Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, book or film, nor anything related to it

Russian Roulette

"Holmes, I was won-"

The detective's steely eyes glanced up from the task at hand in time to see Dr. John Watson pause at the threshold of his room, fingers still hanging loosely on the doorknob where a moment ago they were pushing the door open to barge into his private quarters. At the sight of Watson's fallen face, his teeth instinctively tightened on the tourniquet he had been in the process of strapping round his arm when the doctor arrived. Mouth slightly agape with that usual sense of shock though doubtless the good man had seen Holmes in this situation many a time before; innocent eyes searching his, the moral righteousness of them burning yet another imprint onto the detective's skin. If any one person on this earth was capable of making Sherlock Holmes feel guilt, it was this man.

Letting the tourniquet fall, he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yes, Watson?"

Taking a tentative step forward into the dimly lit room, he leaned heavily on his cane, as if it were supporting more than just his bad leg. "Holmes, how can you-?"

"It cannot be said that I do not allow you your vices every once in awhile, my good fellow, and I would ask you to permit me the same freedom," he interrupted curtly, unable to bear another word of Watson's breathless accusation.

"Freedom to pursue your death?" Watson asked incredulously, his voice tinged with that hidden anger which always accompanied his discovery of Holmes's dearest addiction yet rarely reared its ugly head.

"Come now, Watson. I use it not out of dependence but only for the lack of something more stimulating to occupy my mind," he said, dismissively waving a hand at the other man, who, if the detective bothered to turn in his chair and observe, was clearly fuming.

"If your brilliant mind is in need of a little amusement, Holmes, then I believe I have just the solution," Watson retorted bitterly. Turning sharply on his heel, he made to leave, barking the order, "Get your coat!" as he did.

Holmes sighed theatrically as Watson limped away, his cane banging angrily along the passageway, but once the doctor was out of sight he did as he was bid and with raised eyebrows readied himself to go out. After all, he was not a little intrigued and very slightly intimidated by his friend's outburst. It was much more diverting than his usual repetitive, preachy lecture often followed by a few days' worth of sulking.

Hands shoved casually in his pockets, Holmes attempted some light banter on the way to wherever it was that they were going (Watson would not tell him but it wasn't as if the detective couldn't deduce their location simply from the surroundings) but the doctor refused to respond. With the Watson withdrawn, Holmes could observe him at his leisure as much as the dim light of the streetlamps glowing in the night would allow. He noted how, fittingly, the burning rage that seethed just beneath the surface of his companion's clean cut exterior made his eyes turn from a bright, shining blue to a steely grey. It was most unpleasant. He thought of making this remark to Watson out loud, but decided that the chance of that action producing only more anger, and thus a much less pleasant Watson, was highly likely.

In an area of town that Holmes reflected bitterly would be quite familiar to the gambling man within his friend, they finally stopped outside a dingy looking tavern. Without hesitation, Watson pushed open the door with more force than it probably needed and did not look back he entered.

"You 'ere for a drink, lads?" the man asked in a rough accent, eyeing Watson's fine garb warily and Holmes's bohemian outfit a little more appreciatively. Somewhat ironic since the vest he had donned today had technically once been Watson's until an unfortunate series of experiments had led him to declare that he no longer wanted it when it was riddled with blackened holes and mysterious stains. Holmes had duly informed him that the stains were not 'mysterious' but were in fact a combination of his own blood, Gladstone's saliva and three types of chemicals, the names of which Watson was plainly not interested in.

"No, for something more interesting. You still, I trust, offer a little game of chance called Russian roulette?" Watson asked dryly. Holmes shot his friend a sly glance from under the brim of his hat, scouring his features for any trace of deceptive humour but Watson's jaw was set firmly. He was not seriously considering it, was he? Surely this was a joke, a prank if you will, to seek revenge upon himself. Of course, it was possible to work out the odds, and perhaps even to cheat entirely, but it was a fool's game nonetheless.

"Oh-ho!" the man exclaimed, eyes lighting up before calling over his shoulder, "Johnny! We got 'un here as sober as the Queen herself wanting to have a little game with you."

"What's this now?" a large man, the size of a bull but rather hairier, asked as he loped towards them. Watson swallowed visibly, or perhaps it was visible only to him who knew the doctor too well.

"He wants to try his hand at cheatin' death," the bartender rejoined jovially, pointing at Watson as though he were wearing a dunce's cap. The larger man clapped the bartender on the back as they guffawed loudly and Holmes did not like the situation one bit. Watson's mouth was set in a thin line but his eyes were downcast.

"Well, you'd better follow me then," the man said, waving them over to a small table where a gun and a glass of whisky lay abandoned. Gesturing to Watson to take the seat across from him, the man sat down heavily. "Is he betting on it?" he asked, pointing a pudgy finger with dirt under the nails at Holmes who was leaning against the table next to theirs, arm folded across his chest.

"Yes, he's betting twenty pounds that I live. If I should happen to die, it's all yours," Watson responded cheerily, his words laced with a grim sort of humour. He spread his arms in a benevolent gesture but shot Holmes a scathing look as the man across from him laughed heartily at his seemingly debonair stupidity. Holmes was meanwhile reeling at the amount of money he was supposedly betting, which was almost their entire month's rent.

"For that amount of money, here's to hoping you die," the man joked, raising his glass in mock toast and downing it, "For our sake's that is!" The man laughed again til he wheezed and Watson forced a smile as the man coughed and spluttered all over him. Holmes frowned.

"You know the rules," he continued after regaining his breath, "One bullet goes into six rounds, you can watch me put it in so no tricks here-"

"Let's make it a fifty, fifty chance, shall we?" Watson asked curtly, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Three bullets."

The other man stared at him for a moment before shrugging it off. "Your choice but remember, I ain't responsible for your death. I just pull the trigger – can't let a gambler hold this thing," he clarified, waving the gun next to his head, "They'd take us for all we're worth." Watson nodded his consent and the man shook his head in disbelief as he opened the barrel.

As the man slowly inserted three bullets into the six waiting rounds, Holmes grabbed his friend by the arm, pulling him close so his mouth almost grazed his ear as he hissed under his breath, "Watson, this is perfectly absurd. Whatever lesson you are attempting to teach me, it is learnt." He was met with silence and defiant grey eyes that mocked him. Dear God, the man wanted him to suffer! That was all well and fair enough but this was ridiculous. Never wanting to bring Mary into conversation, he resorted to it as a last plea, "Watson, you have a fiancée. Think of Miss Morstan!"

"Are you ready?" the man asked casually, cocking an eyebrow at the two of them as he spun the barrel of the revolver. Holmes released his friend with a slight shove of irritation. If he wanted to senselessly risk his life, so be it!

"Yes," Watson responded firmly, giving Holmes one last look before he set his hands on the table and sat straight in his chair. Of course, he'll die like the foolish military man he is, Holmes though bitterly as he resumed his former position.

The man cocked the gun, leaning his beefy arm on the table to aim it directly at Watson's head. With the revolver mere inches from Watson's face, Holmes suddenly felt as though he were very far away from the whole scene, departed from his body in a sense, and trying to struggle back towards it while under water. It was a state he had experienced so many times before in the ring, where every movement is slowed and simplified as the mind races far ahead in anticipation of the body's actions. Yet the feeling was amplified, for at risk this time was not himself but the man sitting seemingly calmly before him, who was possibly the best man he knew and the only one he would ever call a true friend.

"Here we go, lad."

Watson took in a deep breath, hands balling into fists.

"Three…" He closed his eyes and Holmes watched the skin on his hands stretch white across the knuckles. The detective wondered what was racing through his dear friend's mind at that split second and why his muscles refused to respond to his heart's desire.

"Two…" In this silence of that moment of waiting, Holmes distinctly heard his brain screaming orders at his muscles to move, to stop this insanity before…

"One-"

"No!" An outstretched hand, too late.

The gun clicked. Holmes's breath hitched. Watson's eyes shot open.

Empty.

"Bad luck," the man remarked, laughing once more as he leaned back, lowering the gun away from its target. The doctor's shoulders slumped with relief. Holmes was frozen where he was. Watson glanced up at him quickly, his eyes a dazzling blue. The anger had vanished leaving only the joy of life reprieved brimming there. Holmes felt his heart was beating wildly against his ribcage, in a manner so furious it was almost painful, the sound of it thundering in his ears, and he wondered if John's heart was beating in unison. Realising that his arm was still reaching out, dangling uncomfortably in midair, he brought it down to pat Watson's shoulder in a way that was meant to be reassuring but was simply awkward.

"Your friend here was loathe to lose the money, I think," the man remarked with a smirk, pointing the gun accusingly at Holmes, who did not hear a word he said.

They walked home slowly. Breathing in deeply, he filled his lungs with the crisp night air, but felt as though they were filling with a new vigour for life. Every star in the sky visible through the dense London smog was more beautiful, every street lamp they passed brighter than it had been on the way there. The broad smile would not leave his face and never before in his life had he felt so much like bursting out with laughter as a common lunatic might. His senses were heightened in a way that even the seven percent solution could never hope to imitate. But the high always ended with…

"Holmes," his voice was quiet and terminal. The night was not particularly cold but Holmes shivered. "Do you understand now?"

The detective hazarded a covert glance at his friend's face, trying to avoid those searching eyes. But the doctor grasped him desperately by the arm, bringing them to a halt in the dim street and forcing the detective to meet his eye. Holmes's arms hung limply by his sides, paralysed. At that precise moment he was sharply aware of the beauty in living rather than dying but it had almost been at the expense of his friend's life and he had to wonder if this feeling of joyful relief was the one Watson felt every time he found Holmes lying, in a daze yet still alive, on the tiger rug as he came down.

"Every time you pick up that damn needle it is a game of chance. There is always a chance I will find you lying dead in your chair the next day. Can you comprehend now how it feels to live each day knowing that? Fearing it?" his voice was choked and the thin lines of suffering that ran from the corners of his eyes and mouth, engraved by years living with pain physical and emotional, left a deep murky pit of indeterminate feeling in Holmes's gut where he feared to tread.

"I-" he began but faltered, glancing away. Fingers tightened around his arms and he rejoiced in the fact that his face was obscured by the shadow of the streetlamp, "I am ashamed to admit, dear fellow, that I had not noticed how deeply this affected you. My intention, you must know, was never to hurt you in any way. …And I apologise if I did."

They stood in a silence that hung heavily for a moment, with the night having grown long leaving few distractions to break their pause. Watson opened his mouth to speak, lip quivering slightly, but could not bring himself to utter a word and instead settled upon clasping Holmes's hand gratefully in a strong embrace.

The detective gave a small, rare smile before breaking the moment by clapping the doctor on the back and exclaiming, "Come now! I believe this night time adventure of ours calls for a conclusion involving brandy."

"I do believe you're right, Holmes," Watson chuckled, allowing his friend to sling an arm around his shoulders and direct him home towards Baker Street.

A/N:
This just popped into my brain yesterday when I saw this brilliant artwork called 'Pain of Discovery' by Spicysteweddemon on DeviantArt. I wonder who Watson thought of in those possible last moments…

(http:/spicysteweddemon .deviantart .com - remove the spaces and look for it under her 'Holmes' gallery)

Note: I don't know how much rent would be back then so I've made a total guess at the amount of money their betting but it's meant to be a rather large sum.