Down These Mean Streets ~ A BBCSherlock Fanfiction

4. Bored to Death

"Didn't you say you stopped smoking?"

I wrinkle my nose in slight disgust, shoving the smokey pillows around me a bit further away. For a self-declared genius, Sherlock is really bad at hiding his vices.

"I don't smoke," he lies effortlessly, not looking up from the microscope on the kitchen table. He doesn't see the roll of my eyes.

"Sure," I agree sarcastically, "but I have to say I prefer murder cases as your fix of choice. Less smelly."

"Feel free to catch some fresh air outside." His sneer is half-hearted. If he is just too invested in his science project, or just sick of discussing his alarmingly low self-control, I don't know. The thought of returning to my own flat doesn't sound appealing, so I grant Sherlock the favor of changing the topic. The letter weights heavy in my pocket, but I don't think I'm ready to talk about that yet.

"Are the samples any good?" I ask, peering over at him, successfully avoiding the actual reason for my visit.

Sherlock takes his time before answering. "They're tolerable," he states.

"Tolerable." My mouth twists in annoyance. When Sherlock asked me a few weeks ago, if I could get him a specific DNA sample, I didn't ask many questions - partly because I was afraid of his answer, partly because I was afraid of the length of it. Quite frankly, I welcomed the challenge. Breaking and entering had not been part of my job for Mycroft in quite some time. I needed practice, no matter how absurd the context. Now, I'm not sure it was worth the trouble. "Just get it yourself next time," I suggest harshly.

Sherlock doesn't even flinch. "I can ask Molly next time."

His hands work on little wheels of the microscope.

I scoff. "I'm sure the cells of some dead alcoholic are much more exciting than what I got you."

"Got him what?"

Just in that moment, John enters the room, his voice airy from maneuvering multiple grocery bags up the stairs. I pray he only heard the last part of the sentence. Due to obvious reasons, neither Sherlock, nor I deemed it necessary to inform John about our deal. It's a silent agreement, one that developed naturally ever since I set foot into Baker Street for the first time. I look at John now, at his knitted jumper and combed hair. The mundane task of carrying groceries makes him seem even more domestic than usual. I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock doing that. It doesn't seem right.

I force a sweet smile onto my face, avoiding a suspicious glance in the direction of the detective in the kitchen.

"Nicotine patches," I say, at the same time Sherlock answers "the newspaper". Even he has to admit that my excuse is way better. I shift nervously. John stops in his tracks shortly, evaluating the situation. Then, his face changes into concern and something I can only describe as sympathy.

"Sherlock," he begins compassionately, "Do you really think I don't notice you smoking? I am your flat mate, for Christ's sake."

I can barely believe my luck. Sherlock is visibly annoyed, shifting the lens of the microscope more forcefully than necessary, but he can't deny his habit now that it serves as a good excuse. I can't hold back my words.

"See, that's what I told him," I agree, nodding my head along, "but he didn't want me to tell you."

John sits down in his armchair, exhaling in the new found comfort. "I'm sure there will be a case soon," he says, "and then the problem will solve itself."

Sometimes, John Watson's intuition freaks me out a little bit. Just as he says the words, Sherlock's phone starts ringing on the table nearby. John reaches for it, answering it naturally. Sherlock looks up from his work, trying to listen in on the conversation. There is not much to understand. Only few words are exchanged before John hangs up with the promise to 'be there'.