A/N: The original draft of this chapter was horrendous. You're lucky that I was sufficiently distracted by my actual full length adventure Sherlock Holmes fic that I didn't just rush my original draft and post it on Friday. BTW, once this drabble compilation is over I will be releasing my SH story, An Adventure In Cold Blood. Hope you guys will all return to check that out.

WARNING: This is a darker fic. I mean, compared to my last three chapters of cuddly, fluffy, cuteness, this is pretty damn dark. Trying to explore my full range here. Mentions of drug abuse, blah blah, minor violence.

Intervention

I was awakened that morning by a strange sensation that took an inordinate amount of time for my sleep addled brain to categorize and assess. It was not pain or some sort of auditory or physical stimuli. I felt no amount of distress that would preclude to my being alerted to a potential danger or sensed another person in the room. In fact, I was cold. Why then, did such a simple phenomena warrant such confusion in me?

Ridding myself of the last vestiges of sleep, I blinked rapidly in the early morning sun and systematically swept the room for any signs of change. I noted immediately that the window was latched shut against the winter chill, but even quicker still did I realize that not only was I the only person in the room, but I was also the sole occupant of the bed. The reason for my confusion became suddenly clear. It had been a long while—nearly four years, if I'm not mistaken—that I had awoken without the warm presence or embrace of a bedmate. Watson, for reasons I could not fathom, was not in his customary place beside me snoring away.

I continued to ponder the matter as I got out of bed, attending to my toilet and retrieving my dressing gown from where it was draped over the chair. Watson had never been known as an early riser even if there were important things to attend to that day. It had always been left to me to wake him if there was any need to. Our arrangement had never been a formal one, merely an unspoken agreement between the two of us. It was a deeply personal matter, especially to me, therefore it was also a very private one and we had never really discussed it. Perhaps he had wished for some solitude last night or had opted to stay at his club. However, much to my chagrin, I could not remember any pertinent details from the previous night that would allow me to deduce his whereabouts this morn. I chafed at this lapse in deductive reasoning, but figured it would be cleared soon enough to not make much of a difference anyway.

I opened my door to the sitting room, catching Mrs. Hudson placing a bouquet of fresh flowers in a vase on the table and requested some breakfast be brought up straight away. She did so cheerily enough, probably rejoicing at the rare times I actually could be found with a good appetite. Faster than I could imagine she had eggs and toast on the table, paired with fried tomatoes and the morning paper.

Knowing that Watson preferred I not waste my appetite on awaiting his arrival, I ate my fill and was already engrossed in the paper for a good twenty minutes before he showed up. I heard him first. His slow steps down the stairs informed me that he had indeed chosen to retire in his own rooms the night before. I did not look up from the paper as I greeted him, getting only a faint grunt in response—as I said previously, Watson could never be called much of a morning person.

We sat in what I thought to be a comfortable silence as he ate and I continued to read the paper. I did think it odd that he was so taciturn this morning, but it was earlier than he normally woke, so I dismissed it. After finding absolutely nothing worthwhile reading in the agony pages, I expertly began to fill my pipe and light it as I folded the paper with my other hand, gaze straying towards the window and the street outside, my mind desperate for something to stimulate it.

Unbeknownst to me, it would be Watson who would be soon drawing all of its attention.

A woman wearing but one glove had become the subject of my focus when I heard the clatter of the tray cover smash loudly back down onto the plate of eggs. My eyes immediately broke from its examination of the lady to the table before me. Watson sat clutching his long ago injured shoulder which had evidently been the reason for him dropping the tray cover, but what most caught my notice was the unsightly bruise that marred his face, stretching from just beneath the eye across his cheekbone and reaching toward his temple.

"Watson!" I exclaimed, aghast at the sight before me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Not that man, your face!" I said, jumping to my feet to get a better look, "Who did that to you?"

I instinctively reached out to feel for swelling, but to my unending shock my hand was quickly and forcefully thrust away, his hand immediately coming up to intercept me. The look he gave me was one I would never forget. There was anger, yes, and a fleeting look of shame at his response, but at the very core of it was the instinctual reaction of fear.

Watson was afraid of me.

Suddenly the reason for my inability to recall events of the night prior and his absence came to a sickening conclusion. I had taken cocaine that night before bed and as a result, I had struck Watson.

"But how—?" I breathed, words choked by the horror that was slowly consuming me.

"I think you may have taken a much higher dose than usual," Watson answered, his tone clinical.

The hand that had been rightfully rebuffed and possibly had dealt harm to my one true friend curled into a fist as a furious rage suffused through me. I had known that the use of cocaine was damaging. I knew it in a scientific sense and from experience, but I had never thought it to be evil. As the only thing that could save me from the abhorring boredom and excruciating pain of an otherwise meaningless existence, I never thought its effects to be dangerous to anyone but myself. Watson had always warned me. I had not listened. He was right of course. Last night's batch had been closer to ten percent than seven as I had not chosen to water it down nor had Watson the opportunity to do so.

"You dropped into bed and lay there like a corpse," Watson continued, "I had merely wanted to check on you and determine what was wrong, when you…" he trailed off, refusing to look me in the eyes.

"Why did you not fight back?"

"I tried," Watson ground out between gritted teeth, "Unfortunately, you knew how to…how to hurt me."

The moment he said it, I knew it was true. I could easily imagine it. A quick jab to the old wound in his thigh would drop him in a position where I could access his shoulder. With enough pressure exerted on the injury, the pain would leave him powerless to defend himself from a direct attack. Either from my active imagination or the actual memory, I could see with clarity blow by blow what I had done and unbidden, the image of my friend forced to limp from the room he had shared with me for over four years flashed in my mind's eye. It was a place of trust and I had utterly ruined it.

"I am sorry, Watson."

He finally looked at me and as he met my eyes, I could see he recognized the sincerity of my words, knew the gravity and weight of them. He was not my only friend for nothing. He knew I was not one to waste words or mince them until they lost their meaning. Tentatively, I went to rest my hand on his shoulder, forcing my movements to be slow and deliberate, so that he could perceive my intentions. I was relieved when he allowed it.

"Please believe Watson, that under any other circumstance, I would never hurt you or let you come to harm if I could help it."

"I know, you were not yourself." Watson grabbed my hand, looking imploring into my face. "That's what those drugs do to you Holmes. If you truly want to fulfill that promise all you would have to do is get rid of that needle and do away with it altogether. You can't," Watson closed his eyes for a moment and when they opened again, his gaze softened with understanding, "you can't do it only for my sake. It would never work. You have to do it for yourself. You have to want to give it up."

I considered this for several minutes. For the first time in my life, I hated myself for using the drugs. Before, they had been a necessity and I had never thought they had me less of a man for indulging in them. I wasn't addicted nor did I allow them to interfere with my work and before this moment, what little I had of a personal life, but now that it did, I had to reassess its role in my life.

"Forthwith, I promise never to use cocaine before I go to bed or in any instance where I could endanger you, but I cannot promise to cease my use of the drugs altogether. I cannot and will not purger myself in such a manner nor do you deserve to be given an oath I may not be able to abide by," I said slowly, considering my decision very carefully.

Watson sighed in relief, allowing a small smile to grace his drawn features. "It is a start, I suppose."

I nodded and strode over to my chemistry table, locating a jar of a sort of jade green paste and bringing it back to the table.

Watson eyed it suspiciously. "And what is that, pray tell?"

"My own recipe for clearing bruises. You see good fellow, it is infused with—"

I went on to explain its properties and the history behind its discovery, which incidentally had something to do with a dog and young man I had met from university. Watson was extremely grateful seeing as he had a great many patients to see that day and with a touch of stage makeup I kept at the ready for my disguises, he looked absolutely normal. All except for the prominent limp he had as he made his way out the door and the way his shoulder sagged, like it carried a heavy burden upon it and as I watched him enter his cab I knew I was to blame for that and thus began my thoughts on my drug habits all over again.

-o-O-o-

It had been over a week before the urge had come at me again. I had been consulting for Scotland Yard's cases for several days and I had been exceedingly frustrated by their presumptuous use of my skills, that I am a mere tool to supplement their deficiencies vexed me greatly. Also the only case that I had taken for myself turned out to be a gross misjudgment of character caused by a couple of ladies who had little else to occupy their hollow minds and because I had said as much they had deemed fit to defer payment for my services since I had accomplished very little anyhow. A thousand curses on the maker for creating the fair sex with more attention to their bodies than their brains.

I must have been staring a little too longingly at the locked drawer of my desk because Watson soon caught my eye, question written surely across his face.

"Due to the altercation that occurred last Thursday, it is only fair that I warn you that perhaps you should retire to your own quarters for tonight," I announced.

Watson's jaw tightened as his gaze flicked over to the door that led to our shared bedroom. "That room is as much mine as yours now, Holmes, and I have as much right to it as you."

It was true. Watson's room functioned as little more than a storage room these days. In fact, I had even started putting some of my museum pieces into it. Somehow over the years, Watson's more personal items had found their way budged up next to my pictures of felons with my case files all scrambled up with his romantic accounts of our adventures. It was unfair to ask him to leave it.

I shrugged. "Then I shall take the couch. You may lock the door if you worry for your safety."

With a fire I had not thought Watson capable of, the Afghan veteran took up a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, removed the stopper and upended it all over the settee. He then set the empty bottle back in its original position and faced me with the calm of a man who had not just ruined one of our few furnishings and possibly incurred the considerable wrath of our landlady.

"What will you do now?"

"I suppose," I blinked several times as if the sight of the ruined upholstery would disappear, but the smell of spilt brandy continued to overwhelm my senses, "I shall go to a hotel or stay in one of my bolt holes for the night."

"You would go through all that trouble just to indulge in that substance?!" Watson shouted angrily. "For such a brilliant man, you make such stupid choices in life Holmes!"

With that he strode angrily to our shared room and slammed the door behind him.

Another revelation suddenly hit me. Not only could the use of the drug physically affect Watson, but it emotionally affected him too. For a moment, I did not know how to deal with the situation. It seemed that the most logical solution would be to seek out my relief in the privacy of a hotel or one of my other lodgings, but I could not in good conscience leave Watson in such a state. I had promised that I would not do anything to hurt him. It was my responsibility to uphold it.

I felt weary as I entered our bedroom. There were times when life simply held no pleasure for me, that idle gossip and the mundane repetition of routine wore away at my soul, a soul that isn't a soul at all, but a mind, a mind that only finds pleasure in the intrigue and scandal of crime and the puzzles they present.

"Watson, I am here," I stated before taking to the bed.

"Are you—?"

"I am sober," I confirmed.

He obviously must have believed me because he promptly scooted over to the right side of the bed, allowing me access to my usual place on the left. I sighed and dropped down onto it, turning to face away from my friend.

"Thank you," he said quietly into the darkness.

"For what?" I questioned, somewhat disinterestedly.

"For choosing this," he said, nudging his shoulder against my back, "over your drugs."

I suppose that is exactly what I had done, but what it meant I had no idea. I settled for pursuing a line of inquiry I could solve.

"Watson, why did you not just leave that night or tell me sooner?"

"It was late. I did not have the energy to call a cab or somehow figure out a way to explain the bruise when I arrived back in the morning. I considered lying, telling you that I had been attacked by some wayward pickpocket but—"

"I did not deserve it," I finished.

"No," he agreed, though not unkindly, "As for telling you sooner, what was I supposed to do, bound into the sitting room and scream how you had beat me like a drunken Irishman?"

"It would have been within your right to do so," I answered, although I was more than a little embarrassed by his vivid description.

Watson chuckled. "Oh Holmes, I knew full well with your powers of observation you would have been able to notice soon enough. It seems your flare for the dramatic has rubbed off on me. Perhaps I was hoping that in doing so it might have impressed upon you to consider a change as my warnings had thus far gone unheeded."

"It did indeed prompt me to consider the matter, among other things," I replied.

Watson yawned. "That is well then. It might even be worth having to wear makeup for a month."

"Is it also worth facing Mrs. Hudson's wrath on the morrow?"

"Perhaps, we shall see how badly I emerge from that beating."

"I do not envy you, my friend."

"A real friend would help bear the blame," Watson grumbled.

"Nonsense, a gentleman never lies, especially on the whereabouts of a certain brandy and how it came to be fermenting within our sitting room couch."

Watson muttered something unintelligible and dug himself further into the sheets, his back digging jaggedly into mine. Watson may not have been a substitute for my cases or my seven percent solution, but at least with him I was not miserable either. I mused that at least I would not be cold in the morning.

-o-O-o-

A/N: According to information gathered on the internet, cocaine taken in abnormally high doses can cause restlessness, irritability, and paranoia which could lead to violent outbursts. BTW, I have yet to read a fic where Holmes actually hurts Watson. Inadvertently shoots him, sure, or leaves in the hands of his kidnappers when he is too late to save him, but it's never actually him doing the harming. I just had to cross that line.

Thank you: reflekshun, KCS, Pompey, Gnome, and shedoc for your lovely reviews, especially KCS since she's a pretty big deal in this fandom. Also LOL's to shedoc for her review and THANK YOU gnome for commenting on my 'elementary' joke in chapter 1.

Thank you: PieAnnamay07, Emilth, Vining, reflekshun, and Protector of the Gray Fortress for adding me to their various Story Alert, Favorite Story, and Favorite Author lists. Although shame on those who did that without dropping in a review. That's totally mean. It's like eating from someone's pantry without thanking the host. REVIEW, it's my cocaine.

Also, special thanks to liquidficnet for listing my story under their slash links. I was trolling for H/W slash myself when I saw my own fic listed, which was both hilarious and mortifying at the same time, seeing as how this fic was not meant to be a slash fic at all. Really, seriously, not slash. If I wanted to write slash, I would and it wouldn't be border tipping like I am now. At any rate, thanks for the laugh liquidficnet.