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Sherlock gazed at the rain cascading down the nearby buildings. The air was light with the scent of freshness, but he didn’t care about it much as he took a long drag of his cigarette, filling his lungs up with smoke. He exhaled slowly and watched it dissolve.
Once he had said breathing was boring. He had meant it. He’d always regarded it as a necessity and had been thankful that it came automatically.
Now he felt like he was forced underwater and he would have given anything for a breath of oxygen. Probably that’s what buried alive felt like.