Jim opened his apartment door most days to find Sherlock napping on the worn out sofa, the television playing some random cooking show. They seemed to be Sherlock's favorite, especially when they made pastries. It was so strange to think that this child could possibly be so depressed yet so infatuated with heavy whipping cream.

Sherlock was like a kitten, after all.

Jim would simply ignore him and carry on as he normally would, business as usual, until he bumped something or turned on the sink and Sherlock awoke. And then he would sit up and just watch whatever Jim was doing, eyes droopy and soil colored curls messy.

But some days he wouldn't wake up, and he would be gone before Jim awoke the next morning.

And then there were the rare days that Jim would wake up in the middle of the night to find that Sherlock had curled up next to him, his long beaten fingers clutching his thin t-shirt.

They wouldn't sleep together, they'd just fall asleep with each other.