Whatever information he received from his homeless network brought you and Sherlock to a rundown brothel, the kind that looks like just another house on the outside, but is filled to the rafters with ladies of the night once you pass through the door. From the peeling faded wallpaper and the less than adequate electrical system, the rates were likely too cheap to overlook.
Once the ladies spot Sherlock in the doorway, they swarm around him, shamelessly pawing at him and whispering sweet nothings in his ears.
“You looking for a good time, love?”
“Such a delicate face.”
“Lovely skin.”
“And you smell fantastic.”
He doesn’t quite know what to do, but his stoic expression never falters. “Yes, well, I bathe. Which is likely more than can be said of your usual clientele. I’d like to speak to your employer.”
“There’s no need, darling,” one of them purrs as she pushes her way through the rest. She hangs fr
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