Nicotine

Waterlogged Cigarettes

John lay in bed, wide awake again. He stared at the ceiling contemplating what had happened just a few hours ago.

Sherlock had tensed ever so slightly when he touched his chest. Ever so slightly. Natural reaction to his cold hands. Obviously.

John tapped his fingers on the duvet anxiously. Sherlock was attractive, he could see that as a fellow male and from the female attention he received wherever he went. The sight of his lean body marred by violent bruises made him want to simultaneously punch someone and comfort Sherlock.

Not that Sherlock would want to be comforted.

He looked at the digital clock on the table beside him. It glowed a soft green.

7.52

John rolled over and stretched. Time to rise and shine. Better to get up and maintain a normal sleep schedule -he'd only lost a couple of hours- than to lie in and muck it up for days. Also, Sherlock needed to take more painkillers.

John slipped a dressing gown on over his pyjamas. Yawning, he walked through to the kitchen. Put the kettle on. For the first time in nearly a month, took out two mugs. Made two teas. One decaf, so Sherlock could go back to sleep after he drank it.

Four pills, two mugs, one tray. He padded over to Sherlock's room. Balanced the tray on the doorknob with one hand and knocked softly with the other.

No answer.

He pushed the door open a little. Sherlock was fast asleep, and the room smelled of cigarettes. John swore under his breath. He set down the tray and grabbed the packet from Sherlock's floor, slipping it in his pocket.

"Sherlock."

Nothing.

"Sherlock."

"Gggrmm."

"Wake up. Painkillers. Now." John said, with the ghost of a smile.

Sherlock rolled onto his back with a pained groan, his chest bare. His curls flopped around his forehead, and his eyes remained decidedly shut.

"Here, I'm putting them here. And you are going to take them, all. Then you can sleep until twelve, when you'll have to take more. Okay?" John told him.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?" Asked John

"Out. Get...out." Came the reply.

John cursed the ungrateful bastard and left, slamming the door on his way out. Sherlock jerked up at the loud noise.

On second thoughts, telling John to get out was rude. He sighed. It was not, however, rude enough to apologise over. Sherlock frowned as he tried to sit up. He took the pills, two paracetamol, two ibuprofen. Decaf tea. He grimaced as it slid down his throat. Probably for the best, he was so tired. He slumped back on the pillows, and closed his eyes.

*

Twelve o'clock came and went. So did John. Without so much as a smile, tea and painkillers were deposited wordlessly at Sherlock's bedside. Sherlock groaned into the pillows.

*

John sat at the desk, cup of tea in hand and newspaper open. He still wasn't dressed, and obviously had no intention to do so.

There was a muffled swear from the hall and then Sherlock appeared, draped in a sheet.

"I'm going to have a shower." Sherlock said.

John gestured distractedly to his right, where a mug of tea and pills lay.

"It's nearly four."

Sherlock shuffled over and took the pills, sweeping out for a shower carrying the tea.

"Not quite sure how you're planning to drink that." John said with the ghost of a smile.

Sherlock grinned at him from the doorframe. "I'll find a way."

"In the shower?"

Their eyes met and John snorted.

"Mind my handiwork! Re-taping is not much fun." John yelled as Sherlock shut the bathroom door.

Sherlock reappeared in an hour, sharply dressed and hair immaculate. John appeared unmoved at the desk.

"Where are they?" Sherlock yawned.

"What?" John said with a smirk.

"Cigarettes!" Sherlock exclaimed. He eyed John carefully. "What have you done with them? They were on my bedroom floor..."

He stalked over and began overturning books, throwing papers and flipping open files.

Sherlock took one look at John's only-too-innocent face, and plunged a hand into John's dressing gown pocket. His hand shot out, clutching the cigarette packet.

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. He flipped open the packet, only to find it empty. John laughed.

"Detectives with damaged ribs don't get to smoke secret cigarettes in their bedrooms late at night. Sink."

Sherlock frowned and strode over to the sink. His cigarettes were floating in lukewarm water. He swore.

John looked at him. Sherlock stared at his waterlogged cigarettes.

"Revenge for the tube compartment incident?" John suggested with a grin.

Sherlock looked up from the sink.

"Deal."