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Sherlock meets GraveRobber after a series of scalpel sluts--GeneCo's own brand of junkie, hence the charming term--turn up missing. Not dead, not reaped, they've all just been reported missing. Completely vanished. No bodies for GeneCo to even scavange for spare parts. And while Sherlock is one of the rare human beings who hasn't had any work done and as such is not in any inherent danger (superior genes, and of course Mycroft would never allow it), if there is one thing that Sherlock Holmes is familiar with, it's human behavior.

He's made a study of it, and the past has shown that a serial killer is more likely to start out with the undesireable element. And anyone clever enough not to get caught by either GeneCo or his brother is someone Sherlock is inherently interested in.

Which is why Sherlock has spent the last few nights scouring the very bowels of the city for the missing, and any information he can find. Which to date has resulted in: nothing. Not one bloody thing to show for his efforts--save the fact that if Mycroft knew he was working this case, he would have a conniption. Seeing as how he is currently rather busy managing the small portion of the government that isn't currently owned by GeneCo and Rotti Largo, Sherlock has calculated it rather unlikely that his brother should ever find out until after the fact. Hopefully by then, his search will have yielded vital information.

It's on his third night that he finds a graverobber (who goes by GraveRobber, how very quaint) dispensing the drug that is growing increasingly vital to the world—Zydrate. Not the licensed, purified narcotic of course. No, like any good city, the alleys are home to the black market, and the licensed Zydrate is hard to come by.

Every Robber has a source, and Sherlock knows exactly where GraveRobber gets his. It’s written all over his clothes, his choice of coat, his boots—everything. GraveRobber is hiding the body of tall, slim but fit man under a garrish shaggy purple coat, gothic makeup (as is the current fad), and a rats nest of dreadlocks. The coat is dusted with dirt, his boots covered in muck—clearly his source is nearby. If not for the dust and grime, the stage make-up, Sherlock would call the man handsome.

He waits until the man has finished servicing his last ‘client’ before stepping out of the shadows.

“You’re not killing them.”

Its not what he had meant to say at all, no, indeed he’d meant to accuse—but no, even as he says it, its clear the man before him relies on his clients, and has a good reputation—for a robber.

The man merely quirks an eyebrow and lets out a low chuckle. “No. And you’re not from ‘round here. Slummin’?”

Sherlock merely nods, impressed by the mans observational skills. Though its often been his experience that those who live on the streets see the most, and say little.

“You don’t know who?”

The reply is quick and angry. “No.” And the smile that follows is feral. “If I did, that person would be fodder for GeneCo.”

Very protective then, of his ‘flock.’ Odd, but not unheard of. “Of course. I’ll be in touch, if you learn anything.”

Sherlock turns to leave, there’s nothing more to be gained here today, when a touch to his shoulder stops him. He hadn’t even heard the man move, which is worrying. The amount of gear he has on him at any given time, he should make noise. Another learned skill then, perhaps.

“What brings the famous Sherlock Holmes to this rundown part of town?”

Sherlock stills, forcing his face into blank indifference. “If you know my name, then you know what I’m doing here.”

GraveRobber snorts in disbelief. “No one cares about a couple of missing scalpel sluts. Why do you?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t care to explain himself, and really the answer is he doesn’t care, not for the sake of the victims, but because its a mystery. He is well aware that this makes him ‘not normal’. Another thing he can't bother to fret over.

He can feel the man staring at him, calculating. Smart, too smart, he probably knows. Before he can end the uncomfortable silence, say something cutting and leave, the man sighs, then speaks.

“You look like you need something, kid.”

Of course. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock glares over his shoulder at the pale man. “Not interested.”

“Everyone’s interested.” Graverobber smiles, and it holds danger and a promise, and despite himself Sherlock is very tempted. But not tempted enough.

“I dislike things that dull my senses. Zydrate is not for me.”

Then suddenly, somehow they’re turned face to face, and GraveRobber has him pushed against a wall, thigh between his, that promise of danger still in his eyes, edged with desire. “I wasn’t talking about the Z, kid.” is all he murmurs before he plunder’s Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

Sherlock freezes for a moment, before he relaxes into the kiss. While unexpected, this is not at all an unwelcome turn of events. He’s not one for long term attachment, but this is not the first time he’s had a tumble with someone he’ll never see again. He fists his hands in GraveRobber’s dark coat, pulling him closer.

GraveRobber smells like earth and spice and something undeniably male, and Sherlock can’t help but groan, because he tastes the same. GraveRobber nips at his bottom lip in response, pulling away. His hands shove aside Sherlock’s coat and trousers, making quick work of buttons and fastenings before sliding his hand inside.

The other man’s hand on his cock makes Sherlock gasp, hips thrusting forward of their own accord. “God, yes.”

GraveRobber chuckles again, a low dark sound that holds so many promises. “Yeah, knew you’d like this. How do you want it? I’m good any way.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to formulate words, it’s been a while since his last encounter— as evidenced by just how hard he is. It won’t take much, he knows, and the rough glide of skin on skin is nearly too much as it is.

“I—I don’t. Anything, please.” His voice is rough to his own ears, broken with a needy gasp, but it seems to please the dealer, because he only grins, and then Sherlock is pushed face first into the wall, his trousers ‘round his ankles. The other man fumbles with his own belt, and there’s a sudden curse. “Jesus—fuck, do you have any lube?”

Sherlock shakes his head—he hadn’t planned on this. Another curse, and then there are hands on his ass and— “Fuck!”

A hot tongue probing at his entrance, fluttering hot and slick against him. Thisis something he hadn’t allowed before, he’s not sure he likes it. The entire situation is something he’s not entirely used to—he usually initiates these things, and its usually a quick grope or frotting but this…the sensations are enough to muddle even his brain.

GraveRobber hums, its a contented sound, like he’s sampled a fairly exotic pastry of a sort. He pulls back and Sherlock whimpers, causing Grave to smirk and leave a harsh bite on the firm globe of Sherlock’s ass. The man is open and wanting, breathing heavily.

GraveRobber is hard, he can’t remember the last time he’s been this excited for a quick fuck. Sure, its offered as payment (quite often), but he doesn’t fuck his clients, its a rule. To find someone so alien, so gorgeous, here in the depths of the city is rare. Add to that someone who is clean and amenable, and its damn near impossible. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, leaving them wet and glistening, before working them slowly and carefully into the hole he’s been lapping at.

Sherlock hisses, despite the saliva, despite how much he’s been worked on there’s still a bit of a burn. The stretch is uncomfortable enough that his erection flags a bit, but after a moment he pushes back. The burn is familiar, wanted, even needed.

GraveRobber keeps licking around his fingers for a while, until finally Sherlock has had enough, he needs to be fucked, now.

“Do it.” He turns enough to look down at the man behind him, crouched in the refuse of the ally. Their eyes meet and Sherlock shudders and moans when the dealer only grins that slow smile and gives his fingers a savage twist. “Yeah?”

Panting harshly and desperate, Sherlock can only nod. GraveRobber lets out something like a growl, and stands. His cock is of a fair size, and he spits on his hand a few times, before stroking himself. Sherlock is half twisted, still watching as the dealer lines himself up, before slowly but steadily pushing past the first ring of muscle.

Sherlock tenses, breath caught, eyes fluttering closed and head dropping forward. Its so good,the burningstretchingtightful. It’s been far too long, he hadn’t even known he wanted this, and for a man like GraveRobber to have seen it—he’s not sure what to think about that. He hisses again and Graverobber rocks himself inside, slowly. Steady little rocking motions that soon have him past the second ring of muscle and then he’s seated fully in Sherlock, and both men are shaking.

GraveRobber drops his forehead against Sherlocks back, trying to breath deeply and evenly, an attempt to regain some form of control so he doesn’t just slam into the willing body beneath him. He presses a kiss to the smooth flesh where Sherlock’s shirt has ridden down, exposing a shoulder. Sherlock makes a noise in his throat and his hips jerk a bit, making both of them moan.

“For fuck’s sake—move damn you!”

GraveRobber laughs, but does as he is bade, pulling out slowly, before sliding back in just as slowly. Sherlock is hot and tight, nearly too tight but the encouraging hiss of breath keeps him moving smoothly, back and forth, in and out.

Sherlock drops a hand to his own cock, hard again, and groans. Its good, so very good, but he needs more than the steady motions, needs it rough. He illustrates this by thrusting himself hard back onto the cock inside him, making GraveRobber cry out and clutch at his hips, stilling him. "Jesus, kid!"

Twisting, Sherlock glares at the man.

“Harder. Fuck me. Use me. I know you want to. Go on, I can take it. Do it.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, GraveRobber moves, a harsh snapping of hips, seating himself deeper than he had been before, and Sherlock gasps with it, head dropping forward again, hand fisting over the head of his cock. Grave snaps his hips again and again, relishing the sounds he’s wringing from the other man.

The alley is filled with the sounds of rough sex, broken gasps of air and groaning, the occasional curse. Both men are stubborn, neither will give in first to their mounting pleasure.

In the end its Sherlock who gives in at last with a wordless sob of pleasure. He’s holding himself up by sheer strength of will, hands braced against the brick wall. His knees are weak. The first wave of orgasm crashes over him like the storm surge of a hurricane—sudden and unexpected and not wanted, not yet! He shudders through it, somehow meeting GraveRobber's every thrust of hips, relishing in the way their skin sticks and slides.

Sherlock rides out his orgasm with shaky jerks of his fist, until he’s raw and rung out and can only enjoy the feeling of being used, fucked with reckless abandon.

GraveRobber feels a sharp thrill of satisfaction when Sherlock comes, and growls roughly, fingernails digging into the smaller mans hips. He’s close, has been for minutes. Sherlock is breathing hard beneath him, panting and whispering filthy words of encouragement.

“Use that cock and fill me up, to the brim, I want to be dripping with you, do it—”

The sound of Sherlock, his voice sounding so wrecked is what does it, and finally GraveRobber is over the edge. His vision whites out and for a moment he can’t hear anything. Everything is a tiny pinprick of light, and then sight and sound and his other senses come slamming back into him. It’s so intense he doesn’t make a sound, merely buries his face in the back of Sherlock’s neck, mouth open in a silent scream of fulfillment.
He
doesn’t remember shrugging his coat off so they can collapse onto it, doesn’t remember cleaning each other up. He does remember being unusually affectionate towards the young man—Sherlock—afterwards.

For Sherlock’s part, his brain hasn’t been this quiet in ages. He’s quiet, which seems to suit the Robber just fine. He wonders idly abut the future, can’t help but wonder what Mycroft would do if he asked for GraveRobber to be pardoned and given a stable position, if only so that he would be suitable to fuck Sherlock six ways from Sunday.