Drugs were great, actually.

Jim was never really interested because boring people take them to feel less boring. But pot was one of those drugs that just rocked in every area.

Sex while high was messy and...new.

Sherlock's skin rippled and pulsed beneath him, like slow alabaster waves. And Jim's neck kept getting itchy, and then his Achilles was itchy, and then his fingertip was itchy, and then his neck got itchy again. And dear god, he bit everything. Jim bit Sherlock's neck, lips, earlobes, fingers, his woohoo.

Fuck.

He would never do that again.

Probably.

And alcohol was better when Sherlock was around because he became flirty when tipsy and incredibly stupid and ridiculous when drunk. It was great, he got wasted so easily. Just a dumb kid, adorable and innocent yet weighed down and depressed. Jim couldn't recall being that fucked when he was a teenager. He just remembered sweet manipulation.

Oh yes, high school was a fun time.

He'd screwed so many people over, screwed so many people.

And now look at him, a lonely guy who works at a coffee shoppe and lives in a shitty apartment with a view he didn't care to see. Oh, and don't forget the kid. Sherlock Holmes, the fuck buddy. That's gotta look great on the resume.

Drugs kinda made him think, and that was sometimes not very good. Because now he's thinking about how terrible his life is and how unhappy he is and how mummy would be oh so disappointed. And she is, by the way. Mummy disowned poor Jim Moriarty.

Jim turned his head to look at the boy laying next to him. His eyes were closed peacefully, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks, pink lips slightly parted. His lungs expanded and retracted in a sugary rhythm, cherry puncture wounds visible on his bare arms. How worn his veins must be, his heart rate.

Jim couldn't help but place a kiss in Sherlock's hair, because he was, after all, just a child in need of comfort.

Maybe drugs weren't such a good thing after all.