Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters, nor do I profit from this writing. It's purely for my own and other's enjoyment.

Author's Note: This is placed somewhere between the second and third episodes of the first series.

It was a cold night. The sky was clear of clouds, though a haze hung in the air, covering the moon in a foggy glaze of uneven white wisps. Small puffs of heat mingled with the air as I took shallow breaths, avoiding the thick smoke clouds billowing from Sherlock's mouth. Pale light from the moon reflected off the two blue-gray orbs peering through the shadows, darkened by intelligence far greater than the average man. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he raised the cigarette to his lips again, forming a small circle with prominent pink lips to blow more smoke between his teeth.

"If it bothers you that much, leave," he said, retaining the regular bored lilt that almost always seemed to catch his voice.

I simply swallowed, choosing not to respond. Truthfully, I despised smokers; what was the point in slowly murdering the organs that provide the body with a necessary substance? But there was something about Sherlock, something I couldn't place, that urged me to watch him. Maybe it was because he was always the one observing other people- maybe he just intrigued me. Bit of both, I figured. The bottom line was that there were very few times that Sherlock allowed any raw emotion to shine through the flat mask he usually wore, and the moments in which he smoked were some of those few exceptions. It had taken me a while to decipher what exactly each drag of the cigarette meant, or what each billow of smoke signaled, but after this long I was fairly confident I understood what each action meant.

An easy, slow drag meant smoking was currently a secondary action, and Sherlock's mind was preoccupied with something more pressing. A case, most likely, or maybe a memory that was particularly annoying to him. This was acquainted with the shorter, quick puffs of smoke he created, as if making a rhythm for his mind to work. He didn't use this one often, as he preferred to stick on a couple of nicotine patches and let his mind get to work without being distracted by his body, but the few times he was already smoking and a new question came up I had noticed him go back to this sort of pattern.

There was also a deep, deliberate drag, meaning he was in need of nicotine and mostly just desperate to consume some of the addictive substance. This usually meant something subtle was picking at his mind, and he didn't understand what it could mean or develop into yet. This one was accompanied by the same smoke-through-teeth exhales he was creating now, making me wonder what it was that he was contemplating.

At least it wasn't the quick, sure sucking on the cigarette that meant he was going to suggest something that would likely kill us both. Those drags were followed by thoughtful, circular smoky holes that melted quickly into the air. The few times Sherlock had performed this particular movement gave me chills even before he had told me his plans.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock's voice took me by surprise. I cleared my throat slightly, reluctant to tell him the extent of my observations. He was, after all, the only one supposed to read other people.

"Smoking," I finally settled on, keeping my gaze forward and hopefully neutral.

Sherlock sucked deeply on the cigarette, still staring at me. The smoke he released came out in thin trails, warning me of the sort of question he would likely ask next - a deeper one, likely personal. He'd only ever done this once before but I hadn't forgotten.

"What are you really thinking, John? You aren't that concerned with the overall health of smokers."

Of course, this was Sherlock, and lying further was probably pointless. By this stage of our companionship he knew me too well to believe anything less than conviction, and unfortunately, I was an awful liar. "I was thinking about you smoking," I amended, refusing to give out more information than that. There was something about Sherlock Holmes, something that intrigued me, but until I knew what that thing was, I would keep my mouth shut.

Sherlock continued puffing on the cigarette thoughtfully, looking a tad impressed, or maybe even confused? He sucked smoke into his mouth slowly, this time letting out wide, loose, and lazy clouds from his rosy lips. I'd never seen that one before…

"Do you know why I picked you to be my roommate?" he asked suddenly, his deep voice vibrating through my ears at the same tone he always spoke in - one that had become incredibly familiar and welcoming to me over the past little while.

"Something about my willingness to lend you my phone?" I answered warily, wondering vaguely where he was going with this. A tiny part of me felt ruffled and uncomfortable, as if I had stepped a tad too far over a barrier I knew I shouldn't cross.

"Well, yes, obviously," he waved his hand idly, puffing on the cigarette again. His eyes met mine momentarily before he added, "I saw potential."

I stared back at Sherlock, widening my eyes slightly. I played the sentence through my head a few times before I convinced myself that that had, indeed, just come out of his mouth. It was possibly the closest he'd ever come to giving me a real compliment.

"Oh."

We stood there for a while longer, both completely silent to our thoughts. My warm breaths still clouded in the cool air around my nose, and Sherlock's smoke wafted up into the sky. I couldn't help but appreciate this moment. I was content, despite the words that went unsaid by both of us.

I don't like smokers; in fact, I hate smokers, and I hate the smell of cigarettes. But I appreciate the small glimpse it gives me into the cold, marble character of Sherlock Holmes. It helps me understand how parts of him – how he works, both in his observations and his movements, and how thoughts process through that brilliant head of his. Though, I think I've always known I could never truly decode him.

Sherlock spends all his time searching for the next mystery. He works on solving them, piecing them together like little bits of a puzzle, unscrambling confusing signs to make sense of some sort of collective mess. He sees connections and parts that no-one else can possibly see, and very few can manage to get close to him. I suppose I'm really not so different from him – I just have a harder time trying to put together the mess behind those pale, blue-gray eyes.