Sherlock didn't watch for John's reaction, though he didn't really have to when he heard him turn around and take off up the stairs. He dragged the bow across the strings to make louder screeching sounds as he heard John go back to his bedroom. He huffed and stopped playing, wishing that they could just go back to the happy bubble from earlier that day when they were sleepy and laughing and comfortable with each other, rather than the fighting and storming out they were doing now. How had he misjudged everything so severely? He decided he must've been tired and mistook John doing his job as a doctor for something more. He set his violin aside and buried his hands in his hair with a groan of frustration, hating how even doing that reminded him of when John had massaged his scalp to calm him down.
Every thought he had now had John emblazoned all over it, and he was sick of it. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off it. He stilled as he glanced at the prominent bruise on his arm, finally seeing another option to keep him from this genuinely stupid and useless pent-up aggravation. He calmed down all at once, pulling his knees up to sit cross-legged on the chair, picking up a nearby book and gazing over the pages in idle interest while he waited for John to proclaim that he was leaving.
"Go on, then." he said mildly without looking up from his book. "Have a lovely, heterosexual time." he added, none of the malice from before present in his voice as he debated internally whether to get more heroin or possibly his other favorite of cocaine. Whatever he ended up getting, it would surely work to get rid of all these maddening thoughts of such distasteful subjects as feelings and incorrect analyses of said feelings.
It was a certain circumstance that made John care too much. It was enough to scare the piss out of him, hence that flight. John closed his eyes and dropped his head to rest it against his chin. Before he turned away from the doorway to the sitting room, John remembered Sherlock explaining his 'desperate times call for desperate measures' speech from before. He wouldn't be daft enough to relapse.
Then again, knowing Sherlock, he might just do it to get the chance to sleep in John's bed again. Then again, he might overdo it, too. If Sherlock asked him not to go out, he would stay. But he didn't. He told him to have a good time, even though he was positive he wouldn't. He would worry about Sherlock the whole time, and come home earlier than expected.
If John was sure he wouldn't be dumped for the latest multiple homicide, if he was sure that it wasn't just a passing fancy (or experiment), then what's to say it couldn't work? Because he's a sociopath, he'd -- no, stop sounding like Donovan. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to think of a way to keep him safe and give him some space at the same time, but nothing was coming to mind.
Something he hadn't felt the need for snuck up on him, and John all at once needed a cigarette. "I'll be back soon ... I don't trust you alone ... " his voice was barely a whisper, but Sherlock could hear him. He turned then and slowly took to the stairs, his mental exhaustion sounding in his footfalls.
Sherlock flicked his eyes up to John for the first time during this ordeal, gaze narrowed into a perturbed glare. He definitely heard that, and it cut way deeper than it rightly should have to know that John was only staying because he didn't trust him and not because he wanted to. For all of his intellectual prowess, he couldn't understand how things had changed so drastically from this morning. He should have guessed that any inclination he ever had towards an actual relationship with someone would blow up in his face like this. Maybe if he never said anything they'd still be upstairs.
He huffed and set the book aside, pushing himself standing to move to the kitchen. He hated himself for pausing even for a moment to gaze longingly at the stairs leading to John's bedroom. It was barely a second before he realized what he was doing and continued purposefully on to the kitchen in the vain hope of finding an experiment to invest in so he could stop dwelling on this. He picked up one of the test tubes and glared at the contents, tossing it into the sink when it was clear the results were inconclusive. The resulting shatter was minutely satisfying, but it was barely seconds afterward and he was restless again. He gave up on finding something of interest in the kitchen and shut himself in his room, laying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling with his fingers steepled under his chin, thoroughly determined to think of anything that didn't involve a certain army doctor.
He felt like a rolling snowball down a hill, gaining not only the weight of the snow like a heavy set feeling in his shoulders, but also that it was racing faster than he could catch up to it and stop it from getting any more debilitating. John made it to the Tesco and went straight for the tabacco counter, getting a pack of his old friends, and a new bic. Immediately upon leaving the shop, John had already pounded the pack, taken the wrappers off and was fishing for the first one. He didn't notice the tremble in his hand when he raised it to his lips and felt the familiar flick of a brand new lighter. The spike of heat from that tiny flame was felt against his palm as the wind caught it on its way to lighting the tip of the fag. The first inhale erased nearly ten years of being tobacco free. Way to go, John.
Before he knew it, he was veering on his usual straight path home so he could have another one. He remained outside and walking around the block for a while before he thought that the smell of smoke was out of his jacket. Stopping at a store to pick up a drink to wash out the taste of the tobacco, John felt a bit better. He was colder, his lungs hurt from the combination of the winter air, the walking and the cigarette, but he was headed home now. He'd been gone an hour at most, hoping Sherlock had continued to sulk on the couch and did not attempted to leave. If he had left, John wouldn't go look for him.
At least that's what he was trying to convince himself he wouldn't go look for him. John knew that he would give in. He always did.
After a few moments of silent brooding, Sherlock fished in his nightstand for his nicotine patches. He slapped two on his arm and gave it a second for them to kick in. He felt slightly better once the nicotine got into his system, finally able to relax and come down from the frustration from earlier. It had always been so easy for him not to care about people, so why should John be any different? Good riddance to that irritating sensation approaching actual emotion. He had gotten along just fine until now keeping people at arm's length, and just because he had a fleeting fancy for sleeping in John's bed didn't mean that had to change. He was out of his head on detox symptoms, that had to have been it. Attaching that logic to it was comforting, and made him feel like somewhat less of an emotional mess.
He spent a good few minutes immobile on his bed before finally getting up and padding to his door. He grabbed his dressing gown off the hook on his door and threw it over himself, wanting to hide the evidence that he needed chemical assistance to get over their fight. He briefly considered going with his original plan of leaving to find another hit, but the nicotine seemed to have done the trick. He felt significantly better, enough that he didn't spare another wistful look in the direction of John's bedroom as he passed it on his way to the sitting room. He flopped onto the couch again and flicked on the television to watch some crap telly to try to unwind a bit.
When he returned to 221b Baker, he was still a bit self conscious about the smell of smoke on his jacket and actually left it on the downstairs hook for the time being. He returned to the sitting room to see Sherlock right there on the couch. John gave a mental sigh of relief at that. If his footsteps weren't enough, John cleared his throat as he entered the sitting room just to kick off his shoes.
Sherlock was blankly staring at the telly and John was reminded of the other night he'd watched Sherlock engrossed in shite programing. It was a rather dismal scene, but it was a safe one.
Sherlock watched the tv in vague interest, hearing John's footsteps after a moment to announce his return. He didn't look up until John cleared his throat in an effort to get him to acknowledge him.
"Welcome back." was his simple and unaffected reply, immediately turning his attention back to the telly after he did so. There were no remains of anger from the fight in his demeanor, and he was just fine with pretending nothing happened and that he didn't almost-but-not-quite profess his something-resembling-romantic-affection less than an hour ago. He just wanted things to get back to something approaching normal (or, normal for them, anyway), and ignoring the incident completely seemed to be the best way to go about that. He certainly wouldn't be bringing it up again. He felt like enough of an idiot as it was, and he didn't take well to that feeling at all. He continued to contentedly watch telly, wondering if John would say anything or take to casting the incident out of his memory as Sherlock had.
A physical sigh left his lips then, realizing that a) Sherlock hadn't ruined his detox by cooking up another hit or leaving the flat to find anything and b) Sherlock wanted to forget about the fight as much as John had. It didn't mean that his shields were put away just yet. That had been too close to watching it all spiral out of control. Breaking his ten year hiatus on smoking wasn't exactly the best decision, but it was just momentary relief. He'd most likely pitch them in the morning and not have another one for ten more years.
He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound completely stupid in that moment. Not even a 'thanks' sounded right, but he muttered a quick one after he realized Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't want to get too close to him, fearing Sherlock would still smell the lingering Benson and Hedges on his remaining clothes, in his hair, even on the skin of his fingertips. He was reminded then of a few reasons why he stopped, then thought of the other one. Breathing. Sitting and watching telly and not chasing criminals around London, smoking will turn him into a lazy lump again. He'd left the pack and the lighter in his coat, keeping the evidence far away from him for the moment. John excused himself quietly by taking to the steps two at a time to get upstairs. He had a passing need to turn around and see if Sherlock was following. Catching nothing but the stairs out of the corner of his eyes, he was glad to see Sherlock hadn't.
He had ruined a perfectly okay thing, and now he was checking over his shoulder like a frightened ally cat, waiting for Sherlock to strike when he least expects it. How is it that John went from being the caring doctor to suddenly fearing the affections of a friend as being 'more than' that. John ... you're on the wrong side of thirty, you're not getting any younger. You blew it with Sarah, and now you're scared that Sherlock might actually fancy you? So you laugh him off? What's to be scared about? John scrunched his eyes shut tight and headed into his room to take off some clothes and crawl back into bed. His empty bed, he thought with a pull in his chest. He had his shirt off and in his hands as he stared at the bed and thought of the wonderful feeling that came over him last night making him hesitate. Chucking the shirt, he grabbed any old dirty one off the floor, slipped it on and crawled into his bed, on top of the covers, still in his jeans for the moment.
Sherlock just stretched languidly and slumped against the couch once again, hearing John take off up the stairs without watching him. He sighed, disappointed that things were still different, despite his best efforts to forget the incident completely. He waited until he heard John shut himself in his room before standing to move to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. He paused where John had just stood, catching a faint but unmistakable hint of cigarette smoke in the air. It hit him in that moment that he had damaged things more than he'd anticipated; possibly irreparably. John was afraid that Sherlock was so desperate that he would badger him with more unwanted advances, enough that it drove him to nicotine when Sherlock had never seen him smoke.
Suffice it to say, the desire for tea was forgotten and the nicotine patches suddenly weren't enough, so he pulled them off and tossed them into the bin, moving soundlessly down the stairs in the chance that John might have left the cigarettes in his pocket. Sherlock had never needed a cigarette this badly in a long time, and he couldn't help a grin when he found the pack and a lighter in John's coat pocket. He put one between his lips and flicked the lighter, drawing in a deep breath of that glorious smoke as soon as it was lit.
He moved back upstairs and over to the window, pulling it open a bit and sitting on the floor, leaning up against the window-frame to rest the hand holding the cigarette on the sill. He took another drag, the cold air biting his skin a sharp contrast to the burn of tobacco in his lungs. He let his head rest against the windowsill, taking a thoughtful drag as his thoughts invariably (and frustratingly) led straight back to John and how glad he must be to have his bed back and free of the obviously undesired presence of certain detectives. He shivered slightly against the cold filtering in from the window, taking another hit of the cigarette in the hopes to offset the chill.
He'd been laying down with his eyes closed for about ten minutes before he could smell the waft of smoke through the crack in his door. It was faint, but distinctively his B&H's. Giving an exasperated sigh, he realized then that just the smell made him want one even more. Sherlock had found his smokes and was downstairs, in the sitting room, smoking them. The anger of the moment swelled and then immediately died down.
Things were trying to get back to normal (i.e. Sherlock still feels obligated to take his things) and John was wary. He hauled himself off his bed and went back downstairs to find the origin of the smoke. Watching little wisps of it coming from the kitchen, John saw him pressed against the wall, hand up in an attempt to keep the smoke out of the flat. It wasn't working, obviously.
Rather than say anything, words he would probably regret saying anyways, John moved slowly and bent down to pick up the pack and the lighter. He pulled one out and literally tossed it into place between his lips, the sign of a long suffering addict no doubt. He tilted his head just enough and lit the end, tucking the lighter into the pack now that there was room and letting the box drop from his hands to smack loudly on the floor beside Sherlock's knee. He took a moment and then was joining Sherlock against the wall, a foot separating them.
"You should put on a sweater ... if you're going to smoke next to the window like this ... " so says the doctor currently in a t-shirt and jeans, the skin on his arms turning to goose flesh at the small gust of wind that passed by them.
Sherlock spared a quick glance when John entered, immediately flicking his eyes back to watch the street below when he was sure John wasn't about to throttle him for stealing a cigarette. He was prepared for at least some chastising about it, and he was distantly surprised that all John did was light up as well and sit next to him. He self-consciously pulled his legs in closer, wanting to keep a safe distance so he wouldn't be tempted to try to touch him again. He didn't know why the urge was still there after it had blown up so spectacularly in his face the first time. He was sure it would go away eventually if he just ignored it, having never craved touch in his entire life up to that point. He hummed softly around the cigarette, exhaling the smoke out the window after John spoke.
"I believe my collection of jumpers is somewhat limited in comparison to yours." he replied, sure that it was meant to be a joke, though it was hardly evidenced by his stoic expression. "You don't have to keep watching over me anymore, you know. I won't be trying to get more." he added. He didn't want John to be here if he didn't want to be, and he could hardly imagine that he would want to be here after what happened. 'He's just here because he's your doctor and he doesn't want you to relapse' he told himself, promising himself to be objective so he wouldn't make a fool of himself again by reading too much into John's actions.
Now that it appeared they were on speaking terms again, John finding that distance was sometimes the best way to deal with something, he couldn't help the tiniest of smiles at his attempt at a joke. He was about to say that he could borrow one, like he did just about everything else of John's, but that was too-- something.
Sitting in the darkness of their kitchen, smoking fags like he used to in college, every puff of smoke mostly making it out the window.
"I know ... I knew it when I came home and you were still here ... I've come to apologize." He hadn't been at Baker a year yet and he'd slipped and called it home. To John, this wasn't home yet. It was where his things sat and gathered dust, where he spent a good deal of his time on Sherlock's things. Without Sherlock, he'd still be in that Government issued apartment.
"How long? Since your last actual cigarette?" He pointed to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, recognizing the ring of adhesive from where he'd ripped them off. "Just over ten years for me ... didn't think it would ever come back. It wasn't as hard to keep away, given the Army's recently enacted no smoking policy ... now that I'm Invalid, it seems par for the course."
Within stretching arms reach was one of John's cardigans draped over the back of a kitchen chair. He grabbed for it with a soft grunt and had Sherlock hold his cigarette while he slipped it on, not bothering to undo the front buttons. He took his cigarette back and their fingers brushed, quickly bringing the almost finished thing to his lips once more and avoiding his gaze.
In the end, he pushed back the obvious fear in John's mind of a potential relapse, particularly after the blow up they'd just had. But John would be on the lookout soon, and it didn't feel good at all. Perhaps it was also the sickening feeling of having too much nicotine in such a short time after so many years without it. His body was just craving it like mad, and he was about to grab for another one and light it with the dying end of his first when he stopped himself with a hand on the pack.
Sherlock finally did look at him, an impassive expression on his face as he drew another lungful of smoke. "There's nothing for you to apologize for." he replied simply, and truthfully. It wasn't John's fault that he was suspicious Sherlock would try to get another hit of some type of narcotic, and it certainly wasn't his fault that he hadn't felt...whatever that was that Sherlock felt for a fleeting moment when he was so out of sorts during his detox. He was grateful for the change in subject, not wanting to dwell on it too long and end up saying something he'd regret.
"Six months." he answered, taking a long drag and exhaling gratefully. "Too long." He held John's cigarette while he put on his sweater, pulling his hand back automatically when their fingers touched which caused his heart to skip slightly. It made him nervous all over again, and he stood suddenly, both to prepare the kettle to make some tea and just to get away from John and from he danger of accidentally brushing against him again. He didn't like what this was doing to him, and he couldn't help wondering if this was what it felt like to be a normal person with normal illogical emotions. He set the water to boil and held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he readied the mugs and teabags before leaning up against the counter to wait and puff away at his quickly disappearing cigarette.
With his apology out of the way, even if Sherlock seemed to think he wasn't the one that needed to do it, John felt a relieving sigh escape in a fog of cigarette smoke. When he ashed out the window, the small gray fuzzball flew back into the window on a current of wind and landed on Sherlock's pant leg. The reaction was quick and almost involuntary as he reached out and swiped it off, needing a few passes to get it all off, "Sorry, ash got-- " Sherlock was nervous again as he jumped at the contact, and it was making John just a little bit nervous as well. He stood up from the floor himself then and stepped back.
When his cigarette was starting to burn the filter, John flicked it out the window and glanced towards Sherlock as he prepared tea, probably for himself but definitely not for John. The sight of smoke lingering around him in this light was enough to make him stare for a bit too long. He never thought that seeing Sherlock with a cigarette hanging from his lips would send his heart twisting.
"I should toss 'em ... " he toed the box on the floor, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets to keep them from reaching for another.
Sherlock jumped when John reached out to brush away the ash, unsure if the hand he shot out in response was trying to bat off the ash or John's hand. Both, probably. He quickly moved away, cursing himself for practically scrambling off the floor in an effort to get away, hating how annoyingly flustered that simple thing had gotten him.
He turned his back to John for a moment to take a deep breath of smoke to calm his nerves before feeling alright to face him again, though he kept his distance. He wasn't looking at John, but he could feel him staring, and he inwardly chided himself for being too obvious. He told himself that John was just being his normal, caring self and that Sherlock needed to just calm down and stop acting so skittish around him. He didn't know why it ate at him that John would never touch him because he wanted to, only to be a good doctor and friend. That was all it would ever be, and Sherlock would be okay with that. Eventually.
The kettle whistled behind him, and he busied himself with pouring water into the two mugs he'd prepared. He lifted John's mug and moved to place it on the table before backing away in much the way of leaving food for a wild animal. He leaned up against the counter again and shrugged slightly at John's words. "I could take them off your hands. It wouldn't do for a doctor to smoke, after all." he said quietly, successfully avoiding John's eyes by finding the floor utterly fascinating at the moment.
Watching Sherlock make him tea, John tried to summon the courage to deal with this. There was nothing so out of the ordinary as Sherlock making him tea.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he whispered, reaching for his mug slowly, afraid that one quick move might scare the rabbit that Sherlock Holmes had become. "You shouldn't have any either." John raised his mug up to his lips and took a careful sip. He decided he needed to leave the kitchen to avoid staring at the sorrowful detective. There was no point in bringing it up if it would only stir up more emotions.
Dammit, he wanted to go back to bed. He hadn't admitted it out loud or even to himself, but that had been the best night's sleep in a while (with another person), even if it was still a bit choppy. When his eyes were closed and he felt Sherlock's body breathing against him, he slept without a thought in his tiny little brain.
Every thought he had now had John emblazoned all over it, and he was sick of it. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off it. He stilled as he glanced at the prominent bruise on his arm, finally seeing another option to keep him from this genuinely stupid and useless pent-up aggravation. He calmed down all at once, pulling his knees up to sit cross-legged on the chair, picking up a nearby book and gazing over the pages in idle interest while he waited for John to proclaim that he was leaving.
"Go on, then." he said mildly without looking up from his book. "Have a lovely, heterosexual time." he added, none of the malice from before present in his voice as he debated internally whether to get more heroin or possibly his other favorite of cocaine. Whatever he ended up getting, it would surely work to get rid of all these maddening thoughts of such distasteful subjects as feelings and incorrect analyses of said feelings.
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Then again, knowing Sherlock, he might just do it to get the chance to sleep in John's bed again. Then again, he might overdo it, too. If Sherlock asked him not to go out, he would stay. But he didn't. He told him to have a good time, even though he was positive he wouldn't. He would worry about Sherlock the whole time, and come home earlier than expected.
If John was sure he wouldn't be dumped for the latest multiple homicide, if he was sure that it wasn't just a passing fancy (or experiment), then what's to say it couldn't work? Because he's a sociopath, he'd -- no, stop sounding like Donovan. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to think of a way to keep him safe and give him some space at the same time, but nothing was coming to mind.
Something he hadn't felt the need for snuck up on him, and John all at once needed a cigarette. "I'll be back soon ... I don't trust you alone ... " his voice was barely a whisper, but Sherlock could hear him. He turned then and slowly took to the stairs, his mental exhaustion sounding in his footfalls.
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He huffed and set the book aside, pushing himself standing to move to the kitchen. He hated himself for pausing even for a moment to gaze longingly at the stairs leading to John's bedroom. It was barely a second before he realized what he was doing and continued purposefully on to the kitchen in the vain hope of finding an experiment to invest in so he could stop dwelling on this. He picked up one of the test tubes and glared at the contents, tossing it into the sink when it was clear the results were inconclusive. The resulting shatter was minutely satisfying, but it was barely seconds afterward and he was restless again. He gave up on finding something of interest in the kitchen and shut himself in his room, laying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling with his fingers steepled under his chin, thoroughly determined to think of anything that didn't involve a certain army doctor.
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Before he knew it, he was veering on his usual straight path home so he could have another one. He remained outside and walking around the block for a while before he thought that the smell of smoke was out of his jacket. Stopping at a store to pick up a drink to wash out the taste of the tobacco, John felt a bit better. He was colder, his lungs hurt from the combination of the winter air, the walking and the cigarette, but he was headed home now. He'd been gone an hour at most, hoping Sherlock had continued to sulk on the couch and did not attempted to leave. If he had left, John wouldn't go look for him.
At least that's what he was trying to convince himself he wouldn't go look for him. John knew that he would give in. He always did.
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He spent a good few minutes immobile on his bed before finally getting up and padding to his door. He grabbed his dressing gown off the hook on his door and threw it over himself, wanting to hide the evidence that he needed chemical assistance to get over their fight. He briefly considered going with his original plan of leaving to find another hit, but the nicotine seemed to have done the trick. He felt significantly better, enough that he didn't spare another wistful look in the direction of John's bedroom as he passed it on his way to the sitting room. He flopped onto the couch again and flicked on the television to watch some crap telly to try to unwind a bit.
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Sherlock was blankly staring at the telly and John was reminded of the other night he'd watched Sherlock engrossed in shite programing. It was a rather dismal scene, but it was a safe one.
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"Welcome back." was his simple and unaffected reply, immediately turning his attention back to the telly after he did so. There were no remains of anger from the fight in his demeanor, and he was just fine with pretending nothing happened and that he didn't almost-but-not-quite profess his something-resembling-romantic-affection less than an hour ago. He just wanted things to get back to something approaching normal (or, normal for them, anyway), and ignoring the incident completely seemed to be the best way to go about that. He certainly wouldn't be bringing it up again. He felt like enough of an idiot as it was, and he didn't take well to that feeling at all. He continued to contentedly watch telly, wondering if John would say anything or take to casting the incident out of his memory as Sherlock had.
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He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound completely stupid in that moment. Not even a 'thanks' sounded right, but he muttered a quick one after he realized Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't want to get too close to him, fearing Sherlock would still smell the lingering Benson and Hedges on his remaining clothes, in his hair, even on the skin of his fingertips. He was reminded then of a few reasons why he stopped, then thought of the other one. Breathing. Sitting and watching telly and not chasing criminals around London, smoking will turn him into a lazy lump again. He'd left the pack and the lighter in his coat, keeping the evidence far away from him for the moment. John excused himself quietly by taking to the steps two at a time to get upstairs. He had a passing need to turn around and see if Sherlock was following. Catching nothing but the stairs out of the corner of his eyes, he was glad to see Sherlock hadn't.
He had ruined a perfectly okay thing, and now he was checking over his shoulder like a frightened ally cat, waiting for Sherlock to strike when he least expects it. How is it that John went from being the caring doctor to suddenly fearing the affections of a friend as being 'more than' that. John ... you're on the wrong side of thirty, you're not getting any younger. You blew it with Sarah, and now you're scared that Sherlock might actually fancy you? So you laugh him off? What's to be scared about? John scrunched his eyes shut tight and headed into his room to take off some clothes and crawl back into bed. His empty bed, he thought with a pull in his chest. He had his shirt off and in his hands as he stared at the bed and thought of the wonderful feeling that came over him last night making him hesitate. Chucking the shirt, he grabbed any old dirty one off the floor, slipped it on and crawled into his bed, on top of the covers, still in his jeans for the moment.
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Suffice it to say, the desire for tea was forgotten and the nicotine patches suddenly weren't enough, so he pulled them off and tossed them into the bin, moving soundlessly down the stairs in the chance that John might have left the cigarettes in his pocket. Sherlock had never needed a cigarette this badly in a long time, and he couldn't help a grin when he found the pack and a lighter in John's coat pocket. He put one between his lips and flicked the lighter, drawing in a deep breath of that glorious smoke as soon as it was lit.
He moved back upstairs and over to the window, pulling it open a bit and sitting on the floor, leaning up against the window-frame to rest the hand holding the cigarette on the sill. He took another drag, the cold air biting his skin a sharp contrast to the burn of tobacco in his lungs. He let his head rest against the windowsill, taking a thoughtful drag as his thoughts invariably (and frustratingly) led straight back to John and how glad he must be to have his bed back and free of the obviously undesired presence of certain detectives. He shivered slightly against the cold filtering in from the window, taking another hit of the cigarette in the hopes to offset the chill.
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Things were trying to get back to normal (i.e. Sherlock still feels obligated to take his things) and John was wary. He hauled himself off his bed and went back downstairs to find the origin of the smoke. Watching little wisps of it coming from the kitchen, John saw him pressed against the wall, hand up in an attempt to keep the smoke out of the flat. It wasn't working, obviously.
Rather than say anything, words he would probably regret saying anyways, John moved slowly and bent down to pick up the pack and the lighter. He pulled one out and literally tossed it into place between his lips, the sign of a long suffering addict no doubt. He tilted his head just enough and lit the end, tucking the lighter into the pack now that there was room and letting the box drop from his hands to smack loudly on the floor beside Sherlock's knee. He took a moment and then was joining Sherlock against the wall, a foot separating them.
"You should put on a sweater ... if you're going to smoke next to the window like this ... " so says the doctor currently in a t-shirt and jeans, the skin on his arms turning to goose flesh at the small gust of wind that passed by them.
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"I believe my collection of jumpers is somewhat limited in comparison to yours." he replied, sure that it was meant to be a joke, though it was hardly evidenced by his stoic expression. "You don't have to keep watching over me anymore, you know. I won't be trying to get more." he added. He didn't want John to be here if he didn't want to be, and he could hardly imagine that he would want to be here after what happened. 'He's just here because he's your doctor and he doesn't want you to relapse' he told himself, promising himself to be objective so he wouldn't make a fool of himself again by reading too much into John's actions.
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Sitting in the darkness of their kitchen, smoking fags like he used to in college, every puff of smoke mostly making it out the window.
"I know ... I knew it when I came home and you were still here ... I've come to apologize." He hadn't been at Baker a year yet and he'd slipped and called it home. To John, this wasn't home yet. It was where his things sat and gathered dust, where he spent a good deal of his time on Sherlock's things. Without Sherlock, he'd still be in that Government issued apartment.
"How long? Since your last actual cigarette?" He pointed to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, recognizing the ring of adhesive from where he'd ripped them off. "Just over ten years for me ... didn't think it would ever come back. It wasn't as hard to keep away, given the Army's recently enacted no smoking policy ... now that I'm Invalid, it seems par for the course."
Within stretching arms reach was one of John's cardigans draped over the back of a kitchen chair. He grabbed for it with a soft grunt and had Sherlock hold his cigarette while he slipped it on, not bothering to undo the front buttons. He took his cigarette back and their fingers brushed, quickly bringing the almost finished thing to his lips once more and avoiding his gaze.
In the end, he pushed back the obvious fear in John's mind of a potential relapse, particularly after the blow up they'd just had. But John would be on the lookout soon, and it didn't feel good at all. Perhaps it was also the sickening feeling of having too much nicotine in such a short time after so many years without it. His body was just craving it like mad, and he was about to grab for another one and light it with the dying end of his first when he stopped himself with a hand on the pack.
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"Six months." he answered, taking a long drag and exhaling gratefully. "Too long." He held John's cigarette while he put on his sweater, pulling his hand back automatically when their fingers touched which caused his heart to skip slightly. It made him nervous all over again, and he stood suddenly, both to prepare the kettle to make some tea and just to get away from John and from he danger of accidentally brushing against him again. He didn't like what this was doing to him, and he couldn't help wondering if this was what it felt like to be a normal person with normal illogical emotions. He set the water to boil and held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he readied the mugs and teabags before leaning up against the counter to wait and puff away at his quickly disappearing cigarette.
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When his cigarette was starting to burn the filter, John flicked it out the window and glanced towards Sherlock as he prepared tea, probably for himself but definitely not for John. The sight of smoke lingering around him in this light was enough to make him stare for a bit too long. He never thought that seeing Sherlock with a cigarette hanging from his lips would send his heart twisting.
"I should toss 'em ... " he toed the box on the floor, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets to keep them from reaching for another.
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He turned his back to John for a moment to take a deep breath of smoke to calm his nerves before feeling alright to face him again, though he kept his distance. He wasn't looking at John, but he could feel him staring, and he inwardly chided himself for being too obvious. He told himself that John was just being his normal, caring self and that Sherlock needed to just calm down and stop acting so skittish around him. He didn't know why it ate at him that John would never touch him because he wanted to, only to be a good doctor and friend. That was all it would ever be, and Sherlock would be okay with that. Eventually.
The kettle whistled behind him, and he busied himself with pouring water into the two mugs he'd prepared. He lifted John's mug and moved to place it on the table before backing away in much the way of leaving food for a wild animal. He leaned up against the counter again and shrugged slightly at John's words. "I could take them off your hands. It wouldn't do for a doctor to smoke, after all." he said quietly, successfully avoiding John's eyes by finding the floor utterly fascinating at the moment.
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"Are you sure you're alright?" he whispered, reaching for his mug slowly, afraid that one quick move might scare the rabbit that Sherlock Holmes had become. "You shouldn't have any either." John raised his mug up to his lips and took a careful sip. He decided he needed to leave the kitchen to avoid staring at the sorrowful detective. There was no point in bringing it up if it would only stir up more emotions.
Dammit, he wanted to go back to bed. He hadn't admitted it out loud or even to himself, but that had been the best night's sleep in a while (with another person), even if it was still a bit choppy. When his eyes were closed and he felt Sherlock's body breathing against him, he slept without a thought in his tiny little brain.
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