It had happened again. He had thought I would be gone for most of the night, helping a family with a bad case of influenza. But I had come home early and somehow he hadn't noticed my arrival. The first thing I observed when I entered our sitting room was that the fire was out and our rooms' cold. I remember frowning at this because I knew that Holmes was home, his coat and hat was on the rack. My first thought was that my friend had become engrossed in one of his experiments, or maybe he had gotten a case during the day, I had been gone since morning. When Holmes had something occupying his mind he rarely thought of anything else, a dead fire would not be all that out of the ordinary.

I didn't call out, as I usually did when I arrived home; instead I walked past the settee towards the door to his room which was slightly ajar. I remember smiling at the thought that maybe I would be able to, for once in my life, surprise him since he apparently hadn't noticed I was home. But the smile died on my lips immediately as I peered through the narrow opening.

Sherlock Holmes sat by his bed in his mouse colored dressing gown, his left sleeve rolled up to the elbow and in his right hand he was holding that bloody object I had begun to hate more than any other. He still hadn't detected my presence; I stood frozen where by the door, completely bowled over.

He had promised.

He had promised not to do it anymore! Promised to stop.

Sherlock Holmes plunged the syringe into his already dotted skin and pushed the vile drug into his bloodstream. I could plainly see the relief reflected in his eyes before he closed them, relishing the euphoria that came with poisoning himself. I felt bile rise in my throat.

He had promised. He had sworn!

A bitter weight landed on my shoulders. He had lied to me, when the only thing I did was care for him. I silently stepped away from the scene, unable to watch the love of my life slowly poisoning himself to death. It wasn't fair. I climbed the stairs to my own room which I hadn't used in months, my legs felt a lot heavier than before. My whole body did. I lay down on top of my bed without removing my clothing, I felt exhausted for no logical reason.

Holmes and I had gone from intimate friends to lovers almost five months ago. I had loved him for a lot longer than that though. Those five months had been among the happiest in my life. I had almost convinced myself that Holmes felt as passionately about me as I did for him. But now however, that seemed very unlikely. When we engaged in more physical relations, I had only made one demand, and that was that he would stop with the morphine. The cocaine was bad but the morphine was a much greater threat to his health I knew. I asked him to seize with the habit and he had promised he would. For me, he had said. He had said he would do it for me. I remember feeling like the luckiest man in London at that moment, his arms around me and his breath in my neck.

Now, the memory made my stomach turn.

Though I knew what hurt me the most. Not that he was incapable of shaking off the habit. I knew better than most how hard it is to battle an addiction. But the fact that he hadn't come to me for help, that he had hid away, choosing instead to go behind my back. He obviously didn't trust me like I thought he had.

I sighed and tried to organize my thoughts instead of falling into despair.

That Holmes didn't trust me was obvious, and his act tonight showed me that I in turn couldn't trust him.

This thought hurt me more than I can accurately describe. It was like having something very vital ripped out of your body with brutal force, leaving only an empty chasm in its place. How can you love someone you don't trust?

I didn't know what to do. Should I confront him right now, go back into the room and snatch that damned syringe out of his hands? With an effort, I suppressed the urge to do just that. By now, he was dead to the world and he wouldn't even be aware of my presence if I walked into his room. I entertained the thought of packing my bags, right now, and leave these rooms without so much as a goodbye. Would he care? I wasn't sure anymore.

I had explained to him clearly, that day. I wouldn't stand for his addiction. I couldn't.

At length, I decided to confront him in the morning, telling him that I knew and then see what he did with the information.

After that thought, I must have fallen asleep, or at least I don't remember where my mind drifted off to next. When I opened my eyes once again, my room was just beginning to regain some light, the sun was just rising. I still had my clothes from yesterday, I got up and into the bathroom to refresh myself and then I changed my clothes. I felt like a ghost, a shadow version of myself.

I had just finished shaving when I heard a sound from downstairs, doubtless Holmes had just got out of bed. I sat down on the foot of my bed and looked about the room, noticing how much dust had accumulated on my bedstead. A hard lump had formed in my throat, and for a cowardly second I thought about not confronting him, but I steeled my mind and focused on the promise he had broken and the scene I had witnessed last night.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs and the next moment Holmes –for who else could it be?- tried to open the door but found it locked. A moment of silence and then there was a knock. I considered not unlocking the door so that I didn't have to face him but reminded myself that I would have to at some point and that postponing this would only make it worse.

I unlocked my door and Holmes's frame filled my doorway. I studied his features but could see no signs that would reveal his ongoing habits, I didn't expect to find any either. He was Sherlock Holmes, if he wanted something hidden it would stay that way. He looked at me with one of his dark eyebrows raised. He was still in his dressing gown and with no slippers on, but his jet black hair was meticulously drawn back, each hair in its proper place.

His gray eyes darted past me and to the bed, which I hadn't straightened out yet. Even though I had slept above the sheets but it was still crinkled up, no match for the world's only consulting detective.

"When did you come home last night?" he asked, maybe a tad hesitantly.

"Early enough."

And he knew. If my words weren't enough, my tone sure was. Holmes's jaw clenched and his eyes turned a shade darker but he stayed quiet.

"You broke your promise," I said, almost in a whisper.

"You broke your promise, you lied to me and you have kept lying to me for God knows how long."

He realized, of course, that he would gain nothing by denying it. If he had, I would have barged through our door and never returned, of that I am certain. But he didn't. He looked at me with a face almost devoid of any emotion, which only told me that he was trying very hard to keep his face neutral.

"I didn't want you to find out this way-"

"You would have preferred it if I hadn't found out at all," I spat out. "That you don't trust me is painfully obvious but you don't have to insult me further."

Before that moment, all I had felt was a bitter distress, now I realized for frightfully angry I was with him. Holmes was the one person I had always blindly trusted and he had lied to me with a smile on his lips!

"Watso-"

"No, never mind your promise, since that didn't mean much to you. Think about what you are risking, Holmes! Damage to your cardiovascular and digestive system! You could get a stroke, or a heart attack! That is if you don't overdose and inhibit your breathing to the point that you die of suffocation. And your mind, Holmes! The one thing you value above all else, will be destroyed if you keep at this!"

Holmes didn't respond to this and I confess I didn't have a clue of what was going through his mind. It felt as if there was a wall between him and me, as if I had never known him from the start. But I still loved him, as foolish as that now seemed. I cared about him more than anything or anyone, including myself. And because I cared for him, because I loved him so damn much, I knew I couldn't stay. There are limits to my endurance.

"I cannot stay here not knowing if I will someday come home to a corpse," I stated sternly.

"I will send for my things tomorrow," I added and walked past him.

But before I had even reached the stairs, a hand clutched my wrist. I turned around and Holmes was looking down at the floor. He didn't look at me, if it was because of shame or something else I couldn't tell.

"That I betrayed your trust by breaking the only promise that mattered to you is inexcusable, I know. I should never have made such a promise."

"So you never had any intention of keeping the promise from the beginning?" I shot back with more heat than I had intended. I tried to escape his grip but he wouldn't let me, his long fingers had efficiently caged my wrist and I couldn't get rid of his hold.

He looked up at me; his eyes were no longer impassive, they were in fact shining with anguish. It truthfully left me thunderstruck and I stopped resisting.

"I had no choice," he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. "I couldn't let you leave, so I promised. When you said you'd leave if I didn't get rid of it, I had no choice!" He grabbed my hand with both his own, looking at me with pleading eyes, his mask cracking. "I thought I could do it, I tried, believe me I tried but I couldn't, I almost- I had to lie. I couldn't tell you I failed, you'd leave. Think me weak. And now you will leave me anyway and on top of that I have betrayed your trust and hurt you."

"Holmes, why-" I began but was cut off by Holmes as his hands abandoned my hand and instead enveloped my face, his eyes were only inches from my own. My friend was falling apart before my eyes, and I didn't know what I could do to stop it.

"I don't deserve it, I have no right to ask, I know it, but please," his voice was barely a whisper but we were so close that I couldn't have misheard him. He slid down on his knees, gripping my shirt as if he could keep me with him physically.

"Don't leave," he whispered. By then, I was far too moved and shocked by Holmes's emotional outburst that I had no intention of leaving. In fact, I wanted to stay very, very badly. I kneeled down to his level and captured his face in my hands. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, I could feel him shiver beneath me. When I moved away, I kept cradling his face and locked eyes with him.

"You should have come to me, you donkey. I am frankly shocked that you would think that I am such a blackguard that I would leave you if you asked for my help, it's as if you don't know me at all," I said with the most tender voice in my arsenal.

I was gladdened to feel his breath return to a slower pace. It doesn't happen often, but I take pride in being able to know how to best soothe Holmes when he does get distraught. Though this time it wasn't all that hard since the whole mess was my fault.

"If you can't do it on your own, of course I will help you. We can travel away somewhere where it is peaceful and quiet. I had actually been planning something of the sort months ago but at the time you didn't seem to need my help, and you never asked."

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, possibly as an effort to get himself under control once again. When he opened them again a curt smile appeared on his lips.

"I have been acting like a fool, haven't I?"

"Yes, a great, royal fool."

He chuckled briefly at this and finally stopped shivering.

"So you will stay?"

"Yes, provided you won't lie to me anymore," I replied.

His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer, I let my own arms go around his neck and I rested my head against his shoulder.

"You think I can do it?" he asked solemnly.

"I have yet encountered something you can't face, love. And with my help I am certain you will succeed. I won't let you lose and I'll be with you all the way."

"Withdrawal is an ugly business, John."

It was more of a statement than a protest, I knew, but I answered him nonetheless.

"You can never be ugly."