CigarettesSherlock was annoyed. Seriously annoyed. He had gotten up in a foul mood because he'd fallen off the bed in the middle of the night, and the fact that he had run out of nicotine patches and that there were no new cases for him had done nothing to improve his mood.
Sherlock stormed into the living room, his dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. "Give me some," he growled at John. John looked up from his paper.
"Give you some what?" he asked.
"You know what I mean."
John folded his paper and stuck in the side of his armchair. "No," he said firmly. "No, Sherlock, we agreed: one month. It's barely been a week and a half."
"I need some," Sherlock said angrily. "No patches, no case, give me the package I know you're hiding."
"Sherlock, you said yourself it's impossible to retain a smoking habit in London," John reasoned, standing and starting to clear away the remains of his breakfast. Sherlock had refused to eat anything.
"I know you have them somewhere," Sherlock said, turning sharply. "