Sherlock pulls deeply from the cigarette pinched between dry, cracked lips and sighs, but with disappointment instead of relief. The smoke can never curl quite deeply enough into his lungs to blacken them the way he wants.
"Brother, do be careful," a distant, tinny representation of Mycroft's voice crackles in his earpiece. "And stay warm."
Sherlock snorts but doesn't answer. This is fucking Siberia, for god's sake.
Thousands and thousands of pounds worth of specialized clothing wrap around Sherlock's too-thin body, allowing him the few minutes he has to sit hunched, behind a wall. Waiting.
Unfortunately, The Spider and his connections loved a dramatic backdrop even more than he did.
In the quiet beneath howling winds, Sherlock adjusts the fabric around his eyes and pulls something from his coat pocket.
A rectangular, metal lighter. Flip top.
Probably one of the worst things he can have on him right now, thermodynamically speaking, but he's kept it on his person, no matter the job or country for 19 months.
The inscription etched into one side simply reads John's initials, JHW. Given to him by his sister Harry, as one of those "technically useful but personally irrelevant enough to be offputting" sort of gifts. That's what John had told him years ago anyway, when he used it to help light one of Sherlock's very rarely enjoyed cigarettes as per Mycroft's "allowance".
Sherlock strokes a thumb across the inscription, now worn, and the perfect image of John's smile comes to his mind. He hasn't seen it in 19 months but remembers every single line. He traces the image in his mind and closes the lighter protectively into his palm.
Soon, he would be able to return home. Only a few more jobs, he tells himself. Then he can come home.
Sherlock carefully exhales into the fabrics surrounding his mouth and nose and puts the lighter away.
My conductor of light, he thinks, referring with pleasure to both the lighter itself and its original owner.
Hold fast just a while longer. Please.
