Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Acrid-heart

    A week later, Sherlock was introduced to a seemly preternatural case by inspector Lestrade. Airborne cigarette smoke was coiling above his head, the entangled spirals a perfect mirror of his thoughts concerning the mystery of a series of deaths, described as serial suicides by imbecilic morons of the metropolitan police.

   Sherlock had followed John's explicit rules covering drug use with obedience, but when it came to cigarettes, he was a lost cause, especially since he'd encountered this frustratingly difficult mystery. He took a long drag, appreciating the bitterness of tobacco in his mouth, which was strangely close to what he imagined licking burning newspaper would taste like. Perhaps I should experiment it myself one day, Sherlock thought as he blew the cigarette smoke out, tilting his head heavenwards to form a dense cloud just below the ceiling. Of course, Sherlock had kept the window open for John's flat's sake. Well no. The flat could go to hell and have a nice everlasting trip with Hades as tour guide, Sherlock couldn't care less. It was for John, and only John.

Then suddenly rhythmic footfalls pounded against the stairs. John. Bit slower than usual, but according to the weight, it's him. He must be exhausted. Bad day. Sherlock didn't listen any longer for information. He hastily smashed what was left of his cigarette into the ashtray, glad that the window sucked the smoke out of the living room. He didn't want John to go through anything remotely unpleasant after a tough day at work. It was amusing how Sherlock grew to be so considerate of John. He even went as far as to stuff one of those awful chewy mint substance in his mouth, convinced John wouldn't appreciate the pungent ash-like tang on his lips.

"Hello there," John greeted mere seconds later.

    "Hey." Sherlock said, incapable to extinguish the joy burning his insides.

    The sight of Sherlock's rumpled hair made John smile for the first time today. His jet black curls had flourished from his scalp and they now cascaded artistically, curtaining his earlobes and terminating two centimeters south.

"Are you eating?" John marveled, smirking incredulously.

"No. Well yes, sort of. I'm chewing what people named gum, but I personally find sugar-coasted molten plastic to be a more befitting label."

John wasn't unobservant enough for Sherlock's ulterior motives to go unnoticed, but he could sense that the detective was making an effort, so he simply chuckled. It was a funny comment, anyway. They always were.

    "Spit it out so I can kiss you decently."

     Sherlock complied, begging for the sweeteners and artificial flavorings to ameliorate his saliva's taste.

     Sherlock's lips were celestial. John would've spent the rest of his life indulging in their sight if kissing wasn't an option, but mercifully, it was. John tilted Sherlock's head, went on his tiptoes to reach his lips, and yes, mercifully was the right word as the sleuth's saliva dissolved his lips, the corrosive taste of cigarette persisting under its minty camouflage. The choreography their lips designed was compensatory to the nagging flavor of the kiss, and whether they were concordant or clashing, their moves all seemed in perfect equilibrium to John. It was tongueless, lovely and pure, stained only by tobacco.

     "Acrid-heart." John murmured as they pulled apart, not exactly reproachful.

"Hmm?"

"Sweetheart. That's what you usually say to someone you love. But you taste rather acrid."

"John, I—"

"There's no need. I know. Helps you focus. The look of triumph has vanished from your face since Lestrade contacted you." John sighed, "We'll get you some nicotine patches."

Sherlock's phone buzzed, and the detective was beyond grateful for this interruption. It was a text from Lestrade.

    A woman named Jennifer Wilson was found dead, same pills. Meet me at the yard ASAP.

    Sherlock looked up from his screen. "Are you free?"

     "When?"

     "Right now."

     "Yeah, why?"

     "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." Sherlock pointed out, his pitch plummeting.

      "Yes."

      "Any good?"

      "Very good."

      "Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

       "Well... yes." John admitted, cringing at flashbacks of the war.

       "Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

        "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

        "Want to see some more?"

        "Oh, God, yes!"

        Half an hour later, John, Sherlock and Lestrade were at the crime scene, and that was how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson began solving their second case together, the one which the doctor later named A Study In Pink on his blog.