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“One a scale of one to ten, how upset would you be if I dropped dead in the next ten minutes?” Sherlock asked, blowing smoke up into the sky. He put the cigarette back to his lips and inhaled deeply, this time aiming the noxious cloud of death at the sidewalk. You watched your boyfriend as he leaned against the lecture hall, smoking like a chimney. This was his third cigarette in the last half hour and you were sure he was going to suck up the entire pack if you didn’t step in.
“Okay, buddy,” you said gently, stepping forward and taking the pack out of his hands.
“Hey!” he protested. He watched as you dumped all the cigarettes on the ground, stomped on them, and swept them into the trash. “You know I only said three and it’s because you look like you’re about to pass out from nerves.” You took the remaining butt from between his lips.
“Oi! That’ll make it two and a quarter!” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbled, flipping his collar up and putting his hands deep in his pockets.
“I’d be extremely sad if you dropped dead at any time, at any place, in any universe,” you answered.
Sherlock snorted. “Well, that’s a little over the top but at least you got the point across.” He opened his coat and pulled you in, wrapping you in its warm fabric. You nuzzled your face against his chest and listened to his heartbeat.
“Wow,” you murmured. “You really are nervous, poodle head. Your heart is going a million miles a minute.”
“In no way – “
“’-do I resemble a poodle.’ Yes, I know, doesn’t mean I won’t stop saying it.” Sherlock huffed and looked away defiantly. You reached up and brushed a stray curl away so you could see his eyes. “Hey.” he didn’t look at you. “Hey!” you snapped your fingers in front of his face. When he still wouldn’t face you, you grabbed his cheeks and made him look at you. Noses touching, you said, “I know you’re anxious. I was really scared the first time I had my first lesson. I was afraid that they wouldn’t take me seriously and would think I was a joke. But I learned something.”
Sherlock’s breath was warm on your face. “What was that?”
“That I was talking about something I was so passionate about, nothing else mattered.” You gave him a peck on the lips, “When that happens, it shows in your teaching and the students enjoy your class. There is nothing worse than a burnt out teacher.”
Sherlock gave you a crooked smile. “You have never been stabbed, have you?”
You smacked his shoulder. “We were having a moment you arse!”
“Did you just swear? Do I have to report you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“I bring in too much money for this school. They can’t do anything” You went to kiss him again, but he pulled back, looking over you with a look of utter confusion. A squeal of tires pierced through the air.
“What is that strange child doing?” he asked. You turned to see a teenager in front of a car that had clearly screeched to a stop. In front of it was a young man, stretching over to his side and throwing his arms out.
“That,” you said, trying as hard as you could not to laugh as you looked back at Sherlock, “is called dabbing.”
~*~
You stood at the front table as the students filed into the lecture hall. As you expected, every single one of them had shown up. Scanning the sleepy faces as they threw down their book bags and shrugged off their coats, you noticed a good amount of new people. You smiled to yourself. Sherlock hadn’t even entered the room and you had already started recruiting more people to the program.
You and the members of you "Forensics Anthropology Association" had plastered flyers all over campus, advertising for your department’s presentation for the university’s Distinguished Lecture Series. It had been established to “recognize the contributions of notable individuals who promote the values of free thinkers and great minds.” You happened to have the greatest mind in the London, and he was famous. And you all milked it.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t have any academic pictures of himself, or even recent personal pictures for that matter. So you had to pull photos from the newspapers, interviews, him avoiding the paparazzi, and those amazing crime scene shoots that you stole from Lestrade’s records. All you had to do was slap the time, date, and summary of the lecture and boom, you have…
“A full house…” you whispered, taking in the packed room. Every single seat was filled. The students who were unable to find one were sitting on the stairs and on the floor. You noticed someone slink into the room, head down and clearly not wanting to be seen. “No way…”
“Excuse me,” you said as you navigated your way through the students, looking for your mystery man. Finally at the top, you made your way to the corner and found a short guy with a beard in a green jumper crouching down behind a row of chairs. “John!”
John Watson jumped and turned to you. “Damn it!” he cursed before waving you down. You crawled over.
“What the hell are you doing here? And why are you wearing a beard?” you whispered furiously.
John looked over both his shoulders. “Keep your voice down!” he whispered back. “I heard some people talking about me and I guess the kids think I’m pretty cool. ” he wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “So I don’t want to get hassled.” he re-positioned himself to get more comfortable. “You would literally have to kill me before you kept me from seeing this. As for the beard,” he pulled at the faux hair. “I didn’t want Sherlock to recognize me.”
You couldn’t help but smirk. “You are a cruel, cruel man Dr. Watson.”
John shrugged. “I get by.”
“But in all seriousness,” you whispered, “he’s worked very hard on this and it’s a really great lecture as long as he doesn’t get overwhelmed.”
“Or acts like an arsehole.”
“Or acts like an arsehole,” you agree. “but I did tell him that they would enjoy that to an extent.
John looked around at the kids. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“I’m actually glad you’re here. If anything happens, I’ll need you as backup, okay?”
“On it.”
You gave him a hug. “Best sleuth ever.”
~*~
You ran out the side door into the hallway to find Sherlock sitting on the ground, more smoke hanging around him than you’d seen over a forest fire.
“How the hell did you find more of these?” you asked, holding up the pack of cigarettes that were lying at Sherlock’s feet.
Sherlock took a deep drag before answering. “I have my ways,” he croaked. You quirked an eyebrow and he sighed. “I nicked it from some kid in the bathroom. I was doing him a favor.” he took another inhale. “Acetone, benzene, ammonia, nicotine, tar…cancer soup.” Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “But it feels sooo good.” He held it out to you, an impish look on his face. “Want to try?”
You waved your hands. “I really don’t think –“
“Oh, come on. You hang around me, which is basically a death sentence in itself, but you can’t take a hit from a fag?” his eyes narrowed and you knew he had issued a challenge. “Afraid you’ll get," he smirked as he put his fingers in quotations and his voice raised mockingly, "addicted?”
You snatched the cigarette from his fingers and breathed in as hard as you could, wanting to prove him wrong. Your lungs filled with cinders and you chocked. You gasped for breath and coughed like you had never coughed before.
The only thing that could match the intensity of your misery was Sherlock’s laughter. His nose crinkled and his eyes closed as the giggles just kept coming. “Oh my god, you poor thing.” He patted your back. “I don’t know why you thought that was a good idea.” He kissed your forehead and then wiped the tears from his eyes. He let out a long content sigh.
By then you had caught your breath.
“God, that was awful. I don’t know how you enjoy that!” You looked to Sherlock, who had suddenly gone quiet. His face had softened and he had a small smile. He held up a hand and gently brushed your cheek. You sighed and leaned into his palm, his hand warm and soft.
“Do you know why I started smoking those god awful things?” He ran his thumb in small, gentle circles and you sighed.
“Why?” You asked as Sherlock took his hand back.
He had already taken out another and lit up. You had given up at this point and wanted to give him as much peace before his big moment. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you to him, holding you against this side.
“I started to smoke when I was 14 because,” he took a drag, “I wanted to be a dragon.” He looked down and studied you for a moment before smiling and blowing smoke out of his nose.
The laugh started deep in his chest and then he threw his head back. You were already howling, burying your face into his shoulder, trying to muffle yourself, as your students were just in the next room. Sherlock pulled you into his lap and held you, laughing into your neck. You both stayed like that for several minutes until you both calmed down. Still breathing a little rapidly, Sherlock withdrew and looked at you.
“The, um, the nicotine just-“ he struggled for the words.
“Made you sentimental. Okay, I’ll play along,” you stood up and he quickly followed. You both gathered yourselves and straightened his clothes.
“I think I can do it,” he told you.
You rubbed his arm. “You wouldn’t have to if I thought you couldn’t.” You began to fix his hair. “I’ll introduce you, list off your accolades and all of that. Then you can do your thing.” He nodded and you kissed his cheek. “Okay,” you took his hand. “Let’s go.”