summary: smoking is hazardous to your health…and baby you're killing me.
notes: so australia's just fucking voted in the love child of mitt romney and robin thicke as prime minister. i'm fucking pissed off because this misogynistic, homophobic, racist fuck is now running my country and I need to let off some steam. have some sherlolly on me. sandals out.
dedications: to anyone who is willing to take in a homeless Australian
disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. No infringement of copyright is intended.
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a cigarette on your lips
When Sherlock Holmes returned to the land of the living, many things had changed to the life he had been so very used to. For one thing his best friend, but now ex-flat mate, John Watson had married the wonderful Mrs Mary Watson nee Morstan and was now living with her in their own quaint little flat. The consulting detective bore no ill feelings towards the couple, having decided early on that Mary Morstan was probably the only person he would approve as a companion for John.
However, Sherlock felt that 221B would not be quite the same without the constant presence of his blogger. For an entire a week he sulked on the couch in his blue, silk dressing gown, until John and DI Lestrade staged an intervention, bringing along with them a new case that quickly perked the detective's interest. Sherlock was quick to realise that his initial deduction of his living arrangement had been somewhat off. Although John spent most of his time sleeping and eating at home with his wife, he was a regular visitor at Baker Street and still kept a spare set of clothes over there in case he was needed there for a case. Mrs Watson had been very understanding of the situation and was also a frequent visitor at Baker Street. They made sure that their friend would never be alone again and Sherlock Holmes quickly became used to the change in his lifestyle.
In fact, sometimes he revelled in it.
Although there were moments he missed his friend, the consulting detective realised that with his newfound independency also came a new sense of freedom. The absence of John brought back one of Sherlock's favourite pastimes.
Smoking.
God how he had missed the smell of cigarettes and the calm that washed over him when he took a long drag from one of them.
Oh yes, he was going to enjoy his independence quite well.
Another rather major change to the consulting detective's lifestyle was his relationship with his pathologist.
Ah yes, the lovely Dr Molly Hooper. During the aftermath of his suicide, Sherlock had come to realise she was a very significant factor in his life. He had also come to realise that his treatment of her in the past did not reflect at all how important she was. Molly Hooper did count, and Sherlock Holmes had resolved to prove it to her.
With his return, he treated Molly like the qualified pathologist that she was, rather than his servant. He shared more genuine smiles with her and would even go so far as to do small favours for her.
After a rather long case, the detective was finishing up in the lab around the same time Molly's night shift had ended. As per usual, he did not eat whilst he was on a case, but once he had solved it, he realised that he was particularly hungry. Molly had not had dinner that night either.
And that was what had led Sherlock Holmes and his friend Molly Hooper to enjoy their first dinner together at Angelo's restaurant.
After that, it sort of became an unspoken tradition that the pair would share a meal together after a case.
Obviously, the press had a field day. Boffin detective Sherlock Holmes, repeatedly spotted out with a female companion. It made front page news for a week straight.
No one really knew the nature of their relationship. People at the Yard claimed that they were only colleagues. Doctor's at Bart's said that they had been seeing each other in secret for years. Disgruntled fans alleged that Sherlock Holmes would never look twice at a woman like Molly Hooper.
But no one really knew. Mainly because the pair themselves didn't understand their own relationship.
Their outings had become more frequent, Sherlock made more appearances at Barts and Molly was often sighted at Baker Street. On particularly late nights, the detective would be seen escorting his pathologist home. Some people claim to have seen Dr Hooper wearing the detective's signature scarf on cold evenings.
Things were definitely progressing. And neither Molly nor Sherlock could say they were against it.
Really it was no secret that Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes. She always had and always would. And she wouldn't lie, the progression of their relationship let loose a swarm of butterflies in her stomach and she would often lie in bed, dreaming of curly black locks and devastatingly beautiful, blue eyes.
But it would seem that the progress of their relationship had become stagnant. They still went out to eat, even went to a museum to view an exhibit of anthropology. Sherlock had even held her hand once, under the pretence that he had forgotten his gloves at home and his hands were cold. Sure.
But what really taunted Molly was the consulting detective's perfect Cupid's bow lips. They were just asking to be kissed.
And how she wanted to, she'd been dreaming about kissing Sherlock Holmes long before the fall- practically since the first day she met him.
They had come close once, only just a week ago. Sherlock had walked her home, as customary when they spent a long night at the lab. They had evaded the incessant paparazzi by ducking through back alleyways and scrambling over rooftops. Most women probably wouldn't consider being dragged around London to be a particularly romantic venture, but Molly found it to be quite exhilarating and particularly loved it when the detective grasped her hand securely, in order to prevent them from getting separated. It sent her senses into a frenzy and was the most exhilarating feeling she had ever experienced. It was a brief glimpse into the life that Sherlock Holmes led.
Once they had finally arrived at the doorstep of her flat, they would normally say their goodbyes, maybe if Molly was feeling particularly bold she would give him a quick hug, then retreat into her home before Sherlock would be able to react.
But that night had been different. Both Molly and Sherlock had lingered at the doorstep, putting off their goodbyes with the adrenaline from evading the press still rushing through their veins. Neither of them seemed to notice their bodies acting on their own accord and the space between them slowly shrinking.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Molly suddenly stopped and went rigid. The ever observant detective was quick to notice. She let out a nervous giggle in a futile attempt to mask her discomfort.
"Right well...um...goodnight Sherlock. See you tomorrow." and with that, she had rushed into her flat, leaving the unusually confused detective outside.
Molly had feared that she had surely ruined whatever fragile relationship she had with the detective. But the next day, Sherlock was back in the lab, acting as if the strange event of the other night had not occurred. They went out for lunch again, and he had escorted her home as usual. But there was no second attempt at a kiss.
She wanted to kiss him, she really really did. But she couldn't.
And it was simply because of the fact that she could not stand the smell of cigarettes on his lips.
It completely put her off. Molly knew how addicted Sherlock was to smoking, and now that John was living with Mary and didn't have the opportunity to snoop through 221B to find Sherlock's hidden stash, the consulting detective had taken to smoking up to one pack a day. Standing close to him, Molly could only faintly smell the smoke (and even that had put her off a bit, but she endured) but once their faces were only inches apart, the pungent smell completely assaulted her senses. It was far too much for her.
She had never outright expresses her hatred for his smoking, in fear that it would put a strain on their delicate relationship. Of course she had tutted silently when ever he lit up a cigarette and sighed in dismay when ever he let out a puff of smoke but that was the extent of how she displayed her irritation.
But now Molly was in the lab, left alone with her thoughts and her frustration over not being able to kiss Sherlock Holmes. He had been able to quit smoking before, did he really need to start up again?
"Stupid Sherlock and his stupid smoking…" Molly muttered to herself. God, it was really getting to her.
And just because the universe seemed to enjoy spiting her, not two seconds later, Sherlock Holmes strutted in…with a cigarette in his hand.
Molly through up her hands and let out an aggravated groan at the sight of him, "God Sherlock, really? Really?"
The consulting detective raised an eyebrow at her "Is something the matter, Molly?"
"Yes, something's the matter. Do you have to smoke in here?"
Sherlock was surprised. He knew that his pathologist wasn't fond of his habit, but she had never chastised him about it, "Really now Molly, are you going to give me a lecture like John? Tell me about how I'm going to end up coughing my lungs out?"
"You should listen to John more, Sherlock. It's a horrible habit, plus smoking isn't permitted in the lab."
Just to annoy her more, Sherlock placed the cigarette back on his lips and took a long, deep drag. The slight twitching of Molly's eye was worth it.
"I don't understand why it bothers you so much." he said, smirking at her.
"It bother's me because you're going to end up with black lungs, Sherlock! Your fingers are going to turn yellow and disgusting! And it smells disgusting, god I would've snogged you senseless ages ago if I could even breathe around you!"
Molly gasped in horror, her hands flying to her mouth as she realised what she had blurted out.
The detective's eyes widened in surprise at her admission.
"I- I've got to go." she squeaked.
She fled.
Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT!
Three hours ago, Molly Hooper had burst out that she would've snogged Sherlock Holmes senseless if he didn't smell so bad. Three hours ago she had run away from her would-have-been-boyfriend-if-she-hadn't-opened-her -stupid-mouth. And as of three hours ago, she had been hiding in the deepest darkest corner of the morgue, with only the decaying corpse of Mr Abott to keep her company.
There went her chances of ever being anything-more-than-friends with Sherlock Holmes. Ugh, he probably never wanted to see her again.
Oh god. What if he told John? What if John put it up on his blog!?
As Molly contemplated how difficult it would be to change her identity and move out of the country, the morgue doors slammed open.
There, in all his glory, stood the majestic man that was Sherlock Holmes.
The second his eyes landed on her, he strode purposefully towards her, an aura of determination hanging over him.
"Sher- mmph!?"
He didn't even allow her to finish saying his name before he grasped her on either side of her face and smashed his lips onto hers in a searing and passionate kiss.
Oh god it was spectacular. For someone with no practice, Sherlock Holmes was a fucking brilliant kisser. His lips were soft and he tasted like-
He tasted like…not cigarettes…
Molly drew back mid-kiss, staring at him wide-eyed, "You don't taste like..." she deliberated for a suitable word "well you don't taste like you're supposed to."
"I've quit smoking." he said simply, smirking at her.
The pathologist blinked, trying to comprehend the situation.
"You see, there's this pathologist who told me that she wanted to snog me senseless," he continued, he smirk growing as he watched the blush spread on Molly's cheeks, "But she absolutely can't stand the smell of cigarette smoke. So…" he moved his face closer so that their noses were touching, "some sacrifices had to be made."
Molly beamed, "But it hasn't even been four hours and you smell fantastic-"
"Molly," Sherlock interjected sternly, "I used two tubes of toothpaste and an entire bottle of mouthwash to get rid of the smell. I'm fairly certain that the majority of my tastebuds have been burnt off my tongue." He grinned and his eyes sparkled mischievously "So you better keep your promise and snog me senseless."
She didn't need to be told twice.