ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Those Things Will Kill You

"No."

"I didn't even-"

"I said no."

"But I-"

"Sherlock. We're not having this conversation."

"Evidently, that's not true."

"Look, could you try and not be a complete prick for one minute and just think about people who might give a damn about you nodding off high as a kite every night for this past week?"

"You didn't even let me finish."

"Yeah, well, the needles in your mattress did all the talking for you, though, didn't they," John spat.

Sherlock pursed his lips and said nothing. Trying to utter a single rebellious word when John was like this made less sense than making Anderson President.

Actually, no situation could be hopeless to that extent.

Point was, John was not someone to argue with when he was angry.

So Sherlock resorted to silence, letting John's anger permeate through layers and layers of apparent indifference.

"No," John repeated again. "I refuse to let you near your pack of cigarettes. The heroin is bad enough. That's gotta go, too, by the way."

"But sometimes it's so hard not smoking!" Sherlock was a tantrum-throwing toddler in a man's body, but John let him whine. Better for him to fuss all he wanted than to let him take a hit of nicotine.

"I suggest you make an effort, and quick," said John dryly, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation in his tone. He brushed past Sherlock and disappeared inside his bedroom, leaving a very frustrated detective alone beside the fireplace.

~

"Desperately in need of a shower, a good shave and a lawyer. It's the husband. Next!"

"Christ, take a day," muttered John, kneading his temple with two fingers as he crossed one leg over the other. His other hand rested on the armrest with an untouched notebook and pen; he couldn't keep up with Sherlock's bullet train brain as it dismantled cases relentlessly anyway.

Sherlock was restless. He walked up and down the same floor for hours on end, searching in vain for a release from this horrible prison of a world. Had everyone lost the ability to die in conveniently interesting ways? Sherlock thought humans cared about one another. Evidently no one gave a rat's toot about his own boredom.

No one except his flatmate and his tenant. And they didn't have a choice, not really.

"John," Sherlock tried for the fourteenth time, tried a fourteenth tactic. "John, sweet John, precious John."

"Sherlock, you know we're friends, but that's pushing it," said John, shooting him a long skeptical look.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I thought those were adjectives that people usually use to describe loved ones."

John's eyes flickered back to Sherlock's.

And stayed there.

Sherlock watched John's lips slowly contort into words.

"They are," said John. "But it doesn't work like that."

"What doesn't work like what?" The tinge of annoyance with the world was back.

"You can't call me those things just when you think you need to smoke, Sherlock," John stated bluntly. "Loved ones are people who care, people who won't let you give in to your bloody whims for a smoke or two. Or ten. Since we know it gets there anyway."