Notes: So I saw some pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch smoking and this happened. I don't usually like the idea of smoking, but pretty much anything that man does is sexy... Haha

I also wrote this at midnight, so I'm hoping it isn't too bad. Please enjoy. :)

Oh, and I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.

John couldn't stop staring at Sherlock. It was far into the evening, they had just closed up a case involving a serial murderer (much to Sherlock's enjoyment), and the two men were resting comfortably in the sitting room. John had his head tilted towards the television set so it appeared like he was watching, but his eyes were staring straight at the detective adjacent to him. He couldn't help it; Sherlock was mesmerizing after a case.

The detective had his deep purple shirt on with two buttons undone, exposing the dip between his collarbones. His feet were out in front of him, one over the other in a relaxed manner. He was resting comfortably, but John didn't think he looked tired, per say, but satisfied. He always had that air about him after an assignment was solved.

Sherlock was staring over the television at the wall, his movements rare and subtle. The only time he moved was to take a drag at the cigarette he held slackly between his first two fingers. The man hadn't moved in what seemed like a long time, and John almost thought he had turned to marble when the detective moved his arm to bring the cigarette closer. He parted his lips somewhat and rested the object right underneath his cupid's bow, letting his bottom lip trap the cigarette before he inhaled. Both ends of his mouth tilted down marginally, and he breathed in deeply, purposefully. His cheeks hollowed and his eyes closed as he got lost in the drag, and John had to remind himself to continue to pretend to watch television.

When he exhaled, Sherlock craned his neck back to rest his head on the couch, his mess of curls falling back and revealing a creased brow. With the furrowed crown, the detective appeared to be deeply interested and focused on smoking. His mouth opened just enough to let out a tantalizingly slow stream of smoke that snaked up, billowing at the top before it dissipated.

After a few minutes of steady dragging and puffing, the room was choked with the smell of smoke and John was starting to find it hard to breath. He stifled cough after cough, though, desperate not to disturb the peaceful-looking detective whose shoulders grew slacker the longer he smoked.

Sherlock always got like this after a case. He'd plop down on the couch, obviously smug about his job-well-done. He'd rest for a while, but it took a long time until he actually became relaxed. John always knew when he got there, though. His shoulders would finally slump; his eyes weren't as intensely focused on everything; his voice would get lower and slower, making him sound almost lethargic. He was the epitome of leisure.

"Are you trying to deduce again?" John blinked in surprise as he realized Sherlock had lifted his head up and was now staring at him with a small smirk. His eyes were calm and playful, and his words were drawn-out, John noted. So he was relaxed.

"I was just… um," he trailed off awkwardly, unsure of how to explain himself. Even though he had been caught staring, he couldn't look it away. It was like John's eyes were glued to those distinct cheekbones and dark brown ringlets atop his head.

"Tell me what you've got so far," he ordered, the smirk still sitting on his lips. John tried to look away so he could form an intelligent thought, but he was far too entranced by those glowing green-blue orbs in Sherlock's eye sockets.

"Well," he managed to get out, blinking hard enough to snap himself out of the trance. "You seem to be enjoying that cigarette."

Without another word, Sherlock drew the said item to his mouth slowly, giving his lips a small lick before he parted them to grant the cigarette access. His eyes squinted slightly and his brow crinkled again as he focused on the drag. The exhale was long and soothing, and the smoke seemed to crawl out of his mouth and creep over his sharp features before dispelling over his head. Throughout the movement, he maintained eye contact with John, causing the doctor's heartbeat to increase more than he was willing to admit.

"By your dilated pupils and sweaty forehead I'd say you're enjoying it too, John," Sherlock pointed out smugly, making the doctor flush. John followed the detective's arm as he reached over the arm of the chair to put out the cigarette in an ash tray. Sherlock sluggishly stood up, all the while watching his flat mate. He tugged at the third button down on his shirt, revealing another few centimeters of pale flesh. "I'm off to bed," he started, quirking an eyebrow. "The door with remain open, in case you'd like to pay a visit."

John watched the slender figure disappear, his jaw slack and eyes wide. He forced himself to sit back in the chair, and his fingers drummed restlessly on his knees. It was nearly time for him to go to bed, as well. John checked the clock and nodded to himself. Yes, time for bed. He stood, rocking back and forth on his heels. He took a deep breath, hesitating only a moment longer before he walked away swiftly, following the scent of cigarette smoke.