Author's Note: A companion story to "Smoke in Your Eyes" from Sherlock's POV.

Warning: While it may seem silly, I am warning that this features cigarette smoking. I am…trying to quit. I'm sure a few of you will understand the struggle.

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's Sherlock, nor any story pertaining to the A.C.D. franchise. And I certainly do not dream about it most nights. Certainly not.

"Smoke in Your Eyes"

Sherlock's POV

While Sherlock was rude at best to Molly Hooper, he had never hated her more than 8PM this Saturday night. Standing outside of Bart's practically itching for a cigarette while a disgruntled (but trying not to appear so) doctor stood by your side was not Sherlock's idea of a good Saturday night. Though, if you asked Sherlock Holmes what was a good way to spend the weekend…well, let's just say no one would agree with him on that front either.

I grumble to John, "Molly does not have a social life." John is always reminding me on the finer points of making small talk. Rubbish.

"You can't blame the poor girl. She's allowed to have one," he admonishes. Surely, I have never wanted a cigarette more.

"Dull." I pull out a pack of cigarettes. I block out all thoughts of what John may have to say about this "bad" habit of mine.

I had just reigned in the discontented John Watson that resides in my mind palace, the physical one obviously had to have a go at me. I hold back a groan as he protests, "I bought you a box of Nicotinell just this week and I know you haven't run out just yet."

I'd like to see how you deduced that, Doctor. I hold back that remark. John always says to think before I speak, which is ludicrous, because I am always thinking. I send him one of my "boredom" looks, as John calls it, for him to contemplate. I contemplate if John has catalogued all of my various "boredom" looks as I have catalogued his facial expressions. John's lips have pursed and he is thinking of me. I pull a cigarette and light it before he can make any more remarks about my smoking.

I can see his nose shrivel up distastefully as he comments, "I'm a doctor, you know."

Obviously. I settle for, "Yes," while continuing to pull smoke into my lungs. John never hunches his shoulders because, on subconscious level, he feels that it will make him look short. He is short for a man and often gets overlooked at crime scenes, so the doctor stands as tall as he can. However, he hunches his shoulders, worries his lip, and begins thinking. John, being a doctor, knows the risks of smoking. I, being Sherlock Holmes, can tell you about 7,000 odd chemicals found in cigarettes and about 243 different types of tobacco ash from memory. I text Molly to speed things along; it only takes me 5.3 minutes for me to reach the filter, and I do not wish to hear John's comments about lighting up a second cigarette.

John reaches into his pocket and produces his phone, which he stares at with a frown. There's nothing to keep him occupied on his phone—the man can create impeccable stitches under stressful situations but cannot navigate phone apps if his life depended on it—and I contemplate sending him a text. I dominate most of the texting space on his phone anyway.

Angelo's later? SH

I delete it before I send it. John would protest that I'm standing right next to him, and that it would not kill me to talk to him. I will respond that I prefer to text. His mood will sour and claim that he does not want to spend the rest of his Saturday night being stared at while he eats because we're on a case. I almost contemplate breaking into the morgue.

Molly should just GIVE me the keys to the lab. I would have solved this and John and I could have dinner and I may actually eat. I am almost finished with my cigarette, pausing only to flick ash to the cement. John watches the cherry end make progress towards my fingers. I want to tell him to stop worrying over me too much, lest his hair decide to sprout more greys. His eyes travel to my face, still carrying that hint of irritation but with a certain fondness one would reserve for the closest of friends.

"You're an idiot," he deadpans.

I glance sideways at him while taking another pull. One corner of my mouths pulls up into a half smirk, despite my efforts to suppress the smile. This is John, my mind supplies, you can smile for John.

"I'm a genius," I correct, but I cannot keep the mirth out of my voice. John smiles his John-smile, the one that make both the corners of his mouth and eyes turn up. John-smile no. 17, my mind palace supplies, arguably a crowd favorite.

I want to smile again, or perhaps go for more humor, just to see that smile continue. To replace the contemplative frown I have caused by my smoking, by our Saturday night waiting game. However, my cigarette is close to finishing and the smoke wanders into my eyes. I close my eyes hard, hoping that the slight burning sensation will pass. I open them and look skywards, hoping that John would not notice that The Sherlock Holmes just blew smoke into his own eye.

While I may not pride John on his observational skills, he is far from being an Anderson. He looks at me with a stunned expression as I blink rapidly to combat my eye's natural defense to foreign bodies. Stupid transport.

Alas, tears form anyway. Frustrated, I stomp the cigarette out of the pavement and swipe the tears away. I chance another look at John and find that he is stifling his laughter. While his laughter may be at my own expense, I would take any chance I could get to hear it. I catalogue the noise in John's section of the mind palace and delete a William Blake poem. I would tell him what it was, but I have already gone and deleted it.

After all, Captain John Hamish Watson, MD, is…

"An idiot genius," he squeaks out through the giggles.

More important.

Author's Note: This story was written also with the company of 3 cigarettes. Thank you for reading and taking this small journey with me.