searchingfordistraction | S2 finale spoilers in-thread

It's several days until the key is used again. Sherlock has wound down from the initial excitement on Sunday (the excitement on the BBC; the bar was just ordinary chit-chat), and has found himself on the wrong end of a terrible sleeping pattern again.

When he does finally want to crash, he does not want to do it in the bar. Not in a public space. And the room he rents is, well... not really suited for sleeping, given there isn't a square inch of it that isn't full of some sort of can of paint or bucket of markers.

But he does have a key. A key to a room that isn't exactly private, but he feels like he more or less knows the person who owns it. At least, he knows him well enough to not slit Sherlock's throat in his sleep.

So, Moriarty's room it is. Ordinarily, Sherlock would snoop. He'd dig around to see what he could find, attempt to crack the safe (he's never been good at it, but everyone gets lucky once in a while), maybe pick through the sock drawer. But not today. Passing out is all Sherlock has planned, and that's exactly what he does. He doesn't even bother with getting under the duvet.

Jim procured another key, of course, after Sherlock left with his.

He uses it now, after he thinks enough time has passed since he saw Sherlock slip upstairs. It's harder to tell in Milliways, with time being what it is, but judging from the tableau that greets him, he got it about right.

He removes his suit jacket, hanging it up with great care in his closet. Then he drops onto his bed, slinging an arm cozily over Sherlock.

Sherlock is, as John so eloquently likes to phrase it, fucking out.

When he wakes, after several more hours, to find someone who isn't John touching him, he jerks away quite quickly and takes a panicked moment to try to work out where he is.

Oh.

Right.

"Don't touch," he says stiffly.

He usually prefers to wake up more slowly than this, especially after one of his crashes. Just give him a few minutes, and he'll be back on top form.

Jim smiles and stretches out on his back, tucking his hands under his head.

"My bed, my rules."

But he makes no effort to move any closer again.

Sherlock watches Jim cautiously, only now debating the intelligence of this decision. But when there are no further attempts made at contact, Sherlock nods.

"The room was unlocked. Didn't think you'd mind."

Yes, it was. After Sherlock unlocked it.

"Amazing how lifting a key off someone will open doors."

He's still smiling.

"Exactly. I didn't think you'd mind."

Because if he did, Sherlock wouldn't have still had the key to get in here.

If he did, Sherlock wouldn't still have the hand he used to take the key.

"Of course not," he says. "I thought you might be of assistance for a bit of trouble I'm having."

Sherlock's starting to relax a bit; his body language melting from high-strung terrier to lazy cat.

"And what trouble would that be?" he asks as he relaxes back onto his stomach.

"I was wondering . . ."

Jim slides his hand into his trouser pocket, withdrawing a small bag of white powder.

". . . if you might know where I could dispose of this," he says, holding it up for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock freezes and stares at the bag for a very long time.

"I wouldn't know," he manages finally.

"No?"

Jim's face and voice are entirely innocent. He continues to hold the bag up.

"No ideas?"

He finally forces himself to look away.

"No."

"Shame."

Jim's lips press together into a slight, regretful pout.

"I do hate to waste it."

"Too bad."

Coming up here was a bad idea. Really, very not good.

Jim might notice a barely controlled tremor coursing through Sherlock right now.

Of course he notices.

"Well."

He drops the bag onto the duvet between them.

"If you change your mind."

"I stopped that," Sherlock says, though his voice seems uncertain. "A long time ago."

He moves his hands under the pillow, as though that will somehow stop him from doing anything stupid.

Jim turns onto his side to face Sherlock properly, pillowing his head on his arm.

"Did you?"

There's a long pause.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

With his free hand, Jim reaches back behind the headboard. There's the faint sound of tape detaching from wood.

Jim produces a small mirror, with a playing card and a tightly-rolled twenty pound note attached to it, which he puts down next to the bag.

The card is the king of hearts.

Sherlock pretends very hard not to notice what's going on.

He could get up and walk out of here. He knows he could. The door is right there, not five steps away.

He stays right where he is.

One might think it would be awkward, one-handed, in the small space between them, to cut lines of cocaine on a little mirror with a playing card.

Jim does it with grace and ease, his movements almost casual. The surface is more stable than it would seem, with the duvet pulled taut between the weight of their bodies.

Sherlock hasn't looked over since Jim put the bag down, but he's still noticing things. Of course he is.

"The king of hearts isn't actually stabbing himself in the head," he says. "He's holding an axe, but the pip gets in the way and the axe isn't drawn in anymore."

"There's little point in burning the heart of someone who's already dead," Jim says.

Once he's got the lines organized to his satisfaction, he picks up the twenty pound tube and holds it out to Sherlock.

"I'm assured it's the best," he says, "but people who know what will happen to them if I find out they were lying."

There's a long pause before Sherlock finally pulls his hand free to take the note.

And an even longer pause still while he stares at it.

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