The Case of the Pharmasist's Price

Pelaam© January 2010

It had been a typically busy and bustling day at the pharmacy, followed by a tiring meeting with one of his suppliers. Although he kept an enviable selection of varied chemicals, being the Pharmacist of choice of the renowned Sherlock Holmes meant he often needed something comparatively obscure at short notice. Fortunately, Grayson enjoyed a good relationship with all of his suppliers.

The London traffic was busy; his own horse-drawn cab just one of many traversing the cobbled streets. Grayson ran a hand through thick, dark hair. He was tired and would be glad to get back to his pharmacy and his small, comfortable living quarters.

The sound of a warning shout from his hansom cab driver alerted Grayson as the vehicle stopped sharply. He instantly reacted to the female screams and male yells from outside, immediately jumping from the cab.

To his horror a young man lay sprawled in the street, blood at his temple. He moved instinctively to his side. Whilst he was not a physician, his work in the pharmacy he owned ensured he had some rudimentary medical knowledge. He deftly ran his hands along the young man's neck and was relieved to find there appeared to be no breaks.

The youth was dressed in a loose and flowing cream silk shirt and tight-as-sin black silk breeches. His stockings were cream, also silk and his shoes expensive, burgundy leather. Grayson's eyes also spotted some bruising that looked suspiciously like fingers on the young man's bared shoulder and, for all the expensive clothing in which he was dressed, he looked malnourished.

Carefully pushing aside the fine silver-blond hair that obscured the unconscious man's face, Grayson smothered a gasp. Although too thin for his liking, the visage was exquisite. Grayson stared at winged eyebrows above closed eyes, high cheekbones and perfect Cupid's bow lips. The boy was indeed a beauty. Yet Grayson could see healing bruising and dark shadows beneath the closed orbs. He was certain the young man had been beaten.

"He just dashed in front of me, Sir," the cabbie's voice broke into Grayson's mind, breaking the spell this beauty had woven even while unconscious. "He was weaving in and out, running as if the very hounds of Hell were pursuing him."

"Indeed," Grayson uttered, making an instant decision. "Give me a hand," he commanded. He lifted his charge's shoulders as his cabbie hefted the young man's legs. "Take me to 221B Baker Street," he added as the cab door was shut. If nothing else, his friend John could formally give his medical opinion on the boy's hurt. If there was more, a mystery to unravel...then who better than Sherlock Holmes to take charge?

****

Grayson tried not to pace up and down as he anxiously awaited John's examination of the still-unconscious young man. He gave Sherlock a smile of gratitude as a glass of whisky was pressed into his hand.

"Your young man is in good hands as you well know," Sherlock said reassuringly. "John will take care of him."

"Hardly 'my' young man, Sherlock," Grayson replied as he sipped his drink. The drink warmed him and its mellow flavour was comforting. He smiled and nodded at his friend. "It helps," he added lifting his glass in a quick salute.

"You don't mind if I smoke?" came the softly-spoken query.

"Not at all," Grayson began and then turned. "At least not if it isn't that foul-smelling shag you sometimes use."

Sherlock laughed as he looked at his friend. At the moment the pharmacist's normally well-manicured chestnut hair was in disarray from his constantly running his fingers through it; a nervous habit that Sherlock instantly recognised. His friend's normally vibrant gray eyes were troubled and anxious. He was obviously very concerned for the youth.

"No, I'll not smoke that while I have visitors," he said as he reached for his favourite pipe. "I have been warned by John about smoking something so malodorous in company."

Taking another sip of his drink, Grayson regarded his friend of many years. When they had first become friends he had wondered why the Holmes and Watson of real life differed so much from that of John's chronicles. Both men had laughed at his query and John had simply said that he had no intention of allowing every twopenny-halfpenny blackguard to recognise Sherlock instantly. Hence the fictional persona that allowed everyone to think they would instantly recognise both of them if seen.

Instead Sherlock was similar in height as he, around six feet tall, and had a broader, more muscular physique. His hair was sandy-blond, his eyes a mesmerising shade of blue-green that could be as cold and hard as flint or as warm and gentle as a becalmed ocean.

Equally fictitious was John's recent marriage and widower-hood. Instead his friends had been a couple almost as long as they had known each other. It had been love at first sight, although John had been reticent to accept Sherlock's suit due to fear for the older man's reputation. However, Sherlock had remained as singularly dedicated to having John at his side as he was about any case he investigated.

Despite all they had done for their country, a malicious tongue had caused questions to be asked of their close relationship. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, had assisted in the marriage deception. Mary had been an actress with no interest in any gender but her own. The marriage and her death had both been equally false. It was true that John had temporarily moved out, taken up residence in a somewhat isolated and secluded home and had lived with his 'wife'. However, the 'lady' of the house had, more often than not, been a superbly disguised Sherlock Holmes.

The marriage had not lasted as long as John had chronicled and the owner of the malevolent tongue had been suitably taken care of by Mycroft. It had however, made Sherlock even more possessive of the lithe brunette that currently tended the unconscious blond. Grayson could not help but wonder at times what had happened to the owner of the serpent's tongue, but the dark glitter in Sherlock's eyes, when declaring John and he able to reside together openly once more, had made the pharmacist shudder and he had not enquired further.

The sound of the bedroom door opening had both men look over with faces both anxious and questioning.

"He has a nasty bruise to his shoulder and the cut to his head; however I think he is drugged as well as concussed. There is some very suspicious bruising on his body and he is malnourished. All of which are comparatively easy to recover from."

"But...?"

Grayson's eyes flickered briefly at Sherlock. Clearly he had heard something behind his lover's words that he had missed. He focused his attention on the lithe brunette. He felt coldness gnaw in his stomach at the sympathetic look in his friend's deep, brown eyes.

"He's got some internal bruising..." John began, but stopped at Grayson's deep groan.

"Grayson," Sherlock said softly. "It may be his, erm, profession."

"I don't think so, Sherlock," John demurred.

"No?" queried the older man. John always played down the role he played in assisting him with his cases. John's quick mind and sharp intellect often provided the impetus or insight he needed. The younger man was happy enough to leave things as they were. He could use himself as the foil by which he could explain the reasoning that led to a case's conclusion in his chronicles and it gave a false impression of him to their adversaries.

His lover was also quite right when he teasingly said that he could hardly put in his chronicles that one of the best ways to help clear the detective's mind was to ride him into sexual oblivion. Although it irked the older man that while it seemed he could be forgiven a fictional need for heroin occasionally, he would be vilified if his sexual desires ever became public.

"His skin is pale, scar-free and looks healthy. Not the weather-beaten and marked kind of skin a street-boy would have. I also noticed his fingers and hands were soft and callous free. Whatever his profession or background, it was not poor or manual. However the bruising on his body indicated he has been held forcibly and struck. I cannot be sure, of course, until he wakes and offers us an explanation, but the life of an enforced concubine would fit I think."

"The clothing is expensive, but he is malnourished; punishment perhaps, or perhaps part of his training," Sherlock mused. "I have examined the shoes. I believe I know which cobbler made them. These are specially commissioned shoes. I think you might be right. I should be able to confirm the identity of their purchaser should we need it. There are few shoemakers that make quite such handsome footwear in leather imported from la belle France. "

"I'm not sure I understand," Grayson said, his eyes flitting from one man to the other.

"A sex slave, Grayson," John said as he came to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder. "There is every possibility that your young man was kidnapped to be a sex slave. From his dress, a very wealthy man's sex slave. Sad to say, it is a far more prolific and lucrative business than many would realise and beautiful young men are as highly prized as beautiful young women."

"In certain circles even more so," Sherlock added quietly, nodding as he met Grayson's stunned eyes. "Only he knows if we are correct," the older man said nodding in the direction of the room in which the young man slept.

"I should stay with him," John murmured. "In case he awakens."

"I can do it," Grayson blurted as two pairs of eyes regarded him quizzically. "I mean...I'd just like to be there when he wakes. Please?"

"If you wish," John smiled. "I think his body is sleeping off the shock and drugs. His injuries were comparatively minor, Grayson. He was lucky."

"I'll alert Mrs Hudson to the fact that we have an extra for dinner and two for breakfast," Sherlock grinned as he rose to his feet. "She'll make sure she prepares enough to fatten up our young man in no time. She loves taking care of waifs and strays. Just ask the Irregulars," he added as he slipped from the room.

****

Already in the bed they shared, Sherlock watched appreciatively as John removed his robe and nightshirt. He held out his hand in invitation and John came towards him. Whilst John's remained a single-sized bed in a room he never used, they had long since replaced his with a double. As the lithe body slipped beneath the covers, Sherlock heard the soft gasp from his lover as John's naked skin came into contact with his hardness.

"We have guests," John murmured, not resisting as the older man took him in his arms and rolled them so that he now gazed up into Sherlock's glinting eyes.

Sherlock shifted subtly, letting his shaft rub enticingly against John's awaking flesh as he rained kisses on the upturned face. He let a hand burrow between them encircling John's manhood, moaning softly at the feel of the hard heat in his hand and plunged his tongue into his lover's mouth.

"I love you," he said, letting the joy which resulted from seeing John's eyes light up with happiness enfold him. "I want to make love to you, John, but I understand if you..." Sherlock got no further as John pulled him down into another passionate kiss as his pelvis pushed up against the bigger man. His growing desire was fanned as John shivered in response to his other hand squeezing each taut nether check in turn as they kissed.

Sherlock groaned as the hard flesh of his desire pressed into John's smooth belly and he felt John's answering desire push into his thigh. He moved again, taking John's lips with his own, one hand finding its way up into soft, thick hair and the other grasping John's buttocks, squeezing with intent to prove ownership.

As John moaned and bucked up against Sherlock, his hands clutching, urging the broader body to move, Sherlock shifted to rest his weight on his arms, which now lay on either side of John's head. Their groins were still pressed together and both men thrust creating delicious friction. Mouths joined once more, tongues dancing and teasing, mimicking the act yet to come.

Moving slightly lower, Sherlock's mouth latched on to a nipple and he sucked and teased the bud with his tongue and his teeth. He felt his lover's hand in his hair, pushing his mouth harder onto the nipple. He moaned around the tightening nub, his mouth watering as John's legs spread wide and he reached with his fingers to the puckered entrance of the man he loved. He needed to be in there, needed it like he needed to breathe. It was suddenly an all-consuming necessity.

Watching Sherlock through heavy-lidded eyes, John began to touch himself as the older man reached for their lubricant.

As he looked at the younger man Sherlock felt himself throb painfully. He had never seen anything so debauched, so sinful, so beautiful in all his life. He blindly reached for the unguent on the bedside table and coated his eager fingers. He pushed his weight to one side as his hand slipped between John's legs, trailing slick fingers over rigid flesh. Then they travelled down to the heavy sac before reaching the hidden entrance to John's core. He stroked around the tightly furled flesh, teasing it until it flexed its invitation and his finger slid inside.

As his finger stroked his lover from within, Sherlock worshipped John's flesh with his mouth. Kisses and teasing nips were placed along his sleek torso, making John writhe in response. When alone, the volume of his moaning would exponentially increase as Sherlock moved further down. He grinned mentally as he heard the muted sounds of his lover.

Reaching his prize, Sherlock took John's erect flesh into his mouth and John bucked upwards. He moved quickly set a rhythm that had John alternating between grasping the bedding and grasping Sherlock's head to run his fingers through his mate's hair. The older man felt his body respond to John's pleasure, knowing that it was he that could make the younger man come undone in such a sensuous manner.

Twisting his digit inside John's body, his finger made contact with a small bundle of nerves that he stroked ruthlessly. John made a small, strangled sound and his hips rammed upwards. Sherlock deduced it was time to take another step and removed his finger as he hummed around the hard shaft in his mouth. He coated his eager digits with more lubrication and when he next penetrated John's body it was with two fingers.

Another muffled moan escaped his lover's lips as John took pleasure from the dual sensations of Sherlock's long, dextrous fingers inside him and the wet, sensual mouth on his excited flesh.

Three fingers were accepted with only the smallest of grunts and as soon as Sherlock felt that John was ready he pulled his fingers free and allowed his lover's crimson-hued organ to fall from his mouth.

"Sherlock," John husked softly. "Please, my love."

"Don't worry, beloved. I'll take care of you. I'm going to be so deep inside you that you will feel me in your heart."

"You're already indelibly there," John whispered, earning a deep kiss.

Grinning wickedly, Sherlock wrapped John's lithe legs around his waist, slicked his twitching tumescence and pressed its tip to the glistening portal to paradise.

"Ready?" he asked.

John nodded frantically.

Sherlock looked down at John spread beneath him.

"I love you so much," he said softly as he nuzzled his nose against his lover's. He pushed forward. His face was a study in concentration as he maintained his control, feeling tight muscles squeezing his rampant flesh. He heard John's slight grunt as his slender channel slowly accepted the desired invasion. Sherlock saw him bite down on his lip as John bore down and gave a small sound of relief as the bulbous head of Sherlock's arousal pushed past the guardian ring

Hard flesh slid forward until Sherlock was buried halfway. Giving his lover a moment to recover, the older man slid in the rest of the way. They both groaned as his ball sac slapped lightly against John's nether cheeks.

"Are you well?" Sherlock asked as he looked down at his younger lover. He carefully manoeuvred until he could entwine his hands with John's and the younger man's legs came up to wrap around his waist.

"Love me," came the softly spoken demand.

Their mouths met and their ragged breaths mingled, capturing each other's moans. Sherlock smiled and diligently obeyed. He pulled himself back before thrusting forward again, the head of his shaft brushing back and forth against John's prostate. His rhythm was quickly established. His thrusts were long and slow and left John quivering in their wake, his lover's pelvis lifting with each thrust to meet him and deepen the penetration of his body. He tilted his hips, eager to savour each stroke of tight flesh surrounding his member.

"More," John begged.

Unable to deny his lover, Sherlock increased his pace. Long and slow became short, stabbing motions that drove both John and himself wild. Sherlock relished pushing deeper into the satiny heat of his younger lover. John's body jerked helplessly with each movement, his hands clinging to Sherlock's shoulders and his legs still locked about his waist. The pleasurable spot inside John was unerringly struck with each thrust of Sherlock's hips and soon the younger man was whimpering beneath him.

Feeling his impending orgasm Sherlock reached between them and began to stroke John's neglected manhood. It had leaked copious amounts of pearlescent fluid that slicked his strokes. John threw back his head with a desperate moan and Sherlock quickly took advantage of this and bit down gently on John's exposed throat. He pulled and caressed, twisting his wrist and tugging to heighten the sensations for his lover.

John was on the cusp of his release and cried out into Sherlock's open mouth as his sensitive gland was struck again and again. With a muffled yelp John's orgasm detonated and creamy fluid erupted from the organ Sherlock milked.

The sudden clenching of John's inner muscles pulled Sherlock into his own climax. With a final few feral thrusts, he came inside John, shooting his seed deep inside his lover's still-quivering channel.

They lay together for some time, simply kissing each other's skin as Sherlock held John tightly. The older man was still inside his lover and was reluctant to pull out. He liked to stay inside John's body as long as possible.

Sherlock looked at his mate and smiled contentedly. John's eyes had closed, his kiss-bruised lips were upturned and his face seemed to possess a beatific glow. For everything Sherlock had achieved in his life, nothing meant more to him than seeing John like this and basking in their shared post-coital bliss. There had been a time he truly believed he was incapable of loving or being loved, but with his inimitable quiet determination, John had taught him otherwise.

He tucked John's head under his chin. Nature was taking its course and he was slipping from the haven of his lover's body. He kissed John's temple and let himself drift.

****

Watching the youthful face in repose, Grayson would have thought his rescued waif still a boy. However, John was certain he had probably turned twenty and was possibly a little older. The feelings of protectiveness that washed over him every time he gazed at the sleeping youth surprised him. He made no pretence of the fact that he preferred his own sex to that of the so-called 'fairer'. However, his history was of those more like himself, tall, broad and athletic. He had also always been attracted to those with similar dark hair.

He glanced again at the sleeping form; slight, slender and with hair like spun gold. The youth was as far removed from his usual preferences as it was possible to be and yet...Grayson shook his head. It was gross folly to even be thinking such things. Even if John and Sherlock were not correct about the young man, he was still far too traumatised for Grayson's mind to be wandering down those paths.