Author's Note: This fanfic is inspired by the livejournal user Ohdearsherlock's response to a prompt on the Sherlock kinkmeme, which asked for "the obligatory fandom Hooker!AU". Ohdearsherlock's response was slightly abandoned for about a month, during which time the plotbunnies gnawed at me and caused me to write my own take, which I have posted on livejournal. Sorry for the cross-posting! Ohdearsherlock has now continued their story, which can be found here - .com/
Warnings for this fic: rape, drug use, prostitution, language, abuse, suicide attempts, bullying, violence, eating disorders, psychological trauma...all in all, it's a pretty grim tale. Recommended for readers aged 18+
Summary: AUSherlock is working as a rentboy, and has a particularly eventful time of it. Part One is Ohdearsherlock's section of the story which inspired me.

xxRegretteRienxx

Sherlock hid in the shadows, watching as the police milled around the crime scene. Idiots, all of them, he thought. The fools couldn't see what was right in front of their faces. He sighed in exasperation as he looked at them, wishing he could go over and smack a few of them on the backs of their heads until they got what was clearly obvious. Of course, the last time he'd tried that, he'd gotten arrested for prostitution, even though he hadn't been trying to do anything other than help. It had been some cop named Anderson with some sort of personal vendetta against rent boys.

"You there." A voice shouted.

Oh, great, he'd been spotted. He thought about running, since he hated spending the night in jail, and he'd been roughed up quite a bit last time, from both the police and the other cellmates. But, when he saw who had shouted, he decided to stay put. It wasn't Anderson, or any other cop that he would have recognized. And, he could tell from the man's gait and the way he was coming toward him that he wasn't about to be immediately arrested. The man wasn't reaching for handcuffs or calling for back up, and he could tell from the inflection in his voice that the words weren't meant to be accusatory.

"Inspector Lestrade," the man said, flashing a badge in Sherlock's face, "Were you, by any chance, in this area last night around 2 am?"

"You mean when that man was murdered?" Sherlock answered, crossing his arms defensively.

"How do you know about that? You don't have anything to do with that, do you?"

"No. And I wasn't here last night, either."

"No? Where were you?"

"I was…working," Sherlock said reluctantly. It was obvious from the state of his own attire what kind of work he did, and he could tell that the inspector knew it, too. Sherlock wore tight jeans, a black shirt, and black eyeliner. His coat was at his flat, and he had nothing to cover up with.

"All right," the inspector said, slightly surprising Sherlock with that reaction, "Can you tell me anything that might help in our investigation?"

Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, maybe if your team bothered looking at any actual clues, they might have it solved by now," Sherlock answered, "Look at the scene. Look where you are. Red light district, inspector. It's obvious what went down. That man got a little too rough with his choice of….escort, and she decided to defend herself."

"She? How can you tell it was a she?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"It's obvious, inspector. There's a tube of lipstick over there by the edge of the yellow police tape, which, might I add, your team hasn't noticed at all. There's also the fact that…"

Sherlock continued on for about five minutes, rattling off minutia left and right. By the time he was done, Lestrade was staring at him with wide eyes.

"Will that do, inspector?" Sherlock said when he was done talking.

"How did you do that?"

"Simple deduction, that's all. You'd do well to remind your team to open their minds as well as their eyes. They see, but they don't observe. And if they do observe, they don't make the right connections."

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. He wasn't about to lie, not when the police already had his name and fingerprints on file. He stared at Lestrade defiantly, daring him to arrest him when he'd basically handed him the solution to a murder.

"Here's my card, Sherlock," Lestrade said, handing it to him, "And since you're so keen on giving advice, here's some for you. You'd do well to get yourself off the streets. Find yourself another line of work. I appreciate the help, but if I find you out soliciting, I'll still have to arrest you."

Sherlock took the card and nodded curtly, turning his back on Lestrade and quickly striding away. Lestrade might have been a little less of an idiot than the others, but Sherlock knew that Lestrade didn't know what he was talking about when it came to his life. Sherlock couldn't just quit. He needed to pay the rent some way, and this was who he was now. He'd tried to be someone else back in University, but he'd never been accepted there. Sherlock knew he'd never manage in a regular job, either. He'd tried, and been fired from several jobs, mainly for telling off managers or customers, or both. He knew in his heart he'd never be able to relate to people. It was true that he'd been hated in University, and he'd eventually dropped out, unable to cope with being beaten up every other day for being different. He knew that the job market thought he was worthless, unable to follow directions or act normal enough to work in an office or something similar. That was why he walked the streets now. He had a boyish face and a tight arse, and that was all he was good for according to the world.

Now Sherlock walked home to his small flat. He wasn't about to go out and work tonight, not when there were so many police about, and especially not with Lestrade's threat hanging over him like that. He trudged up the steps to the small flat he rented from Ms. Hudson and collapsed on the sofa. He lit a cigarette and sat, thinking to himself. He took Lestrade's card out of his pocket and twirled it around in his fingers. He'd already committed the number to memory, but he liked the way it felt in his hands, being the only thing anyone had given him in a long time.

His mobile buzzed, and he looked at the text: Want some company?

Sherlock texted back: Always. SH

Okay, so that was a lie. But Allen was a regular, and it's not like he couldn't use the money, even when all he felt like doing was lying down and savoring the day for actually being a good one. No one had called him crazy, no one had beaten him, or arrested him, or even insulted him. On top of that, he'd even gotten someone to listen to him. Oh, yes. It had been a good day. Sherlock was lost in thought until he heard the knock at the door. That was fast, he thought. Allen must have already been on his way when he sent the text.

Sherlock tucked the card in the coffee table drawer and went to answer the door.

"Hey, gorgeous," Allen said, walking into the flat and immediately taking Sherlock into his arms. Allen was just as tall as Sherlock was, but had twice the muscle. Of course, that wasn't nearly so impressive considering that Sherlock was lanky, gangly, mostly skin and bones himself. Most of the punters liked his look, said he looked like a pretty little twink, and it made him easier to shove around like a rag doll during sex.

"Miss me?" Allen said, groping his arse and grinning. Sherlock could smell the alcohol on Allen's breath. Great. He had hoped Allen would just want a simple suck and then let him alone to his own devices, but he could tell that wasn't going to happen.

Allen dragged him into the bedroom and stripped Sherlock out of his clothes. It didn't take long, since Sherlock had already taken off his socks and shoes, and he never wore underwear anyway. It made him 'easy access' as the punters liked to say.

Allen shoved him face down on the bed and unzipped his own flies, kneeling between Sherlock's legs and pushing them further apart.

"You want my cock, baby?" Allen grunted.

"Yeah," Sherlock answered, waiting for the telltale crinkle of a condom wrapper, and turning to look at Allen when it didn't come.

"Condom," Sherlock reminded him, reaching up to the bedside table.

"Oh, no you don't," Allen said, "We don't need, one, do we baby? Come on, you know you're my only whore. Let me fuck you bare."

"Wait," Sherlock said, trying to protest as he felt a finger breach his hole. He never allowed himself to be fucked bare, it wasn't a risk he liked to take. And Allen, in his drunken state, was going to have his own way.

"Wait," Sherlock tried again, "It'll be better with lube, at least."

Allen ignored his pleas and spit into his hand, forcing two fingers inside Sherlock's arse. Fuck, this was going to hurt. But, there was no way he could reason with Allen, or fight him off. Sherlock closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.