The Professor and the Adept (excerpt)
gen, Giles, Buffy, Holmes, Watson
This time around, the romance was entirely gone. What was left was waiting in an abandoned house, in the cold, at night, staking out the doorway across the street for a purpose Holmes had not seen fit to share with Giles. Holmes appeared to be entirely unruffled and unworried. He sat smoking cigarettes, eyes closed. Watson would have said they were "hooded".
Watson was entirely too enamored of his roommate.
Watson was off with Buffy on the interesting half of the night's plan, dusting the vampires that had been collaborating with the secret society they were attempting to break up. The one that Ethan Rayne had been assisting, for a suitably huge amount of interest that would accumulate in a bank account tended by a clever firm of lawyers. They'd attempted to convince the solicitor not to take the commission. He'd merely lifted his nose and looked at them sidelong.
Watson and Buffy were off breaking heads and slamming stakes around. What Giles wouldn't give to be with them, instead of inhaling Turkish cigarette smoke in an enclosed space with a man who had not spoken a word in two hours.
The smell of cigarettes was driving Giles mad. Like many ex-smokers, the smell of other people smoking always took him this way. And Holmes' cigarette was unfiltered, unblended, unmoderated by the chemicals a twentieth century man was taught to expect. If he took a single puff, he'd cough his lungs out. He'd hate it. Giles told himself this, while he sat zazen on a damnably cold floor and attempted to discover if he had any inner peace left.
Giles contemplated just how much of a time paradox he would create if he took Watson's trusty service revolver, currently weighting down the left outer pocket of his overcoat, and spattered Holmes's great brain onto the water-stained wall behind him.
Enough of this. Giles stood up and moved to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To a room where I can breathe while I wait. Or possibly outside. Or to the nearest pub."
"Don't be absurd. Eccles has yet to appear."
"And I won't be able to do anything when he does if I've succumbed to emphysema first."
"I do beg your pardon," said Holmes. He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor. Giles counted the fag ends. Six. The man was going to give himself cancer. Except he wouldn't, because history said he'd live until two years after Giles' own birth. Bloody hell.
"What are we doing here, anyway?"
"Waiting for William Eccles to return home."
"Because I wish us to."
"You're a bloody lunatic, you know."
Holmes just gazed at him dreamily. What Watson saw in the man, Giles had no idea.