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Summary
It's ridiculous, he thinks now as he continues to follow the patterns of smoke, how someone can affect your life so drastically. Sherlock turns his attention back to the sky, notices a blackbird flying above him. Freedom.
The pinks and reds and yellows are beginning to fade, now turning into deep shades of blue. Checking his watch he sees that the time is nearing 8:30pm, the stars are beginning to show themselves. Sherlock takes the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling one last time before destroying the fire, rubbing the tip of the cigarette into the grass beside him. So easy to obliterate.
John never did like him smoking but, he supposes, that doesn't matter now. He's not here anymore. Why does it even matter?