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"Oh, bloody bollocking hell!"
William watches Sherlock frantically turning out his pockets in an amused way. It's the kind of look that makes Sherlock wonder if William honestly does think he's a fool, and it feels like a long way from the flirty undertone they've been batting back and forth during this little sojourn. "Surely you can wait until you arrive back in London to smoke?"
"That's easy for you to say when you're standing there puffing away like a chimney! The train's due to leave in ten minutes. Look, let me cadge one of yours!"
William looks even more amused. "Unfortunately, this is my last one. I'm sure that you have other appointments waiting, as do I, and neither of us can afford to waste time in search of more cigarettes. Do settle down, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock groans, burying his face in his hands. "Liam, you bastard! Can't you at least give me a quick drag?"
"I do find myself with a soft heart where you're concerned." William lifts a hand, half-turning, and beckons with his index finger, signalling that Sherlock should follow him. He takes a few steps towards the station building.
Sherlock's fingers itch. He licks at his dry lips. My God, he wants that smoke! He's been making an attempt to cut down, because he really does want to keep John happy, and he'd thought he'd moved beyond this point, but it's clear that he hasn't.
He follows William to the secluded spot around the corner. It feels like there are two forms of temptation waiting for him: the tobacco, and what he admits is a remarkably pretty man. Just their butting of minds has practically had Sherlock's trousers tightening, but he gives himself the latest of many mental shakes. Down, Holmes. After all, William still hasn't indicated any solid interest of that type.
At least, he hasn't until now.
Until now, when he turns and looks briefly over his shoulder, before taking a deep pull on his cigarette and then stepping very, very close to Sherlock. He reaches up and touches the pad of his finger to Sherlock's lower lip, pressing down gently, coaxing him to open his mouth. Before Sherlock can fully inhale, William brings his own lips barely an inch from Sherlock's, parts them, and exhales.
The smoke hotly enters Sherlock's lungs and rolls from his nostrils, mingling with William's breath and scent and warmth and the suddenly deafening thud of Sherlock's pulse in his ears. What he doesn't suck in swirls out into a broad stripe of sunlight, a blue-grey veil that hangs about them. Tendrils of it stroke his chin.
Finally William's lips twitch into a half-smile. He looks up at Sherlock. "Is that better?" he asks. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and soft, like his voice.
"I think," Sherlock mutters, "that this may be the next stage in a very unique friendship."
William reaches inside his coat. After a moment, his fingers find Sherlock's, pressing a box of matches into them. "The next time I'm in London," he says, "I shall light a cigarette of your own for you."
Sherlock doesn't ask why William would volunteer to do such a thing for him, because the explanation is obvious, standing right in front of his nose, no puzzle to solve. William likes to be the one to strike the first match.