"Christ, when was the last time you slept, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, lids giving way to take in the sight of a take-away coffee cup in front of him. He reached out slowly and took it, bringing it to his lips and carefully sipping it.
Perfect.
His eyes slid up to see Jim standing just off to the side. They were at Cadogan Hall - how had he not realised this? His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought back.
"What's today?"
Jim stared at him. "Thursday."
"Ah."
Jim sat down in his own seat, shaking his head. "You need to relax."
Sherlock sipped his coffee and said nothing. He did need to relax - but when was it ever that simple, really?
"So?"
He opened his eyes again, vaguely wondering when he'd closed them. "What?" He looked over at Jim.
Jim sighed heavily. "When did you last sleep? Really sleep, that is."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Four or five days ago. Maybe six..."
He heard Jim mutter something that sounded vaguely like a curse and his name. "Right. So, basically, since I asked you to come by almost a week ago. You need to go home."
"I'm perfectly fine."
"No, you're not." Jim was twisting a bit to look at him more directly. "You look like you crawled out of a grave instead of a bed, Sherlock. You weren't sleeping well before that, and now you're not sleeping at all. You need rest."
Sherlock scoffed, but turned away slightly. He looked down at the floor. "It's... it's not that simple."
Jim was silent for a moment as he readied his violin, plucking idly at the strings before placing it on it's small stand next to the music stand. "Have you thought about what I... mentioned?"
Sherlock pursed his lips. He'd thought of little else, really. He'd been tempted to meet Jim, to call him and arrange something. He didn't even know what Jim would possibly have planned that could make him forget, but he wanted to try.
"What would... forgetting... entail?" Sherlock licked his lips as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the sheet music in front of him. "Just so... I know what to expect."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim nod slowly. "Have you ever tried... anything?"
Sherlock frowned, his head turning minutely towards Jim. "What do you mean, anything? I've tried a lot of things, you might want to be more specific."
Jim snorted. "I meant, have you ever tried... substances?"
Sherlock stretched his back up a bit, rolling his shoulders gently. "You mean drugs."
"Shhh!"
He turned fully to see Jim glaring at him.
"Keep your voice down!"
Sherlock smirked. "Why, afraid of being caught?"
Jim made a face. "Well, yes. This is my career, Sherlock, I don't want to jeopardize it by having the wrong person hear something they shouldn't have..."
Sherlock cocked his head. "But you trust me with it."
Jim looked at him earnestly. "You're my friend."
Sherlock stared, not moving, as Jim bent to grab his bow and rosin. There was that word again. Friend.
"Right." Sherlock's voice had gone soft and distant. "Of course." He bent down to retrieve his own bow and rosin, taking comfort in the familiar routine.
Several minutes passed in relative quiet as they prepared for the day's rehearsal.
Lestrade worked them hard that day, putting them through their paces as excitedly as he did their individual sections. The season was about to start up, and that meant days of practice lost to travel, and that meant that their conductor was alight with the drive to make sure they were at their peak before all of that started.
When the day wound down, Sherlock turned to Jim, watching him placing everything back in the hard, black case.
"What are you doing tonight?"
Jim startled and looked up quickly. "I... well, nothing planned-"
"Good. I'll..." Sherlock swallowed. "I'll come by. Around... seven?"
Jim watched him for a moment, then nodded and smiled. "It's a date."
Sherlock blushed, then quickly turned away, putting his violin into its case delicately. "Would you... am I allowed to know what... kind?" Sherlock frowned as he snapped the case shut, irritated by his own inability to ask a simple question. Usually he had no trouble expressing himself, but... Jim changed so many things.
"Oh, yes, of course..."
Sherlock turned, coming face to face with Jim, their noses barely an inch apart. Sherlock's eyes were immediately drawn to Jim's mouth, sense memory taking over and reminding him of the way they'd felt under his own, the way Jim's lips had been tart and stained from the wine, how they'd been warm and perfect and-
"I've, uh... it's... coke."
Sherlock's eyes flicked back up to Jim's. "You... you use-"
"Shhh!" Jim's lips puckered, and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry as he stared at them again. "I've only ever... once, but... it was... it helped. A lot."
Sherlock tried to swallow as he nodded carefully. "And... you think..." His eyes canted back up to Jim's.
"Yes, I think it could help you."
Sherlock closed his mouth before he did something incredibly stupid, such as lean forward those few inches and press his mouth to Jim's. It was one thing when they were alone, but here, at the hall, that...
He closed his eyes. "I'll see you at seven, then."
He felt Jim's breath on his face, a calm, soft breeze that smelt of mint chewing gum and a hint of coffee. "I'll be waiting."
When Sherlock opened his eyes, Jim was gone. Not even a flutter of wind as he'd left.
Sherlock let out a breath he'd been inadvertently holding, and grabbed his violin case.
This was going to be an interesting night.
He flagged a taxi relatively easily, rattling off the address and closing his eyes again as he leant back, taking long, even breaths. The ride was faster than he'd expected, and he handed the fare over without a word, mounting the steps to the building that had his flat.
It wasn't anything special, really - one bedroom with a closet sized toilet and a broom cupboard sized closet, a small kitchen that he used mostly for making tea or running an experiment that had snagged his interest, and a miniscule sitting room that housed more books than most people read in a lifetime. There was even a television, though it was a bit dusty and Sherlock could not remember ever using it before.
He sighed, looking around. This was his life, after Irene. One depressingly crowded flat that was short on furniture - he didn't even have a chair to sit on in the living room - and food - his refrigerator was often home to petri dishes with various cultures growing on them.
His stomach decided right then to remind him that it did, in fact, have needs, thank you very much, by emitting a tremendous and rumbling growl. He winced as a lancing pain shot through his gut to punctuate the notion. He fished his phone from his pocket and sent a hasty text.
[Dinner? -SH]
He stepped through the sitting room and into his bedroom as the reply came. [Sounds lovely. Shall I order in? -Jim M]
He began undressing, trying to reply one handed. [I've a preference for curried chicken and rice. -SH]
He grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. His phone chimed, and he smiled at it.
[I know a place. I'll have it here when you arrive. -Jim M]
He dropped his phone back onto the bed, and stepped into the bathroom.
The shower was tiny - barely enough room for him, as skinny as he was - but the water heated up remarkably quickly and it felt like heaven as it beat down on him. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair, fingertips kneading into his scalp until he was nearly moaning. He scrubbed at the rest of himself, wondering if the water went hot enough to burn away the thoughts he'd been having just before Jim had left.
When he was finished, he stepped out and toweled off, reveling in the light sting still lingering against his skin from the heat.
He sat on his bed and rolled his shoulders again, eyes looking towards his closet.
He decided on a simple suit and button-up shirt. He carefully brushed his curls out, cursing his luck in the genetic lottery that had given him his mother's hair. Mycroft had gotten off lucky, the bastard - he'd gained their father's hair, which was straight and easily managed. Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror, as though he could will his hair to change simply by thinking at it hard enough.
Finally, he sighed, resigning himself to the fact that there really was no cure for this, and he sat back down to put on his socks and shoes. He grabbed a long coat he'd been given for Christmas the year before, sliding his arms into it and smoothing it down in the front. He would likely never admit it, but Mycroft had chosen rather well when he'd picked it out.
At last, he grabbed his keys, phone, and wallet, and headed out the door.
He flagged a taxi and rattled off Jim's address, fingers punching things into his phone as he rode along. The sun was just beginning to set as the cab pulled to a stop.
Sherlock took a deep breath, handed over his fare, and stepped out.
He was suddenly hit with just how much like a date this felt. And wouldn't that be lovely to see in the papers, he thought grimly. He didn't much care what people said about him, really - it was the attention that all the talk brought with it. People could think whatever they liked - as long as he knew the truth, he was able to ignore it. But when people thinking led to talking and watching, it unnerved him more than he was comfortable with.
He stared up at the building's façade for a moment, then stepped forward and pushed the bell.
A moment later, Jim was opening the door, smiling and stepping back to allow him in. Sherlock nodded once and stepped inside, pulling his coat around him.
Defense mechanism, he thought. Still unsure how to relax in Jim's company. Hints of arousal, so not just defense - embarrassment, perhaps. Interesting response.
He followed Jim up the stairs, remembering the feeling of being soaked through and freezing, the way Jim kept looking back at him...
Once more without thinking, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Jim's hand. Jim turned back, startled, and Sherlock pressed close, lips seeking Jim's.
Papers be damned, they could print whatever they wanted. Sherlock just wanted to know...
He pressed forward still, backing Jim up to the wall at the landing, leaning down and into him as his lips worked against Jim's, his hands awkwardly holding Jim's hips against his own. Jim smiled against his mouth and slipped his arms under Sherlock's coat, under Sherlock's arms, nudging them up. Sherlock had to let go of Jim's hips, but he was rewarded when Jim arched toward him. The telltale feeling of an erection pressed into the side of Sherlock's thigh, and he moaned quietly.
"I wasn't..." Jim was panting now, his hands holding tight to the back of Sherlock's suit jacket. "I didn't think... you wanted..."
"I didn't either." Sherlock nipped at Jim's lower lip, pressed himself tighter, closer, his whole body shaking with emotions he wasn't used to, and he closed his eyes against it, willing himself to calm down, to think.
"Are you-"
"Sure? No." Sherlock shook his head, his voice quiet. "I-"
"We should stop, then."
His eyes opened, and he saw Jim staring at him, looking almost as lost as Sherlock felt. Sherlock let the words sink in, then nodded and stepped back, hands running through his own hair as he tried to figure out what was going on inside his own mind.
"Fine."
"Maybe we could... talk first." Jim gestured with his head. "Upstairs."
Sherlock licked his lips and motioned for Jim to lead the way.
Once inside the flat, Sherlock looked around, taking it all in again. He'd seen so little of it the last time, been so focused on other things, that it felt almost like he'd never been there before. His stomach growled as he saw the takeaway boxes on the small dining table, the scents overwhelming his ability to think for a moment, the desire for them nearly as potent as when he'd pinned Jim against the wall just-
No, stop that. Time enough for worrying over that and figuring it out later. Focus now.
His eyes flitted over everything, giving him so much information. It wasn't until his eyes rested on a small, antique wooden box settled on the coffee table in front of the sofa that he felt his brain go uncomfortably quiet. There was no mistaking it's significance, though just what about it tipped him off he couldn't actually say - and that was a worrisome fact.
"Is that..." He took an involuntary step forward, eyes still transfixed.
Jim looked up, followed Sherlock's gaze. "Oh, yeah, that's... that's it."
Sherlock stepped around the armrest and lowered himself slowly onto the far cushion, head cocked to the side and still staring at the box. He swallowed. "May I?" He reached out, stopping himself before he actually touched it.
Jim laughed softly. "Of course. Said this was about you, didn't I?"
Sherlock leaned forward and plucked the box carefully off the glass tabletop. He smoothed his fingers over it, marveling at the finely detailed carvings in it - a hunting scene, German by the stylistic look of the people and animals. Easily over a hundred years old, yet looking better cared for than nearly everything in his own small flat - his violins were, naturally, the only exception. And this box - this piece of art he held in his hands - gave them a run for their money.
He delicately flicked at the clasp holding the box shut, then pulled it open. The inside was no less beautiful, lined in a deep, royal blue velvet, everything placed just so in spaces precisely designed to hold them.
There was a vintage syringe, which looked as though it had been retro-fitted for new hypodermic needles - of which there were two, held to the top of the box with care. There was a small razor blade, and a flap-style lid which, Sherlock had no doubts, held the drug itself. He slipped a fingernail under the lip of the lid, and popped it open.
Sure enough, there were two small plastic baggies, each containing pristine white powder. He swallowed against the dryness suddenly sticking to every available inch of his throat, and looked up at Jim, who was staring back at him, face unreadable.
"It's beautiful."
"It's for you."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Why?"
Jim shrugged. "I... inherited that. From someone I'd rather forget."
Sherlock nodded and looked back at the box in his hands. "I see."
"Do you?"
Sherlock's eyes moved back to Jim, who was smiling gently. "Indeed. Either someone who hurt you, or... someone..." He cocked his head as his voice tapered off. "No, definitely someone who hurt you. Hurt you deeply."
Jim looked down. "You are good."
"I'm sorry." Jim looked up, and Sherlock wondered if there was anything he could do that would honestly help the situation at all. He didn't think so, but he wanted to try at least. "For... your loss."
Jim watched him, then gave a sad smile and moved to come sit beside him. "So. Any questions?"
"So very many."
Jim snickered, and took the box from Sherlock gingerly.
He spent several minutes explaining how it worked - how you could snort or inject the drug, how best to prepare it, how to heat it in order to melt it for injecting, what to cut it on, and so on. Sherlock took it all in, watching him as he talked, and listening.
"Still want to try it?"
Sherlock looked at it. He'd not had much time in the cab ride, but he had looked up some side effects. He was fairly certain he could handle them, but...
"How... how low a dose could we do. To start?"
Jim shrugged. "Low as you want, really. How about we start off really small? Say... a five percent solution. Injected."
Sherlock nodded, and watched Jim set about preparing it. Watched intently as the powder mixed with some water, melted almost immediately. Watched Jim heat it in a spoon as he instructed Sherlock to ready the syringe with one of the needles.
Finally, he held the syringe, it's concoction settled and ready. Jim showed him how to strap his arm, how to find the vein.
"Ready?"
Sherlock looked into Jim's eyes and nodded. "Yes."
The needle pierced his skin. He winced, then slowly pushed the plunger down.
Sorry for the slow updates. Life. Who knew it would get so crazy.
SO. You may - or may not - have noticed the lovely images I now have for the stories in the Composing Hallelujah 'verse. These are the, "covers," I've made, and they are all available on my AO3 account (that's Archive Of Our Own, same user name there as here), because I can actually post images there. They're also on my Tumblr's (PM me if you haven't seen my usernames on there, they're a bit lengthy), so if you want to see bigger/easier to see versions, those are the places to go!
And next, thank you all SO, SO MUCH for everything - ever like/fave/subscription/follow/etc. You guys are amazing, and not a day goes by that I don't feel incredibly blessed and thankful for each and every one of you. Writing is something you do because you have a story inside you and you just have to tell it, regardless of what others think - but being able to share it with others who enjoy it? That's a GIFT. All of you have made my life so much richer and better, and I want to thank you for it. You've no idea what it means to me.
AND FINALLY, for any of you interested in it, 221B-Con is happening April 13th & 14th, 2013, in Atlanta, GA. For those of you going, COME FIND ME. I will be there - and it will be my very first con OF ANY KIND, EVER. I've already registered, and it looks to be an absolute BLAST. So, seriously, find me! I love meeting my readers and fellow Sherlockians. Be you not of the House of Montague, come and crush a cup of wine! (Unless you're under 21, in which case, it's virgin daiquiris for you.)
DFTBA, my lovelies.
