The time was six-thirty p.m. when Sherlock had woken up in a frenzy.

Jim, who had been in the kitchen washing dishes, dropped everything at the sound of Sherlock's yelp of confusion and fear. He was trembling, not having the faintest clue as to where he was and how he got there. Jim rushed over and knelt in front of him, clutching him by the arms and helping him calm down.

He told Sherlock everything that happened; the disappearance, the near-overdose, Bianca, and how he fell asleep on the loveseat.

Sherlock's hyperventilation slowed, and he calmed down after a few minutes of Jim babying him.

Fucking tedious.

But Jim was relieved.

"Take a shower, and then I'll make us something to eat. I've got some clothes in there but I doubt you'll fit in any. Towel's already there," Jim nodded off in the direction of the washroom. Sherlock obeyed, hobbling down the hallway like an old man. Jim shook his head and got to work on dinner.

--------------------

Sherlock ate slowly, painfully so. His sage colored eyes seemed more deceased than usual, his curls damp and lifeless, his nails torn again. He stared at one spot on Jim's humble table, an impurity in the wood. It looked like an eye, glaring back. It wasn't the only eye on Sherlock, however, and he knew it.

Jim chewed carefully, watching Sherlock's jaw pump up and down, pausing to swallow. He picked at his potatoes with his fork, then set it down with a clink. He finally broke the silence.

"You and I are going on a date."

Sherlock looked up from the eye on the table to meet the real ones. "Why?"

"Well," Jim sat back, "our relationship has been pretty toxic for quite a while, maybe a change of pace would do you some good."

"You're asking me out on a date to improve my physical health?"

"Us. I meant it would do us some good."

"Right."

Silence. Jim licked his bottom lip and watched as Sherlock looked away again. Maybe a different approach? Jim smirked and leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "Sherlock Holmes, are you rejecting me? James Moriarty? Your lover in chief?"

Sherlock glanced up from underneath his still damp curls.

"Must I buy your affection? What do you want me to do, suck your cock in order to get a few hours of your time?"

Sherlock glanced away yet again.

"Sherlock, darling, will you pretty please go on a date with me this Sunday?"

"The physical appearance of the please will not change the 'please' itself."

"Pretty pretty please? With sugar on top?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I will go on a date with you, Jim."