Nights In London (story no.1)

Hello! This is my first Sherlock Holmes story :) More short fics are going to be included in the story as well, in the future. I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way, but the fics/ideas/words belong to me, so please do not use! Anyway, enjoy~

''Holmes, stop it.''

I looked at the crouched figure of my friend through the dim-lighted room and the asphyxiating fog from his long-forgotten pipe on the table. His black-haired head snapped up abruptly and looked back at me, the daze from the substance he had been taking evident in his expression, clouding his keen grey eyes. I solemnly wondered what it was this time; cocaine, the infamous 7% solution, or morphine, or something entirely new, more...''stimulating to the brain'' as he had once stated, describing the drugs' effects with an excited voice.

He was looking at me with a slightly perplexed, or maybe even surprised expression (so unlike to find on his features), for I had not commented on this habit of his for a long time, I'd just put on a frown and stay silent.

''And why is that...'', he started, ''...my dear Watson?'', he added with a crooked and definitely dazed, yet polite smile.

''The doctor has finally reacted?''

I scowled. Now he was mocking me, while I was concerned about his health. What did I do to deserve such a treatment? Had I turned Lestrade all of a sudden?

''That's right'', I answered. ''Would you please stop?'', I asked. My voice was uncharacteristically husky from all the smoke I'd been breathing, and noticing it, I stood up and threw the pipe in the bin. This alarmed Holmes, who gave me a half-annoyed, half-amused glare. Then, moving towards him, I made an attempt at taking the drug from him, but he weakly swayed my invading hand away.

I tried again, but this time he was far more determined to stop me. In a moment of sudden weakness, I found myself turned towards the side of the fireplace, with both my arms held tightly at my backside by Holmes. I was surprised; although I knew the reason why I had not reacted however keen my reflexes were; Indeed, it was as clear as day to us both. I'd never hit my friend while he was in such a state, and he knew it as well. I sighed deeply as he relaxed his hold and released me, mumbling an almost inaudible

''I need them John'' .

A second strike of surprise hit me as he, for probably the first time used my (first) name rather that his usual ''Watson'', ''my dear Watson'', or any other syntheses. I guess he opens up more easily when in a vulnerable state such as this. However, the thought that, maybe, what he had just said was true was nagging my already worried mind. Indeed, the drugs were calming his ever-restless mind, and were helping him think. Would I be doing the horrible mistake of destroying a genius if I put an end to this habit? Or would I be helping a friend in need?

''Sherlock'', I started, following his example, ''you do not need those drugs to solve cases...''

''No my dear, I do, at least subconsciously. I've said so again Watson, have I not made myself clear? Drugs act as a stimulant to my mind. I can't stand the awful routine and stagnant waters; And no-one, including you, doctor, can insist on the wrongness of one of my theories. It's...flawless.''

''As it is harmful! Please Homes, if you just listen...''

''This discussion is over, I believe'', he simply stated nonchalantly, with this unnerving-there's more to say-manner, and he languidly turned his back on me, retaking his seat next to the fireplace, the crackling fire making him seem almost like some sort of ghost.

Furious as I was, both with him and myself, I kept gaping like a goldfish for a few seconds, sighed softly, and wordlessly withdrew from the fight I had seemingly lost. Then, I made my way to the bedroom with heavy steps and an even heavier heart. It's true I was never the kind of person who talks much, I'm more of a man of action, as Holmes himself remarks quite often during our adventures. And I was bend on helping my dear friend, so no-one, not even the detective himself would make me cease trying.

''I'm prove you wrong this time Holmes...'', I quietly muttered to myself and opened the door to my room.

''Lights out!'' Holmes was was heard saying, rather loudly, from across the living room. Ms Hudson

obeyed his command as was her duty to do, and soon the whole apartment was drowned in darkness.

Just before I drift off, I swear I'd heard the soft, regretful tune of a violin.