A.N. Aaaand…this month's challenge starts again! Bless Hades Lord of the Dead for organising this for us. Sorry it is so late and possibly off topic, I've had a low-key headache all of today.
This is dedicated to notjustmom (who's been so awesome as to dedicate to me one of her seasonal collections on AO3) and Knightfury, whose contribution this year will be missed – at the very least by me. J
A warning before we go on – I am a fervent believer in Johnlock in all and every incarnation of our detective, so it might pop up every now and then. Also, obviously this is unbetaed, unbritpicked, unchecked as to historical plausibility…just un. XD
My first prompt comes from Sparky Dorian: A clean slate. I almost went with a Johnlock plot, but it was based on one of the few details Granada actually changed…so you get instead a story that deals with Sherlock's drug use and mentions overdose, woefully un-researched because of the one day limit and my current headache. If none of these are triggers for you, enjoy!
A stranger would have thought that Sherlock Holmes was absolutely impossible to tolerate on a daily basis. What with the obnoxious experiments, the nightly concerts, not to mention the dangers inherent to his chosen profession, likely to bring unsavoury guests in their rooms at any time.
Watson's only remark to people concerned for him was that it was lucky that such inconveniences, then. There was the occasional old friend or brother in arms, who read the Strand and expressed their worry for his health and sanity, in his present living condition. Some even arrived as far as to offer their homes as a momentary place if the good doctor wanted to seek other accommodations.
If, even after reading his stories, people could not see the deep affection he held for his friend, or the thousands of qualities that amply made up for whatever annoyances the consulting detective caused him, nothing he could say would open these idiots' eyes Besides, insinuating that he would forsake Holmes because of the dangers, which the man faced, was downright insulting.
Strangely, the one flaw almost no one empathises with him about is the one that drives Watson to distraction. Holmes' drug use. Watson has tried to reason with his friend: assured him that there would be long-term damage if he goes on. Hell, they might be too late to avoid any lasting consequences if the sleuth stops today.
The consulting detective still would rather listen to the siren call of the drug whenever his mind is in need of stimulation, and cases are not forthcoming. The doctor has taken the habit of leaving their rooms when his flatmate will indulge. The sleuth will not even be aware of his existence anyway. Why stay in such unpleasant company?
Until the day Holmes, once again, takes out the Morocco case, while Watson leaves in a huff. But when he comes back – earlier than his usual, chased back home by a sudden downpour which might as well be a heavenly sign – he finds his friend not only out of it, but clearly in urgent need of medical attention. Watson switches immediately to doctor mode, and manages to pull his friend back from what is clearly an overdose.
When Holmes is back to himself, if still miserable, he croaks, "That never happened before."
"Yes, but you never took so much," his Boswell replies, as coolly as he can. He doesn't need to examine how much is still in the case. It's obvious.
"Oh, yes…it wasn't working, so I took another dose, I think…probably…" the detective admits, looking properly bashful.
"It was inevitable that you'd get used to your dose. You can tell me that instead of doubling it suddenly, you'll be very careful. You'll add just another 1%. But the fact is, your brain will require always greater doses for the drug to have its intended effect. And one day, the dose your brain asks for will be too much for your body to handle. When it happens, I don't want to be there. And not for an hour," Watson replies simply, serious and calm. There's not a hint of the frustration and anger he always faced this matter with.
"What?" Holmes breathes, leaning towards him despite being so weak, a panicked look in his eyes.
"I went to your funeral once already, my dear. You can't ask me to do it again." The doctor's voice is very soft, but his tone is firm.
Especially because the first time, the sleuth went down a warrior, against Moriarty and his criminal empire. This time he would be succumbing to his own vices and lack of self-control. It's not spoken, but Holmes hears it all the same, loud and clear. "Will you stay if I stop?" It's not begging, but it sounds dangerously close to it.
"Of course, my dear boy," Watson assures earnestly. "You don't have to quit alone. I'm here. As always." His hand finds his friend's, squeezing.
The ailing detective nods and allows himself to rest.
Tomorrow will be a new day.