Yeah this is probably my favourite so far. Let me know what you think.
C I G A R E T T E S
As she left St Barts on one of February's coldest days, Molly saw him, leaning against a wall, his hands patting down his long coat. A long white cigarette hung from his lips as he fumbled, clearly frustrated, through his pockets. She contemplated walking past him; he wouldn't mind anyway. He wasn't the kind of person to care whether or not she'd ignored him in the street. Likelihood is that he'd probably ignore her if she spoke to him anyway. Nevertheless, Molly Hooper found herself drawing up to him, her hands flexing within her mittens.
"Do you need a light?" She asked from behind him. He spun quickly, eyes trickling over her.
"You don't smoke." He said, cigarette partially muffling his words. Molly opened her bag and, after a few seconds rummaging through the rubbish she'd accumulated since buying the bloody thing, her hand happened upon a box of matches. She shook them at him and he nodded towards the leather gloves which he had on.
"If you wouldn't mind." He said simply. Actually, Molly did mind. She looked at her own mittened hands, sighing. She pulled her gloves off, pushing them into her bag before numbly fumbling for a match.
The scratch as the match struck the side of the box. The warm smell of fire. The beautiful moment when the flame illuminated his face for a second.
He took a long draw, bowed lips tightening around the cigarette before a billow of while smoke leaked from his nostrils and mouth.
"You don't smoke." He repeated, nodding towards the box of matches.
"A woman's bag is full of mysteries." She replied cutely, "I don't even know why they're in there."
"For times like these?" He offered, taking another long, thoughtful drag.
Another silence hung between them as a cloud of smoke swept between their faces.
"Terrible habit." She noted, nodding towards the cigarette.
"You did light it for me." He shrugged, "It's like giving someone bullets for a gun then telling them it's wrong to fire it."
He had a point. Then again, Sherlock Holmes always had a point. She nodded submissively.
"It helps me think." He said his eyes running along the line of the cigarette, the bright amber ember at the end casting a burning reflection in his eyes, "A relaxant."
"Meditating works for some people."
He gave her dry look before inhaling again. No Molly, she thought, Sherlock Holmes does not meditate.
"I reasoned cigarettes are better than drugs." He said quickly, "A lot easier to come by."
She couldn't tell whether or not he was joking. She hoped he was.
"There are labs full of drugs upstairs." Molly countered, wishing she could stop her words. His mouth twitched into a small smile, as though he appreciated her awkward utterances.
"Was that an offer?" he asked, still smirking.
"Definitely not." She swallowed, "What about nicotine patches?"
"What about them?"
"Why don't you give them a try?" Molly rubbed her cold hands together, "They're little sticky patches. Nicotine is released through the skin. They calm the addiction and you don't get blackened lungs."
"Yes thank you, I do know what nicotine patches are, Molly." He observed the quickly vanishing cigarette before taking another draw, stubbing the burning end out under his foot. She blushed a little at her ridiculousness.
"Well." She sighed, "It was just a thought."
"Noted." He said quickly, voice lacking in naturalness. He spun, his coat fluttering around him. He didn't say goodbye as he walked off, though Molly found her own mouth calling out after him.
"See you around, Sherlock." She smiled, her voice laced with the hope that he'd turn around. He didn't.
Four days later, Sherlock Holmes was in the lab, this time leaning over a work bench, his body devoid of a jacket. He was thoroughly engaged in a specimen in a Petri dish, his eyes sparkling wondrously at his latest experiment. He didn't even notice Molly as she walked in, setting a cup of coffee down beside him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the arch in his forearm protruding as he fiddled with a pipette.
She noticed three little nicotine patches stamped up his arm, a subtle shade lighter than his skin tone. She didn't say a word to him, though a small smile crept across her face as she began her work.
I just love the fact it was enough niceness that he took her advice, even though he didn't show that he would. I don't know...that weirdness sort of appeals to me.
More to come soon!