Day 28 – prompt from mrspencil: Holmes tries to give up his pipe smoking.

Note: I probably could have written something closer to the letter of the prompt, but… I've already written a Holmes-gives-up-cocaine story (for ebook!AMM), and I just didn't want to do a strict abstinence fic again. So, rather, these are times in Holmes's life that he had to go without smoking, pipe or otherwise, and I get closer to the actual prompt at the end.

==Day 28: A Changing Age==

Sherlock Holmes, a gentleman born and bred, never smoked pipe or cigarette in the presence of a lady. But when, in 1902, John Watson brought his two-year-old daughter to 221B to visit her godfather after the sordid business with Baron Gruner, father and daughter found the sitting room engulfed in a haze of smoke. Helen hardly had time to cough before Watson slammed the door shut again, eliciting a cry from inside.

They were accosted on the kerb by a still very convalescent detective, who apologized profusely.

From that day on, Holmes confined three-pipe problems and all such smoking to his bedroom. His Boswell and his Boswell's family were worth it.

It was a handy practice. When the Watsons visited him in Sussex or when he began to visit them in London, he confined his smokes to the bedroom and the outdoors. It was not at all easy. He found his fingers twitching for a pipe or a cigarette, and he could not sate his craving unless he retreated.

After several years of training himself to go without, he found himself put to the test.

In America.

Altamont was a cocksure, slightly batty fellow who smoked only the finest cigarettes and shunned pipes altogether. Holmes himself was surprised to find that trait in his role, but he endured it as best he could. He hardly ever dared to smoke his beloved clay pipe unless he was absolutely certain he would not be disturbed.

Holmes's undercover work at last came to a close, and it was with great relief that he shared a quiet pipe with Watson now and then during that horrible August. When Watson left with the first wave of Kitchener's Army, Holmes could not bring himself even to look at his pipe, for even that reminded him of his departed friend.

He spent very little time in 221B. Room 40 claimed most of his daytime hours, and, when he wasn't in Whitehall, he was either at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft's flat, the Watsons' house, or the Lestrades' house. Only in that last location was he allowed to smoke, and it was always a vast relief to do so.

Either Lestade had gone soft or Holmes had, because they found they got along very well these days.

Then came the nerve-wracking year of 1918 and, with it, the news that Lieutenant-Colonel John H. Watson of the RAMC was missing. Sherlock Holmes and a now eighteen-year-old Helen Watson set off to scour the Continent. Holmes would much rather that she had stayed behind, but he could not triumph over Watsonian stubbornness in Helen any more than he could over John.

Heedless of the presence of a young lady, Holmes would puff enough smoke to rival a Victorian factory. That is, until Helen put her foot down and forbade her godfather from using his pipe. Holmes complied, knowing that he truly had gone soft and thinking of how much she was like her father. He could very easily imagine Helen delivering a lecture on cocaine with every bit as much passion as John had.

The years following the war were difficult for everyone. Sherlock Holmes had his own personal issues—in the mid-'20s, he discovered that he was developing lung cancer. John and Helen were adamant that he quit smoking; John was quitting, himself.

It was torturous—in some ways, worse than cocaine withdrawal had ever been. Holmes even found himself subjected to some of the same symptoms. The worst part was when his fingers would stray to his pocket or to the mantel in search of tobacco that was not there. The Persian slipper remained, but it was empty. The pipe rack had disappeared, courtesy of Helen.

The Watsons tried to fill the void left in their menfolk's lives with more time spent together as a family. Silent movies, parks, games… anything to keep John's and Sherlock's minds off of what they were giving up.

Helen helped tremendously. Married for several years now to Lestrade's youngest boy, she had two children and one on the way. She regarded her children as having three grandfathers: John Watson, Geoffrey Lestrade, and Sherlock Holmes. Not a week passed that Holmes did not visit his goddaughter and her family, and he was ever grateful for Helen's love and encouragement.

When Sherlock Holmes died, it was not at a waterfall nor was it at the hands of any vengeful criminal. He died in his Helen's arms at the age of seventy-nine, his heart simply giving out. One doctor attributed it to long-term smoking finally catching up with him, but Helen knew the truth.

Sherlock Holmes had lived the last few months of his life with a heart broken by his dearest friend's death. He was ready to go—he had told Helen as much. And Helen knew her father had received into his arms the best and wisest man he'd ever known.

Author's Note:

I'm not sure whether that last part really belongs to the overall story or not. *sighs* Well, I hope this works for the prompt, MrsP. It was kind of… not my normal style… hmm, dunno. *shrugs*

Please review!