"Hey, Jim?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your opinion on suicide?"

Sherlock's mint green eyes glowed up expectantly at Jim, like a child asking when the next carnival is. Jim grumbled, never able to resist those eyes. Leave it to Sherlock to ask such a question.

"I don't think about it too much to be completely honest," he admitted, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. He seemed to be thinking about it carefully, like breaking an egg. They rested in the silence that followed, their own thoughts buzzing around like honeybees.

"I think, if a person truly wanted to, that they're allowed to commit suicide. It's their body, their life. Who is anyone else to say otherwise?" Jim's voice was slow and thick like molasses, churning slowly with each syllable.

Sherlock fell somber, and quietly blew out smoke as was expected of him.

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

The week was dragging slowly by. Jim woke up early every morning and crashed late every night. Tedious work. The rain was bringing in more and more coffee drinkers, more self-absorbed idiots who stomped their feet like children and whined about how their coffee wasn't hot enough to burn them.

And Sherlock seemed more dead than usual.

He didn't show up at the coffee shoppe much, but some days Jim found him sitting outside his apartment with some hidden needles and a bag of convenience store cookies. Jim would always sigh and let him in like a stray cat that only showed up for food.

And one day Jim found himself making a new key.

Just a spare.

And he accidentally slipped it into Sherlock's cold hand.

On accident.

Jim didn't actually care about Sherlock, he simply pitied him.