John, was tired. Sherlock had kept him up all night with his 'I-am-bored' violine 'playing', then a doubleshift at the emergency surgery, he walked home all the way from there since no bloody cabby seemed in the mood to earn opening the door to his and Sherlock's flat with a dramatic huff, he halted.
"Oh god, no. Sherlock!"
"What is it John?"
"If you deem it that necessary to smoke can't you atleast do it when I'm not about to get home?!"
Hearing a huff from the sofa he got rid of his coat and shoes, pulled off his jumper revealing a tight black t-shirt and dragged himself into Sherlock's direction.
The lights were off, exept for the warm orange hue from the fireplace and the light pollution of London through the windows.
The Detective looked at him as relaxed as he will only be when smoking, sitting on the floor infront of the sofa, elbows leaning onto the seat, the silk shirt was unbuttoned and a burning cigaret between his teeth.
"You were supposed to be back eight hours ago." John sighted again and dropped to the floor next to the Detective, gracelessly.
"I know. Franklin had a car crash, took his shift. Now give me those cigaretts."
Quickly Sherlock snatched the packet off the sofa with a death grip, "No. You're just putting them away again!"
Only a moment later the two were at a staredown, when John held out his hand expectantly.
"Give me on, no make that two, and a lighter, and move that ashtray here you greedy git."
Sherlock's jaw dropped for a moment, "What?!"
"Oh come on, you annoyed me for days, kept me up all night torturing your poor Stradivarius, then a doubleshift and now I'm supposed to withstand cigs! What do you think I am, a Saint?!"
This takes too long, John decided as Sherlock stared at him as if it was an April's Fool joke that still has to be revealed, and lunged at the detective, immobilizing him by staddling his lap, snatched the packet and quickly put one cigaret behind his ear and another between his lips, throwing the pack onto the table without any elegance at all, turnig around and leaning on Sherlock's chest and abdomen.
A moment later fresh smoke dissolved into the air and John sighted with delight, sinking back and feeling his muscles relax against his best friend. "Finally..."
Sherlock laughed at his doctor who, in the past, had berated him repetitive how bad smoking is.
"That's why I'm not allowed to smoke. You quit but can't withstand it at all." he hummed.
"YES exactly! Now do shut up I'm trying to enjoy my relapse of poisioning myself, Sherlock." John snapped at him, but smiled anyway, "You're so much nicer when there's Nicotin."
He chuckled and placed the ashtray, the one from the Palace, next to them.
They didn't talk as they watched the fire crackle, Sherlock leaned to the sofa, bare chest to clothed back with John who sat between his legs, fingertips caressing the thick scar from the shot on his shoulder through the shirt.
Smoking in silence, the two enjoyed the calm and John had just lighted the second cigaret when they heared hurried footsteps on the stairs.
"Greg." they groaned synchronal, not moving at all as the door swung open.
"Sherlock, why don't you answer your ph- For god's sake, John will kill you." Lestrade groaned as he smelled the smoke and rounded the sofa.
"Hi Greg." they both saied and grinned unison.
"John?!", he gasped, freezing, taking in their position and feeling a blush creep up his neck. They looked so intimate..
"Yes, I couldn't bear it any longer. Sorry. You are the last one left to save our dignity!" the doctor cheered and threw his arms up in a dramatic gesture.
"Hell no. Peer pressure! Hand one over." was the grinning DI's retort as he took off his jacket and pushed his sleeves up over the elbows.
John just smiled and threw the red pack at Lestrade who caught it and instantly fell onto the sofa, lighted a cig and took a deep drag.
Then he looked at the two next to him on the floor again, Sherlocks skin gleamed in the firelight, and blushed at his thought, "I envy you two."
Sherlock laughted and John looked at him irritated, "No, we're not together. Platonic!"
Greg smiled, "I know. That's why it is special."
The deep baritone of Sherlock hummed and suddenly John had turned half around and grabbed Lestrade's arm, pulling him until he gave in and let himself get positioned between John's legs.
It felt weird when hands pulled his shoulders back until they, and his back, were flush against a well muscled chest. John, he noticed, wasn't as soft as he looked, the jumpers hid it well.
John rested his right hand against Greg's shoulder, he could feel how tense the man was, the elevated pulse and the blush that was almost hidden by the fire.
It took a minute until the shoulders smoothed down, until Greg leaned into him and relaxed.
When his cigared died out Greg dropped it into the ashtray, leaning his head back as he pushed the bridge of his nose and eyes against John's firm neck, felt the slightly scratchy stubble at his forehead and sighted.
Damn this felt good, and warm, and comfortable, and .. safe.
Before he knew what he did he placed a kiss, maybe two, onto the tanned skin and slowly got lulled into a dreamless sleep by the crackling fire, the soft breaths, the steady heartbeat against his back and and the smell of cinnamon, coffee and tobacco, the smell of John.