Nicotine

Warm Breeze

Sherlock inched forwards on his stomach. Dust tickled his neck, and he tried not to cough. Arriving at the correct floorboard, he reached into his robe for the knife. He tugged on the pocket and presently smacked his head on the underneath of the bed. He swore through clenched teeth. Ducking lower, Sherlock began to prise up a floorboard using the knife blade.

Once he had done this, he took out a needle from a small collection concealed beneath the board. Removing the blade, he let the plank fall back into place.

He backed slowly out from under his bed, stood up, and brushed the dust from his robe. He crouched again, and began to blow the dust around under his bed. It wouldn't decive the likes of Mycroft, but it would certainly fool Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock wandered into the bathroom. He narrowed his eyes as the harsh light blinded him. He caught sight of himself in the black glass of the window but quickly looked away. He rolled up his sleeve, wiped his arm and slowly inserted the needle. The sharp pain didn't even trigger a blink. He sighed with relief as he pushed down and felt the drug slowly release into his veins. Red crept up his arm. Better. Much better.

Discarding the needle into the sink, he stumbled into the dark living room and threw himself down. It had been two weeks since John had left. One week to go.

*

John woke up with a jerk. Machine guns rattled in his mind as he fought his way out of a troubled sleep. Mary lay sleeping silently beside him. He leaned over to look at his watch- it was well past midnight. Rolling back, he stared at the ceiling. A warm breeze swept through the wooden shutters, creaking slightly. He could smell the Mediterranean and hear faint waves washing up on the beach.

Footsteps slapped pavement and lowered Spanish voices drifted past, joking and laughing as they walked home. Johns thoughts found their way to Sherlock. His mind often turned to Sherlock after a difficult dream. Thoughts of home.

"I consider myself married to my work,"

He smiled. Sherlock was a strange one. John wondered how his friend was doing. His brow furrowed. Sherlock would be alone again, solving cases by himself. Without a blogger.

John had not been sleeping well. He regularly awoke from nightmares, memories from his army days. Once he was awake, falling back asleep was always difficult. Mary was unaware of it, however, and John was adamant that it would stay that way.

His sleep had been disturbed badly after Sherlock's death, but had miraculously sorted itself after his return. But, ever since he had had less contact with 221b and it's sociopathic inhabitant, his army traumas had been at their worst.

John shook these thoughts from his mind. He was making ridiculous assumptions. That wasn't correct. What would Sherlock say to such unscrupulous deducing?

John punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape before settling down again.

"After you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

John blocked out Sherlock's voice and concentrated on his own breathing.