Nicotine

He lifted up the skull and grabbed the box of cigarettes that lay there. Flipping open the packet, he sat down in his chair.

The flicker of the lighter momentarily brightened the dim room, but as soon as the cigarette was lit the room was plunged back into semi-darkness.

Sherlock sighed and watched his smoky breath coil around him, appearing a dull orange as a shaft of streetlight filtered through the curtain. Taking another long drag, he leant back in the armchair and stared up at the ceiling. Glowing ash sprinkled onto his tuxedo. He blew smoke up towards the ceiling, and clicked his tongue before inhaling deeply.

After the twelfth cigarette, Sherlock became dimly aware of voices in the hallway. He assumed it was Mrs Hudson returning from the reception. Sherlock stretched forward and lit cigarette number thirteen. People were talking, none of them him. Sherlock closed his eyes.

A baby was crying.

"Not now Sherlock, I'm busy. Maybe later, yeah?"

"Not now."

"I'm busy!"

"Maybe later,"

"Later, yeah?"

"Later, Sherlock. Not now."

Sherlock snapped awake. The finished but still puffing remains of thirteen lay abandoned on the floor. Sherlock pushed all thoughts of the Watsons far out of his mind. He mentally closed everything off and concentrated on his next cigarette. It didn't matter.

Much later, Sherlock was snapped out of a mind-palace orientated daze by a tickle in his throat. He inhaled sharply but his breath caught in his chest and became a hacking cough. Dry air filled his lungs and he struggled to draw breath. Number twenty-six was thrown to one side as Sherlock stumbled towards the sink.

"Water." He croaked.

He turned the tap on full and spray soaked his jacket. Shoving various experiments carelessly to one side, he leaned forward and gulped water rapidly. The cool water soothed his throat and soon the cough was gone.

Quit chain smoking, you idiot.

The voice in Sherlock's head sounded an awful lot like John. He paid it little attention, and fought hard against the sharp pang in his chest that accompanied his thoughts of the newly wed army doctor.

Sherlock sloped into his bedroom and got changed. Slipping his robe over his clothes he looked at his phone for the first time since he told Lestrade to lock down the wedding venue. He switched it on. It felt like years ago, not earlier today.

03.21am

Okay so yesterday.

Sherlock sighed. He wasn't the slightest bit tired. He started to put it in the pocket of his robe when it vibrated frantically in his hand.

Battery fourteen percent. Connect charger.

He walked back into the main room and flicked the lights on. His bare feet padded almost noiselessly towards the desk. Sherlock pulled open the drawer and dragged out the charger, which was hopelessly tangled in a pair of earphones. Sherlock frowned. He didn't own earphones like that. Tugging on the cable, the earphones disentangled themselves from the other contents and fell out of the drawer, something pulling the earphones to the floor with a thunk.

Sherlock gathered up the earphones and with them came an old silver Mp3 player. It was John's. He must've left it there ages ago, and he wouldn't have missed it. He had an ipod now. There were lots of things he wouldn't miss.