A/N: Well, this is my first fic on this account. I had another one, but I forgot the email adress I'd used. Well, no harm no foul, right? Right. I plan for this to be at least a weekly thing. Hopefully there will be more updates. This first entry doesn't have any romance in it... But as I'm a huge John/Sherlock fan, I'm sure there will be in later entries. Anyhow, enjoy!

Series: Sherlock (TV)
Words: 855
Disclaimer: I really must thank Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Naturally, my worship is given to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I couldn't even begin to think of these mysteries, therefore, the characters are not mine!

November 9th, 2011.

I don't think it's necessary to write that John was surprised when he saw my arms today. Still, I will write down my observations. More than surprised, he was furious. The only other time he'd seen my arm was when I showed him the Nicotine patches I'd been wearing. He hadn't looked very closely that time. This time, he did. For the purpose of my own future observations, I will record the conversation in its entirety, from the begining.

I was sprawled out on the couch, playing my violin with no particular piece in mind. My eyes were closed, but my mind was open. I had seven nicotine patches on. The most recent one had started to itch, so I set my violin down and scratched it through my sleeve.

"You're not supposed to scratch mosquito bites." John said, quite idiotically.

"I haven't got a mosquito bite." I said a little irritably. I continued to scratch at the patch, knowing it wouldn't actually help.

"Oh, well," he coughed a little. "Still," he was obviously uncomfortable for a reason I couldn't begin to fathom.

I scratched for a moment longer before deciding to take off the patch and put it on my other arm. I pushed up my sleeve and grabbed the patch.

"Is that..." John took a moment to count the nicotine patches. "Five nicotine patches?"

I snickered a little bit. "Only on this arm, John." I tried to pick off the irritating patch, but it was increasingly difficult to get my nail under the bandage. I groaned a little bit and offered my arm to John.

"What?" He asked, apparently unable to comprehend my gesture. "You want me to-?" He pointed to himself.

"Take off this damn patch?" I asked, a little annoyed. "Yes, John." He stood up and walked the few steps it took. He looked at me with a sense of mischief in his eye. "What?" I asked.

He tried to hide a grin. "Nothing." Bollocks. He took the bit of bandage I had lifted between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. Quickly.

"Ahhh!" I clamped my hand around the crook of my elbow, where the patch had been as if that would stop the pain. Stupid. I looked up and John was no longer trying to hide his grin. I let out a breath and removed my clamped hand from my elbow, then raised my hand up to John. "The patch, if you don't mind."

"Sherlock..." He looked intently at my arm. "Is that...?" He looked unhappy. "Are those...?" He coughed twice. "Track marks?" He ran his hand under his nose, scratching the area.

"Yes. But you already knew I was a...'junkie'."

"But that's... that's insane! Jesus! I don't think I've ever seen any arm that looked that bad." I could feel myself getting frustrated.

"My mind, unlike yours, rebels at stagnation. If I have to inject a harmless substa-"

"Harmless? Anything injected has the potential to be deadly!"

"What about the flu shots?"

"People have died of vaccinations, yes. But they get a vaccine so they don't get sick!"

"Doesn't that somehow make it worse? They count on doctors like you to take care of them. Yet they die. To keep myself fit I used to- Used to, John!- inject cocaine. Are you aware cocaine used to be-"

"A medical breakthrough? The cure for all that was wrong? Yes! But that was in 18-"

"Actually, it was first noted about in 1569."

"Yes, and the people of the 16th century knew all there is to know about-"

"It doesn't matter, John! I was once a junkie. I stick to nicotine patches for when I need intellectual stimulation."

"So you've traded one addiction for another."

"And you've traded a mediocre life with a mediocre psychologist for a life of adventure with your homosexual flat mate." I paused, and noted a look of hurt on his face. Too late to do anything else, even if I'd wanted to, I went for gold. "Have you figured out your own sexual orientation, John? We all make trade-offs. I trade my health for my mind. What the hell do I need to live 100 years for?" I grabbed the patch out of his hands and threw it in the trash. "I really don't need to take this from you."

"Sherlock, wait." He reached out and grabbed my wrist, flipping it over in the process. I could see in his mind he wanted to know about the burns and the discolorations there. He wouldn't risk upsetting me more over it at that moment, so he dropped my hand. I hated him a little then. You should do whatever you need in pursuit of knowlege.

"I'm going out." I grabbed my scarf and slammed the door behind me. When I got home about nine hours later, I found myself alone in the flat. There was a note on my computer from John.

"Sherlock,
I found your stash in your slipper. I've disposed of it accordingly.
-John"

I don't believe I've ever wanted to punch anyone more than I wanted to punch him in that moment.