Not So Secret Fanfiction a/k/a Free Reads

CLICK ME for a link to the whole story.

CLICK ME for a link to the whole story.

So I thought I’d put some of my Sherlock Fan Fiction up to read.  I know, I talk about it all the time, I may as well display it.  I’ll update chapters every week or so.  But it’s a great way to introduce new readers to my writing style if you’re considering taking a chance on a Lexxx book.  There’s also another tab for excerpts that will also be rotating.  So here goes– feel free to comment if you like.  Or if fanfiction freaks you out, just don’t open the tab.


The Jaguar and Bijoux, a Sherlock fanfiction

By Gypsy

Notes:  This story is a D/s story and it does contain some unorthodox sexual practices as well as some trigger warnings for drug abuse and angst.  However, you won’t find any whips and chains here.  Sorry you 50 Shaders (het, OFC).



The sound of their feet dragging across the dirt strewn floor woke me up.  There were two voices, one much higher pitched than the other.  One of them sounded like a speed-head trying to explain Cricket—fast and growing in volume and octave.  The other voice was much lower.  It was warm and oozed along the cinderblock walls like an oil slick.  I liked it.  That low, purring voice sounded like safety.

“She ain’t moved for days, Shez.  I’ve already chased two smackheads away from her today.  They’d have raped her for sure if I hadn’t come in.  She ain’t safe, knackered out of her mind like she is.”

They were obviously talking about me.  The sex-crazed smackheads in question probably couldn’t have gotten it up to rape me.  Not that I would have given a shit if they had.  I wouldn’t feel it.  I never feel anything.  I wanted to call out to them or move toward that jaguar growl, but I couldn’t make my arms and legs move.  No matter how loud I commanded them, my extremities were dead flesh hanging limply at my sides.  For a second I thought I might be dead all over, but then I realized that I could hear my heart beating.  It pounded through my veins and the liquid whoosh whoosh noise was deafening.  That’s the thing about morphine—your body might be dead but your mind and senses are wide open.

“I’m curious as to what exactly you want me to do, Billy.  I’m not exactly in the habit of taking in charity cases.”  The jaguar again.  God, his voice was an amalgamation of sex, drugs and fire—three of my favorite things.

“I didn’t know who else to call, Shez.  If she stays here much longer, she’s gonna die, mate.”

“She’s a junkie.  She’ll probably die anyway.  And I’m not your mate.”

I heard them ascend the stairs and their footfalls as they crossed the floor to the ruined mattress where I lay.  I was alone.  All the other junkie boys and girls had gone home to play.  “Bijoux,” Billy called to me.  I blinked once.  He kicked my foot, but I still refused to move.  “C’mon, girl.  Get up.  You been here too long, love.”  I wanted to tell him not to call me that, but still I wasn’t quite ready to trip-trap down the yellow brick road to reality.  “Come on, Bijoux.  If you don’t get up, I’m leavin’ you here to the junkie sex fiends.”

“Ugh… this is just stupid,” the Jaguar said with an exasperated sigh.  “Bijoux!” he said.  His voice was stern and immediately I looked up.  “It’s time to go.”  He towered over me.  His lean frame was wrapped in a sort of trench coat that blended in to the shadows around us, but his face was pale in the moonlight that glittered off of his eyes.  “Now.”  I sat up on his command, rubbing my eyes.  The world was blurry.  I’m not sure when the last time my eyes were open was.  This morning?  Maybe last night?  “Can you stand?”  The Jaguar knelt down, prying one of my eyes open and staring into it.  I shrugged, trying to pull away from him, but his gloved hand held my chin.  “She’s overdosed, but alive,” he said to the one called Billy.  I had seen Billy before.  I think he tried to wake me up.  “Come on, Bijoux.  Stand up for me.”  He offered his arm and I tried to take it.  Try is probably a strong word.  I placed my hand on his arm and then watched with morbid fascination as it slipped off and fell into my lap again.  “Nope…” he said, catching me around the waist and pulling me closer.  He hooked an arm under my knees and picked my limp body up off the floor.

“Should I call somebody?” Billy asked.

“I thought that’s why I was here,” the Jaguar said.  “Besides, I don’t think she’d last through a night in jail.”  I groaned a little when he carried me out of the doors and into the street out front.  It was cold and immediately I began to shiver.  He held me a little closer and I nudged my nose under the fold of his scarf.  He smelled like leather and old tobacco.  It was a nice smell.  “Hail a cab,” he told Billy and the other man quickly obeyed.  Obviously this man who held me was one used to having people do what he told them.  After several minutes, a black cab stopped in front of us and the Jaguar got me inside.  I was still shaking with the cold and before sitting down beside me, he pulled his coat from around his shoulders and draped it over me.  I sighed with relief and pulled the soft wool around me tighter.  It was still warm from his body and that smoky, earthy scent was magnified.  It clarified my foggy brain enough to feel the pain.  The dull ache that let me know it was time for another fix.  “221 Baker Street,” he barked at the cabbie as he slammed the door behind us.


When I woke up the next time, I was laying on a lumpy couch.  A man knelt over me, but not the Jaguar.  This one was shorter, with a kinder face.  My arm was stretched out and there was a sore kind of stinging on the inside of my elbow.  When my eyes focused, I could see that there was a tube attached to my arm and leading to a bag hanging over my head on a light fixture.  My first instinct was to tear it free, but the man kneeling by my side shook his head.  “No no, Bijoux.  It’s medicine to counteract the morphine,” he said, taking my hand and laying it across my middle once more.  “It’s all right now.  You’re safe.”

“Where am I?” I croaked.  My voice was unrecognizable to myself and it felt like I had a mouth full of cotton balls.  “I…” I tried to speak again, but the pain in my throat wouldn’t allow it and so I just closed my mouth.

“You’re at 221B Baker Street,” the man answered.  “My name is John Watson and I’m a doctor.”  At hearing the word ‘doctor’ I stirred, trying to rise from the couch.  Doctor meant hospital and hospital usually meant either rehab or jail.  Neither of which I was particularly interested in.  “No no no…” he said, trying to hold me down.  “You have to stay here, Bijoux.”

“I have to go… I have to…”

“Be still.”  It was the Jaguar’s voice again.  His voice was not gentle like the doctor’s, but its gruff reprimand was a comfort and I lay back down and closed my eyes.

“She looks to be okay,” John said, whispering.  I heard him stand up and cross the room, thinking that I’d passed out again.  “A bit malnourished, dehydrated, but basically okay.  She’s got some bruises and track marks, but it doesn’t look like anyone beat her up or violated her.”


“What are you going to do with her?”

“No idea.  But I couldn’t leave her there, John.  Billy was right.  Any longer she’d have died or someone would have come along and killed her.”

“You realize that as soon as she walks out that door she’ll go back there and shoot up again.”

“Then I guess we don’t let her walk out the door.”

“What’s this we?  I have to go home.  Mary’s probably pacing the floor now as it is.  It’s nearly three.  Look, the bag will probably finish about four.  She’ll need the fluids after that.  You’ll have to watch her and make sure that she doesn’t choke on her own vomit if she gets ill.  She’ll probably sleep for a while and when she wakes up, I suggest taking her to the nearest rehabilitation hospital.”

“I’ll think about it.”


“I said I’ll think about it.  Go.  Hurry, Mary will be worried.”

I heard their voices fade when they left the room and I sat up, taking care to keep the makeshift IV in place.  I stared around the room, taking in as much of my surroundings as I could.  It was warm.  A fire burned in the fireplace opposite.  It was the only light in the room, thankfully.  My eyes still hurt from being in the darkened drug den for so long.  There were books and papers everywhere.  It was a marvelous disarray that alluded to a cluttered mind, but not dirty.  A man lived here.  Alone.  No telltale signs of a woman could be found.  No cosmetics, random jewelry or the like.  And it smelled like a man in this flat.  More of that leather and stale tobacco, but here there was also the sharp scent of burning wood and something more medicinal just underneath.

“Ah, you’re awake.”  His voice broke my reverie and my eyes rolled slowly to him.  Out of the shadows he was just as intimidating as he had been before.  Gone was the long wool coat and scarf, revealing a lean, but muscular frame.  He was sturdy with large hands.  I imagined that those hands could crush anyone who might cross him.  His features were sharp and cool, highlighted with an unruly mop of black curls.  Very English.  Not one single line of his countenance was round or soft and when he spoke, his mouth curled into a beautiful snarl.

“What am I doing here?” I whispered.  It was the only sound I was capable of.  My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cocktail of razorblades and lemon juice.

“The Wig called me to get you.  You were passed out in a drug house for at least two days and he was worried that you were dying. “

“What are you? Some kind of junkie guardian angel?”

“No. “

It suddenly dawned on me what was going on and it left a bad taste in my mouth.  It was obvious from his thin frame and shadowed eyes.  The eyes of one who rarely slept.  His fidgeting and pacing.  He wasn’t nervous. He was like a sports car up on cinderblocks, raring its engine with nowhere to go.  “Oh I see… you’re one of those reformed junkies.  Dragging us out of our dens of vice and showing us a better path?  Perhaps through our Lord and Savior?” I gave a bitter, mirthless chuckle.  “Don’t waste your time.”

“I would never be so weak as to depend on false idols to lead me to sobriety.  But I’m not so pathetic as to spend my days lying in a puddle of my own vomit on a dirty mattress, waiting for vagrants and smackheads to slit my throat.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, sliding down on the couch and turning away.  I want to block out his words.  He’s right.  I am pathetic.  A little part of me does wish they had left me there on that rat-infested mattress to die.  Maybe the next life will be better.

He laughed.  “You are clever, aren’t you?  Fuck you.  Is that all you’ve got left in there for the man who saved your life.”

“Whatever, man.  You don’t know anything about me.”


“Yeah, really.”

“All right, then.”  His steps were heavy and slow as he came toward me.  “The clothes you’re wearing are filthy, but not cheap.  Designer labels in designs only a few months old.  Your hair has been freshly highlighted and your eyebrows are perfectly shaped.  Probably in a salon.  You were in a drug house for two or three days but your fingernails are perfectly clean.  Not so much as a chipped nail.  There’s fresh bruising on your arms, chest and legs—distinct patterns that indicate you were hit with fists, not objects.  Whoever your abuser is, they carefully avoided places where it would show—your face, lower arms, neck.  They know you and probably operate under the delusion that they love you.  And you stupidly think they love you back.  Am I wrong?”

He was right but there was no way I would tell him that.  So I just rolled over and went back to ignoring him, hoping he would afford me the same courtesy.  He leaned over me and checked the bag of drugs that hung over my head.  I heard him pull the heavy armchair up beside the couch and then the rustling of the leather as he sat down.  Looking over my shoulder, I tried to watch him without him noticing.  His thin fingers flipped through the pages of a newspaper.    If he noticed me he didn’t let on, so I just lay there.  The drug that dripped slowly into my veins from the bag was cold and it made me shiver.  I was sleepy, but I just couldn’t close my eyes.  Every time I tried it was like there was grit or something caught under the lid, so I just stared at the pattern on the wallpaper.  For the longest time I just lay there, trying to find a way out through the maze of fleur de lis.


Ironically, two hours later I was on my knees in prayer over the Jaguar’s toilet.  I had the crazy thought that I didn’t even know the guy’s name.  It didn’t last long as another wave of nausea overtook me and I vomited spectacularly once more.  I could hear myself moaning over the bowl as I lay my cheek against the cool porcelain.  The round, deep bowl just amplified the sound and my head throbbed.  This was withdrawal.  First the nausea, then the pain.  My head already felt like it was going to split down the middle and spill my brains on to the bright white tile under my knees.  Soon that pain would radiate down my neck, across my shoulders, into my chest and finally settle in the pit of my stomach.  Like a thousand knives stabbing me over and over.  Next would be the voices.  The voices that always returned to tell me I was worthless and ugly.  Poor little rich girl.  None of this was new.  I had felt it before.  Quit so many times, but it never stuck.  I always managed to find myself back here, kneeling on the floor.

I crawled across the floor to bang on the door.  “Please…Mr…. Whoever you are… I just need a hit.  Just one… just a little bit to get me through.”  I used my sweet little angel voice.  “Please?”

“Are you done tossing up yet?” he asked.  His voice was close.  He was standing right by the door.

“I feel so sick.  Can’t I just have something for the pain?  It’s my head…”  No response, but I could hear him breathing.  And a clicking noise like he was texting on a mobile phone.  “Hello?  Can you hear me?”  I slammed my fist against the door again, but still he was silent.  “You know… I’m… I’m sorry about what I said before.  My name is Jessica.  They call me Bijoux down at the house, but that’s not my name.”  Finally, I heard the doorknob turn and he opened the door.  I was still down on my knees and I stared up at him.  “Hi.”  It sounded so stupid, but it was all I could say.

“Get up, Bijoux.”  His voice was cold and held no emotion.

I reached up and put my trembling hand on his stomach.  Then the other.  His breathing never wavered or quickened.  It was as if my touch had no effect.  “Please… I need something… I hurt so bad…”

He shrugged away from me and I fell down, scraping the heels of my hands on the tile.  “Get used to the pain.  It will be your friend for the next few days.”

When I realized that he was unmoving, I started to cry.  It was pathetic, but I needed it.  I needed just a little to help with the pain.  He just stood over me, staring down with that angular jaw tense and set in place.  The sobs shook my body, reminding me of the tremors that were surely coming.  My nose ran until I could taste the salty mucous on my lips.  It turned my stomach and I rushed to the toilet, throwing up again until there was nothing left and I was dry heaving on the floor.  “You’re cruel… fucking black hearted bastard…” I spat.  My shoulders collapsed and I lay prone once more.  I wanted to scream, but I had no more strength.  After several minutes, I felt him pick me up and carry me from the bathroom.  I tried to struggle, but he held my arms at my sides.  He took me to another room and lay me down on a large bed and covered me up.

“Go to sleep,” he said.  He turned and took a trashbin from beside the door then put it down beside the bed.  “Don’t throw up in my bed.”

“I hate you,” I replied as he pulled the covers up to my chin, tucking me in like a child.

“Good.  You’re starting to feel again.”




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