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Description
It sits between his long digits snugly, almost too happily. Sherlock scowls at it, knowing what John would say if the neat little soldier could see him now. Probably throw a fit again, like the time he found that needle and jumped to the worst without a moment's consideration. As stupid as the others.

He brings it to his lips, hands almost shaking in anticipation as he caresses it and takes a long drag, letting the slithers move in unison down his spine. The oppressive weight, so constantly heavy, rolls away slowly with every shimmering particle of smoke that coils upwards blinking into the ether. He blows out a little at a time, letting the smoke whisper over his parted bottom lip and snake away expertly. It is an old habit.

Minutes pass. He reaches again for another, and then another, not caring about the empty carton that blows away on the crude wind or the ash that falls like snow into his lap. Legs barely registering their protests carry him to the filthy off-license around the corner and sought out another five cartons before sweeping him back to his bench in the shade without waiting for the change from a fifty. The degenerate gapes at the note burning away in her sweaty palm as he strides away with his drugs very firmly gripped in leather talons. Money for nothing.

He consumes them, marvelling as he always has at the healing power it has as it wipes away Mycroft's hounding, the military man and The Woman from New Jersey. They disappear into the air to become nothing but the hallucinated side effects of brilliance.

They are nothing. Nothing!

Description
It sits between his long digits snugly, almost too happily. Sherlock scowls at it, knowing what John would say if the neat little soldier could see him now. Probably throw a fit again, like the time he found that needle and jumped to the worst without a moment's consideration. As stupid as the others.

He brings it to his lips, hands almost shaking in anticipation as he caresses it and takes a long drag, letting the slithers move in unison down his spine. The oppressive weight, so constantly heavy, rolls away slowly with every shimmering particle of smoke that coils upwards blinking into the ether. He blows out a little at a time, letting the smoke whisper over his parted bottom lip and snake away expertly. It is an old habit.

Minutes pass. He reaches again for another, and then another, not caring about the empty carton that blows away on the crude wind or the ash that falls like snow into his lap. Legs barely registering their protests carry him to the filthy off-license around the corner and sought out another five cartons before sweeping him back to his bench in the shade without waiting for the change from a fifty. The degenerate gapes at the note burning away in her sweaty palm as he strides away with his drugs very firmly gripped in leather talons. Money for nothing.

He consumes them, marvelling as he always has at the healing power it has as it wipes away Mycroft's hounding, the military man and The Woman from New Jersey. They disappear into the air to become nothing but the hallucinated side effects of brilliance.

They are nothing. Nothing!