Sherlock Fic: I Don't Buy It; It's Not For Sale
As I was transcribing a bit of my next slave AU installment, I came across this stray bit of prostitute AU in my notebook. It wouldn't go away until I finished it!
Title: I Don’t Buy It; It’s Not For Sale
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Content advisory: prostitution
Notes: Inspired by the poem I Don’t Buy It by Wendy Videlock .
Summary: John has quite a bit of professional experience, but he hasn’t encountered a client quite like this before.
“I don’t do groups,” John said as soon as he entered the suite at The Dorchester.
The man in the three-piece suit perched on the edge of the sofa inclined his head. “I’ll be leaving. I only wanted to ensure the arrangements were handled to my specifications.” The other man-a tall, pale thing with dark, wild hair--stood at the window and didn’t look at John.
John looked between the two men, trying to suss out the situation before giving it up as a bad job. The agency wouldn’t have sent him if the payment hadn’t gone through, and that’s all that really mattered. Still, he felt a thrill of unease at the suited man’s too-placid stare. “I prefer to discuss details alone with my client.”
“Yes.” The man gestured to the chair across from him, and waited patiently until John approached.
John moved slowly, keeping most of his weight on his good leg so as to minimize the limp.
When John sat, the man in the suit smiled broadly. The other man made no move to join them. “I have an additional matter to discuss, Mr. Watson. Should tonight prove a success, I’d like to offer you an ongoing engagement.”
“The agency didn’t mention that. They’re usually very thorough about such things.” John made a mental note to ask Irene to screen his new clients for interfering boyfriends-relatives-whatever in the future.
The suited man merely raised an eyebrow. “Would you have come tonight if you knew such an offer would be made?”
John frowned.
The man responded with a shallow smile. “I’m willing to offer a generous sum on a weekly basis for round-the-clock availability.” He nodded towards his silent companion. “One client only.”
John glanced again to the man staring out at the living pattern of lights that made up London. Haloed in the city’s glow, he appeared mostly as a dark outline. “I’m not looking for an arrangement like that.”
“We’ll see.” The man stood, picked up an umbrella from where it leaned against the sofa, and crossed to the door. He lifted an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and set it on the table. “A little something for you, in addition to what was discussed with your agency. I look forward to hearing from you.” He slipped out the door without a backwards glace.
John eyed the closed door, the envelope on the table, and his silent client, and squared his shoulders. He approached the window slowly, taking in a better view of the dark-haired man as he drew nearer. “Mr. Siger, is it?” He reached out to place his hand on the man’s shoulder, but he spun away before John could make contact.
In the dim lamp-light, shadows lingered over his sharp features, revealing a strange, but not unhandsome face, chin held proudly high. “The formalities won’t be necessary,” he said in a tone as sharp as his cheekbones.
“All right.” John turned to hide his smile as he began to strip off his jacket. The man caught his wrist in one hand; his grip felt uncommonly strong.
“No. I meant the formalities of the act won’t be necessary.”
John raised an eyebrow at his client, but the man had fixed his eyes on the opposite wall. “You should stay for a convincing amount of time. It won’t fool my brother, but appearances must be maintained.” He released his hold on John and gestured to the sofa. “Sit there, and don’t speak.”
Brother. Older brother. That would explain something about this bizarre night, at least. John took a seat, as indicated, but he wasn’t willing to sit silently. “I’ve quite a bit of experience, you know.”
The man’s eyes raked over him. “Four to six months, since you’ve returned from your deployment, but a much longer stint before you went into the military, probably to put yourself through medical school. I said don’t speak.”
“I…” John opened and closed his mouth. “Right, setting aside how you know all of that-“
“Obvious.”
John hurried on. “What I meant is that I’ve experience with unconventional proclivities, so if it’s something you’re thinking will shock me, you’re probably wrong. And I won’t take money for work I haven’t done, so if there’s actually nothing you want-“ John stood. “I’ll be going.”
The man darted between John and the door. “You need the money. You’re barely making ends meet. You had tinned beans for supper.”
“How-?” John clenched his teeth. “Never mind. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. I’ll have the agency refund my fee.”
John tried for the door, but again the man blocked him. “Take his money.”
“Listen, Mr. Siger-“
“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.”
“Sherlock,” John said slowly, surprised to find that the absurd name quite suited his would-be client. “There’s honor even among escorts. I don’t dally with the unwilling, and I don’t take money for work I haven’t done.”
Sherlock sighed deeply. “You said you’d catered to unusual requests before.”
“Yes.” John relaxed a fraction, relieved that he’d read the client correctly. He’d just needed a little encouragement to express what he wanted. “Go on.”
“Fine. I need to talk. You just sit and listen.”
“I’m not a therapist,” John said.
“I don’t need a therapist! Just… Just sit.”
“All right.” John slowly returned to the sofa, certain that he didn’t quite understand the situation. “So you want…?”
“Just sit there.” Seemingly satisfied that John wasn’t about to bolt, Sherlock returned to the window. “As I said, I don’t require any of the formalities you might expect.”
“Right.” John frowned at Sherlock’s back. “Are you going to explain how you knew all that? About medical school?”
“I could.”
“Well?” John prompted.
Sherlock turned around and fixed John with a penetrating gaze. “Take my brother’s offer. I imagine he would pay quite a lot for the advantage of having a commodity to withhold at will.”
“I’m not interested in an exclusive contract. A man my age needs to diversity his investments.”
“That’s not a problem.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “See other clients or not, as you wish.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And what happens if you decide you want what your brother’s paying for?”
Sherlock’s glance raked over John once more before locking eyes with him again. “I won’t. Now, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
Title: I Don’t Buy It; It’s Not For Sale
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Content advisory: prostitution
Notes: Inspired by the poem I Don’t Buy It by Wendy Videlock .
Summary: John has quite a bit of professional experience, but he hasn’t encountered a client quite like this before.
“I don’t do groups,” John said as soon as he entered the suite at The Dorchester.
The man in the three-piece suit perched on the edge of the sofa inclined his head. “I’ll be leaving. I only wanted to ensure the arrangements were handled to my specifications.” The other man-a tall, pale thing with dark, wild hair--stood at the window and didn’t look at John.
John looked between the two men, trying to suss out the situation before giving it up as a bad job. The agency wouldn’t have sent him if the payment hadn’t gone through, and that’s all that really mattered. Still, he felt a thrill of unease at the suited man’s too-placid stare. “I prefer to discuss details alone with my client.”
“Yes.” The man gestured to the chair across from him, and waited patiently until John approached.
John moved slowly, keeping most of his weight on his good leg so as to minimize the limp.
When John sat, the man in the suit smiled broadly. The other man made no move to join them. “I have an additional matter to discuss, Mr. Watson. Should tonight prove a success, I’d like to offer you an ongoing engagement.”
“The agency didn’t mention that. They’re usually very thorough about such things.” John made a mental note to ask Irene to screen his new clients for interfering boyfriends-relatives-whatever in the future.
The suited man merely raised an eyebrow. “Would you have come tonight if you knew such an offer would be made?”
John frowned.
The man responded with a shallow smile. “I’m willing to offer a generous sum on a weekly basis for round-the-clock availability.” He nodded towards his silent companion. “One client only.”
John glanced again to the man staring out at the living pattern of lights that made up London. Haloed in the city’s glow, he appeared mostly as a dark outline. “I’m not looking for an arrangement like that.”
“We’ll see.” The man stood, picked up an umbrella from where it leaned against the sofa, and crossed to the door. He lifted an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and set it on the table. “A little something for you, in addition to what was discussed with your agency. I look forward to hearing from you.” He slipped out the door without a backwards glace.
John eyed the closed door, the envelope on the table, and his silent client, and squared his shoulders. He approached the window slowly, taking in a better view of the dark-haired man as he drew nearer. “Mr. Siger, is it?” He reached out to place his hand on the man’s shoulder, but he spun away before John could make contact.
In the dim lamp-light, shadows lingered over his sharp features, revealing a strange, but not unhandsome face, chin held proudly high. “The formalities won’t be necessary,” he said in a tone as sharp as his cheekbones.
“All right.” John turned to hide his smile as he began to strip off his jacket. The man caught his wrist in one hand; his grip felt uncommonly strong.
“No. I meant the formalities of the act won’t be necessary.”
John raised an eyebrow at his client, but the man had fixed his eyes on the opposite wall. “You should stay for a convincing amount of time. It won’t fool my brother, but appearances must be maintained.” He released his hold on John and gestured to the sofa. “Sit there, and don’t speak.”
Brother. Older brother. That would explain something about this bizarre night, at least. John took a seat, as indicated, but he wasn’t willing to sit silently. “I’ve quite a bit of experience, you know.”
The man’s eyes raked over him. “Four to six months, since you’ve returned from your deployment, but a much longer stint before you went into the military, probably to put yourself through medical school. I said don’t speak.”
“I…” John opened and closed his mouth. “Right, setting aside how you know all of that-“
“Obvious.”
John hurried on. “What I meant is that I’ve experience with unconventional proclivities, so if it’s something you’re thinking will shock me, you’re probably wrong. And I won’t take money for work I haven’t done, so if there’s actually nothing you want-“ John stood. “I’ll be going.”
The man darted between John and the door. “You need the money. You’re barely making ends meet. You had tinned beans for supper.”
“How-?” John clenched his teeth. “Never mind. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. I’ll have the agency refund my fee.”
John tried for the door, but again the man blocked him. “Take his money.”
“Listen, Mr. Siger-“
“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.”
“Sherlock,” John said slowly, surprised to find that the absurd name quite suited his would-be client. “There’s honor even among escorts. I don’t dally with the unwilling, and I don’t take money for work I haven’t done.”
Sherlock sighed deeply. “You said you’d catered to unusual requests before.”
“Yes.” John relaxed a fraction, relieved that he’d read the client correctly. He’d just needed a little encouragement to express what he wanted. “Go on.”
“Fine. I need to talk. You just sit and listen.”
“I’m not a therapist,” John said.
“I don’t need a therapist! Just… Just sit.”
“All right.” John slowly returned to the sofa, certain that he didn’t quite understand the situation. “So you want…?”
“Just sit there.” Seemingly satisfied that John wasn’t about to bolt, Sherlock returned to the window. “As I said, I don’t require any of the formalities you might expect.”
“Right.” John frowned at Sherlock’s back. “Are you going to explain how you knew all that? About medical school?”
“I could.”
“Well?” John prompted.
Sherlock turned around and fixed John with a penetrating gaze. “Take my brother’s offer. I imagine he would pay quite a lot for the advantage of having a commodity to withhold at will.”
“I’m not interested in an exclusive contract. A man my age needs to diversity his investments.”
“That’s not a problem.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “See other clients or not, as you wish.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And what happens if you decide you want what your brother’s paying for?”
Sherlock’s glance raked over John once more before locking eyes with him again. “I won’t. Now, Afghanistan or Iraq?”