock gave a muffled yelp, unable to budge in time.

The ejaculate filled him, and he felt it practically coat the inside of his mouth all the way down the back of his throat. He gagged, kicking at the door of the far end and struggling frantically. After ten agonizing seconds, the hand entangled in his hair released.

Air deprivation had set in, and Sherlock began to cough violently the moment he was free to pull off Anderson's pulsating cock. Vision hazy, he hacked and sputtered in a highly undignified manner as the leering policeman wiped away the evidence of their exchange and tucked himself back into his expensive trousers. Not a spot had landed on them, and Sherlock figured the disgusting wretch was probably relieved to avoid of the charge of having them dry-cleaned.

"Not a swallower then, Holmes?" Anderson casually wondered, again patting Sherlock's upper thigh. "I thought that was non-optional in your line of trade."

He snickered at his own remark. Sherlock, though he was now free to speak, did not. All he wanted was for Anderson to unlock the cuffs and send him on his way. Though he was miles away from his apartment complex and would need to spend the better part of an hour to get back there, Sherlock did not want to ask the Sergeant to drive him. If only he could remove those goddamn handcuffs…

"I'll be remembering this, you know," Anderson continued, although it seemed more like he was talking to himself now. "Next time that ugly posh arsehole walks into my precinct, swinging around his umbrella and acting like he's bloody royalty, I'll be thinking about what I did to his precious little brother, how I fucked his mouth and made him swallow like the cheap whore he is. He can order me around all he wants, but I'll always remember this."

Sherlock kept his eyes steadily trained on a lamp post some eighty feet from the car. If he looked at Anderson now, he was afraid he might do something he'd later regret.

"Oh well…" Anderson straightened where he sat and briefly stretched his back. "Since you held up your part of the bargain, it's only fair that I fulfill mine." He fished the key to the handcuffs out of his trouser pocket and finally freed the younger man's hands.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're free to go."

Instinctively Sherlock flexed his wrists, feeling the sting of raw skin. He considered the possibility of having to treat them, but presently he hardly cared if his hands rotted and fell off. For a moment, he wished the same could be said of his mouth, but he would never willingly rid himself of his ability to speak.

As soon as Anderson had moved out of the way - which of course he took his good bloody time with - Sherlock scrambled to get out, stumbling as his feet hit the pavement. Already as he was standing up strand, massaging his red, scraped wrists, the Sergeant was in the driver's seat, buckling the safety belt and putting the key in the ignition. Only when he heard the car turn over did Sherlock remember something very important.

"My bag," he said, careful not to be specific in the very slim case that they had an audience.

Anderson either did not hear him or pretended not to, most likely the latter, and his window was up. Beginning to get very nervous, Sherlock tapped on the window. The wanker within mockingly acted as though he just now became aware of a second party and rolled down the window with theatric innocence.

"Yes?"

"My bag." Sherlock repeated, his already miniscule patience wearing thin. "If our little transaction is complete, then I would like my possessions back. Now."

Anderson grinned widely. "I said I would let you go. I didn't say anything about your coke."

"Dammit, Anderson! You promised!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his palm against the frame of the panda car. His desperation was apparent now, oozing out of every pore like pus from a raw, festering wound. He needed the cocaine more than ever tonight. There was no way he could make it through the night without the artificial stimulant.

The Sergeant snorted. "I promised I wouldn't haul your ass to the precinct. Now get out of here before I decide to arrest you for disorderly conduct."

Those were going to be Anderson's final words on the subject; he made that very clear to Sherlock by pushing the button that rolled the window back up and almost breaking the young man's fingers in the process.

Then Anderson was off, not even sparing the young addict a glance in the rearview mirror. His shift had ended, and he was likely headed home to well-maintained house and a very accepting wife, who either was or wasn't aware of her husband's indiscretions. Perhaps not even wanting to know. Anyone who had made the choice to marry Anderson had to be lacking deeply in both taste and judgment.

Sherlock shivered in the cold of the English November night. In distance he could see the lights of the inner city and thought about the multitude of people - literally millions - living their lives within the area that made up the capital of England. Day in and day out, blissfully ignorant of the horrors, the tragedy that befell on those less fortunate than themselves.

Wrapping his thin jacket tighter around his lanky frame and sticking his partially numb hands into his armpits, Sherlock began to walk back toward the city.

The walk home itself was uneventful and without risk.
How lucky for me, Sherlock thought bitterly, and part of him had wished he could have been attacked. Being beaten nearly to death was almost preferable to the pain of withdrawal he was about to experience.

Stumbling into the doorway of his apartment, he resisted the urge to simply collapse on the stained sofa before him, moving past it and into his bathroom. Turning on the dim light, he grabbed a toothbrush. He ignored the toothpaste, what little he had of it, and instead opened the rickety medicine chest, clumsily groping for the bar of soap within.

His hands were shaking now, though not from cold. Once he had enough of a lather, Sherlock shoved the suds into his mouth and scrubbed. Only then did he begin to gag, reliving what had happened only an hour before. He brushed every inch of the inside of his mouth, be it teeth, tongue, and even further. Still, he felt he might taste Anderson for weeks afterwards. He could only hope that he would not suffer flashbacks with any future clients. If so, his chances of keeping the apartment he had would be ruined, as well as any hope of scoring more substances to feed his demonic addiction.

Several times Sherlock rinsed out his mouth, gargled the water, spat it out, and shoved more soap within. On the third time of spitting out the concoction of soap and water, he glanced at the mirror above his sink, the second time tonight that he would begrudgingly look at his own reflection.

He saw a hollow-eyed and pale young man, mature beyond his years in some ways, but childlike in others. Bouts of acne marred his otherwise unblemished skin, and there was only a hint of stubble on his jaw despite the fact that it had been almost a week since he'd last shaved. Sherlock's boyish appearance had earned him many customers that otherwise would have been repelled by his aloof and abrasive personality. On occasion he was even approached by men who were only interested because they perceived him to be underage.

The stale, alkaline taste of soap lingered in his mouth even minutes after he'd washed it out. Still, Sherlock preferred it to the taste of Anderson. He drank some water next and spat out the residue, not surprised to discover strings of blood in the mix of saliva and sputum. He had clearly broken through the sensitive flesh of his gums while scrubbing them raw. It was of no consequence. He just had to avoid strenuous oral activities that presented a high risk of transmitting an infection.

Sherlock wanted to wash himself, but there was no shower in his small, poorly equipped bathroom, and he was much too tired to head down into the basement where the communal showers were. Perhaps a night's sleep was what he needed the most now.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, the exhausted young man slowly undressed and then crawled into his plain single bed with its creaking, lumpy mattress and stained sheets, contemplating his living situation.

He was behind on his rent again. Sayid, his landlord, had accepted sex as a form of payment on a few occasions but had informed Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he would require money in the future if his young tenant wanted to keep his room. Despite the man's shady morals, Sherlock did not mind Sayid much. Compared to some of his other 'regulars', he was decent and even agreed to use protection while fucking Sherlock.

Curling up in a foetal position, long legs pulled against his chest, Sherlock lay still as a corpse for the better part of an hour, thoughts racing and bouncing seemingly at random with the near-infinite amount of things he had observed and recollected. Sleep would not come to him.

His mind raced over what had conspired, as did certain questions. Would what happened between himself and Anderson remain exclusive to this night? Would the disgusting little weasel now pursue him and continue to demand sexual favors in exchange for a night away from a jail cell?

Though he preferred to keep his problems to himself, he considered the possibility of having to tell Mycroft about this event, and he hated what might happen as a result. He did not need his stupid self-righteous brother meddling any further, nor did he need to be even more on Mycroft's bad side.

His life had to change. Sherlock told himself this many times, that something had to change, perhaps not his surroundings, because that was virtually impossible. If anything were to change, as much as he hated to face it, then it would be himself. After all, he could only perform sex acts for a living for so long.

TBC...
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The Prey