A/N: This fic literally has been sitting on my computer for…. Months… It started when a friend of mine sent me a camera roll via Skydrive of celebrities smoking and there was one of an extremely attractive Benedict Cumberbatch. To me, I know that smoking is wrong and slightly disgusting but for some reason a guy who smokes is really sexy. It's something I'm not proud of admitting… but just… unf! This basically became a nagging idea that I hand wrote on slips of paper after I had put some kids to bed that I had been babysitting and I decided to dig it up, clean it up, and post it… please enjoy cuz I really do have a soft spot for this particular fic!

IT was dark and unbearably quiet when John awoke in the middle of the night. His eyes flew open and a sheet of sweat clung to his forehead. Another nightmare… they came so frequently anymore. Maybe he should go see a doctor. But he knew what they would say: Just a side effect of the PTSD nothing they could do but sleeping pills. He stared at the ceiling in his room tracing the patterns that he couldn't see but knew were engraved into the tiles above him. He could feel it as his heart began to finally slow down, and his eyes slowly began heavy with sleep again. He was beginning to slip into a dreamless sleep when he smelled it. Through eh vent invisible wisps of smoke floated into the room and invaded John's nostrils.

"Sherlock…" The army doctor rubbed his tired eyes and forced himself out of his warm bed. He opened his door slowly and ventured down the steps immediately to his right. He was careful to avoid the fifth one form the floor which was the only squeaky stair in the entire flat. Finally, he stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living space and he plastered himself behind the doorframe, barely out of view. He peeked around the doorframe and came face to face with what he thought he would see.

There in the living area was a figure sat rigidly on the worn and faded leather sofa. The figure was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit; jacket thrown carelessly over the coffee table, and blue dress shirt sleeves messily rolled up. One hand reached to unbutton the two top buttons of the shirt which gave him a slightly more disheveled appearance. Even in the dim light John could see his flat mates tousled hair; not dirty just slightly messy.

He couldn't help but smile. It had been almost a year since his friend had come back into his life after the fall. Strangely, after the first bout of anger he easily forgave Sherlock and they had slipped back into their old routine. The tall man would always have a part in John's life whether he wanted to admit it or not, and that's why it hurt so much to see the detective with the cancer-stick in his hand.

John's plan had been to storm down the steps, rip the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand and ream out his flat mate by spitting out facts about lung cancer and such. But, as he stood in the doorway hidden behind the from his eyes were stuck on the figure, and his feet were cemented into place. The reason was that Sherlock was smoking in a way that John hadn't ever seen before. Yes, John had seen his flat mate smoke many times, but never like this. Sherlock's pupils were blown out, his body was rigid, his left hand rubbed his thigh, and his eyes stared into nothingness. It was as if the tall man was making love to his cigarette… it was pure lust that way he was smoking… something John had never thought his flat mate capable of showing. His lips curled around the smoke stick (A/N: That's what my uncle always called cigs) as he took a long drag. His eyes moved slightly to the right as he blew out a puff of smoke and then replaced the cigarette at his lips.

John leaned against the doorframe still out of sight, and tried his hardest not to moan. There was something so erotic about what he was watching. He felt like he was invading on something that was extremely private. Even though he claimed to not be gay, John couldn't help but begin to fantasize about Sherlock, his Sherlock… smoking a cigarette in bed, John breathing in the second hand straight form his friends mouth… woah.. where had that come from? Now he wouldn't ever be able to get that image of Sherlock out of his head, and he became more turned on as he continued to watch his flat mate smoke in the middle of their shared living area.

Sherlock turned his head, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. It looked like he was trying to get a fresh breath, but he kept breathing the smoke laden air that had begun to completely circle his head and spread out through the living space. He stumped out the end of his cigarette in the ashtray which had the remains of more than a dozen other cigarettes. He then took another breath and pulled a new cigarette out of the glossy green pack sitting on his leg. John could see form his place that at least two other empty packs lay on the floor, the ashtray had contents of at least half a pack, and the pack he was working on was only half full. This was bad… even for Sherlock.

It was then that John realized something was very very wrong with his flat mate. They had just finished a case, the distant detective never smoked this much when he was bored let alone still on the high form an extremely difficult case. Could it be that he was having emotions? John could of slapped himself… of course Sherlock had emotions! He tried to hide them but he obviously had them! The case had been emotional for John and he could only imagine what Sherlock was feeling in that small part of his brain where he suppressed any emotion he may have. This case had been a particularly hard one for all parties involved. It was a serial killer/rapist who specifically targeted boys and girls under the age of 12. John got part way through the case, and upon seeing the third dead child he just couldn't do it… he had thrown up in the corner and had sat the rest of the night with a shock blanket covering his shivering shoulders. He really felt for the detective; he had examined every bit of evidence, had questioned the suspect, examined the bodies of all 7 little children, and had finally pieced together exactly how all the brutal rapes and murders had taken place down to the mot miniscule detail.

To everyone else it appeared that Sherlock didn't care at all… that he was "getting off" on the way these children had brutally met their end. John knew better. He knew that Sherlock got off on having a case having a puzzle to solve… not the actual act or crime. He appeared to have no emotions when really it was all displayed through his eyes, the orbs that constantly changed color and would often have warmth and feeling that people not paying close attention would miss… John didn't. The excessive smoking suddenly made sense as all the pieces clicked inside the Doctor's head. Sherlock was FEELING… he was experiencing excessive feeling and he was coping the only way he know how… smoking… a dangerous and addictive habit that numbed all the pain… it was only a step down from the other drugs, and John knew it.

Although his palms were sweaty, his legs jelly, and he was extremely turned on, John knew he had to find a way to comfort the detective that he cared so much about. Fast as lightening he moved before he had time to rethink his actions and pressed himself right up to Sherlock their bodies molding together. "I thought we said cold turkey?" He fought the urge to cough; the smoke laden air making it just a bit harder to breath.

"It hurts…." The voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. " I don't know why… there's something wrong with me… I don't have… feelings…"

"No… everyone feels, Sherlock. There's nothing wrong with you."

The detective took a sharp intake of breath. "Caring is not an advantage," he snapped. Sherlock wasn't really mad at John and he let his hand wander to the doctors leg as he took yet another long drag of his cigarette. HE blew the smoke right into the air and they both watched as it made twisting and swirling shapes in the air before virtually disappearing.

John felt an electric shock where Sherlock's hand was rubbing his thigh but he tried to ignore it. He couldn't' really be having these… feelings… right next to his best mate! Not right now at least. He composed himself and reached up; slipping the cigarette from between the detective's fingers. He stamped it out and received a glare from the taller man. "Talk Sherlock.. you know you need to. Stop killing yourself, and tell me what you feel.. don't place an emotion to it.. just… what do you feel…"

"You stamped out my cig… I need that."

"No you don't. Now.. talk."

"It's that or the needle, John!"

John sighed, "The flat's clean… I made sure of it last week. You couldn't have got any that fast with the case and all… now… TALK." His voice was sharp at the end, but he leaned slightly into his friend to show that he wasn't angry, just the slightest bit hurt.

The eyes of his flat mate narrowed, but after a tense minute or so her gave in and began to talk. "There's a hole in my chest. It's deep and large and it feels like it's been there all my life. IT physically hurts… and when I breathe it causes me to shudder. IT was there before the children… but it's intensified all week until right now… where I feel like it's causing me trouble to breathe and function and think. MY temples burn whenever I try to think about… anything… especially the case…" His hand moved a little farther up John's thigh and he squeezed. His choice was laden with pain and obvious emotion. "I see those faces whenever I try to close my eyes… and sometime it isn't those faces… sometimes it isn't the children. Sometimes it's other people I care about. You know that feeling don't you, John? You see people in your nightmares… I know it's even me sometimes… you whimper names in your sleep." He took a deep breath and continued. IT was as if the flood gates had opened and he couldn't stop talking. "I can't eat without feeling like throwing up, and I've been biting my lips so much I can smell and taste the blood. I see the logic of what I'm feeling… but the… sentiment I'm feeling.. it's wrong."

John let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and looked to see that in fact tears were dripping out of his friends icy eyes. He no longer saw what he had seen earlier, the unbearably attractive man who smoked with ease and lust, in an arrogant and aloof manner. Instead he saw a fragile and broken little boy. He saw someone who didn't understand what he was feeling; someone falling apart, and fraying at the edges who had tried for far too long to stay stitched together. A person who was merely a tapestry of patches and left over material sewn over and over again until you couldn't fix it anymore. "You're a bloody mess." The words had escaped the Doctor's lips before he had even really thought about them.

"Was there ever a doubt in your mind of that?" Sherlock let out a pitiful little laugh that sounded hoarse and Smokey. He turned so that his back was leaning against John's arms, and his eyes begged the question he surely wasn't going to ask aloud.

"Yes, Sherlock. You can lie down…" The suit clad detective gently laid himself down with his head on his friends lap. He was physically and obviously emotionally tired. IT was all he could do to hold himself together and not become a mess of a man. John reached down and began to mess with the younger man's hair. He knew that was always a comforting gesture and figured it would work on Sherlock. The minutes ticked by the only noise that could be heard in the flat were the creaking of the old boards and the tick on the two clocks on the walls of the living area and kitchen. The wind beat the window outside and both were pretty sure they could hear the faint rumble of thunder in the distance.

Suddenly the deep baritone cut through the darkened science. "John, what does love feel like?"

It was such a strange question, and was completely unprovoked. It lulled John out of his sleepy haze and he coughed heavily before answering. "Why do you want to know?"

"I don't understand feelings…."

"So? What does that have to do with love?" John was actually curious now.

Sherlock shifted so that he could look right up at John. "It's the most… curious of the human emotions… of the expression of sentiment. I need to know.. I need someone to explain the feeling to me. Please, John…pleases…"

Maybe it was the brokenness of Sherlock's voice, or maybe it was because the man had begged at the end. Maybe it was John's own curiosity or maybe it was even that he wanted to validate his own feelings he had been having toward the detective. Still not knowing what it might have been he answered slowly and not very confidently. A few moments of silence elapsed as John thought about how to answer. He protectively and unconsciously laid his arm over Sherlock, hand right over his heart. He realized then the answer to the question. TI was so simple… yet so complex. How was he going to explain this to a man like Sherlock? "It is feeling protected." "It's what I'm feeling now…" he wanted to add, but somehow he felt that would be wrong and uncalled for at this point.

Sherlock opened one eye to show he was listening, and to silently beg John to continue his thoughts. "It's a warm feeling that starts in your chest and slowly spreads through your entire body. It is the fluttering feeling in your stomach… what most people call butterflies. It is feeling safe, protected, and special in the arms of someone that you care deeply for. It's far too complex for even me to understand, Sherlock. It's just something you have to feel…"

The detective hummed, tiredness in his throat. "Are there… physical aspects to love?"

John was glad it was dark so his flat mate couldn't see the blush spread a crossed his cheeks. "Even you have probably experienced that, Sherlock. I don't think Moriarty's nickname for you was quite true. You care to much for experimentation. Even if it was… I'm sure you've read about it… at least mechanically. Even still there are more ways to express your love besides that… like light touches, and kissing, and holding hands, and just being in the presence of that person."

A light, yet still smoky laugh escaped Sherlock's lips. "Are you embarrassed, John? Of course I have experienced small tinges of physical attraction… and something I'm sure you would consider the feeling of lust. But… I've never been 'in love…' I've never had anything that was an expression of love. What is it like…. Being in love?"

It was now John's turn to laugh. "I've never actually been in love Sherlock. If I had been I wouldn't actually be here would I? I'd be with them. I've felt pieces of it, but I'm sure I haven't a full understanding of it yet."

"Even after years of feeling?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sat up. "I think… John... I think I might… be in love." He was now face to face with his flat mate and even in the dark John could see the fire in Sherlock's eyes of course that was because they were nearly inches apart.

They just stared at each other in the dark. Hazel eyes met blue-green orbs and they just sat there. The wheels began to turn in John's brain and he just… knew. He felt it in his chest and in his stomach and in every fiber of his being. IT was him… it had to be him. How else could it be? Who else would sit with bloody Sherlock Holmes stroking his hair, trying to talk about emotions, simply sitting quietly in the dark connecting on a deeper level? Him… just him... an old army doctor. He knew he had been fighting feelings for the consulting detective… was it love? He still didn't know. But… it was a twinge of something. Something was there.

As he had watched Sherlock earlier in the night it had become a strangely erotic experience. Right now, staring right into those blue eyes he felt, right. He broke the intense gaze and pressed the palms of his hands deep into his eyes. He pressed still not talking until he saw colorful dots and swirls of abstract color on the inside of his eyelids. "Oh hell, Sherlock. I'm not-."

"I know."

"But you are?"

"I could be…"

"But… I don't… I couldn't…. I'm not… I'm…" Sherlock reached a hand out and he pressed two fingers to John's lips. The fingers were cold and they tasted like nicotine.

"Tell me…" He knew John could see right through him at that moment. His human emotions were showing… they had escaped that dark corner of his mind. His friend could see all of him right now… and it was everything Sherlock could do not to become a mess. It was so raw and so on display and he didn't know what to do, but this. He brazenly placed a hand on the middle of John's thigh. He felt… worried? But the doctor didn't tell him to stop. He moved his hand higher… higher… higher yet.

"Stop…" John's voice was barely above a whisper and his head was thrown back just lightly. He sounded like he was gasping for breath. "You need to… stop…"

The detective removed his hand and moved it up to the back of the doctor's head and pulled their faces nearly centimeters apart. John could taste the smoke on Sherlock's breathe and it was intoxicating.

"I said stop…"

"You don't mean it."

"No… I don't"

With that their lips met. It was far too brief for either of their liking but it was full of passion, and lust, and even love. Yes, that's what they supposed it was… love.

Once they had kissed Sherlock fell into John's chest his eyes slightly watering and his limbs feeling weak. It felt like he had put all his emotions, and worries, and all his power into John. It felt good… he felt…. Safe. "John," he whispered and looked at the doctor through his eyelashes. "I think I love you."

"You think?"

"I know…"

A/N: This is by far the fic I am most proud of and I'm hoping you greatly enjoyed! Here's some other sites I'm part of:

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