Sherlock wasn't a fantastic lay.

He wasn't bad, but he also wasn't amazing. He was probably just too busy injecting himself with happiness rather than experiencing it firsthand. Granted bottoms don't do much to begin with, Sherlock was extremely selfish. He was so wrapped up in his own two orgasms that he barely touched Jim in return. He wriggled and squirmed and slurred and was just so helpless. Normally Jim was a horrible sadist and adored that sort of thing, but there was something about Sherlock that was just so hopeless and sad that Jim pitied him. He was just a kid, what could possibly have happened to the guy in his short lifetime?

Jim had a thing for post-sex cigarettes. He only smoked one, enjoyed it slowly, staring off into space like he was in a movie or some melancholy shit like that. By the time Jim had smoked half of his, Sherlock had smoked one and a half. He inhaled all of the toxins like an asthmatic did an inhaler. Didn't he know the smoke wasn't an equivalent to freedom?

Sherlock sat on the other side of the bed, staring out the giant floor-to-ceiling window and admiring the glittering London lights. Jim turned his head to watch as Sherlock blew out smoke, his jaw pushing forward and his strong neck muscles flexing. He looked broken, bags under his eyes, voice hoarse. His wing bones rippled beneath the pale ivory that stretched over his bones as he moved to take another drag. And again, like clockwork, he blew out the smoke.

"You okay?" Jim tapped ash into the ashtray as he asked his question. Sherlock slowly turned his head, and Jim could've sworn he could hear him creaking, and gave a weak smile before gazing out the window once more. He spoke.

"What's it all mean, anyway? What are we here for?"

Jim didn't answer, sucking his cigarette and watching the tip fade in bright orange and then fade out, the only light in the room besides the city lights illuminating the blue darkness.

"What am I here for?" Sherlock squinted as his voice broke.

Jim was still silent, then put out what was left of his cigarette. "Doesn't matter what you're here for, just that you're here," he said, standing up and stretching with a grunt. "Stop whining about existence and just exist." Sherlock didn't respond. Jim scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Do you need a shower? I'll let you take one first," he mumbled, gesturing towards the bathroom even though Sherlock couldn't see. Silently, Sherlock finished his cigarette and wandered past him into the restroom and shut the door behind himself. As soon as Jim heard the strained squeal of the shower, he shuffled into the kitchen to grab a drink.

Kids these days, so sentimental and depressing.