Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Sherlock Holmes franchise or the characters in it.
Lestrade wasn't very happy at the moment. In fact, he was decidedly unhappy. Holmes had dragged him and Watson (although the latter had come willingly enough) to a miserable dark alley in the middle of the night to do nothing. Exactly nothing. Of course, Holmes had explained how it was of dire importance that they be in this particular alley doing nothing to solve the case. Yes, Lestrade was very unhappy.
So while that blasted Holmes walked calmly into that poorly lit alley where who knows how many people had been mugged and or killed, and Watson followed trustingly after him, Lestrade hung back by the entrance wondering why in the world he had bothered asking Holmes for help in the first place. While yes, Holmes would solve the case, the solving was almost always an unpleasant process for Lestrade. This was once again proving to be true.
Despite his misgivings, Lestrade eventually entered the alley and took a watchful post far enough away from the entrance of the alley to be cast in the shadows, unseen, but close enough that he could still see. Something tapped his shoulder and he jumped in surprise (careful not to make any noise and give them away, he refrained from any yelps or screaming). He turned to the tapper and found it to be Watson, who wordlessly offered a cigarette. Holmes was already puffing away at his when he offered a match.
"I thought we were supposed to be doing nothing."
"This is nothing. Now be quiet," Holmes hissed.
Lestrade took the cigarette and match. Not being much of a smoker, he merely held the lit cigarette loosely in his hand. He turned back towards the entrance and watched for anything suspicious. Out of the corner of his eye, the ends of Holmes' and Watson's cigarettes were bright spots of light in the dark alley. Smoke gently curled upwards in bursts as Watson and Holmes methodically puffed at their cigarettes.
Twenty minutes into their "doing nothing", Lestrade noticed just how cold it was. This put him in an even worse mood than before, as so far they had nothing (exactly nothing!) to show for all their not doing anything.
Lestrade glare into the street as Holmes shifted behind him. Holmes shifted again.
"I wish I had my pipe."
"Shhh," Lestrade hissed
Everything was silent for a few moments, then Holmes shifted. Watson muttered something under his breath, "Stop that now." Lestrade rolled his eyes, then looked heaven ward. Silently he pleaded for the night to end. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn't for a while. A long, long while...
A/N: I am not in any way encouraging you to smoke. Those little things called lungs hate it when you smoke, no really. The only reason I'm writing anything with smoking in it is because: 1) the characters smoke, 2) plot. Now the little part of me that insisted on that little spiel is happy, how'd I do? This is the first time I've written anything (besides a poem or two) for SH that didn't have some dark theme or element to it. Please let me know how I did. Pretty please?
