This will be a series of short domestic, drabbles, everyday life at 221B. If you have any ideas of what you'd like to see in this story let me know. As always reviews are much appreciated!
John paid the cabbie and then ran quickly to the door of 221 B, getting drenched in the downpour that had started about a half hour ago. It was a short distance from the cab to the door but nonetheless he ended up feeling uncomfortably wet in his clothes. He had been planning on going out for drinks with Stamford but shortly after they had gotten to the pub the violent storm started and the power had gone out, cutting their visit short. It was a frustrating ending to a bad day.
After the morning that they'd had John had been looking for a chance to get his mind off things. He and Sherlock had been working on a case for the past few weeks that had been frustrating to say the least, a kidnapping with almost nothing to go on. Even Sherlock had found it taxing though he wouldn't openly admit it. John could see the subtle signs of stress on his flat mate. Finally, after all this time they had found the hideout of the criminal. Unfortunately they had also found the body of the child. John just couldn't shake the memory of it. He and Sherlock had ridden back home in silence and they had moved quietly around the flat the rest of the day, not speaking or doing much of anything. They didn't speak all day until John had announced that he was going to be going out. Sherlock hadn't said anything, appearing lost in thought as he sat in his chair staring at the wall.
John twisted the doorknob of their flat and found it surprisingly locked. John found this strange as Sherlock never locked the door; even when he went out he usually didn't remember to lock the door of the flat much to John's annoyance. So to find it locked was not only frustrating ( as he continued to be soaked through) but puzzling. John fumbled with his keys in his pocket, producing the correct one and inserting it in the door.
When he stepped into the flat he wasn't surprised to see it was pitch black here as well. He stumbled toward the steps and walked cautiously up the stairs. The dark wasn't surprising; however what was surprising was the smoke that had completely permeated the flat. When John stepped into the living room he saw Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot that he had left him, a fire in the fireplace illuminating his face, smoking. From the amount of smoke that filled the air and the pile of ashes in the tray on the table John would say that Sherlock had been smoking the entire time that he been gone. John coughed as the smoke overtook him. " Sherlock, what are you doing?!" he asked between coughs.
Sherlock took a long drag off his cigarette and blew it out slowly, shamelessly, before answering. "I could ask you the same thing" he said lazily. " Thought you'd be gone a while."
"So I leave and you just decide that you start smoking? What else do you do when I'm gone Sherlock?" John asked, " What happened to quitting? You were doing well with that….and I thought I got rid of all of your cigarettes. Where'd you get these?"
"Did you really think that you knew all my hiding spots?" Sherlock asked as he blew out some more smoke. He finished off the cigarette and gave a John a small glance before taking out another.
"Hey, hey!" John said as he took the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand. " Stop it. You're supposed to be quitting and anyway I think you've had enough" he gestured to the huge amount of smoke that filled the flat "Hate to think of what your lungs look like right now. Don't know how you're even still breathing, don't you know all the-"
"All the effects of smoking?" Sherlock asked "Course I do. Dull, how dull." He snatched the cigarette out of John's hand and rather than fight it, John just gave into him. Sherlock lit it and began to fill the room and his lungs with more smoke. "It's calming ." he said.
"I thought your patches were calming" John said, "What happened to doing that?"
"Well, I did think you'd be out after all" Sherlock gave him a somewhat guilty look. Not guilty as in sorry but guilty as in a child that is sorry they got caught, not sorry for what they did. " And before you get any ideas that I do this often when you're gone, I will tell you that I don't. Only when things are particularly…..troubling."
John studied Sherlock's face as he starred at the flames in the fireplace. He thought about events of the day, saw the child again in his mind and felt a chill. Yes, surely even Sherlock was affected by this. John knew that this was not something that Sherlock often did; he had to have a reason behind it. John decided to leave Sherlock alone about the smoking….this time.
"Well, just tonight" John said, admitting defeat " Tomorrow you're back to quitting. Doctor's orders"
John wasn't sure but he thought he saw the slight twitch of smile from the detective as he headed for his bedroom.
