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[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Someone shoves Jim on a staircase and spits a slur.

They take a nasty tumble out of a second story window later that afternoon. Bad luck, really.

That evening, Sherlock breaks into his room to read. He's half way through a scathing analysis of the portrayal of crime in the media by the time he comes back.

Comments

[napoleonofcrime]

He doesn't bother to knock- Sherlock will know who it is by the weight and time of his step.

"-you did it."

Breathless, a little. He'd come as soon as he'd heard about it.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"He landed on grass. He'll barely bruise."

Actually he'll bruise quite badly, but that will be the extent of it.

"Anyways, do as I say, not as I do."

[napoleonofcrime]

He grins.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want. But I appreciate you winning my battles for me."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He tsks, and stretches out, unintentionally painting quite a picture, all languid in rumpled sheets.

"They'll never know it wasn't an accident. No one will think of this as a message."

[napoleonofcrime]

"Then we'll give them a more permanent one."

Stepping inside, watching hum- he's not immune to the strange allure Sherlock practically exudes.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It is completely oblivious, at this age.

But it's also a very much returned sentiment. He looks up at Jim, and thinks it dreadful that he would break bones for him.

"You're so dramatic."

[napoleonofcrime]

"Better to be dramatic than to be wooden."

He closes the door behind him, dropping into a chair.

"Why did you do it, anyway?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Those who seek power over others by filling them with fear should first understand fear itself."

He shrugs.

"Lurching for balance, the threat of the plummet, the consequence of a misstep."

[napoleonofcrime]

"I wonder what it's like, to be afraid."

He leans back and stares up at the ceiling, slowly spinning in the chair.

"Maybe you should push me out of a window; see if I can feel it."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I don't have to push you out a window to scare you."

Sherlock informs him, closing the book.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Oh?"

Perking up, glancing back at him.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Come here."

He says, meeting his eyes. That's all he has to do, sometimes.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim stills for a moment, before nodding, lifting himself up and slowly padding over toward the other boy.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

The touching doesn't really change anything. It doesn't happen again, either, though, not over the next few weeks. Their lives are too full of other distractions. Sherlock had utterly charmed the poor morgue worker, contacting him again with further case details and allowing the man to help catch the murderer... leading, in the end, to a steady supply of odd body parts from cremation-bound bodies. He shares his loot with Jim diligently, sometimes coopting a finger or two extra for his own work, but more often than not letting him have equal pick of the body parts for whatever makes him curious, or for shared research.

And then, in early December, they have classes canceled for snow. And Sherlock isn't in the next class, either. Or the next.

Which is when Jim gets a text;

Poke your head in on him.
MH

[napoleonofcrime]

He doesn't text back. He already knows who it's from, and what it's about. Jim doesn't want much to do with Mycroft, but Sherlock still captures his attention. And there's concern there, maybe a little, so he decides to see for himself how his favorite detective is doing.

Jim still doesn't knock; he simply opens the door and slides right in.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He doesn't so much as blink as he does enter. Sherlock remains where he's sitting, slumped over his knees at the headboard, fingers occupying themselves listlessly with a string of safety pins. The lethargy surrounding him is palpable.

[napoleonofcrime]

He takes a step forward, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't see or hear him until he was ready to come out. Still, he couldn't help but to call his name softly, all the same.

"-Sherlock?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Almost right away, his head lifts. This is different from the normal thoughtful trances. There is no point of focus.

"Hello."

[napoleonofcrime]

"You've been missing for days."

He frowns.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Pointless. He glances away, sliding down in the bed to roll onto his side.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Your brother texted me."

Pointed.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Meddler."

He can't even be brought to feel the usual malice he does when Mycroft pokes his nose in.

[napoleonofcrime]

"What do you need?"

Softly.

"I'll bring you drugs and bodies and books and forensic reports."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"That's what I don't understand."

He admits, staring at the wall. And why it's taken him so hard this time.

"I usually know the boredom very well."

[napoleonofcrime]

"But- ?"

Crouching in front of him, trying to meet his eyes.