A/N: This is the first thing I've posted, it's just a little angsty Teenlock drabble. It's very short, just a little thing that popped up in my mind, sorry if it's a bit OOC. Anyways, please enjoy and review, I would love some constructive criticism. I'm not a very good writer right now, but practice makes perfect I guess! By the way, just to clear up any confusion, the italics are his thoughts.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, if I did Johnlock would be canon and we'd have 10 seasons!
Sherlock looked doubtfully at the items in his hand. Cigarettes, huh... He'd seen his father smoke them on numerous occasions, but had never tried them before. Rolling them between his long fingers, he pondered the pros and cons.
Hmph, I'm sure the neighbors would talk. 'That Sherlock, smoking cigarettes when he's only 14!' Sherlock smirked. Let them talk. They never accepted him anyways.
Sherlock didn't care what they said, he just needed something. Something to fill the gaping hole inside of him. Something to make him feel more ordinary, to make him feel less alone in the world. He picked up his father's lighter and lit the roll of tobacco. He let it burn in his hand, just breathing in the smoke. It smelled heavy and cloying, a scent that always seemed to hang around his father.
Sherlock wondered if there really was something wrong with him. He'd read about sociopaths before, he wondered if that's what he was. It seemed an ugly word, a brandished title screaming to the world that he was different, that there was something wrong with him.
Hands shaking slightly, he raised the cigarette to his pale lips. He inhaled deeply and felt the smoke fill his lungs. Sherlock immediately began choking and coughing. He tried desperately to bring air into his lungs, but he felt like he couldn't breathe at all. He was hunched over, violent coughs still tearing through his frail body. Eventually most of the smoke was expelled from his lungs and he could breathe with ease again. Sherlock placed the cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. For just a second there, as he tried to pull air into his smoke-filled lungs, he felt something. Almost as if he was teetering on the brink between life and death.
Ha, I'm being way too over-dramatic. Oh well... When he felt like that, he didn't have to think. He didn't have to analyze or deduce. He didn't have to feel that pit in his chest that always seemed to be there, waiting to be filled. Sherlock laughed at himself. How pitiful am I now, having to resort to this. Sherlock closed his eyes, lifted the half-burnt cigarette to his lips once more, and inhaled deeply.
