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[just_cant_lose]

 
The door opens on to the sounds of party. An early nineties party, so you are welcome for the blast of Cher shooping away, Milliways. (And because we're especially kind, it cuts into Bryan Adams before the door mercifully closes). 

Jim, newly sixteen and apparently celebrating it, tumbles into the bar straight off a dance floor with a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. As soon as he sees where he is, he straightens up and the crazed laugh he was wearing falls off his face, so he appears sober.

...until he starts to walk, and it's clear that while he might not actually be drunk, he is still completely wasted on something. He heads to the bathroom to exacerbate the feeling a bit more, then bounces back to Bar to get a Coke to go with his vodka. Hey, the party might be interrupted but there's no reason it can't carry on here, right?

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[onceaviking]

Eric is at the bar, when the door opens and while he may look unperturbed to the casual observer, those who knows him might notice a small, discreet wince.
Cheer is one thing, but Bryan Adams?

He observes the detour to the bathroom and well, scents are telling.

Not his problem.

He turns to face Jim (blood doesn't lie, besides its not like he's going to grow out of that face) as he comes bouncing.

Tall, pale, dressed for work.
As usual.

[just_cant_lose]

Even when high as kite - too high now, in the first flush of the hit (alwaysalwaysalways the best bit) - Jim is not unobservant. And let's be real, Eric is not an easy person to miss.

He smiles lazily at the scrutiny, concentrating really hard on pouring his Coke, then licks his lower lip and turns to meet his gaze.

'Hello.'

Hello.

[onceaviking]

Eric's face is still and cool. And then his lips quirk in the hint of a smile.

"Hello."

Hello little kite.
Little insane and murderous kite.

[just_cant_lose]

Jim's smile widens to a grin, possibly outside of his own control. (It's not quite, but not far off.) And it's a good grin! He is also, yes, very little, and also, yes, very insane and murderous, and all these things are just brilliant, as far as he's concerned.

'Are you one of the people I've met before?'

His accent is rougher than when he's older, partly because it's closer to the years spent at home, and partly because he's been putting it on for the benefit of the other party-goers. He's in those low-hipped but baggy 90s jeans that were so in fashion, and there's a checked shirt too but at least it's worn over a T-shirt that's insanely tight? It's an ensemble that's both ugly, fashionable for his time, and manages to show him off.

[onceaviking]

Eric's smile widens, just a bit.

He really hated the 90s.
But the plaid shirts were nice.
Not that he'd ever mention that, especially not if Pam is around.

"Shouldn't it be, someone you'll meet later?" he asks.
His American accent is nowhere near as Southern as Pam's. And there's a hint of something Scandinavian as well. If you pay attention.

[just_cant_lose]

Jim is not paying attention! But it comes to him anyway, because his brain is nothing if not a sponge for every single damn thing around him. It's just not important, apart from the fact it's attractive.

'Yeah. That's right. That.'

He has a long drink, and has to fight to swallow it because yay, numbing properties of not-great coke on the throat, marvellous.

'But it answers my question, so I suppose there's no point introducing myself. Who're you, then?'

[onceaviking]

"I-" Eric says, "am Eric. "

He leans in a little, mostly because it emphasizes his shoulders.

(Even if it means he has to endure the smell up close).

"I own a nightclub. And I am a vampire."

Because why not.

[just_cant_lose]

'Is that so?'

Mmmmm, shoulders. Well, this night just got interesting.

'Is it a good nightclub?'

Vampire is just...funny. He may giggle a bit at that, and then shake his head because ohGodsohigh, and he might not have even heard right.

[onceaviking]

Eric shrugs a little, his muscles moving smoothly under his pale skin.

"It's popular. Lots of customers. Lots of alcohol. Lots of - action."
Of various sorts.

The giggle is noticed but not addressed.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock, the Stradivarius under his arm, sees Jim the moment he steps inside.

It's a look Sherlock knows -- that he had himself many times at that age, and many years after -- and Sherlock doesn't move for a bit, merely observing. There are differences to young Jim and his Jim, of course, in the ways they speak and move, but ultimately if you know one you know the other.

They both, he thinks, carry danger in their skin.

And isn't that the draw?

He goes to Jim at the bar and takes a stool near him. "Happy birthday."

[just_cant_lose]

Most people are scared of it. Even when they don't recognise it for what it is, and just draw away out of some instinct.

The people who don't are the people he likes best. Like this one.

'Happy birthday,' he repeats, aiming it at his reflection from over the bar, then snorts a laugh that almost immediately turns into a giggle. His head oscillates gently from side to side for a moment, then he stretches his neck to the side and turns to grin at Sherlock.

He is so high. It's great.

'Did you get me a present?'

[mightbeagoodone]

"I'm afraid not," Sherlock says. "I didn't know I would see you today."

He suspects there's only one thing this Jim would want from him anyway. He may get it.

"Do you remember me or do I need to remind you of who I am?"

[just_cant_lose]

'Do I remember you?'

Whaaaaat.

'That's just rude, really. You definitely need to buy me something to make up for that, Sherlock Holmes.'

Seriously. Offended.

Seriously.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock chuckles and puts the violin case on the bar. "i am rude, or weren't you aware?

"Buy you a birthday drink, or do you have something else in mind?"

[just_cant_lose]

'I'd say you were a perfect gentleman last time, but that's nowhere near true.'

He snorts a laugh, which causes a sudden choke as the cocaine in his sinuses decides to dislodge and slide down his throat. There's a bout of coughing, and then the kickback high sets in. Yesssss, brilliant.

'Something else in mind, obviously. But you can buy me a drink first, if you like.'

[mightbeagoodone]

The coughing gets some concern from Sherlock, but Jim recovers well.

"I'll buy you another Coke. Take it from one who knows, you don't want to mix things any more than you have."

[just_cant_lose]

'That's fine, I've got vodka over there to go with it.'

He turns, his grin wide and sharp, elbows leaning back on the bar to show himself off to best effect. His head tilts in interest, even as his thoughts feel like they might be sliding out of his ear onto the floor.

'One who knows? You don't look the type.'

[likeroaringlions]

William spots him from behind first, and his back looks enough like Jim's back that he approaches and takes a seat nearby at the bar--and then blinks and looks a little sheepish when he sees it's just a kid, someone a couple years younger than him. "...You look like someone else."

[just_cant_lose]

'Lies. Fucking lies, mate. I look like me.'

Thankyouverymuch.

He sounds much the same as his older self, only with a rougher Dublin accent and far less refined manners. He's a few inches shorter, even more thin, and his eyes are...well, when he's high like he is now, there's no disguising the cutting edge to them. But he's grinning too, dangerously wide and almost too happy.

'Who're you then?'

[likeroaringlions]

"I was gonna say just the same thing. Who're you then? But I'm William Douglas."

Jim's kid brother, maybe...? William asks Bar for a bottle of wine, and drinks from it while he unapologetically studies the other youngster's face.

[just_cant_lose]

'William Douglas.'

Scottish, old clothing, not-modern mannerisms...huh. Well. Whatever. History, blah blah, boring. William Douglas is cute, that's all that really matters. Jim's grin does not subside.

'Jim Moriarty. Do you want some vodka? It's better than wine. The hangover's not so bad.'

It might make him puke, but that's not Jim's problem.

[likeroaringlions]

Damn right William Douglas is cute, in an athletic and sunny and not especially thoughtful-looking way. Although he's making an odd face just now. "Jim Moriarty. Aye? But...you..." Huh.

Huh. "What's vodka, then," he asks--distractedly.

[just_cant_lose]

'This.'

A bottle is thumped down between them, and then tipped into a couple of glasses.

'Russian. Originally. God knows where this shite came from, but it does the job. Advantages: it gets you drunk, and it doesn't smell of anything so no one knows if you stick it in your Coke, or anything.'

None of this probably makes sense to William but again, not Jim's problem. He just pushes one of the glasses over, and raises the other.

'Slainte.'

[likeroaringlions]

Well, he's not going to say no, is he? He puts his wine down and takes one of the glasses, giving it only a brief curious sniff. "Sure, slainte, why not."

--Jesus. That's strong. "Fu-uck, that's the real stuff alright. But it's not what we've got at home. Not much taste to it...not that I'm complaining, mind, it's no bad at all." He has another taste and shrugs. Yeah, that'll get you drunk. "So that other Jim Moriarty, is he your cousin, uncle, something like that?"

[just_cant_lose]

Jim laughs at his reaction - yep, the real stuff, and yay for it! - slams his own down in one mouthful, and grins again, wide and sharp.

'No, he's me. Older version of me. Yes, I'm serious; no, I'm not pulling your leg, et cetera.'

Please don't be boring about it William, he doesn't want to sober up enough to explain things. He pours two more vodkas, and orders a bottle of Coke from the bar.

'Mix some of that in if you like. If you prefer it weaker.'

Is he implying you're a wimp if you do, William? Surely not.