This story also is linked to my other stories, if loosely: Birthday Memory and Human Side. I'm following the drama episodes as much as possible but Sherlock's mother, Mrs. Holmes is supposedly dead in my stories. John's pulling a cigarret package from Billy(Baskerville) prompted this story. Reviews are welcome. Thank you for reading. Thanks for all the comments;)

To come to think of it, as a mother, Mrs. Holmes wouldn't have blamed her sickness on Sherlock's addiction in her letter. Any suggestions, please?

"Ouch!"

John groaned, rubbing his legs. He had lost his balance and fell down from a chair while trying to get some files from the top shelf of Sherlock's closet. The detective, as usual, had asked him for the files, and it had become John's habit to cater to his peculiar friend's request as much as possible – it promised peace inside the flat if temporarily. Surprisingly Sherlock appeared on the doorstep of the bedroom instantly.

"Okay?"

"Yes, of course, I'm fine."

John got up but crumpled again at Sherlock's next words.

"I mean the box."

"What?"

Ignoring John's indignant stares, Sherlock picked up the big thin cardboard box, which John hadn't noticed before. A bit dusty, the box looked old on the scattered files.

"You're more worried about that, not me?"

"As far as I can see, you're not broken. You can move."

"Sherlock!"

John stopped; his curiosity had overcome his irritation. He stood behind Sherlock who was opening the box. It was a picture frame, rather, a framed periodic table of elements. The glass was broken into a few pieces and the frame was cracked. While removing the glass from the frame, Sherlock's hands found a few pieces of paper, folded up neatly. The note must have been hidden between the picture and frame for god knows how long.

"Careful. Glass shards…. What is it?"

Sherlock didn't answer, lost in his own thought.

"It seems that this is more than a simple chemistry printout."

John cleared his throat and put his hand on the periodic table.

"The last birthday gift from my mother."

"You haven't opened it?"

"No, I forgot about it. Mycroft had sent it to me when I moved back to London from Florida."

"Florida?"

"I met Mrs. Hudson there and ended up helping her out."

"Oh."

Sherlock's eyes scanned the note: an unexpected silence fell for a few minutes.

"Do you mind if I see?"

Sherlock handed the paper over to John and looked away. John could swear that his flat mate's eyes were rather watery, but dismissed it. He was not sure and Sherlock blinked his eyes, cleared his throat and swept out of his bedroom with the box.

He unfolded the note. Beautiful, feminine but unfamiliar handwriting filled the pages.

Dearest Sherlock.

Last night, your brother visited me without any notice. He told me that you would be released from rehab today. He asked if I'd like to pick you up – he was about to ask Dr. Simmons for a permission- but I said no; you'll be shocked to see me in this condition. I asked Mycroft to do it for me. Last time, I had marked the date of your release in my calendar and couldn't sleep for days. Oh, you had smiled at me as if you were telling me not to worry.

For three months, you were good, clean and sober. You were less gaunt and pale. You walked around more easily, and from time to time, you engaged in conversation with your brother and me; I thought you had come back. Then you disappeared. Two days later, we found you in a crack house: starved and stoned: your first relapse.

Before leaving the hospital, Mycroft told me that opiate addiction is the most destructive force on earth. He said it very carefully, and assured me that he would take care of it. Well, you know I could always tell when you two were hiding something from me. Over the last two years, I've been lied to time and time again. You became detached and cold: you didn't visit or call. You rejected association with people but a few drug dealers to get what you craved for. The last two years gave me nothing but false hope, frustration, and depression.

Since I learned about your addiction – thank God you managed to call Mycroft before you collapsed from an overdose, I've got caught up in the drama. I wanted people to come to my aid, and to take pity on me. I've blamed your father, your brother, myself and the world. When addiction comes into one's life, it brings out the worst in everyone, especially mother. My dear, now I see. The woe is me… I am truly sorry, my son.

I have learned to "let go" with a "price": I'm dying, not today but soon enough. Mycroft knows but I forbade him to disclose this secret to you. Someday, I hope you will see that no one can save you but yourself. The bottom line is that only the addict can make the choice to get clean and sober. Right now, the only help that I can give you is not to force you off the drugs. So I'll wait and love you. If only I could be assured that you come clean before my death.

I have been keeping this periodic table of elements for a long time. It used to be mine – but I believe that you'll make more use of it than I will. I'll send this to you on your birthday, but you won't open this next January because I can see you'll slip every now and then. After I'm gone, someday you'll open this box out of curiosity. Sherlock, I suppose it's the last birthday gift from me. When you open this, please, please, I hope you'll be drug free. If you stay off the needles for half a year, take it out and put it on your wall. Hopefully, it'll give you strength to resist any temptation to use drugs when your defense against the relapses is lowest.

My dear, remember I love you more than anything in the world.

Mummy.

p.s Don't be mad at your brother. Mycroft loves you, too. Don't forget it.

John was speechless, waiting for the facts to sink in. He knew Sherlock overused nicotine patches, but hard drugs and rehab centers? He had seen many of his fellow soldiers succumb to the drugs but it was to tolerate the pain from deadly wounds or to avoid the cruelty of war: cocaine provided an easy escape in either case. What was the thing that the sleuth wanted to run away from? Was Sherlock still using stimulants since he moved into 221B? As much as he knew, Sherlock had been clean. Then, he remembered Sherlock's uncomfortable gaze at last drug "bust" on the pink lady's case.

John folded the note neatly and walked downstairs. Sherlock had cleared away the glass shards and broken frame pieces. With the rolled paper on the table, Sherlock put on his coat and scarf. John awkwardly gave back the letter. The doctor had hundreds of questions yet dared not to ask. Sherlock's eyes were calm and peaceful with his usual nonchalance on his face. The detective put the letter into the pocket and glanced at the doctor. His voice was lower and huskier than usual.

"You've got a question. John. Spit it out."

John hesitated but couldn't resist asking.

"It's a letter from your mother. Did you know she wrote it?"

"Not until ten minutes ago. Next?"

"You're doing hard drugs?"

"I was. Mostly cocaine to keep my brain from rotting."

John almost stuttered.

"Rotting?"

"It was a nice distraction when I was bored."

"Since when?"

"College."

"I never knew… How long have you been clean?"

"I've been off the needles for about 8-9 months. Lestrade has been entertaining me with cases. It got easier since you moved in. You've been watching me all the time."

John suddenly remembered his first encounter with Mycroft Holmes. No wonder the older Holmes wanted to reward the potential flat mate of his troubled brother for spying. According to the letter, Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to have been close before his addiction. Something must have happened to estrange the brothers. Was it because Mycroft had kept their mother's illness from Sherlock? He wanted to ask more about Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft but saw raw sorrow in the eyes of the detective. John looked away and pointed at the rolled periodic table instead.

"Are you going to frame it?"

"Yes, you broke the old one just now."

"Sorry. I didn't know what was in the box. "

"Excuse me for a moment."

Sherlock walked to the kitchen, opened one of the top cabinet doors, and took down a can of coffee beans.

"What's inside?"

"Drugs, syringes and needles."

At John's astonishment, Sherlock shrugged defensively.

"I've been stashing them away just in case. I've been clean."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm throwing them out."

John raised his eyes, pondered over something, and suggested tentatively.

"Why don't you respect her last wish?"

"Huh?"

"Go cold turkey. No drugs. No smoking."

John's words met a big protest from the detective. Sherlock hissed.

"I'm not giving up my patches!"

"Remember her words. Your mother loved you. "

"My brain needs nicotine to function normally. She'd understand. "

"Your brain can do better."

"I'll be grouchy and nasty without stimulus."

John rolled his eyes.

"You can't be worse than now."

"What if I delete her suggestion that I should not smoke?"

"You won't. You are on your way out to buy a frame for her gift. It'll be undeletable."

"We'll see."

Sherlock glared at John, picked up his periodic table, and stalked out of the flat.

Days later, John was taking his jacket off in his bedroom when he heard a commotion – hammering a nail possibly- in the next room. He opened his bedroom door only to see Sherlock running downstairs with a couple of cigarette packages in his hands. John walked into Sherlock's room and found a newly framed periodic table on the wall. Grabbing his jacket again, John ran to the kitchen downstairs and opened the refrigerator, checking the food inside and glancing at his flat mate sideways. Sherlock was jumping around the flat, collecting his packs of cigarettes and nicotine patches from his "places".

"Tea, milk, apples…, Sherlock?"

John pretended to check the pantry.

"Yes?"

"Don't you have to go now? Lestrade texted me a minute ago, asking if I knew where you were."

Sherlock snorted.

"The case was closed this morning. He wants me to come for stupid reporting. Boring enough."

John coughed, and put on a face.

"Unless you go, Lestrade will keep on texting me, Sherlock. Just leave the cigarette packages there. I'll throw them away for you on my way to Tesco. We ran out of a few items. Do you need anything?"

"Bart's. Molly has some bacterial samples, and culture medium bottles. I'll text her. "

"Sure, no problem."

Sherlock stared at John for a few seconds with a small smile, then left the bag on a chair and ran downstairs. The door was closed with a bang.

Waiting for another minute to ensure that the coast was clear, John took out one package of cigarettes from the bag and hid it inside Billy.

"Who knows if I'll need it?"

Complimenting his own genius, John put on his jacket and walked out with the bag of cigarettes. The doctor didn't know that Sherlock Holmes was smiling vaguely in the cab, heading to the Yard.

"John, you never fail me."

The detective took out his mobile and started texting Molly.