EVERYTHING IN ITALICS ARE THOUGHTS.

Sherlock Holmes was trudging his way up the stairs to 221b. He had stormed out about an hour ago after a particularly vicious argument with John. The detective sighed, taking in a deep breath. He froze, his foot halfway between the 7th and 8th step. Sherlock sniffed the air again. A confused frown decorated his face as the distinctive smell of smoke stopped the detective in his tracks. His brain began to whirl at a hundred miles per hour. It wasn't house fire kind of smoke. It was the familiar smoke of a cigarette. Who was in their flat? Were they holding John captive?

Sherlock decided to found out. He crept up the stairs avoiding all the creaky floorboards on the way until he was right outside the door. The genius threw the door open then proceeded to leap into the room. He was slightly disappointed when he saw John, sat on his chair, alone reading a novel. Sherlock marched into the room as his eyes darted around the area for the source of the smell. His whole body stopped when his eyes located the source of the smoke.

His mouth fell open and his eyes widened. John sat in his arm chair with a lit cigarette hanging from his fingers. John lifted the source of smoke to his lips and inhaled before releasing the smoke in a satisfied sigh. Sherlock watched as the pale smoke left John's mouth and twisted into the air. He held the cigarette expertly in his fingers and smoked the item in question with practiced ease. Sherlock let himself collapse onto the chair opposite John's, never taking his eyes off the man.

John just continued to read the novel that was held up in his left hand, completely ignoring Sherlock. The doctor was obviously still angry with the just continued to sit and stare at his friend. This was obviously not his first time. Why hadn't the detective deducted this? John used to smoke and, from the look of it, for a while as well.

The sociopath stared until he couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"I didn't realise that you used to smoke."

John smirked but didn't look up at the detective. "I know."

"Why are you smoking now?" Sherlock questioned. Trying to stop himself grabbing the small cigarette box on the arm of John's chair and taking one for himself.

"Stress."

Sherlock was getting annoyed with being the one keeping the conversation going, which was a change.

"When did you smoke?"

"Before Afghanistan." John kept his eyes firmly on the book. He was clearly furious with Sherlock.

"... and you gave up because...?"

"Bad for you."

"Okay, I'm glad we got that sorted out," Sherlock commented sarcastically. "Are you going to continue smoking after today?"

There was no answer from John for a minute and Sherlock could tell he was thinking about it.

"No."

"Okay... Well since you're smoking at the moment. Do you think I coul-"

"No. Cold turkey." John replied sternly.

Sherlock groaned and flung himself onto the sofa, taking up his iconic thinking pose. Maybe if I get John to start smoking again. He won't bother me about me smoking, Sherlock smirked. How to do it?

This will require some experimentation and possibly three nicotine patches.