Early morning light broke into the room and woke up the man under the duvet. He groaned and stretched his long limbs. He could hear someone clattering around the kitchen. Someone had woken up early. John! He rubbed his eyes.

His lips twitched into a small smile when his eyes registered the room- periodic table, familiar duvet and all. He was home, truly home. He did miss 221B.

Something is not here. Wait. The photograph of me and Mycroft was missing.

He could ask John about it – it could be another nice ice-breaker. It had been five days since the two started living together again. There was a strange awkwardness in the air whenever they were together.

Was John still angry?

He wondered. It seemed that a survival instinct as a soldier had kicked in and John seemed to have managed rather well after his "suicide". But it didn't necessarily mean John wasn't mad at him. For the time being it would be wise to cater to his flatmate as much as possible.

In his nightgown, Sherlock entered the kitchen, yawning. It was 7:10. John was making tea. The detective cleared his throat. The ex-army doctor turned around and said,

"Ah, you're up. Did I wake you up? Sorry. Habit. I usually go to the practice by 8:30."

"It's okay. I was up."

John put two eggs in a small pot and asked,

"The kettle's just boiled. Toast? Boiled eggs?"

"Sure."

His answer was unexpected and the doctor hastily put two more eggs before he turned on the heat. The old Sherlock used to accept coffee or tea only. Silence again. They needed time to get used to new "norms". The detective decided to talk about the photo.

"John, I was wondering…"

"I gave it to Mycroft."

"What?"

"The photograph of you and Mycroft in your bedroom. "

The doctor placed toast plate on the table and put fresh bread in the toaster. He turned around and took out a jar of jam from the fridge. Sherlock was alarmed.

How did he possibly know what I was talking about?

John said matter-of-factly,

"I had some questions about your death. I needed an excuse to contact him. I thought he would love it."

"Ah, there is no hope of getting it back then."

John sat down and started to spread jam on his toast.

"Why?"

"Well, that is the only picture of "fat" Mycroft that I have. He's always wanted to destroy it."

"Humn"

John chuckled and took a bite of his toast. Ring! The timer rang. He turned off the heat and brought steamy eggs. Sherlock poured tea in John's mug first and then his. His hand picked up one egg as the doctor spoke, dropping it instantaneously as John finished his sentence.

"You've been smoking again. At least one full package a day over the last two years."

Sherlock stared at John.

"Did Mycroft tell you?"

John finished his toast, and got two more toasts from the toaster. He mechanically answered after a few sips of his tea,

"Smoking finger syndrome. I can see it from burns on your colored fingertips… My leave ends today. I had taken a week off. Today is the sixth day of our flat-share; I've been staying at home almost 24 hours so you didn't have any chance to have a drag. You're coughing a lot. Your voice is getting hoarse. You're massaging your fingers a lot without knowing. Tingling in the hands, I guess. They point at the withdrawal symptoms when a heavy smoker quits smoking too fast."

Mingled with embarrassment and surprise, the sleuth stammered,

"How?"

John smiled,

"Observation. Your deduction must have rubbed off on me. It happens sometimes when I see a patient."

Suddenly, John fixed his eyes onto Sherlock's, stating sternly,

"Well, simply agree to quit smoking, cold turkey, Sherlock. You know that you can't hide it from me."

What?

Startled, Sherlock opened his eyes. It was still dark.

It was a dream, a bad dream.

He woke up and put on his nightgown. He staggered towards the window and saw the sky had turned into pale shades of pink in the east. He shuddered: it wasn't because of the early morning chills. John's icy eyes...The dream was so vivid.

The problem was that he could kill for a cigarette at that moment. John took a week off to move back, and had stayed at home all the time. John's eyes followed him as if he had to make it sure that Sherlock was not a ghost. John's presence made it impossible to smoke or buy nicotine patches. Tomorrow John was going back to his clinic. He made a mental note to stack up nicotine patches the next day.

Footsteps…Clattering of pots and china. John must have woken up. He wasn't hungry but decided to go out and eat. Talking over breakfast…might melt the ice between the two. He had been trying to eat since John moved back. He dressed up and opened his door.

"Good morning."

Sherlock's voice cracked.

Damn. I should have drunk more water.

Trying not to cough, the sleuth picked up morning newspapers and entered the kitchen. No experiment tools but his microscope. The kitchen table was serving its original purpose at last.

"You're up early, Sherlock. The kettle's boiled. Toast? Eggs?"

"Sure"

After seconds of pause, the detective added.

"Thanks. Do you want me to make coffee?"

"Why not? The coffee bags are in the second top cabinet. Two sugars for me, Sherlock."

He made coffee as he was told. One with two sugars and the other without. John kept himself busy, placing a plate of toasts and a bowl of eggs on the table. Sherlock avoided the eggs until they cooled down. He was spreading jam on his toast when he noticed John's eyes fixated on his "yellow" stained fingers.

"Your finger, Sherlock…It's colored. Did you..."

Sherlock sprang up like a rabbit.

"Well, John, I forgot. I had to see Lestrade. He's just texted me. He's waiting in the café downstairs. I'll be back soon."

"It's not 7:30 yet!"

John yelled after the sleuth.

"They open at 8:00.*"

He shook his head and continued his breakfast.

Actually I visited Speedy's webpage, but couldn't find information about their open hours. Here, I just assumed it opens at 8:00. :-)

Thanks for reading. Reviews are very very welcome. Loosely related to "Empty House".