The door shut and the moment it did, he was off. He ran up to his room and grabbed his treasure from his drawer and ran back to the sitting room.
For the first time, he was thankful to have the peace and quiet he so often despised.
Sherlock sat back in his chair. Everything was ready. He picked up the cigarettes and matches from the table beside him, withdrawing one from the pack and pulling a match from the box. Lighters simply did not do it. Matches brought out the best taste, while lighters tainted it. Striking the match along the side, Sherlock heard the old sizzle as the match burst into flame. He brought the cigarette to his lips and set the fire at the end and inhaled. Sweet, heavenly smoke filled his chest. It was absolutely fantastic, he thought, as he took a deep breath and exhaled. His eyes watched as the smoke swirled around him in a dance, the wisps creating a beautiful curved pattern in the air, and it was like he could see his own visual contentment.
Perfect. Everything was perfect. He could enjoy a full cigarette. John had left for work, so Sherlock would have plenty of time to clear the air of any scent long before he returned. But for now, he reveled in the joys of the dangerous little stick and smiled.
However, what he didn't count on was John forgetting his phone.
John was already late. The night before, he and Sherlock had been running through London's streets trying to catch a rather notorious murderer. This one only managed five successful murders before Sherlock was summoned to deal with the serial killer that had apparently been hiding in a back alley. The man they were chasing, however, was not the murderer. He was instead the key to finding the killer, and they almost lost him. They finally caught up with him at about four in the morning. Of course, John had to be to work at nine that day. He'd rushed home, only successfully gaining three hours of sleep. He tried to enjoy them as much as he could, and in the process, had slept in.
So now John was late for his work (again) due to the antics of his crazed, mad, genius flatmate. He was halfway across the street when he realized he had forgotten his phone. God only knew what disaster would fall if he left it. John swore a bit too loudly and ran back towards the flat. Sarah was going to kill him and he knew it.
Sherlock, having been lost in his own world, missed the cues of John's return and was ill-prepared when John suddenly burst back into the room. He froze, hoping that John being in a rush would distract him from Sherlock sitting there with a cigarette. At first, John didn't give a glance to Sherlock, his mind attempting to remember where the hell he left the bloody phone.
"Sorry! Forgot my—" he started, but then he stopped. There was a smell. Smoke, but not fire: cigarettes. He turned and saw Sherlock sitting there. Obviously, Sherlock was trying to appear collected, but he'd been caught and had very clearly not been expecting to be caught. The mask of his face did not fool John for a second. John gave Sherlock a concerned look.
"How did you find them, then?" he asked.
Not bothering to try and lie, and accepting that he was very much busted, Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Bought them myself. The ones you confiscated from me are quite stale by now."
"You were doing well," John noted, sitting down opposite Sherlock, "Really well. Why do you…why do you always fall back down?"
Sherlock grimaced at John's concern. He was disappointed. Unlike anyone else, Sherlock did not like to disappoint John.
"I did not see the harm in one," Sherlock said dismissively.
"No harm in one, but when have you ever stopped at one?"John pointed out. Sherlock said nothing and took another drag. John leaned forward in an attempt to reach the pack on the table, but Sherlock gently moved his hand and brushed the pack lightly, moving it just out of John's reach. John frowned at him. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow and blew out.
"I only intend on having one today," he argued.
John shook his head. Then, quicker than even he himself expected, darted forward and snatched the cigarette from Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock's eyes went wide, completely stunned. John had gotten one-up on him there.
Unexpectedly, his vision then came into focus and he was able to process the image in front of him. John was holding a cigarette; his cigarette. John's fingers were not wrapped around it awkwardly, but confidently. He'd held cigarettes before. Frequently. Sherlock offered John a surprised, but impressed, look.
"You used to smoke," he stated.
John grinned and gave the cigarette in his hand a twirl, "Back in the army days, there was little else to do."
"Doesn't that go against you being a doctor?" Sherlock teased.
"A little," John admitted. He then snubbed it out in the ashtray next to Sherlock, much to the detective's chagrin, "which is why I am stopping you now."
Sherlock almost whined in protest, but he settled for glaring, "If you used to smoke, you know half is not enough to satisfy."
"I used to, but now I'm a doctor. Half is plenty for you."
"You're also my flatmate. Half is most certainly not enough for me. One, however, will do." Sherlock pulled a second cigarette out of the pack and lit it, purposely and defiantly ignoring John as he watched the flame flicker and burn in front of his nose before waving the match to extinguish the flame.
"You've already had half," John reminded him, "that would make it one and a half."
Sherlock sighed, letting out a cloud of smoke in the process, and rolled his eyes, "All right, so it's one and a half."
John smirked across from him, and Sherlock was immediately wary. Sherlock did not often see that smirk, but when he did it was usually aimed at Mycroft after a witty jest. John was feeling mischievous.
"I said one," John reiterated.
"And I said one. However, because you took the first one, I'll have to smoke this one," and to make his point, Sherlock took a deep drag, "so, unfortunately, we're both wrong."
For a minute or so, there was quiet in the flat. Sherlock sat there smoking and John sat there watching him. Sherlock was about half way done when the unnatural calm ended with John shaking his head.
"Nope," John said confidently, then leaned forward and somehow bested Sherlock again and got the cigarette from him, "I said one and I'm going to make sure of it."
With that, John put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled and Sherlock's incredibly intelligent brain suddenly malfunctioned.
Sherlock felt an explosion in his chest. It was a warmth that was spreading all over. Something caught in his throat and his belly flickered with fire. Was he...was he aroused? He blinked and his eyes focused on John taking a drag. Fucking hell, yes that was it. He took a deep breath, waiting for John to exhale. When he did, Sherlock felt his whole body relax, and he realized he'd been tensed up, waiting.
John slowly finished the cigarette. It had been a while since he'd smoked. He found himself recalling the physical reaction as his lungs filled. He was almost starting to become dizzy at the same time, not that he would ever say so.
Meanwhile, Sherlock's tongue felt like it was taking up his entire mouth and his breathing was getting ragged. John finished the cigarette and sat back, breathing in the clear air for a moment. Unlike the earlier calm, this was making Sherlock physically unhappy. His upper body was aching and his lower body was practically tingling. It was putting him on edge, which was completely the opposite of the point.
He had to either make John leave or aggravate him to the point of ignoring Sherlock's presence.
However, what he really wanted was to see John smoke again.
"You know," Sherlock began, but his voice cracked a bit. He cleared his throat, or tried to, "You know by taking it half way, I am not satisfied. You should at least permit me an entire one."He pulled a third one out of the pack and lit it up, taking a deep drag. Anything to keep his hands busy.
John was trying to hide the grin threatening to form on his face. Sherlock was purposely trying to irritate him. Either that or he was fascinated by this new development and wanted to test the possibilities.
"If you take an entire one, I'm going to have an entire one too" John extended his open hand to Sherlock.
Sherlock fought a wicked grin of victory. But just as he was about to reach over to give one to John, an evil (demented, stupid, ludicrous) thought crossed his mind. It slipped out before he could even consider the ramifications.
"Waste not, want not. We'll share."
John waited a little before giving his answer, trying to seem as he was pondering it, "It's a deal."
Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. He took a second drag of the cigarette. Then he leaned forward slightly and passed the cigarette to John. He tried not to think about this too much, but he knew what he was doing. John was about to put HIS cigarette in his mouth. He would get to watch John take a long drag of HIS cigarette. He would see his cheeks hollow as he inhaled and the smoke slip past his lips. And then, and then...he would get to take the cigarette back. He tried not think of THAT yet...he had to make sure he could remember to breathe.
John took the cigarette carefully. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the smoke. He filled his lungs with it, almost reveling in the sensation. Abruptly, a thought crossed his mind: This cigarette has Sherlock's taste. He let the air leave his lungs slowly as a little knot was forming in his chest. He passed the cigarette to Sherlock again.
Sherlock's heart was beating loudly in his ears. John's lips had just touched this and he was about to place it between his lips. He brought it to his mouth and let his tongue touch just the edge, hoping John didn't catch him doing it, and took a deep breath. He could have groaned at how satisfying it felt. Had smoking always been like this? He smirked as he exhaled. No. He wondered if it was eliciting a similar response from John. He let his eyes run over the man in question and tried to read his body language.
John seemed as pleased about it as well. He appeared visually satisfied by the effect of the cigarette. Perhaps it was because it had been such a long time since he'd smoked. Maybe he was enjoying the solitary moment of peace. However, he was leaning back a bit with his hips at an angle, and Sherlock began to wonder what was going through his friend's mind.
John was getting more dizzy, but now he didn't know if it was because the smoke or because the thoughts running through his head. Somehow Sherlock looked completely different now, and the smoke around them, added to this new, delightful vision. Suddenly, he felt the need to have that cigarette (and Sherlock's taste) again between his lips.
He was about to give John back the cigarette when the absolute worst, but oh the very best idea came to him.
"You know, there was a time when I smoked every day and it was always very boring on my own. But a friend introduced me to something I quite liked. Though, I've never cared to repeat it later," he smirked and tried to shoot the most seductive look he could muster at John, "until now."
John raised an eyebrow. What was he talking about? What could Sherlock possibly have up his sleeve? This intrigued him. It intrigued him and the very idea was tightening the knot in his chest.
"Care to share it with me?"
Sherlock smiled, "It allows you and me to share not just a cigarette, but a single drag. It's called shot-gunning. Ever heard of it?"
John shook his head, "Nope. What is it?"
The consulting detective allowed himself a somewhat playful grin, "Shot-gunning is when the first person takes the actual drag..." Sherlock thought about how to word the next part carefully, "and the second person shares the smoke of the exhale."
John blinked at him, "And you…you want to try it?"
Sherlock pretended to be disinterested in the details, "I've never been the first person before. I'd appreciate it if you would allow me to," he paused as he had before and smile, one that had gone from playful to devilishly wicked grin, "experiment on you," he pretended to correct himself, "with you, I mean."
The color of John's face became a lovely shade of pink, but to Sherlock's surprise (and John's, a bit), John nodded curtly.
"Ok, let's do it."
Completely taken aback, Sherlock gave John a questioning look. Obviously John hadn't quite worked out just how Sherlock was going to share the smoke. He prepared himself, more mentally than anything else.
"All right," Sherlock took a deep, deep drag and then moved quickly, with every millisecond counting. He darted out of his chair and hovered over John's. He put his two hands on the arms the chair, watching John's face as he got closer and closer. He tilted his head and got an inch from John's face.
"Ready?" he whispered.
Sherlock lowered his mouth and opened it just outside of John's. He let himself breathe out the smoke of his drag and resisted every desire to close the (admittedly, very small) gap between their lips. Instead, he let the smoke slip out from his mouth and into John's. Without his permission, he let out a small groan and his eyes closed of their own accord. John inhaled deep, filling his lungs as much as he could. But he wanted more. Something was missing. Everything was spinning; it was so intoxicating, but he knew it could be so much better. He saw Sherlock's closed eyes and took advantage, leaning forward to just barely touch Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock felt John's mouth grace his and he pulled back immediately. He watched John's panicked expression for just a moment. His eyes scanned over John. His cheeks were reddened, his eyes blown, and his pulse was erratic, visible on his neck.
John was just as aroused as Sherlock was. Sherlock brought the cigarette back to his lips and took an even deeper drag. Then he leaned over and connected them, meeting John in an open-mouthed kiss.
He let the smoke exit his throat and heard John inhale it. He let his tongue follow the smoke for just a second, feeling it touch John's, but he tried to be cautious about it. Finally the smoke ran out and he disconnected from John's lips and looked at his flatmate. John was just inhaling the last bit of cigarette smoke. His eyes were closed and his and his breathing was ragged.
As the last wisps of smoke entered his mouth, John made an odd noise in his throat. This was one of the most wonderful things he had ever done. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock. It was a shockingly sexy view. Sherlock was bent over, face inches from his own. His was standing strong, his grip on the arms of the chair tight. His shirt was falling open and John could see his chest heaving.
Sherlock was just as aroused as he was.
John took a deep breath before gaining the resolution to do it. With his eyes closed he leaned again and tried to reach Sherlock's lips.
Unfortunately, John's initiative took Sherlock by surprise and therefore caused the detective to fail entirely on thinking things through. Sherlock, totally shocked at John's sudden enthusiasm, leaned away.
"I...I haven't taken a drag yet."
John froze, all the resolution gone, and opened his eyes. He knew he was blushing.
"Yes, yes, sorry," his eyes went to the floor but caught his watch, "Oh God! I forgot completely! Sarah is gonna kill me! I need to leave now!"
John got up and pushed past Sherlock, getting his cell phone and fixing his clothes unnecessarily.
Sherlock inwardly cursed at himself. He'd spooked John and it had set him off.
"Yes, you should...you should probably...probably go."
He turned around and put the cigarette (long since burned away) into the ash tray. He looked at the pack and pulled out another cigarette. His mind was going at top speed, trying to think, trying to save whatever had just been happening.
He looked at his cigarettes and struggled desperately to utilize them, "I'll just stay here and smoke the rest of these on my own, shall I?"
It had the desired effect. John stopped and looked at him sternly.
"No, don't do that."
Sherlock turned around to hide his smile. He licked his lips and got control of his expression.
"Well, you won't be here, so I will be bored. I might as well."
He lit the cigarette and took his first drag of the third cigarette in twenty minutes. It was going to make him sick if he kept at it like this, but that wasn't the point.
John approached him, trying to take the cigarette.
"Sherlock, don't do that," John ordered. Sherlock turned to give him a predatory look, which succeeded in making John's strict posture sink a little.
"Are you going to stop me?"
John's certainty was impressive, but Sherlock was much more stubborn. He took a long drag and then breathed out a bit on John's face. Not hard, but enough to try and make John remember the sensation of what had happened seconds earlier.
"I believe you have to get to work, John."
John didn't know what to do. His job was important, but as Sherlock blew smoke lightly at him, he could barely keep his thoughts straight. All he knew for sure was that he needed to change Sherlock's mind.
"Sherlock, I will not allow you to finish that cigarette."
Sensing the challenge, Sherlock took a step forward and put himself in John's immediate space.
"Well, perhaps if I get sufficient data on this shot-gunning experiment, I'll forget this pack of cigarettes and you can go off to work."
John started slowly shaking his head, "You know I don't like playing games. Think we should give up that pretence?"
For the first time he could recall, Sherlock was entirely clueless on what to do.
"What I mean is," John grabbed the cigarette and flicked it into the fireplace, with Sherlock's eyes trailing it in awe (how the bloody hell did he just do that?), "why don't we just forget all this shot-gunning nonsense. We just kissed a second ago."
It was Sherlock's turn to blush, "I was at least going to give you the ability to pretend it was simply an experiment for your 'I'm not gay' campaign you're so insistent upon."
John huffed out a laugh, "I'm not gay," he said, and then proceeded to push Sherlock up against the window, his hand on Sherlock's chest. John's other hand grabbed at Sherlock's collarbone, his thumb pressed into the hollow of his flatmate's throat, "How about we not worry about that right now?"
Sherlock sighed as John's hands trailed upwards. John took Sherlock's face in his hands and brought his head down to be about three inches from his own. He could smell the smoke, he could easily recall the taste, his taste in his mouth, and it was decided. Work would have to deal without him. John closed the gap and kissed Sherlock firmly and resolutely.
The match was lit and the cigarette began to burn.
Sherlock brought his free hand up to grab the back of John's head and press even closer to him. He kissed him back fervently, passionately, until it was more like they were simply trying to taste all they could of each other. John's tongue was wonderful and Sherlock found great pleasure in the sounds John made when he ran the tip of his tongue over John's lips. John fired back by pressing his whole body against Sherlock, putting one hand on the window and wrapping the other around Sherlock's waist. He brought their hips together and both men accidentally let out a rather loud groan at the sudden contact.
The first drag.
John, suddenly inspired, brought his hands to Sherlock's shirt and started opening it, running his tongue along the exposed skin of Sherlock's neck and then lower to his collarbone. Sherlock tilted his head back and sighed, bucking his hips into John's. Impatiently, he pushed John back and ripped John's rather nice shirt off of him, buttons going flying. John gave him an annoyed glare.
"Was that necessary?"
Sherlock growled at him and then grabbed John's hips, pushing and rocking against him before coming around to lightly bite just under John's ear.
John, meanwhile, could have been mistaken for jelly.
"Yes, I see it was."
Smoke is exhaled.
Now it was John's turn to be impatient. He quickly undid Sherlock's trousers and didn't waste any time in licking his hand and shoving it into Sherlock's pants.
In his life, John had seen a lot of things. He'd watched the sun set over the desert during the service. He'd witnessed a random act of kindness in progress. He'd seen someone turn their life around in a single moment.
But he would be lying if he said the sight of Sherlock throwing his head back, (smacking it on the window, but no worse for wear) craning his neck and exposing even more of that delicious looking throat, thrusting blindly and letting out an unabashed moan did not make it straight up to the top of the list of "fantastic things witnessed".
"Oh John…John!" Sherlock was mumbling his name, completely taken by lust. John made a few desperate whimpering noises as his trousers were unbuttoned and Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his cock. Sherlock attached himself to John's neck, licking and biting and sucking occasionally, desperate to taste all of him. John let his other hand push Sherlock's shoulder into the glass of the window. Sherlock hissed at the contrast of the coolness hitting his exceedingly warm body.
A moment's pause—don't want to finish the cigarette just yet.
Sherlock wanted to get down on his knees and suck John off. He wanted it so badly. However, this was too inconceivable to stop. John's arm moved from pushing his shoulder to wrapping around his neck. John's other hand had gone from playfully teasing to stroking up and down Sherlock's length. Sherlock was busying himself with John's dick, running his thumb over the leaking slit at the head, before wrapping his hand around and spreading precome down John's cock. John was responding to this most excitingly, twitching and writhing just so.
It wasn't long before the taunting became both men lifting and driving their hips into each other's hands. John was pumping furiously before stopping to press himself into Sherlock. He took both of their cock's in his hand, making eye contact with Sherlock for a moment.
They were at the middle of the cigarette, where it gets deliciously good.
It was so intimate. How had smoking started all of this? Had this really been so accessible all this time?
Sherlock took his left hand and wrapped it around them on the other side. They both began moving their hands together, up and down, at the same speed. It was difficult at first to find a rhythm, especially since Sherlock was working with his non-dominant hand, but they soon found themselves moving in unison. Sherlock's prick slid on John's and both of them made noises they would later be a bit ashamed of, but sounded wonderful then. Sherlock remained against the window and John was still practically vertically lying on Sherlock. With John's free hand over Sherlock's shoulder and next to his head, Sherlock knew anyone on the street could see what they were doing. Their arm movements would unquestionably be visible and any idiot with a libido would know what they were doing.
This only succeeded in making Sherlock get closer to climax.
"John," he warned, which resulted in John gripping them both tightly and thrusting his hips into their hands. Sensing John's need, Sherlock let his hand run over John neck and chest, licking and biting his ear. The two men were nearing the edge, closer and closer.
The last drag.
Then they were both grunting and Sherlock actually let out an animal like yell. He came first, falling back against the window for support as his legs began to give out. Luckily, the image of Sherlock lost in total abandon of a mind-numbing orgasm was enough to make John have his own.
"Oh, Sher—" John started to moan out, but his body gave out and they both slid unceremoniously down to the floor. They landed hard, bumping their bums on the carpet rather roughly. John, still in the middle of coating his and Sherlock's hand, let out a hysterical bark of laughter. It was enough to amuse Sherlock, just beginning to come down from the high of his orgasm, and made him start giggling. After a few moments, John joined in. John reached over to grab his (now, very ruined) shirt and wipe himself and Sherlock off.
John fell back, lying down on the floor. Sherlock collapsed next to him. They both lie there in post-coital bliss and before they were even sure what was happening, they fell asleep.
The cigarette is snuffed out.
When they awoke, John found to his total shock that Sherlock was actually cuddled up next to him, his head resting on John's shoulder. John had been so surprised, he laughed. It jostled Sherlock awake.
"What, what is it?" Sherlock asked urgently.
John smiled, "Nothing."
Sherlock's eyes then did a full scan over John, taking in the details. He ran a hand up John's exposed stomach. A naughty sort of smirk crossed his face and his eyes sparkled.
"I think," he said, getting close to John's face, "I need something."
John felt the blood starting to stir in his body in an effort attempt to rouse his sexual prowess from his uni days.
"What do you need?"
"I need," Sherlock repeated, his voice three octaves lower, "a cigarette."
With that, he jumped up and went to sit in his chair, where the pack still rested on the table next to him. John blinked for a few seconds, unsure of what was happening. But then, Sherlock spoke again:
"Care to share with me? I never did get all the data from our previous experiment."
John smiled. So that's how it was going to be.
The match is lit.