A/N: How many of you are ready to kill me for the erratic update schedule and posting all these random new stories while you're waiting on me to finish chapters? Hah, well, this is just how I work, sorry.

Anyway this is something that just won't leave me alone. I really miss writing Eric, it seems, and so much of his and Sherlock's relationship in Can't Rewind had to be skipped over for the sake of the storyline... yet my brain keeps filling in those little gaps and making up ridiculously fluffy little side-stories for them when I'm trying to write other fics. Having this to add on to whenever I feel so inclined will hopefully help mitigate that distraction.

And so to whoever bothers to read this... hope you like fluffy Sherlock/OC drivel! Cause that's pretty much all this is, haha.

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Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and chemicals, of borrowed soap and fabric softener... and still, faintly, of strawberries.

Eric catalogued all this as he lay quietly in the pre-dawn twilight of his room, pinned to the bed by the skinny prat of a supergenius who'd apparently decided to use him as a pillow sometime during the night. Anyone else, and he'd have most likely shoved them off by now - grumbled something about keep to yer own side and resolutely scooted as far over to his half of the mattress as possible. Not that he necessarily had a problem with touching people, of course... it was just that ever since breaking up with Luce he'd been (pretty understandably, he figured) more than a bit wary of any sort of intimate contact not expressly initiated by himself.

But as he lay there, listening to the soft breathing of the man curled around his chest, he found he really just didn't want to push Sherlock away. True, they'd only met about eight hours ago... but in that time they'd played several (hilariously one-sided) matches of Halo, committed half a dozen crimes together, and then went and bloody snogged. How in the hell things had managed to progress that quickly or in that order Eric honestly had no clue.

Did it really matter, though? Live in the moment, that's what he'd been repeating to himself over and over for months now. Life was too short, too fleeting, too cruel to waste precious time worrying about the what ifs and the whys.

Sherlock was a drug addict - that much was completely bleeding obvious. Visibly underweight, dependent on cocaine to function and probably well on his way to some sort of fatal lung disease if the chain smoking was anything to go by. And if Eric were looking for anything like a long-term relationship that would be just about the holy trinity of things to damn well avoid.

But 'long-term' as an attainable goal was a concept Eric had abandoned years ago. Now he just drifted, hoping for a flash of something like happiness before the inevitability of death finally got round to his number.

Eric was frightened of dying, of course, didn't like to think about it... but that fear was little more than the basic backdrop of his life at this point; the constant dread of something you had no hope of changing, no chance of ever avoiding. Weed could take the edge off the tangled knot of anxiety, make it halfway bearable... never erase it completely, though. Still there always loomed the knowledge that he was nothing, no one, a near-useless castoff of society, tenuously employed by a criminal organisation, alone and defenceless just waiting to be arrested or shot or stabbed or any of another million horrible horrible things...

A sudden spike of terror shot through his gut, an all-too-familiar rising tide of anxiety creeping along his lungs in its wake. Without really meaning to he raised his arms and hugged Sherlock closer to his chest. Probably tighter than was comfortable for either of them, really, but since Sherlock was almost certainly out for the count (crashing plus the shakes never worked out great for anyone, genius or not) he figured it was permissible, just this once, to hug the living daylights out of him.

He only held it for a second or two though, then let his grip relax and just lay there cradling the bony, awkward prat who'd so inexplicably chosen him, of all people, to latch onto. Because, yeah, maybe they were both gay and maybe finding other homosexuals their age was a bloody nightmare around this district... but hell Sherlock was bloody gorgeous, he could probably convert half the fucking neighbourhood if he set his mind to it.

Eric had been hovering around the man like a schoolgirl with a crush for the last few hours, honestly just hoping he'd be noticed. Certainly not kissed - no bleeding way... he'd have been happy enough with a passing glance, a word or two. But strangely, incredibly, Sherlock had not only accepted the undue attention but seemed to take it as some sort of invitation to hover right back. The two of them had spent the afternoon orbiting each other like the universe's most socially inept pair of satellites. And somehow or other that had all managed to lead right to... well, to this. To lying in bed, legs entwined, Sherlock half on top of him and Eric hugging the other boy to his chest like a goddamned stuffed bear.

Would Sherlock come to his senses when he woke up? (Okay, well actually probably not... he'd be hung over from the cocaine bender - likely not even halfway coherent for another ten or twelve hours unless he did another hit... but still, metaphorical musings and all.) Or would perhaps some dashing young dealer or junkie knock on the door tomorrow and steal him away? Eric wouldn't exactly have a snowflake's chance in hell to compete for the genius's attention against someone else, timid and useless as he was.

No... the best he could really hope for was to try to keep himself from overthinking this and ruining it all like he usually did. Had to accept the inevitable - that life goes on, people leave, he'd end up alone - but not let that knowledge upset him. Enjoy this while it lasted.

Sherlock would be a fleeting moment in his life - like a comet, streaking across the sky before it either disappeared forever or impacted the ground to leave a smoking crater where they'd both once stood.

That was really it, then, wasn't it? In the end it would all come down two possible outcomes: abandonment, or death.

And as he lay there listening to Sherlock's soft breathing, feeling the thump of their heartbeats in tandem, watching the shifting shadows on the ceiling above... Eric found that, somehow, he wasn't afraid.

Oh, the dull thrum of anxiety that followed him everywhere was still very much present - but for once it wasn't worry for the future or the pointlessness of life or senseless tragedy that knotted up inside his chest and stole his breath away. In fact all he could really think to be nervous about right now was how on earth he was going to manage to keep this thing with Sherlock going for as long as possible.

As far as goals went that was a bit stupid, honestly; no live happily ever after's or find true love's... just a simple, flat, try not to fuck up.

But hey, even a stupid goal was still a goal, wasn't it?

With a quiet chuckle at his own silly thoughts he let one of his arms flop down to rest on the mattress beside him, leaving the other loosely curled around Sherlock's shoulders. It was probably a decent enough time to get up - find something for breakfast, maybe, and see what sort of business needed doing today.

Getting up would mean moving, though... and moving would mean shoving Sherlock away.

Eric glanced down at the sleeping boy on his chest.

... not a chance.

With a smile he shut his eyes, letting himself be lulled back to sleep by the quiet pulse of two heartbeats.

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