Incisive tapping filled the room easily with the silence that engulfed it. Tap. Tap. Tap. A low monotone murmur followed each tap. Tension built up each time a tap was tapped or a murmur was murmured. The cases had been dry for weeks. Months it seemed like. Boredom hit and it hit harder than most other times previous. A slender leg draped over the other, the toe lightly hitting the carpeted floor, which only managed to soften the noise a little.
“I’m going out.” John said quickly as he bolted up from his chair, grabbing his jacket which was neatly laying on the back. “We need milk.” That statement was partly true. He was going out, but they didn’t need milk. He just wanted out from the constant barrage of taps and murmurs of being bored. It wasn’t his fault criminals went silent for a bit. He couldn’t control the criminals, though he desperately wished for something to pop up to busy Sherlock. Even having moved out of the flat and into one with his pregnant wife Mary, he still couldn’t keep himself away from Sherlock for long. The army doctor craved the adventure and the mysteries, the cases.
“Pick up a case while you’re out. I’m bored out of my mind. We haven’t had a case in weeks.” Sherlock complained deeply, rolling in his chair a bit. Maybe he’d go to his secret stash while John was out running errands. His brain craved stimulation. He needed brain food and regular food, well, he never seemed to eat that hardly. Just on occasion when his body absolutely needed it. Digestion always did slow him down while on a case.
John left the flat and out into the cold rain beaten weather. The chill was enough to clear his head and give him relief almost instantly. The doctor needed a bit of time to get away from his old flatmate.
The tall slender male rose himself sluggishly out of the chair, making his way to the couch. His spine slumped forward and his hand found the shoe tucked away, filled to the brim with cigarettes. One was plucked from the stash and left to dangle in his mouth, between his teeth. He kicked the shoe back under the sofa whilst picking up a matchbook. The match was struck and fire lit the tip, gracefully. The flame lapped at the tip of the cigarette, beginning the addictive process.
A slow and deep inhale, a huff of smoke slithered into his lungs, resting for a few moments before it released past his parted lips, the sweet stimulant left to cling to his mouth. The consulting detective took several slow and long drags, allowing the room to slightly fill with the smoke. The ashes dropped slowly to the red garish designed carpet that was unfortunately put in and never changed. After a small time, the cigarette diminished to nothing, but the filter left. The remnants was flicked out the open window and the cindering ashes were swept under the rug. The same process was repeated a few times, leaving his brain fully relaxed in the smokey paradise.
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