Author's Note: I haven't written in a while, and I've never written about the BBC's Sherlock. Thank you for choosing to take this adventure with me. Slight Johnlock.
Warning: While it may seem silly, I am warning that this features cigarette smoking. I am…trying to quit. I'm sure a few of you will understand the struggle.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's Sherlock, nor any story pertaining to the A.C.D. fanchise. And I certainly do not dream about it most nights. Certainly not.
"Smoke in Your Eyes"
John's POV
8PM on a Saturday night was not a strange time for John and Sherlock to be making a trip to the morgue. Hardly anything seemed strange anymore to John Watson, not since Sherlock Holmes winked at him that one fateful night at Bart's. Sherlock expected John to be ready for anything, for danger. However, Sherlock did not expect that the morgue would be locked and its usual inhabitant—one Miss Molly Hooper—to be home of all things on a Saturday night. Sherlock won't talk about the last time he broke into the morgue, and John won't ask, but it is the reason why they've been standing outside.
"Molly does not have a social life," Sherlock says with utmost certainty, like he did with all things. Except feelings. That's my area.
"You can't blame the poor girl," I try convincingly, "She's allowed to have one."
"Dull," and that's the end of the conversation. Sherlock pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his Belstaff.
"I bought you a box of Nicotinell just this week," I protest, "and I know you haven't run out just yet."
This is because I, John Watson, have to pick up after another grown man who is just too lazy or weighed down by his enormous brain (intellect, ego, whatever) to take the used patches to the bin after ripping them off. He stares at me with his utterly bored look. Not just the regular there-isn't-a-case-on-right-now-I'm-so-bored look, but the look he gives me when I ask him an "obviously" stupid question and is telling me with his narrowed eyes and puckered lips that he will not dignify that with a response.
He rounds his shoulders and lights a cigarette anyway before I can protest again. He closes his eyes as the first plume of smoke wafts up to mingle with the crisp London air. Sherlock takes another quick pull, and the red, cherry end lights up while a few embers fall to the ground. I hate this smoking nonsense.
"I'm a doctor, you know." I know he knows. Men who smoke typically have an average of 13.2 years shaved off of their lives, because that's what Sherlock Holmes needs, more danger. 69 of the chemicals found in cigarettes cause cancer. I know these facts because I'm a doctor, and Sherlock must know these facts because, let's face it, the man knows just about everything. He just disregards it.
"Yes." Disregarded. He taps away on his phone. The cigarette dangling between two fingers mocks me.
Next time, I decide, we're texting Molly before bounding over to the morgue. I stare at my own phone, which has no messages. I hope to any god that's listening that Molly arrives before I grow the nerve needed to pluck the cigarette out his mouth and cause a fight or, god forbid, Sherlock decides that waiting is a two-cigarette problem. Somehow, asking Sherlock to tidy the kitchen last week was a three-patch problem and the kitchen remained untidy. Remains untidy.
He's close to finishing. I try not to focus on the small flame growing closer to his fingers with each inhalation. Instead I try focusing on how, despite how much of a berk Sherlock is, I still love him. I feel the need to summarize my feelings for him aloud, "You're an idiot."
He looks at me sideways while taking another drag. One corner of his mouth turns up, peeking up over the upturned collar of his great coat. A sort of private smile. My smile, and mine alone. Imperfect because I feel in love with an imperfect man and for me, that's all fine. Even when he spends a lot of time trying to be perfect, that's fine too.
"I'm a genius," he retorts. He enjoys correcting me, but this has no bite. Who would have thought that Sherlock could be playful?
He goes to take one last drag of his cigarette and it happens. His nose scrunches up and some smoke passes through his lips that hadn't yet been inhaled. His eyes close hard once, and he opens them to stare upwards.
Did Sherlock just blow smoke in his eyes? I think to myself. When he begins to blink rapidly and tears form at the corner of his right eye, I have to admit I am a little stunned. Something just happed that he did not anticipate.
Sherlock scrubs at his eyes and he drops the cigarette to the ground, aimlessly stomping it out. He begins to scowl as he swipes the back of his hand to rid himself of his eye's natural defense to foreign objects. I poorly stifle a (manly) giggle and his scowl deepens.
Sherlock is many things. A genius. A consulting detective. A self-proclaimed sociopath with feelings. A chemist. A brother. A best friend, partner, flatmate, lover. He projects a pristine image of himself with tailored suits and his billowing coat. His mind is a marvel to envy. He is perfect with his long neck and limbs and digits. Blowing smoke in one's eye is not "perfect."
I love Sherlock Holmes. I smile wider. I love all of these things about him. How, at some times, he hardly seems human with his denial of food and sleep. How he can take one look at you and tell you about your life. How he knows what I ate for breakfast and somehow remembers 243 types of tobacco ash but can never remember Lestrade's first name. Sherlock Holes is…
"An idiot genius," I manage to force out.
Human.
Author's Note: This story was written with the company of 3 cigarettes. If anyone would like, I would very much enjoy delving into a second part.