Work Text:
So many thoughts. Always too loud, always calculating, always asking.
He’s grateful he’s got a packet with him. He’s got something that’ll make the thinking stop.
It’ll make everything stop, even just for a while.
Sherlock lights a cigarette and takes a deep inhale. He feels the nicotine seep into his bones, smoke filling his lungs, his heart. His head.
Everything becomes quieter, muted by the smell of cigarettes and ash. But still, audible. Sherlock takes another smoke. Again, quieter, and he begins to center on just the activity at hand. He smokes until everything is silent and only nicotine on his mind. But the cigarette burns out and his mind clears. Sherlock’s thoughts grow louder the longer he sits, waiting to light another.
Eventually he runs out, and his flat is saturated with smoke that rests heavily on the furniture. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be happy. Mycroft would disapprove, but be silently grateful it was only this and nothing else.
Sherlock sinks into his couch, having finished a pack, he takes out a patch. He’s well-aware that smoking isn’t good for you, but Sherlock does things that arent always good. He sticks the patch on, unwilling to let the silence end, and lays down. The smoke lingers as he relishes in his soothing, still silent home. Eyes closed, not sure how much time has passed, he notices the smell of smoke fade slightly. Then he hears a knock on the door.