A/N: I have no idea how long or short this one will be or where it is going. Just a little something to keep me busy until NaNoWriMo officially begins in about 19 hours. I might even finish it before then. If I do not, then I will endeavor to do so before jumping into my NaNo project.

This one is for Lemon Zinger. Thank you again for all the help and encouragement...along with these little distractions that make my muses giggle sadistically.

Prologue

The fist that caught him just under the jaw was such an absolute surprise that Holmes could only stare back in shock after staggering backward several steps. Watson's still too-thin face was red and twisted with a fury he had only seen a half a dozen or so times in the nearly fourteen years they had known one another. Before Holmes' already fuzzy and confused thoughts could come to terms with the fact that Watson had just hit him, the man had moved again. Stepping back and into a defensive stance for the next strike, Holmes raised his own fists. Only when Watson ducked and grabbed the dropped syringe off the floor did he then realize Watson's true target this time had not been himself. Too late, he watched the man crush the loaded syringe under his shoe and into the sitting room carpet.

"I will not allow you to poison yourself any longer," Watson said far more calmly as he stepped back out of Holmes' striking range.

Holmes, still stupefied by the events that had just taken place took a moment to absorb this. They had argued in the past, but he could never have expected this level of anger from his friend. After all these years he thought Watson had at last come to terms with this side of his nature. In the last six months since his return from the dead, Holmes had not needed it until now. But as the weather had taken a turn for the worse here in London, he had little to occupy his time. This being the first time he had openly brought out his case, he had expected Watson's usual reaction of disappointment or even irritation before taking himself from the sitting room.

Instead, Watson had given him a single, quietly worded warning to get rid of it. When Holmes had blatantly ignored this, he had flown from the sofa too fast for Holmes to comprehend. Now considering how the blow had done little more than startle him, Holmes realized he had been intending to get to the syringe the whole time. Holmes himself had never been the target.

"How dare you interfere—"

"How dare you," Watson shot back coldly. "I've only just gotten you back. If all you were planning was to finish off the rest of Moriarty's empire and then continue this slow suicide, you should have stayed dead."

Holmes' gray eyes widened in speechless shock. The man that now faced him was one with which he'd become familiar; but had never in his life expected to see such rage turned upon himself. He did not doubt in the least that Watson had meant exactly what he'd said. For just a moment, this made him pause to seriously consider the consequences of his next actions. However, somewhere deep inside the memories of the past rose up to remind him that they really had been here before.

Holmes' laughter elicited nothing more than a cool glare from Watson.

"What shall it be this time, Watson? Guilt? Will you plead with me as a friend and tell me how you will not outlive my death a second time? Or would you prefer to play the physician this time by telling me how stupid I am?"

"Neither."

"Oh ho! So you intend me to choose between you and the drugs?" Holmes snickered, entirely too amused by this almost comfortingly familiar part of the scenario.

"Not at all. The fact that we are even having this discussion has proven that my life does not matter to you in the least. No, it is nothing so complex."

Genuinely curious at this new and entertaining twist, Holmes resumed his casual stance. "Pray, enlighten me."

Watson gave Holmes a pitying smile that reflected in those icy cold green eyes. "You will choose between your life and the drugs."

Again Holmes laughed. This really was turning into a delightfully entertaining twist to the old argument. His curiosity had definitely been stimulated now as Watson reached for his medical bag and very deliberately drew out a clean, empty syringe to place on the table between them.

"It is a very simple problem with a very simple consequence," Watson stated, taking two steps back from the table. "You will make the decision for yourself. I have nothing more to say on the matter that has not already been said."

Grinning maliciously, Holmes reached for the syringe. His eyes flickered to Watson challengingly only to find his friend had already turned away. Closing his medical bag, Watson reached for his coat. For one heartbeat, Holmes feared he had just underestimated his friend.

"You said I was not chosing between you and the cocaine," he stated to Watson's rigid back.

"I did, and you have not. As I said, Holmes, it was a very simple decision, with a very simple consequence. You really should thank Mycroft for keeping that plot reserved for you since your last funeral."

Taken aback by this heartless phrase coming from such a cold voice that Watson had only previously reserved for the lowest criminals they had faced, Holmes found himself again momentarily speechless. He watched numbly in disbelief as his friend gathered his coat, walking stick, hat, medical bag, and wallet. Obviously he was not retreating to his room after losing the argument.

"Watson..."

Calmly, Watson opened the door to the sitting room. Turning back, he gave Holmes one last sad smile. Then he turned to pull the door closed softly behind him with a few, parting words.

"It really is quite simple, Holmes. Corpses have no need of friends."