Title: No catapult to all night kisses
Author: cathedral carver
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: T
Word count: 1,400
Warnings: Smoking?

Summary: I'm jealous of your cigarette.

Written for the sherlockbbc_ficKink Meme prompt: Scenario where Sherlock thinks John is asleep and sneaks into the living room to smoke. Unknown to him, John comes down to get something or hears a noise and sees Sherlock smoking. He secretly watches and cant get enough of the sight. Bonus if there's decadent, luxurious descriptions of smoking.


I'm jealous of your cigarette
And all the things you do with it
I'm jealous of your cigarette
And the pleasure that you get from it
And not me

~Hawksley Workman

It was a small noise, but John was a light sleeper and just like that, he was wide awake, heart galloping, legs half off the bed, hands curled into tight fists, one-two-three, ready to fight. 2:14 a.m., by the bedside clock. He sat up on his elbows, turned his head and listened, hard.

Sherlock was a nocturnal creature by nature, John knew, knew it with every bone in his weary body, but he still was not completely used to the strange night noises that accompanied the rambling treks from room to room and back again, cupboard doors opening and closing, beakers clinking during the often clumsy attempts at half-arsed experiments, because fatigue pressed in on him, despite haughty claims to the contrary: "I don't get tired, John."

"Well, I've heard you drop things, more than once—"

"I don't drop them. I let them fall. All part of the experiment." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, and that was the end of that.

Regardless, in the dark, in the deep stillness after midnight, everything that broke sounded like gunshots.

He lay back down, closed his eyes, forced, by sheer will (one-two-three-one-two-three), his heart rate to slow, and slow some more. And just when he was starting to drift, his fingers twitching gently against his chest, he smelled it.


What the—

No. No. No way in hell was he going to allow middle-of-the-night incendiary experiments to take place while he was comatose, unavailable to keep watch with the fire extinguisher aimed right at whatever was set to ignite—

John slipped from the bed and padded down the stairs as quietly as possible, determined to catch Sherlock in the act, catch him off-guard, and oh the tongue-lashing he'd give—

It was dark. Everything was dark but for thin slices of outside light angling through the windows and across the floor of the sitting room. And one other light, inside. A tiny one, coal red, dancing through the air, levitating, as if by magic.

John melted back into darkness, his eyes focusing on one object only: The man-shape huddled on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, one slender hand attached to the dancing red light. John held his own breath, listened instead to the quiet sounds filling the room.

A deep inhale/silence/gentle exhale. Pause. And again. John closed his eyes. His heart was hammering.

Sherlock wasn't experimenting.

Sherlock was smoking.

The great, bloody, stupid, idiotic, stupid bastard. He was smoking. A cigarette. In their flat. At…well, too bloody late to be doing anything of the sort. Especially smoking, of all great, bloody, stupid, idiotic, stupid stupid things—

How many times had John told him—

He took a step forward, a very determined step, words of indignation bubbling up his tight throat, a whole encyclopedia of medical facts at the ready to back him up (lung cancer-throat cancer-oh god the loss of his beautiful voice the loss of his beautiful life-Acetanisole-Ethyl Phenylacetate-Heptanoic Acid-Sodium Hydroxide), and then—

Wait, wait.


His eyes adjusted to the dark, slowly, and slowly things began to take shape. Things he hadn't quite noticed at first, had been too angry to see at first.


1. Sherlock was smoking, yes, but he wasn't just smoking.

2. Sherlock was caressing. He was stroking. He was licking. He was making love to the cigarette.

3. Sherlock was completely naked.

4. And one-two-three oh dear lord, John was hard, just like that.

His breath hitched in his chest. He pressed his fist into his mouth, stifling a small moan. Turn around, he ordered himself. Turn around and go back upstairs and get into bed and close your eyes and do not, under any circumstances, think about what you have just seen. Do not think about your erection, either. Please. Do not.

But, it appeared Sherlock wasn't the only one who refused to listen to John's orders, because John's body didn't obey, either: it stayed right where it was, and it certainly did not stop thinking about what it had seen. In fact, it moved even closer to the doorframe and peered around it, watching intently, cock hard and aching.

What John saw: Lips, pursing, just a bit, but enough for him to realize there had there ever been more perfect lips. Ever. No. Not ever. Of that John was sure. Fingers, long and pale and slender, skin and bone and nail, sliding along the cigarette, as the lips held it in place, followed by a slight lick of the tongue, just at the tip and John imagined what those same fingers and those same lips and that same tongue might feel like pressed against him, against his skin, against his mouth and thighs and between his thighs, not a cigarette but his—

No. No. No. This was getting ridiculous. This was getting—

Sherlock took another long drag and all hope was lost as his dark head dropped back, exposing the long white skin of his neck, tendons and deep hollow at the base of his throat, muscles working as he released the smoke, white tendrils curling into the still darkness of the room. He licked his lips, slowly.

Oh fuck.

John dropped his hand, found the hardness of himself, gripped it, stroked, choked back a strangled gasp as he came quickly and violently, shuddering and trembling in the dark, head dropping forward, chin bumping against chest, blood thrumming in his ears.

Oh, this is so bad for me.

He sagged against the doorframe, chest heaving, thin sheen of sweat over his shoulders, beneath his T-shirt. As quickly as it had happened, it was over, everything as dark and quiet and still as before.

He opened his mouth, sucked in a breath and smoke filled his lungs.

In two strides he was in front of Sherlock, his fingers grasping the cigarette, pulling it from his mouth, stubbing it out in the dish on the table. Sherlock barely flinched, his eyes flickering up to John's face only briefly. His mouth quirked into a smile, then vanished. He knew, John realized. He bloody well knew all along, the great bloody bastard.

Well. Well, then.

John stared down at the dark head for a moment. Then he leaned forward, close, closer, his mouth at Sherlock's ear and his palm reaching out at last to cup Sherlock's impossibly smooth, hard cheek, as:

"This. Is. So. Bad. For. You," he murmured, punctuating each word with a tight squeeze on Sherlock's jaw, lips as close to Sherlock's ear as he could get without actually touching it.

When John pulled back, Sherlock's eyes were wide and bright in the darkness, his lips slightly parted, his (smoky) breath dusting lightly over John's face. I could kiss you now, right now, John thought. I could do all kinds of things to you that would make your breath hitch and your toes curl and you'd—

He sucked in a shuddering breath.

He wanted to tell him to stop, to never ever smoke again. He wanted to rattle off reams of reasons why he needed to stop right now, to never let another breath of Carvacrol-Lauric Acid-Thiazole pass over those stunning lips. He wanted to grab him and shake sense into him, feel his sinew and bones beneath his fingers, force some bloody sense into him once and for all—

"I know." Sherlock said in the quiet. John watched him, wondering which of the thousand things he wished to say would actually slide from between his lips.

"You need to stop," was all he said at last, his voice sounding strange in his own ears.

"Why?" Sherlock whispered. His voice sounded strange, too.

John licked his lips.

"Because I'll never kiss you if you keep smoking, that's why," he said, his voice raspy. He felt Sherlock nod against his hand, just once, before he pulled away.

John's hand slid slowly (reluctantly) from Sherlock's cheek, down his (bare) neck, over his (bony) shoulder, down his (impossibly) long arm to his wrist. He circled it with his fingers, pressing down on bumps and bones and tendons. He could feel the veins humming under the thin skin, could almost imagine the Salicylaldehyde-Linalyl Acetate-Methoprene surging through his body, pumping up through his heart, down to the tips of his (oh god) fingers—


John looked at him.

"You might just be the best nicotine patch ever."