Sherlock (BBC): Fire at One End; Fool at the Other
Title: Fire at One End; Fool at the Other
Author: Vescaus @ the_thinktank
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Words: 4K
Notes: Just some self-gratuitous Smoking!Sherlock images. Thanks again to unduneljay, for her beta-ing skills.
Summary: Smoking kills…and other mandatory warnings John is forced to reassess.
Fire at One End; Fool at the Other
by Vescaus
1. Smoking is highly addictive, don't start
“What are you doing?”
Sherlock doesn’t look up straight away from where he sits on the step outside their flat. The road outside is quiet at this inky black time of night. An occasional taxi rattles by, a near invisible blur against the darkness of the street; a few oblivious couples walk up from Regent’s Park. Then Sherlock sees John standing in front of him, apparently wishing to enter their flat.
He looks at John as if the man just teleported in front of him, then looks behind him in utter bewilderment. “I thought you were in your room?”
“I’ve been gone for the last hour, Sherlock,” John remarks, lifting up three bags bright orange Sainsbury’s bags. “Now what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, his voice now devoid of any emotion.
“It looks like you’re sitting outside our flat, in the freezing cold, smoking.”
Sherlock’s lips twist into a faint sardonic smile. “Your observational skills are progressing remarkably quickly, John.”
“You know we pay for heating…just about. You could just turn it on if you’re cold.”
“Oh, and you were doing so well.”
John refuses to grace that rebuff with a remark. There is silence for a moment and John wonders what they must look like, two men outside a flat, one sitting with his impossibly long legs lifted from the shallow step, smoking easily; the other standing in front of him in bemusement, his arms full of shopping bags.
“Okay, so you’re not going to answer the question you know I want to ask. Right, fine.” John shuffles past him and tries to fish out the keys whilst holding the three bags. Despite the obvious grumbles of frustration as he does so, Sherlock offers no help, continuing to smoke and stare out to the street. John is lulled by the tempting warmth emanating from 221 Baker Street but curiosity has always had a powerful hold over him as well. This was new Sherlockian territory.
He dumps the bags and turns around, talking to the back of Sherlock’s head.
“Why are you smoking, Sherlock? I thought you quit. You know, the patches?”
“Bored,” the man responds. “This is my emergency session. I only allow myself to begin a smoking period when the lapses between cases becomes ridiculously unbearable. Four weeks is a long time.”
“And smoking helps how?”
Sherlock shrugs apathetically. “It relaxes the mind. Blurs the edges. I thought I would start at the bottom end of the recreational drug use. Give the criminals a chance to redeem themselves.”
John rolls his eyes with the exasperation of a tired mother. “Come inside, Sherlock. I’m sure there’s something on the telly on a Friday night that can numb your mind as well. That’s what ITV is for.”
“No, Mrs Hudson won’t let me smoke inside the flat.”
“Why am I not surprised,” John answers with resignation, coming to sit beside him on the step. “I’m sure she doesn’t want the flat to smell of cigarette smoke. As a matter of fact, neither do I.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “I think she’s more concerned that I’ll set fire to the flat. I apparently have a tendency to drop things I’m working on when a more interesting problem attracts my attention.”
John nods in faux interest. “Really? Well, I never would have guessed.”
Sherlock looks at him curiously before he realises John is being sarcastic. Touché.
He takes another drag on his cigarette and John is slightly captivated by the pursed shape of Sherlock’s lips as he inhales and then how they loosely fall open as he breathes out the smoke. “Apparently, that is grounds for banning smoking in the flat.”
John shakes his head and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, err…as landlady, it’s her decision to take the smoking ban literally.”
“She must have heard how I burnt the curtains and the wall of my last flat in Montague Street,” Sherlock replies, not even registering John’s comment.
“Speaking of fire and burning, I’m heading up. It’s bloody freezing out here.” John gets up a little stiffly, unused to sitting on cold hard ground for any length of time these days; he can feel his shoulder give a little twinge. A cup of tea and some relaxation in the armchair is what is needed.
Sherlock simply waves his cigarette in his direction in lackadaisical acknowledgement, the trail of thick smoke twirling majestically in the cold night. John gratefully heads inside and slowly undoes the shopping, clenching and unclenching his hands to aid the blood flow to his numbed fingertips. When he glances outside ten minutes later to look down on the mop of Sherlock’s hair, he sees the man still hunched on the step. He’s staring transfixed at the street, barely moving except for the infrequent moments when his arm rises to take another drag from the cigarette.
In fact, so focused is Sherlock, that he jumps in surprise when John comes back down the stairs to place his coat around his shoulders and wrap the scarf around his neck securely. He says nothing but smiles gratefully at John.
2. Smoke contains benzene, nitrosamines, formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide
“You know,” John says, as they walk up to a crime scene Lestrade has invited them to, “those will kill you.”
He whips the as yet unlit cigarette from Sherlock’s hand and snaps it in two. Immediately, Sherlock’s shoulders slump and he turns his head dramatically to regard John with exasperation and disappointment. “That is a despairingly predictable comment, even from you, John. I’m disappointed.”
“I have to at least pretend I’m still a doctor,” John shoots back easily. “I would like to say I tried to stop you from killing yourself.”
“That all smokers will die of lung cancer is not proven. I am aware of the emotional tactics of television adverts and the blunt warnings on the side of packets.”
“And I have waited three days before saying it. What about electronic cigarettes? They give you the nicotine hit without all the dangerous smoke toxins.”
“It is hard to trick the mind when it knows it is being tricked. John, the world is full of things that could kill me before the effects of cigarettes could even begin to show. Like this man.”
Lestrade has invited them to the viewing of a dead body in a car park. No one ever rings him to do anything normal and John mourns the time when phone calls were about going to a pub for a pint and a natter, not a crime scene.
Pocketing his packet (the warning he has ripped off) Sherlock then marches towards the body and begins his inspection: lifting up each hand and twisting the wrist; looking through the pockets; examining him from all angles of, at one point even lying down on the ground next to the body. When Sherlock reaches the stage where he waves a hand and snaps at people for interrupting him, Lestrade gives up and joins John, leaning against one of the police cars with enviable patience.
“I thought he was on the patches,” Lestrade comments, rubbing the Nicorette patch attached to his own arm in self-conscious discomfort. He undoubtedly thinks that if Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have the willpower to withstand the cigarettes, what chance does he have?
“Apparently he’s reached the height of boredom,” John answers with a sigh.
Lestrade chuckles to himself. It sounds a harsh bark, as if he’s disagreeing with the conclusion. “This isn’t the height of boredom, believe me. No, he’s still got a few miles to go before he reaches the top and comes sliding back down.”
“It won’t get that far,” John responds with confidence, daring Lestrade to take the comment further. He didn’t know when he’d become so protective of Sherlock, why he felt the need to defend his honour. Somewhere deep down, he felt annoyed that Lestrade would use drug busts to keep Sherlock on a leash like a dog.
“I’m sure you’re doing all you can, Doctor.”
Sherlock is standing back now, obviously unimpressed. Unsurprisingly, he’s smoking again but this time John doesn’t sigh in exasperation and walk over to whip it out of his mouth. Instead, from this distance, he cannot tear his gaze away from the mesmerising sight: Sherlock, his coat covered shoulder against a street lamppost, one foot crossed over the other and arms folded. His brow his furrowed in deep thought. In the bitterly cold grey mist of the January morning, the smoke Sherlock releases in a long breath seems thick and warming. In fact, Sherlock looks like he is starring in a film noir, mysterious and enigmatic under the pale orange street lamp.
John sighs regrettably, still watching. “He’s too stubborn to listen to my advice. Short of doing things against his will, of course.”
Lestrade smirks slightly. “Well, I locked him in a cell once for five days and left him screaming. I’m not a very creative person, but it did the job.”
“I don’t have a prison cell under the house. And I don’t think they’ll let me borrow Sandhurst for personal use.”
Sherlock walks over to them, flicking the cigarette onto the ground. “If you do insist on dragging me out of the flat do make it worth my time, Lestrade. The cramped position of the body, the swelling around his neck and face, he’s obviously been poisoned. Judging by the lemon smell on his fingers and the receipt in his pocket, he probably had the mussels from the seafood restaurant a few streets away from here. He wouldn’t have risked a seafood restaurant if he was allergic to shellfish so that leaves some rather dubiously acquired or prepared food. Your culprit is probably a very inept kitchen porter.”
His eyes flicker to John quickly, a small smile slinking onto his features. “And you were concerned about poisonous smoke, John. Come on.”
And with a flick of his coat, Sherlock is already away leaving John to shrug helplessly as he prepares to follow. Lestrade quickly catches his arm, pulling him back gently to offer a whispered warning so Sherlock cannot overhear.
“Just a word of advice, Doctor, and I’m only telling you because I’ve seen Sherlock’s highs and lows, if you know what I mean. I’ve had to help him through some of them and joking aside, the prison cell method wasn’t exactly a party.”
It doesn’t take much thinking on John’s part to decipher Lestrade’s encrypted words. After all, the Inspector had known Sherlock for much longer than he. The drug raid on their house all those months ago hadn’t faded from John’s memory quite yet. Although he and Sherlock had not discussed the specifics since that brief (and rather confused) conversation, it was obvious that Sherlock had battled more than criminals in his past.
“Boredom is bad for Sherlock,” Lestrade continues. “He probably thinks it’s more poisonous than smoking. He either needs to be occupied or make his mind forget that’s he’s not. And distracting yourself from nothing becomes harder when you have an overactive mind like Sherlock. It’s an itch that needs scratching harder and harder the longer it goes on.”
John looks away from Sherlock’ retreating back to Lestrade’s serious face. “Once an addict, always an addict, that’s what you’re saying?”
Lestrade shrugs, looking at him apologetically, as if unhappy to be bursting the heroic bubble. He walks towards the body to update his team on the food poisoning case. “Or something to be addicted to. You’re the doctor. He’s a crafty one; you don’t need me to tell you that. Just keep an eye out and watch for the day when it’s not just packets of cigarettes you find round the flat.”
As John runs to catch up, he hears Lestrade shout, “I’ll leave a cell free for you.”
3. Your doctor or your pharmacist can help you stop smoking
It evolves into a little game. Three days; there’s still no case; Sherlock’s packet consumption has increased, worryingly. Considering Sherlock hasn’t left the house in this time, John is rather curious as to where they have all come from.
For the millionth time, John thinks of taking the packet and destroying them all in one go. He stands there above the open bin, holding them in his hand and prepares to snap them all in two. It’s a heartbreaking sight for any smoker. Even John feels a little sad doing so, remembering those times in Afghanistan when a cigarette, against all medical convention, was the only provider of relief to soothe jittery nerves before or after a hellish experience. Plus, it’s a waste of six quid.
Then, John thinks of the ramifications this could have on him. He decides that destroying the cigarettes could indirectly come back to affect his own health if he has to deal with Sherlock’s infamously foul moods.
“I can’t stop you from smoking,” John informs when Sherlock comes out of the longest shower humanely possible (to waste time during the day) and looks with narrowed eyes at the empty packet on the kitchen table.
“Well, obviously,” Sherlock snaps accusingly. “So why are you overplaying your doctorly role? No strays at the surgery?”
“But I can at least moderate it,” John responds, ignoring Sherlock’s words. He could be insufferable in the morning without purpose for the day. “I’ve hidden your cigarettes. Each individual one is somewhere in the flat. So if and when you find one, you can smoke it.”
It takes Sherlock seconds to process the underlying meaning behind John’s little game. His expression of combined impatience and indignation neutralises and his lips - those lips - cannot help but lift in a sly smile. In the space of a second, he has switched from annoyed to amused.
“I underestimate you sometimes, John,” he says with a hint of pride in his tone.
“Hah, that’s an understatement! By the way, there is a theme.”
“I expect no less.”
John sits down with the paper and tea he’s made and listens to Sherlock whirlwind round the room, which has recently reached a scattered mess of epic magnitude. It only takes a minute or so of throwing things around until he hears the detective cry out triumphantly. It is followed by the distinctive sound of a spark against a flint. The groan of relief Sherlock releases is almost perverse, low, breathy and desperately grateful. John shifts in his seat and crosses his legs, trying to ignore that groan in any other context and not daring to turn around and to revel in the sight of Sherlock’s blissful face again.
Apparently they were both addicts in some way.
Granted, it’s not the most stimulating mystery hunt Sherlock has embarked on. But it will keep him occupied. It was supposed to make John’s life easier.
4. Smoking seriously harms you and others around you
Sherlock worked out the theme fairly quickly. It was all about heat. So far, he had discovered a cigarette under the fireplace mantle, in the teapot, inside the radiator grooves, underneath the toaster, and behind the boiler. The rest John had distributed in more random locations when he ran out of time to be more creative. Those were proving harder to find.
“Still no cases, then,” John remarks when he comes in from work after an extremely tiring day.
Since discarding Lestrade’s case, Sherlock had done nothing but spend entire days languishing on the sofa like a fragile woman from an eighteenth century novel suffering from heat exhaustion. He’s found most of the cigarettes, the discarded stubs forming a small artistic hill on the table. It’s impressive; he’s managed to moderate Sherlock’s consumption across the two days to one packet. How long he can keep this childish distraction going, though, is ambiguous.
“No,” Sherlock mutters with venom, taking a deep drag and releasing it through his nose in two precise streams. The two fingers loosely holding the cigarette tap rapidly on the arm of the sofa, snowing particles of ash and the pedantic man inside John twitches. “It seems that Lestrade has made a pact with the devil to keep all the criminals suppressed…well, the interesting ones anyway.”
“I highly doubt that. But maybe you should go find the devil and ask,” John answers.
“Tempting…after I find the last cigarette you’ve hidden. It’s eluding me and I’ve torn the place apart trying to find it.”
John nods appreciatively as he scans the disaster zone that is their flat. It looks like they have been robbed. “So I see. My master plan to continue driving you slowly insane is working then.”
“You don’t have master plans, John, your mind has neither the patience nor the capacity for such forward intricate planning.”
John turns to glare at him, ready to charge back with an indignant retort but Sherlock isn’t even paying attention. He turns away to the kitchen to make tea before his glaring melts into leering at Sherlock’s sprawled form on the sofa, posing in a manner which most people would consider lazy; John decides it is downright provocative. Sherlock’s head rests on the arm of the sofa, looking towards the ceiling, one pyjama clad leg stretched out in front of him to the end whilst the other falls to the side off the edge.
John can’t help but surreptitiously glance at Sherlock as he takes a deep breath from the cigarette. His cheeks hollow in as he takes a long drag, highlighting his prominent bone structure; his chest puffs out. He lifts his head further back, exposing his throat, before releasing the smoke through pale, pursed lips in one smooth flow up in the air to disperse. Then his arm falls out to the side, the thin white stick dangling loosely between the long fingers as he flicks ash to the floor. John watches it one more time…it’s perversely hypnotic. Sultry, even.
Somehow, Sherlock had taken smoking back to a time when it looked sophisticated and sexy, like no one else John had seen.
Then his mouth is too dry to reprimand Sherlock over the peppered ash and lack of tray. If he spoke, Sherlock would undoubtedly wonder why his voice had become hoarse. Tea, he reminds himself, make the tea.
From the sofa, Sherlock looks back at John and smiles in satisfaction.
5. Smoking may reduce the blood flow and cause impotence
It’s three thirty in the morning when Sherlock tiptoes into his room and at least makes an attempt to sift through his sparse belongings in a quiet and considerate manner for that hour. But John has been programmed to react to the slightest danger, and his senses prickle in warning that there’s an intruder in his room. He wakes with a faint gasp and his eyes snap open to see Sherlock kneeling down beside his bed, face mere inches from his own.
“Maybe you do have a plan, then,” Sherlock murmurs quietly, his voice lower and rougher from lack of use over the last few hours.
“And what’s that then?” John asks, groggily.
The shadows from the amber light through John’s window play across Sherlock’s face, defining its angular lines so John can see the corner of his mouth lift in a faint quirk. Then Sherlock catches him by surprise by leaning forward to kiss him softly on the lips. It’s chaste and almost hesitant but against those slightly moist lips John can taste the trace coffee and the hints of the cigarettes from two hours ago.
He begins to pull away and John, his mind still hazy from sleep and unwilling to release the comforting cocoon he is being sucked into, follows Sherlock. He wants to do this again and again. At which point he can feel Sherlock’s lips, which have curved around the end of so many cigarettes, now smile against his mouth; Sherlock’s arm, which had rested on the edge of his bed, sneaks under his pillow.
“Thank you,” he whispers quietly, amusement colouring his tone. He presents in front of John the last cigarette he’s retrieved from the hiding place.
Then, smoothly, he flicks on the cheap newsagent lighter and the flinted spark causes shadows to dance across Sherlock’s face, momentarily illuminating him. John stares unblinkingly, child like in the way he watches the mesmerising attraction of Sherlock taking that first drag. The eyes close, as if liberated from some vice. The soft crackling sound as Sherlock inhales causes the end to redden in fiery burst of heat; the puff as he exhales between his lips is softly intimate and warming. Immediately, the room is filled with the smell of sharp smoke and in that instant, the atmosphere is erotic.
All John can hear now is the blood rushing in his ears as his heart rate gallops.
With Sherlock hovering beside him, John honestly believes he is going to lean forward and kiss him again. He can feel that magnetic force between them, a craving so powerful. Certainly Sherlock’s hand twitches towards him and his face has taken on the most contemplative expression John has ever seen, as if he is fighting to decide. However, before John can say or do anything to urge the situation on, Sherlock quickly rises and exits the room without a word or explanation. The front door slams, the whole house seemingly vibrating as a result but John can’t hear feet stamp down the street. Sherlock is smoking on the doorstep again.
Thinking, deliberating, inhale, pondering, deducing exhale. Repeat.
John flops back on his bed and takes a few shaky deep breaths, his hand sliding under his boxers. Before that, he would have felt guilty about wanking off to Sherlock gracefully smoking a cigarette, like he was betraying his moral principles. But the floodgates opened. Now, he has the taste of Sherlock on his lips and a mental image to utilise. When he’s this hard, he would have to be a saint to resist the temptation.
6. Smoking can cause a slow and painful death
They do not discuss what happened. Sherlock acts as though nothing has changed and John doesn’t even know how to broach the subject.
Sherlock finally leaves the house when John puts on X Factor, claiming he sees stupid people every day on the street and doesn’t need them to invade the sanctuary of his living room. John, happy that Sherlock will actually get some fresh air, pockets the knowledge that he has found a unique way of stopping Sherlock from wasting aimless hours on the sofa. Reality TV served a purpose after all. John was running out of places to hide the cigarettes he had taken on himself to buy.
No sooner has he sat down with his tea, he hears the front door open and the unmistakable sound of Mrs Hudson’s high-heeled clickety feet on the stairs.
John is instantly up and grabs the air freshener he’s also bought with fumbling fingers to mask the increasingly potent smell of Sherlock’s smoke before their landlady actually considers kicking them out or upping the rent. He doesn’t remember moving this fast since Afghanistan. With a flick of his ankle, he kicks Sherlock’s stubs under the sofa and sweeps the pile on the table into Sherlock’s violin case nearby. As the door opens a second later, he dumps the Airwick on the sofa and turns round to smile pleasantly at their landlady.
“Ooh, John, dear,” she coos, entering with her shopping, not even looking at him. “Sherlock not in?”
“Err, no, he’s…out,” he answers lamely, still standing conspicuously beside the sofa.
“Oh well. I got the cigarettes he wanted. Pack of 20. I’ll just pop them on the table.”
John sputters in disbelief as Mrs Hudson nips out, suddenly realising that his whole hiding the cigarette game had been pointless. “But…Mrs, Hudson!”
“What is it, dear?”
“You’ve been getting him cigarettes? I’m trying to stop him from smoking so much.”
Mrs Hudson simply smiles in appreciation. “Oh, I know, dear. It’s terrible for the lungs. My ex-husband used to smoke all the time, make this disgusting sound when he coughed. But Sherlock needs his distractions and I’d rather have him smoke than do any of the other weird stuff that he gets up to.”
“But…what about banning him from smoking inside?”
“I would never ban Sherlock from doing anything. Anyway, he said he was working on an experiment with them. I thought you would have been able to help distract him. Having someone around always helps with the cravings.”
Mrs Hudson disappears down the stairs. John rolls his eyes and laughs at his own stupidity. "I'm going to kill him."
7. Smoking can damage the sperm
“You utter…wanker!” John snaps good naturedly from the sofa when Sherlock returns home a few hours later.
Sherlock smiles, taking his coat off whilst the cigarette still dangles between his pale lips. John has to contain himself before he starts quoting Shakespeare and focus on the now blatant deception.
“Not the first time I have been called that,” Sherlock responds smoothly, unperturbed by John’s outburst.
“When did I suddenly become your case?”
“You never tried to stop me, as I expected you to. I was curious as to why.”
“I didn’t see the point. It’s not like you’d listen.”
“That hasn’t stopped you from lecturing more forcefully before.”
“And here was me, thinking I was keeping you occupied with my games. Come on, what was it about me that made you think that smoking would attract me?”
Sherlock smiles again as he stubs out the half smoked cigarette on the table and leans against it with his arms folded. “I was originally smoking the cigarettes because I was bored. I thought they would help me figure out a way to seduce you. It was by coincidence I realised they were the answer all along but when I thought about it, the logic was clear. Your indiscreet staring at everything I do is as obvious to me as the remarks of amazement you make every time I solve a case. It only seemed to increase when I took up smoking. Teasing me with that hidden cigarette provided me with the proof.”
It’s slightly embarrassing, John thinks to himself. He didn’t think he had a kink of any sort. He’d never had any particular fantasies with the women he’d dated. In fact, he considered himself shockingly average when it came to bedroom ideas. How unsurprising (and ever so slightly humiliating) that Sherlock had unearthed some deeply buried fantasy that he wasn’t aware of. However, Sherlock didn’t seem embarrassed; he smiled, as if surprisingly happy about John’s unpredictability.
“My lecturers would have been disappointed in me,” he answers.
“You are a shockingly poor doctor, allowing me carry on with this habit,” Sherlock agrees, meandering through the room’s detritus like a cat. With precise grace, he slides onto John’s lap, his knees either side of John’s waist; he smiles crookedly, looking at John with the same allure painted on his face.
“They will probably be even more shocked to uncover what it means,” John responds, watching in transfixed fascination as Sherlock shrugs off his jacket for more movement and then pulls off John’s own jumper. His own fingers involuntarily reach up to rest against Sherlock’s neck and cheeks.
“And what’s that?”
“Well, I’m currently wondering what else you’re good at sucking.”
Sherlock responds by nipping at the pad of John’s forefinger, the heat of breath from his mouth brushing against John’s cooled skin. He then licks it provocatively and John can’t help but visibly shiver. “Kinky and crude, John? The limits to your inner hidden traits know no bounds.”
This time, John cannot respond for a few moments, but tilts his head back on the sofa, hands reaching up to revel in this satiating experience. Sherlock has moved from the trip of his finger to his neck, breathy kisses heating his cooled skin. He can feel the methodical movement of Sherlock’s able tongue and mouth sliding down his sternum. Even if it only lasts for a few moments, he can enjoy it.
“So I’m your distraction?” he asks a moment (or maybe minutes) later, in between sticattoed gasps. “Whilst you don’t have a case?”
“Of course not. You are an on-going project. I’ve had a case for three days,” Sherlock answers, from somewhere near his naval, his tongue peeking out for a swipe. “Lestrade seemed to worry that I was lapsing back into former habits and has been throwing them in my direction over the last few days.”
John gasps, his hand weaving into Sherlock’s hair. The relief he feels at that is immeasurable. “He seems to have real reason to worry.”
Instantly, Sherlock stops and raises his head so he’s eyelevel with John. His face has lost all his former humour and he stares at John steadfastly. “Do not ever think I would do that again.”
John nods faintly in agreement, despite his flushed face, darkened eyes, and rapidly beating chest. “I believe you. I always did.”
Sherlock replies with a ghostly smile of gratefulness. “Besides,” he murmurs, crawling back up John’s body to rest his lips against his ear, “having you renders my need for artificial chemical addictions rather obsolete.”
*
The next day John sees Sherlock throw the packet Mrs Hudson had brought him in the kitchen bin. John fishes them out later and holds them in contemplation. As a doctor, he’s happy and relieved Sherlock has given up the habit. He must remember to text Lestrade later. However, if he can wake up as he did this morning to Sherlock lying in bed amidst rumpled covers, looking debauched, his hair a mess and his lips smirking whilst his lax hand holds that infamous ‘last cigarette’…well, it certainly does John no harm.
TEH END
NB: I would just like to state categorically that I do not smoke nor do I work in the marketing department of a cigarette company. My plot bunnies have no political agenda.
NB 2: However, it seems I might be responsible for your increased smoking after this fic. Sorry!
NB 3:And if that REALLY wasn't enough...look what I've just been given!
That is all. Oh, and sprinkled chocolate nuggets of reviews are love.
Author: Vescaus @ the_thinktank
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Words: 4K
Notes: Just some self-gratuitous Smoking!Sherlock images. Thanks again to unduneljay, for her beta-ing skills.
Summary: Smoking kills…and other mandatory warnings John is forced to reassess.
Fire at One End; Fool at the Other
by Vescaus
1. Smoking is highly addictive, don't start
“What are you doing?”
Sherlock doesn’t look up straight away from where he sits on the step outside their flat. The road outside is quiet at this inky black time of night. An occasional taxi rattles by, a near invisible blur against the darkness of the street; a few oblivious couples walk up from Regent’s Park. Then Sherlock sees John standing in front of him, apparently wishing to enter their flat.
He looks at John as if the man just teleported in front of him, then looks behind him in utter bewilderment. “I thought you were in your room?”
“I’ve been gone for the last hour, Sherlock,” John remarks, lifting up three bags bright orange Sainsbury’s bags. “Now what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, his voice now devoid of any emotion.
“It looks like you’re sitting outside our flat, in the freezing cold, smoking.”
Sherlock’s lips twist into a faint sardonic smile. “Your observational skills are progressing remarkably quickly, John.”
“You know we pay for heating…just about. You could just turn it on if you’re cold.”
“Oh, and you were doing so well.”
John refuses to grace that rebuff with a remark. There is silence for a moment and John wonders what they must look like, two men outside a flat, one sitting with his impossibly long legs lifted from the shallow step, smoking easily; the other standing in front of him in bemusement, his arms full of shopping bags.
“Okay, so you’re not going to answer the question you know I want to ask. Right, fine.” John shuffles past him and tries to fish out the keys whilst holding the three bags. Despite the obvious grumbles of frustration as he does so, Sherlock offers no help, continuing to smoke and stare out to the street. John is lulled by the tempting warmth emanating from 221 Baker Street but curiosity has always had a powerful hold over him as well. This was new Sherlockian territory.
He dumps the bags and turns around, talking to the back of Sherlock’s head.
“Why are you smoking, Sherlock? I thought you quit. You know, the patches?”
“Bored,” the man responds. “This is my emergency session. I only allow myself to begin a smoking period when the lapses between cases becomes ridiculously unbearable. Four weeks is a long time.”
“And smoking helps how?”
Sherlock shrugs apathetically. “It relaxes the mind. Blurs the edges. I thought I would start at the bottom end of the recreational drug use. Give the criminals a chance to redeem themselves.”
John rolls his eyes with the exasperation of a tired mother. “Come inside, Sherlock. I’m sure there’s something on the telly on a Friday night that can numb your mind as well. That’s what ITV is for.”
“No, Mrs Hudson won’t let me smoke inside the flat.”
“Why am I not surprised,” John answers with resignation, coming to sit beside him on the step. “I’m sure she doesn’t want the flat to smell of cigarette smoke. As a matter of fact, neither do I.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “I think she’s more concerned that I’ll set fire to the flat. I apparently have a tendency to drop things I’m working on when a more interesting problem attracts my attention.”
John nods in faux interest. “Really? Well, I never would have guessed.”
Sherlock looks at him curiously before he realises John is being sarcastic. Touché.
He takes another drag on his cigarette and John is slightly captivated by the pursed shape of Sherlock’s lips as he inhales and then how they loosely fall open as he breathes out the smoke. “Apparently, that is grounds for banning smoking in the flat.”
John shakes his head and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, err…as landlady, it’s her decision to take the smoking ban literally.”
“She must have heard how I burnt the curtains and the wall of my last flat in Montague Street,” Sherlock replies, not even registering John’s comment.
“Speaking of fire and burning, I’m heading up. It’s bloody freezing out here.” John gets up a little stiffly, unused to sitting on cold hard ground for any length of time these days; he can feel his shoulder give a little twinge. A cup of tea and some relaxation in the armchair is what is needed.
Sherlock simply waves his cigarette in his direction in lackadaisical acknowledgement, the trail of thick smoke twirling majestically in the cold night. John gratefully heads inside and slowly undoes the shopping, clenching and unclenching his hands to aid the blood flow to his numbed fingertips. When he glances outside ten minutes later to look down on the mop of Sherlock’s hair, he sees the man still hunched on the step. He’s staring transfixed at the street, barely moving except for the infrequent moments when his arm rises to take another drag from the cigarette.
In fact, so focused is Sherlock, that he jumps in surprise when John comes back down the stairs to place his coat around his shoulders and wrap the scarf around his neck securely. He says nothing but smiles gratefully at John.
2. Smoke contains benzene, nitrosamines, formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide
“You know,” John says, as they walk up to a crime scene Lestrade has invited them to, “those will kill you.”
He whips the as yet unlit cigarette from Sherlock’s hand and snaps it in two. Immediately, Sherlock’s shoulders slump and he turns his head dramatically to regard John with exasperation and disappointment. “That is a despairingly predictable comment, even from you, John. I’m disappointed.”
“I have to at least pretend I’m still a doctor,” John shoots back easily. “I would like to say I tried to stop you from killing yourself.”
“That all smokers will die of lung cancer is not proven. I am aware of the emotional tactics of television adverts and the blunt warnings on the side of packets.”
“And I have waited three days before saying it. What about electronic cigarettes? They give you the nicotine hit without all the dangerous smoke toxins.”
“It is hard to trick the mind when it knows it is being tricked. John, the world is full of things that could kill me before the effects of cigarettes could even begin to show. Like this man.”
Lestrade has invited them to the viewing of a dead body in a car park. No one ever rings him to do anything normal and John mourns the time when phone calls were about going to a pub for a pint and a natter, not a crime scene.
Pocketing his packet (the warning he has ripped off) Sherlock then marches towards the body and begins his inspection: lifting up each hand and twisting the wrist; looking through the pockets; examining him from all angles of, at one point even lying down on the ground next to the body. When Sherlock reaches the stage where he waves a hand and snaps at people for interrupting him, Lestrade gives up and joins John, leaning against one of the police cars with enviable patience.
“I thought he was on the patches,” Lestrade comments, rubbing the Nicorette patch attached to his own arm in self-conscious discomfort. He undoubtedly thinks that if Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have the willpower to withstand the cigarettes, what chance does he have?
“Apparently he’s reached the height of boredom,” John answers with a sigh.
Lestrade chuckles to himself. It sounds a harsh bark, as if he’s disagreeing with the conclusion. “This isn’t the height of boredom, believe me. No, he’s still got a few miles to go before he reaches the top and comes sliding back down.”
“It won’t get that far,” John responds with confidence, daring Lestrade to take the comment further. He didn’t know when he’d become so protective of Sherlock, why he felt the need to defend his honour. Somewhere deep down, he felt annoyed that Lestrade would use drug busts to keep Sherlock on a leash like a dog.
“I’m sure you’re doing all you can, Doctor.”
Sherlock is standing back now, obviously unimpressed. Unsurprisingly, he’s smoking again but this time John doesn’t sigh in exasperation and walk over to whip it out of his mouth. Instead, from this distance, he cannot tear his gaze away from the mesmerising sight: Sherlock, his coat covered shoulder against a street lamppost, one foot crossed over the other and arms folded. His brow his furrowed in deep thought. In the bitterly cold grey mist of the January morning, the smoke Sherlock releases in a long breath seems thick and warming. In fact, Sherlock looks like he is starring in a film noir, mysterious and enigmatic under the pale orange street lamp.
John sighs regrettably, still watching. “He’s too stubborn to listen to my advice. Short of doing things against his will, of course.”
Lestrade smirks slightly. “Well, I locked him in a cell once for five days and left him screaming. I’m not a very creative person, but it did the job.”
“I don’t have a prison cell under the house. And I don’t think they’ll let me borrow Sandhurst for personal use.”
Sherlock walks over to them, flicking the cigarette onto the ground. “If you do insist on dragging me out of the flat do make it worth my time, Lestrade. The cramped position of the body, the swelling around his neck and face, he’s obviously been poisoned. Judging by the lemon smell on his fingers and the receipt in his pocket, he probably had the mussels from the seafood restaurant a few streets away from here. He wouldn’t have risked a seafood restaurant if he was allergic to shellfish so that leaves some rather dubiously acquired or prepared food. Your culprit is probably a very inept kitchen porter.”
His eyes flicker to John quickly, a small smile slinking onto his features. “And you were concerned about poisonous smoke, John. Come on.”
And with a flick of his coat, Sherlock is already away leaving John to shrug helplessly as he prepares to follow. Lestrade quickly catches his arm, pulling him back gently to offer a whispered warning so Sherlock cannot overhear.
“Just a word of advice, Doctor, and I’m only telling you because I’ve seen Sherlock’s highs and lows, if you know what I mean. I’ve had to help him through some of them and joking aside, the prison cell method wasn’t exactly a party.”
It doesn’t take much thinking on John’s part to decipher Lestrade’s encrypted words. After all, the Inspector had known Sherlock for much longer than he. The drug raid on their house all those months ago hadn’t faded from John’s memory quite yet. Although he and Sherlock had not discussed the specifics since that brief (and rather confused) conversation, it was obvious that Sherlock had battled more than criminals in his past.
“Boredom is bad for Sherlock,” Lestrade continues. “He probably thinks it’s more poisonous than smoking. He either needs to be occupied or make his mind forget that’s he’s not. And distracting yourself from nothing becomes harder when you have an overactive mind like Sherlock. It’s an itch that needs scratching harder and harder the longer it goes on.”
John looks away from Sherlock’ retreating back to Lestrade’s serious face. “Once an addict, always an addict, that’s what you’re saying?”
Lestrade shrugs, looking at him apologetically, as if unhappy to be bursting the heroic bubble. He walks towards the body to update his team on the food poisoning case. “Or something to be addicted to. You’re the doctor. He’s a crafty one; you don’t need me to tell you that. Just keep an eye out and watch for the day when it’s not just packets of cigarettes you find round the flat.”
As John runs to catch up, he hears Lestrade shout, “I’ll leave a cell free for you.”
3. Your doctor or your pharmacist can help you stop smoking
It evolves into a little game. Three days; there’s still no case; Sherlock’s packet consumption has increased, worryingly. Considering Sherlock hasn’t left the house in this time, John is rather curious as to where they have all come from.
For the millionth time, John thinks of taking the packet and destroying them all in one go. He stands there above the open bin, holding them in his hand and prepares to snap them all in two. It’s a heartbreaking sight for any smoker. Even John feels a little sad doing so, remembering those times in Afghanistan when a cigarette, against all medical convention, was the only provider of relief to soothe jittery nerves before or after a hellish experience. Plus, it’s a waste of six quid.
Then, John thinks of the ramifications this could have on him. He decides that destroying the cigarettes could indirectly come back to affect his own health if he has to deal with Sherlock’s infamously foul moods.
“I can’t stop you from smoking,” John informs when Sherlock comes out of the longest shower humanely possible (to waste time during the day) and looks with narrowed eyes at the empty packet on the kitchen table.
“Well, obviously,” Sherlock snaps accusingly. “So why are you overplaying your doctorly role? No strays at the surgery?”
“But I can at least moderate it,” John responds, ignoring Sherlock’s words. He could be insufferable in the morning without purpose for the day. “I’ve hidden your cigarettes. Each individual one is somewhere in the flat. So if and when you find one, you can smoke it.”
It takes Sherlock seconds to process the underlying meaning behind John’s little game. His expression of combined impatience and indignation neutralises and his lips - those lips - cannot help but lift in a sly smile. In the space of a second, he has switched from annoyed to amused.
“I underestimate you sometimes, John,” he says with a hint of pride in his tone.
“Hah, that’s an understatement! By the way, there is a theme.”
“I expect no less.”
John sits down with the paper and tea he’s made and listens to Sherlock whirlwind round the room, which has recently reached a scattered mess of epic magnitude. It only takes a minute or so of throwing things around until he hears the detective cry out triumphantly. It is followed by the distinctive sound of a spark against a flint. The groan of relief Sherlock releases is almost perverse, low, breathy and desperately grateful. John shifts in his seat and crosses his legs, trying to ignore that groan in any other context and not daring to turn around and to revel in the sight of Sherlock’s blissful face again.
Apparently they were both addicts in some way.
Granted, it’s not the most stimulating mystery hunt Sherlock has embarked on. But it will keep him occupied. It was supposed to make John’s life easier.
4. Smoking seriously harms you and others around you
Sherlock worked out the theme fairly quickly. It was all about heat. So far, he had discovered a cigarette under the fireplace mantle, in the teapot, inside the radiator grooves, underneath the toaster, and behind the boiler. The rest John had distributed in more random locations when he ran out of time to be more creative. Those were proving harder to find.
“Still no cases, then,” John remarks when he comes in from work after an extremely tiring day.
Since discarding Lestrade’s case, Sherlock had done nothing but spend entire days languishing on the sofa like a fragile woman from an eighteenth century novel suffering from heat exhaustion. He’s found most of the cigarettes, the discarded stubs forming a small artistic hill on the table. It’s impressive; he’s managed to moderate Sherlock’s consumption across the two days to one packet. How long he can keep this childish distraction going, though, is ambiguous.
“No,” Sherlock mutters with venom, taking a deep drag and releasing it through his nose in two precise streams. The two fingers loosely holding the cigarette tap rapidly on the arm of the sofa, snowing particles of ash and the pedantic man inside John twitches. “It seems that Lestrade has made a pact with the devil to keep all the criminals suppressed…well, the interesting ones anyway.”
“I highly doubt that. But maybe you should go find the devil and ask,” John answers.
“Tempting…after I find the last cigarette you’ve hidden. It’s eluding me and I’ve torn the place apart trying to find it.”
John nods appreciatively as he scans the disaster zone that is their flat. It looks like they have been robbed. “So I see. My master plan to continue driving you slowly insane is working then.”
“You don’t have master plans, John, your mind has neither the patience nor the capacity for such forward intricate planning.”
John turns to glare at him, ready to charge back with an indignant retort but Sherlock isn’t even paying attention. He turns away to the kitchen to make tea before his glaring melts into leering at Sherlock’s sprawled form on the sofa, posing in a manner which most people would consider lazy; John decides it is downright provocative. Sherlock’s head rests on the arm of the sofa, looking towards the ceiling, one pyjama clad leg stretched out in front of him to the end whilst the other falls to the side off the edge.
John can’t help but surreptitiously glance at Sherlock as he takes a deep breath from the cigarette. His cheeks hollow in as he takes a long drag, highlighting his prominent bone structure; his chest puffs out. He lifts his head further back, exposing his throat, before releasing the smoke through pale, pursed lips in one smooth flow up in the air to disperse. Then his arm falls out to the side, the thin white stick dangling loosely between the long fingers as he flicks ash to the floor. John watches it one more time…it’s perversely hypnotic. Sultry, even.
Somehow, Sherlock had taken smoking back to a time when it looked sophisticated and sexy, like no one else John had seen.
Then his mouth is too dry to reprimand Sherlock over the peppered ash and lack of tray. If he spoke, Sherlock would undoubtedly wonder why his voice had become hoarse. Tea, he reminds himself, make the tea.
From the sofa, Sherlock looks back at John and smiles in satisfaction.
5. Smoking may reduce the blood flow and cause impotence
It’s three thirty in the morning when Sherlock tiptoes into his room and at least makes an attempt to sift through his sparse belongings in a quiet and considerate manner for that hour. But John has been programmed to react to the slightest danger, and his senses prickle in warning that there’s an intruder in his room. He wakes with a faint gasp and his eyes snap open to see Sherlock kneeling down beside his bed, face mere inches from his own.
“Maybe you do have a plan, then,” Sherlock murmurs quietly, his voice lower and rougher from lack of use over the last few hours.
“And what’s that then?” John asks, groggily.
The shadows from the amber light through John’s window play across Sherlock’s face, defining its angular lines so John can see the corner of his mouth lift in a faint quirk. Then Sherlock catches him by surprise by leaning forward to kiss him softly on the lips. It’s chaste and almost hesitant but against those slightly moist lips John can taste the trace coffee and the hints of the cigarettes from two hours ago.
He begins to pull away and John, his mind still hazy from sleep and unwilling to release the comforting cocoon he is being sucked into, follows Sherlock. He wants to do this again and again. At which point he can feel Sherlock’s lips, which have curved around the end of so many cigarettes, now smile against his mouth; Sherlock’s arm, which had rested on the edge of his bed, sneaks under his pillow.
“Thank you,” he whispers quietly, amusement colouring his tone. He presents in front of John the last cigarette he’s retrieved from the hiding place.
Then, smoothly, he flicks on the cheap newsagent lighter and the flinted spark causes shadows to dance across Sherlock’s face, momentarily illuminating him. John stares unblinkingly, child like in the way he watches the mesmerising attraction of Sherlock taking that first drag. The eyes close, as if liberated from some vice. The soft crackling sound as Sherlock inhales causes the end to redden in fiery burst of heat; the puff as he exhales between his lips is softly intimate and warming. Immediately, the room is filled with the smell of sharp smoke and in that instant, the atmosphere is erotic.
All John can hear now is the blood rushing in his ears as his heart rate gallops.
With Sherlock hovering beside him, John honestly believes he is going to lean forward and kiss him again. He can feel that magnetic force between them, a craving so powerful. Certainly Sherlock’s hand twitches towards him and his face has taken on the most contemplative expression John has ever seen, as if he is fighting to decide. However, before John can say or do anything to urge the situation on, Sherlock quickly rises and exits the room without a word or explanation. The front door slams, the whole house seemingly vibrating as a result but John can’t hear feet stamp down the street. Sherlock is smoking on the doorstep again.
Thinking, deliberating, inhale, pondering, deducing exhale. Repeat.
John flops back on his bed and takes a few shaky deep breaths, his hand sliding under his boxers. Before that, he would have felt guilty about wanking off to Sherlock gracefully smoking a cigarette, like he was betraying his moral principles. But the floodgates opened. Now, he has the taste of Sherlock on his lips and a mental image to utilise. When he’s this hard, he would have to be a saint to resist the temptation.
6. Smoking can cause a slow and painful death
They do not discuss what happened. Sherlock acts as though nothing has changed and John doesn’t even know how to broach the subject.
Sherlock finally leaves the house when John puts on X Factor, claiming he sees stupid people every day on the street and doesn’t need them to invade the sanctuary of his living room. John, happy that Sherlock will actually get some fresh air, pockets the knowledge that he has found a unique way of stopping Sherlock from wasting aimless hours on the sofa. Reality TV served a purpose after all. John was running out of places to hide the cigarettes he had taken on himself to buy.
No sooner has he sat down with his tea, he hears the front door open and the unmistakable sound of Mrs Hudson’s high-heeled clickety feet on the stairs.
John is instantly up and grabs the air freshener he’s also bought with fumbling fingers to mask the increasingly potent smell of Sherlock’s smoke before their landlady actually considers kicking them out or upping the rent. He doesn’t remember moving this fast since Afghanistan. With a flick of his ankle, he kicks Sherlock’s stubs under the sofa and sweeps the pile on the table into Sherlock’s violin case nearby. As the door opens a second later, he dumps the Airwick on the sofa and turns round to smile pleasantly at their landlady.
“Ooh, John, dear,” she coos, entering with her shopping, not even looking at him. “Sherlock not in?”
“Err, no, he’s…out,” he answers lamely, still standing conspicuously beside the sofa.
“Oh well. I got the cigarettes he wanted. Pack of 20. I’ll just pop them on the table.”
John sputters in disbelief as Mrs Hudson nips out, suddenly realising that his whole hiding the cigarette game had been pointless. “But…Mrs, Hudson!”
“What is it, dear?”
“You’ve been getting him cigarettes? I’m trying to stop him from smoking so much.”
Mrs Hudson simply smiles in appreciation. “Oh, I know, dear. It’s terrible for the lungs. My ex-husband used to smoke all the time, make this disgusting sound when he coughed. But Sherlock needs his distractions and I’d rather have him smoke than do any of the other weird stuff that he gets up to.”
“But…what about banning him from smoking inside?”
“I would never ban Sherlock from doing anything. Anyway, he said he was working on an experiment with them. I thought you would have been able to help distract him. Having someone around always helps with the cravings.”
Mrs Hudson disappears down the stairs. John rolls his eyes and laughs at his own stupidity. "I'm going to kill him."
7. Smoking can damage the sperm
“You utter…wanker!” John snaps good naturedly from the sofa when Sherlock returns home a few hours later.
Sherlock smiles, taking his coat off whilst the cigarette still dangles between his pale lips. John has to contain himself before he starts quoting Shakespeare and focus on the now blatant deception.
“Not the first time I have been called that,” Sherlock responds smoothly, unperturbed by John’s outburst.
“When did I suddenly become your case?”
“You never tried to stop me, as I expected you to. I was curious as to why.”
“I didn’t see the point. It’s not like you’d listen.”
“That hasn’t stopped you from lecturing more forcefully before.”
“And here was me, thinking I was keeping you occupied with my games. Come on, what was it about me that made you think that smoking would attract me?”
Sherlock smiles again as he stubs out the half smoked cigarette on the table and leans against it with his arms folded. “I was originally smoking the cigarettes because I was bored. I thought they would help me figure out a way to seduce you. It was by coincidence I realised they were the answer all along but when I thought about it, the logic was clear. Your indiscreet staring at everything I do is as obvious to me as the remarks of amazement you make every time I solve a case. It only seemed to increase when I took up smoking. Teasing me with that hidden cigarette provided me with the proof.”
It’s slightly embarrassing, John thinks to himself. He didn’t think he had a kink of any sort. He’d never had any particular fantasies with the women he’d dated. In fact, he considered himself shockingly average when it came to bedroom ideas. How unsurprising (and ever so slightly humiliating) that Sherlock had unearthed some deeply buried fantasy that he wasn’t aware of. However, Sherlock didn’t seem embarrassed; he smiled, as if surprisingly happy about John’s unpredictability.
“My lecturers would have been disappointed in me,” he answers.
“You are a shockingly poor doctor, allowing me carry on with this habit,” Sherlock agrees, meandering through the room’s detritus like a cat. With precise grace, he slides onto John’s lap, his knees either side of John’s waist; he smiles crookedly, looking at John with the same allure painted on his face.
“They will probably be even more shocked to uncover what it means,” John responds, watching in transfixed fascination as Sherlock shrugs off his jacket for more movement and then pulls off John’s own jumper. His own fingers involuntarily reach up to rest against Sherlock’s neck and cheeks.
“And what’s that?”
“Well, I’m currently wondering what else you’re good at sucking.”
Sherlock responds by nipping at the pad of John’s forefinger, the heat of breath from his mouth brushing against John’s cooled skin. He then licks it provocatively and John can’t help but visibly shiver. “Kinky and crude, John? The limits to your inner hidden traits know no bounds.”
This time, John cannot respond for a few moments, but tilts his head back on the sofa, hands reaching up to revel in this satiating experience. Sherlock has moved from the trip of his finger to his neck, breathy kisses heating his cooled skin. He can feel the methodical movement of Sherlock’s able tongue and mouth sliding down his sternum. Even if it only lasts for a few moments, he can enjoy it.
“So I’m your distraction?” he asks a moment (or maybe minutes) later, in between sticattoed gasps. “Whilst you don’t have a case?”
“Of course not. You are an on-going project. I’ve had a case for three days,” Sherlock answers, from somewhere near his naval, his tongue peeking out for a swipe. “Lestrade seemed to worry that I was lapsing back into former habits and has been throwing them in my direction over the last few days.”
John gasps, his hand weaving into Sherlock’s hair. The relief he feels at that is immeasurable. “He seems to have real reason to worry.”
Instantly, Sherlock stops and raises his head so he’s eyelevel with John. His face has lost all his former humour and he stares at John steadfastly. “Do not ever think I would do that again.”
John nods faintly in agreement, despite his flushed face, darkened eyes, and rapidly beating chest. “I believe you. I always did.”
Sherlock replies with a ghostly smile of gratefulness. “Besides,” he murmurs, crawling back up John’s body to rest his lips against his ear, “having you renders my need for artificial chemical addictions rather obsolete.”
*
The next day John sees Sherlock throw the packet Mrs Hudson had brought him in the kitchen bin. John fishes them out later and holds them in contemplation. As a doctor, he’s happy and relieved Sherlock has given up the habit. He must remember to text Lestrade later. However, if he can wake up as he did this morning to Sherlock lying in bed amidst rumpled covers, looking debauched, his hair a mess and his lips smirking whilst his lax hand holds that infamous ‘last cigarette’…well, it certainly does John no harm.
TEH END
NB: I would just like to state categorically that I do not smoke nor do I work in the marketing department of a cigarette company. My plot bunnies have no political agenda.
NB 2: However, it seems I might be responsible for your increased smoking after this fic. Sorry!
NB 3:And if that REALLY wasn't enough...look what I've just been given!
That is all. Oh, and sprinkled chocolate nuggets of reviews are love.