That night, Jim has trouble sleeping. He tosses and turns, curling the blanket around his legs so tight he has to roll the other way just to make sure he doesn't cut off any circulation.

He's mentally cursing and calling himself names the whole time, feeling terrible for the way he lied to Sherlock. He should have told him about it, he asked. He wanted to know. And all Jim did was shrug!

It's 3am when Jim gives up on the notion of a goodnights sleep - or sleep at all, really - and slides out of bed, leaving the covers and pillows looking like a toddler had a temper tantrum.

He makes tea and then sits on the sofa, scrolling through his phone just to keep himself business. He thinks he's on Facebook, but can't tell without his contacts in or glasses on. It's blue. He can tell that much. Maybe Tumblr, if not Facebook.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

Tea and body drained, sleeping is somewhat forced upon Him and he doesn't even realise that he's fallen asleep on the sofa at an awkward angle until his alarm blares from his bedroom some five hours later and cause him to sit up sharply, neck aching.

"Oww..." He groans, rubbing his neck.

He doesn't feel up to go in to see his mum now...But he should and has to. It'll probably put him in a better mood anyway.

With a great sigh, Jim forces his body into action and heads for the bathroom. As if on autopilot, Jim turns the shower on, holds a hand under and nods at the temperature.  Jim quickly strips his clothes and dumps them in the near empty wash basket.

Climbing into the shower, he begins his morning routine and prepares himself for the journey out of London and into the area his mother lives. It wasn't too far, just over an hour journey by train. Sadly, his mother had sold their home in Ireland some years ago and moved closer to her 'baby boy'.

Before Jim even realises it, he's dressed himself in a snug pair of jeans and a loose red tee, has his suitcase sat beside him and is waiting on the platform in King's Cross for the train. It seems like he'd blinked and the first ten minutes of travelling was over.

Jim scrolled through his phone aimlessly, glancing at the train information. He had seven minutes until his train would arrive and at half past the hour, the train would leave the station and arrive in his mother's town in exactly an hour.

Trains weren't his cup of tea. Too many people.

He thanked any God that may exist when he climbed onto the train and it was practically void of humans. He quickly settles in a seat by the window, stuffing headphones in his ears and staring blankly out the window. He soon finds himself leaning against the window, eyes drooping.

He doesn't exactly sleep as the train makes it's way south. It's more of a daydream. He's not quite asleep but not fully there either. Jim does remove one headphone, however, listening to the announces so he knew where they were - his stop was the end of the line, anyway.

Thankfully, even as more passengers get on, no one occupies the seat beside Jim and he continues to listen to his music and stare out the window, mood slowly brightening.

An hour later, Jim finds himself stepping off the train and on to the station platform. As soon as he does, he hears a gasp/shout of his name and looks in the direction of the barriers to see his mother and father behind them, his mother waving frantically.

His mother was a short woman and her dark hair, which only had a few grey hairs among them, was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her clothes were casual too, a baby pink blouse and blue flannel jeans that had splash of paint on that just didn't seem to wash out. Her eyes are a murky green colour but they still light up at the first sight of her son.

His father was short in terms of the average height for a male his age but he was still a head and a half taller than Jim's mother. He too wore jeans - not a splash of paint in sight on his - and had on a polo shirt. His hair was a lighter shade of brown than Jim's mother and was more grey than brown now. He'd left it a mess on top of his head but it suited, Jim guessed. His eyes were an exact replica of Jim's - or rather, Jim's were an exact replica of his.

God, he'd missed them.

Smiling, Jim waves back before he rushes towards them and feeds the barrier his train ticket. Not even a second after he's through the barrier, Jim is brought into a bone crushing hug by his mum. Laughing, Jim hugs back.

Only a moment after his mum releases him, Jim is pulled into a quick sideways hug from his hair and he gets a kiss pressed to the top of his head like you'd see a father to his twelve year old son - not his thirty four year old.

You're never too old for embarrassing public cuddles with your dad.

"We missed ya, lad," beams the older man.

"I've missed you too," Jim smiles, looking at them both in turn.

His mother hugs him fiercely once more before she starts babbling about this and that and how Jim really shouldn't stay away so long because she's his mum and she worries. As she does ramble on, Jim and his parents climb the stairs off of the platform and head through the nearby town centre to gain access to the car park. Jim's mother is still rambling on about this and that when they climb in the car and Jim exchanges a brief look with his father, earning them clips around the ear from the ever charming Elizabeth Moriarty.

Walking into his childhood home was always a mixed experience for Jim. He loved being home and loved his parents, but loving them so much meant he missed them greatly and that always got Jim.

If he was being honest with himself, he'd always been scared on the real word when he was growing up. But look at him now, getting chained to floors and practising the fine art of remote control archery.

It's no surprise to any of them when Jim ends up in his mother's art room, apron on and converse in the hallway far away from the paint. He's armed with a paintbrush and has his glasses on (his mum hated the contacts), mother by his side as she looks at the large blank canvas in front of them.

Picking up a cup that had the words 'Save me, Barry!' on, Jim sips his tea and watches as his mother tries to decide what she wanted to paint. In Hindsight, Jim should have picked his clothes more carefully because, really, he knew he'd end up here.

"There's.. a guy." Jim starts, not to sure what made him say. Oh, well. "His name's Sherlock..."

"Oh..." replies Jim's mother who seemed to be half listening. "We'll do a land space. The daffodil field back in Ireland, remember it?" As she speaks, she moves to her paint covered desk and produces a photo of a five-year-old Jim laying in the sunshine in a field full of bright daffodils.

"Of course I do!" Jim grins, putting down his cup and taking hold of his paintbrush again. He then reconsiders and swaps for a pencil. His mother does the same.

It's quiet for some time as they pair sketch.

Then his mother speaks up.

"So... What's the issue?" She glances towards him. "With this Sherlock guy, I mean."

"I.. I don't know," Jim answers, earning him a 'really' look from the aging women beside him.

"I don't know," Jim repeats, "If I'm as serious about this thing we're doing, whatever the hell it is, as he is. Not to blow my own trumpet but I know he likes me, a hell of a lot. But what if I'm just.. leading him on without meaning to?"

She waits, listening patiently. So Jim continues.

"He's done a lot to show he likes me... and I haven't done much at all besides kiss him back.. I feel like we should talk about what we are, have a serious heart to heart but.. what if it does turn out that he likes me a lot more than I like him? I- I can't hurt him," Jim mumbles the last words sadly, voice breaking a little.

It felt nice to get it out in the open. He'd mainly just repeated what he'd already thought a million times over since his conversation with Alex  but still.. Something about telling his mum made him feel better. Like she'd know what to do.

Jim only hoped.

"Does he make you smile, laugh?" It seems random to Jim but he nods to the question. Smiling, Elizabeth continues, "Does he make you get angry, make you want to kill him?" Hell, yes, Jim thinks but only nods again "Do you feel warm around him, safe? And his moods always seem to affect yours? If he's worried about you for example, it will make you feel all funny?"

He nods to all the question, a bemused frown sewing his eyebrow together as he waits for some form of explanation.

His mother begins to just stare at him, so he speaks up.

"I, uh... -Yes. To it all."

Elizabeth grins and puts her pencil down, clapping her hands as she faces her son.

"You're serious about him," There was no question or pause for Jim to contradict. Instead, she moves swiftly on to another question.  "Can I be brutally honest?"

Laughing, Jim replies "When aren't you?"

Then she give him one of those mum smiles. The one that tells you she's about to say something that Jim probably didn't want to hear at all but they both knew he needed to hear it and he didn't have a choice anyway so it didn't really matter.

"Jim..." Her smile widens, just a bit. "Every relationship you've had... You push them away. You push and push and push until they leave - without even meaning to. Even when all you want to do is tell them you love them, you push them away."

Jim frowns. What? He didn't do that, did he?

It was true that his boyfriend had always been the ones to leave him but it wasn't always on bad term. Sebastian stuck around and their friendship was great.

Wait. "Love?!" Jim asks in disbelief. "Mum, we haven't been together that long.. If we're even together," Jim says the last bit with a snort.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth sighs. "That's not want I mean. You know that."

Did he? Jim's pretty sure he's not getting any of this.

"I didn't push Sebastian away," Jim points out, puffing his chest out proudly.

"No," Elizabeth agrees, tilting her head. "But you and Sebastian were more fuck-buddies then boyfriends."

Over thirty years and he still couldn't get used to how crude his mother could be. It just seemed wrong to hear her say things like that.

And maybe, a voice is Jim's head says, you want to avoid thinking about how right she is. You pushed them away.

"What do I do?" Jim asks, not sure if he was asking the voice, himself or his mother (although he supposes the voice and himself are technically the same person.

"You stop being a dick and tell this Sherlock guy you want to talk, and then you tell him everything you just told me."

Blunt as ever, mum. Cheers.

"Mum?" Jim asks, smiling  

The women raises an eyebrow as she picks up her pencil once again, "Yeah?"

"You lied when you said I get my bitchy-ness from dad."

That sends her into a fit of giggles as she nods at her son.  "I did."

Hours later, Jim settles on the sofa with a small sigh. His dad had gone out to buy a pizza - they always got takeaway on Jim's first and last nights back at home and his mother was in the kitchen, fixing him tea.

He hadn't even noticed how quickly the time had flew past. It was already nearing seven in the evening. Seems like just moments ago it was barely noon and Jim was helping his mother in her art room, getting covered in paint.

One things for sure. He was talking to Sherlock as soon as he got home.

If he wanted this thing they had to be serious, he had to get serious.

No more childishly ignoring Sherlock (unless he takes his laptop, because then Jim believes it's 138% justified). No more arguments because Jim didn't want to be the one to start talking.

No more expecting Sherlock to do something he should do himself.