Jim knew all the places that Sherlock went to buy his dope. Sherlock had shown them to him. Jim didn't think anything of it at the time, Sherlock did what Sherlock wanted, and if Sherlock wanted to show him, fine.

Now Jim understood why.

Because he hadn't been in contact with Sherlock for three days straight.

Normally Jim wouldn't care and just waited for Sherlock to suddenly appear at his door, but this was different. Jim could feel something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones.

"Sherlock's missing," Jim shot to Denise, ripping his apron off and shoving his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Denise spun around while still making the order at hand with a frazzled look. "What? How do you know?"

Jim was putting his gloves and hat on as he shook, "I just know," he looked up at her, "I need you to cover for me."

"That's fine, but --"

"Thanks," Jim kissed her forehead before spinning out the door and heading for the closest stop.

First was a place called Feliciano's, a pizzeria. Behind the shoppe was where it all happened. And yes, Feliciano himself sold it. Jim knocked in the order Sherlock had taught him, and the back door quietly swung open.

"Can I help you?"

"Have you seen Sherlock Holmes anywhere?"

"Who's asking?"

Jim opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again. Who indeed? What was Sherlock to him? What was he to Sherlock? Did they have official titles for what the two of them were to each other? "It's complicated," Jim finally murmured, making the universal sign for wanking. Feliciano grimaced. "I haven't seen Sherlock all week."

Jim thanked the man, and found his way to the next spot. Snow was beginning to fall again, and the ground was already blanketed with it. Jim was growing more and more agitated.

This time, the location was an alleyway, and you had to call the phone number that was scribbled on the ground under a piece of scrap metal. He kicked it aside, along with the snow covering it, and punched the number into his phone. It rang for a moment, and a woman answered.

"Here for business?"

"Actually, I'm calling about the Holmes boy, haven't seen him in ages, and I think he's in trouble," Jim tried to sound more human than he actually was. The woman sighed.

"Normally I'd tell you to fuck off, but honestly, the kid's been worrying me too lately. No, I haven't seen him, but last time he was here was two weeks ago, and he bought more White Lady than he usually does."

Jim thanked her and hung up, returning the metal scrap to it's original position and kicking snow over it to cover it up. He crunched down the street and turned the corner, the next stop was in another alley. The man selling went by the name of Bootstrap. He was an eccentric homeless man, and today he was wrapped up in a white fitted sheet that somewhat resembled a straightjacket.

"You 'ere fer trouble? Er other business?"

Jim stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Sherlock Holmes. Seen him lately?"

The man licked his toothless gums and squinted. "Who's askin'?" Jim sighed. Not again. He looked away and made the wanking sign again, and Bootstrap nodded. "Haven't seen 'im." 

Jim left without thanking him.

He went to at least eight other stops, and they all asked the same questions. "Who're you?" "Why?" "What's it to you?" "You an undercover cop?" It started to worry Jim. What the hell was Sherlock to him? Why hadn't it mattered before? Why did it matter now?

The sun was setting, and Jim was running out of stamina. Last one for the night, and then he'd start up again the next day.

He approached an abandoned building, which was covered in graffiti and bursting at the seams. There were three floors, and addicts and sellers alike gathered there to do business.

It was totally empty, which seemed strange to Jim. Wouldn't a place like this be full always, on account of drug addicts constantly needing to get high? No matter. The first floor was a no show, and the second had only two people. Jim climbed the stairs and entered the third floor. He searched frantically in each room.

He heard a cough.

He spun around and darted into the next room to find Sherlock laying on a dirty twin-sized mattress that he hardly fit on. Jim rushed over to him.

Sherlock's eyes were barely staying open. He looked blankly up at the ceiling, shallow breaths escaping his chapped and bloody lips. "Sherlock?" He wouldn't respond. Jim tapped his cheek with his hand and got in front of his face, saying his name again. Sherlock jolted, then squinted.

"Jim...?" He seemed unsure of himself.

"Good god, Sherlock," Jim sighed. "You're freezing, you need to eat something." Sherlock didn't seem to know where he even was. "Can you walk?" Jim's tone was urgent. Sherlock looked at Jim gravely, and grabbed his arm.

"Sentiment," he warned.

"What? Sherlock? Open your eyes!"

Sherlock gave a short, bitter laugh, and then passed out.