Sherlock had tried to forget.
Laying low for a few months had kept him busy enough, but the truth that he wouldn't admit to himself was that Jim was always in his thoughts.
It was a kind of longing quite foreign to Sherlock, it was the need of the flesh, but also the pining of his heart, because as different as they were, there was no doubt that he and Jim were kindred spirits, as sick and mental as that sounded.
When he was sure no one was looking for him, Sherlock went back to his job, pretty much the only thing that would keep him off the drugs.
Tonight was no different, he was here on his brother's invitation to check on a few moles they had found in their staff, the only reason the detective decided to attend was that the case had turned out to be more complex than what it seemed at first, and Sherlock needed a distraction.
He wasn't in for chit chatting though, and by the end of his second drink he had managed to piss off half the ladies in the room. They were just silly, thinking they could get his attention just because they were pretty.
"You are Mycroft's brother, aren't you? I have heard great things about you," said this one, batting her eyelashes at him.
Sherlock would have shot her down rather quickly, but when he looked at her to deduce what she was up to, his grey eyes met the frame of an elegant man standing by the refreshment table that made his heart freeze in his chest.
"What?" He exclaimed, pale, as if he had just seen a ghost. Indeed he felt like he was dying and coming to life again.
No wonder this case was interesting!
James Moriarty was behind it!